The Kremlin Conspiracy

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  Then the slow motion came abruptly to an end. Suddenly everything was clear. Everything was sharp. He grabbed his pistol, flicked off the safety, and peered up over the road. A Taliban fighter was coming on fast. He had an AK-47 aimed directly at his face. Marcus pulled his trigger first and the man went down. Right behind him was another fighter. This guy, too, was charging directly at him and unloading his Kalashnikov as he came. Marcus had two options—duck and cover, or fire back. He didn’t remember deciding. He just remembered pulling the trigger again and again until the man dropped.

  Marcus grabbed one of the AK-47s slung over his back and worked his way through the roadside ditch, toward the convoy. Shoot, reload, repeat, and keep moving. That was his mantra as Vinetti rained down death from the mountainside. They made a pretty good team, but they were no match for what was coming next. The last thing Marcus Ryker saw before he took another bullet and blacked out was an American A-10 Thunderbolt swooping down from the sky unannounced and lighting up the road with 30mm shells that destroyed everyone and everything in its path.

  The good guys had arrived, and not a moment too soon.

  ST. PETERSBURG, RUSSIA—18 DECEMBER 2004

  Luganov’s chief of staff had not been kidding.

  The winter wedding of Oleg Stefanovich Kraskin to the only daughter of the president was a spectacle beyond anything the Russian people had witnessed in the modern era. The event, patterned precisely after the marriage of Nicholas II to Alexandra Feodorovna in 1894, down to the smallest detail, had taken years to plan. And all of it was designed to evoke every bit of the pomp and circumstance and glory of the czarist era, before the Russian Revolution, before the Soviet Union, before the collapse of the Soviet Empire and the humiliating decline of Russian power and prestige.

  Oleg had barely been included in any of the planning. Indeed, he had been so busy with his work at the Kremlin that he had never even been to the Winter Palace, much less the Grand Church anytime during their long engagement. So when he and his parents arrived from the airport on that snow-covered yet sunny Saturday morning in a heavily guarded motorcade about an hour before the ceremony began, Oleg found himself overwhelmed by the stunning locale.

  The Winter Palace, Oleg knew, was once the official residence of the czars. The green-and-white structure on the banks of the River Neva in St. Petersburg was long and low, rectangular and mammoth, with more than one thousand rooms and more than one hundred staircases. The cathedral known as the Grand Church was located on the east side of the palace grounds and was spectacularly ornate with its massive onion dome, gilded and gleaming in the sunshine so rare at this time of year. Inside, the main sanctuary was more beautiful than anything Oleg had ever seen before. The white marble walls and columns were trimmed with gold. The high ceilings were adorned with gold sculptures. The chandeliers and lamps were made of pure gold. Enormous gold statues of angels, each bearing wings, some holding trumpets, were mounted on the walls. Pews accommodating a thousand guests had been set up in the long hall before an altar under a soaring dome. Light streamed down onto the altar through stained-glass windows, and mounted on the wall above was a gold statue of the Christ, hanging on a cross, surrounded by golden angels.

  Despite the beauty, Oleg shuddered at all the iconography. Neither he nor Marina was religious. It all seemed so antiquated and banal. If it had been up to him, he would have whisked his fiancée off to Monaco for a quick civil wedding and a honeymoon among the glistening beaches of the Mediterranean and the high-rolling casinos of Monte Carlo. Unfortunately, as had been made clear to him time and time again, it was not up to him. So here he was, ready to participate in a spectacle designed to showcase the glory of Russia to the world.

  Oleg excused himself from his parents and stepped into a back room to have a cigarette and change clothes. When he came out, he was not only in full regimental dress; he was wearing the exact uniform in which Nicholas II had been married, as his father-in-law-to-be had insisted. Oleg had initially chafed at the idea, but Aleksandr Luganov was not a man to whom one said no. Oleg’s mother dabbed away tears with her handkerchief as her son stood there in the hall wearing the tall, black leather riding boots, black trousers with a single gold stripe running down the outside of each leg, a bright-red tunic adorned with gold, gold epaulets, and a sword in a beautifully designed scabbard attached to a thick leather belt.

  “It’s time,” said the Russian Orthodox archbishop, stepping out of a side chamber.

  The cleric, the highest-ranking bishop in the Russian Orthodox Church, was stooped and graying. He wore a bulbous, bejeweled miter adorned with icons of Jesus Christ and two other figures Oleg couldn’t identify, a liturgical gown that reached to the floor, and a golden cape festooned with crosses and other Orthodox icons. In his right hand he held an enormous golden staff topped with a cross. He led them down a long, dark corridor and then through a door that opened into the grand hall. An aide to the archbishop directed Oleg’s parents to their seats as the organist began to play and Oleg’s heart began to race.

  Had the ceremony—both the first portion known as the “betrothal” and the second portion known as the “crowning”—not been broadcast live to the world in its entirety and videoed so that the young couple could savor it later, Oleg would have been hard-pressed to remember much of it, so overwhelmed was he by all the guests, the klieg lights, the heavy aroma of incense, and his own dizzying emotions. The bishop’s words, the Scriptures that were read, the long passages of the liturgy, and the Communion service after the vows all went by in a blur. Oleg could not remember the names or faces of any of the dozens of heads of state and ambassadors and scores of Russian oligarchs and their trophy wives who attended.

  What he would never forget, however, was the sight of the president leading his daughter down the aisle and the look of immense pride mixed with a father’s tenderness when he put Marina’s hand in Oleg’s. Even more, Oleg would always remember how stunningly beautiful his bride looked in the flowing white-and-gold silk dress and diamond-studded crown, the very one worn by Czarina Alexandra in 1894. He would remember the flicker of firelight dancing in her eyes as each of them held a single golden candlestick during the ceremony. And he would remember the moment her soft and supple lips parted and she affirmed her love and loyalty to him until their dying breath.

  Afterward, the wedding party and all the guests moved into an exquisitely appointed state room housing the original wooden dining table used by the czars to entertain European guests back in the day. It could—and did—seat exactly one thousand guests and featured original china settings used by the Romanovs. The president and first lady sat at the head of the table. The newlyweds sat to their right, Oleg’s parents to their left. Oleg cared little for the gourmet menu or the wide variety of vodka and wine that was served or any of the toasts or the dancing. He hated all the eyes staring at him, all the cameras flashing, and the bright lights of the TV crews. He just wanted it to be over so he could sweep away his bride and enjoy their honeymoon in peace and quiet, alone and far from the hoopla.

  His impatient daydreams were interrupted, however, when Luganov leaned over and whispered to him at one point during the reception. Having just lit up a Cuban cigar for himself and offered one to Oleg, the president had pulled his son-in-law close to him and kissed him on both cheeks.

  “Oleg Stefanovich, I would not have given my Marina to just any young man. I trust you, my son, and I see great potential in you. I know you will give me many grandchildren and raise them to be princes and princesses, loyal and brave. And I want you to know that if there is anything you need, you have only to ask.”

  The man looked deep into Oleg’s eyes. “We are family now,” the president added. “Come what may, we must stick together, for the glory of Russia, for the glory of our dynasty.”

  MONUMENT, COLORADO—30 DECEMBER 2004

  Marcus Ryker’s wedding to his high school sweetheart was hardly a spectacle.

  It was a miracle.

 
And Marcus had the Taliban to thank.

  Elena Garcia had seen the story of the helicopter crashes and the shoot-out in Kandahar on the evening news. When the story about Marcus being wounded in combat appeared in the local media a few days later, Elena broke up with her new boyfriend, a medical student at UC Denver, and called Marcus on every number she had for him. When she couldn’t reach him, she called his mother. Then she called her father. By the time Marcus was awarded the Purple Heart, he and Elena were a couple again, and after he’d recovered and been given a brief leave for Christmas, they were married.

  The ceremony in which Marcus Johannes Ryker pledged his undying love to the eldest daughter of Javier Rodriguez Garcia was so small and understated it didn’t even get reported in the local newspapers. The Garcia family had money, but Elena begged her father not to use any of it on a big wedding. She didn’t want all the fuss. Nor did she want to do anything that might cause embarrassment to her mother-in-law-to-be. Marjorie Ryker was now a widow twice over. Surviving on Social Security and a modest Air Force pension, she was barely making ends meet, especially given all she’d done to help Marcus through college.

  Marcus didn’t want anything showy either. The incident in Afghanistan had already brought him far too much attention. Something simple and quiet sounded just right to him. So Marcus’s mother hosted the two families for dinner at her home on a snowy Wednesday evening. She made lamb chops, mashed potatoes, green peas, and mint jelly—Marcus’s favorite. The next afternoon, the couple were married in the Garcias’ living room. The pastor who had discipled Marcus during his senior year of college officiated. Only immediate family and a few close friends attended. The reception was catered by Famous Dave’s barbecue. Afterward Marcus and Elena drove to Aspen for a honeymoon of skiing and snowboarding, a wedding gift from her parents.

  Friday was New Year’s Eve. With a massive snow squall bearing down on everything west of the Continental Divide, Marcus heated up the leftover Chinese food they’d had for lunch. He opened a bottle of champagne that had been chilling in the small refrigerator, compliments of the resort, glad their Baptist friends were, for the moment, nowhere to be found. Then they curled up by the fire in their rented two-level villa, and Elena gave her groom not one gift but two.

  Marcus tore the wrapping paper off the first, and what he found took his breath away. It was a single-volume first edition of Solzhenitsyn’s The Gulag Archipelago, and it was signed by the author himself.

  Marcus gasped. “This must have cost you a fortune!”

  “You’re worth every penny,” she replied, her eyes dancing with desire. “I would have paid ten times more.”

  They kissed with abandon until Marcus realized he had not opened the second gift. They took a pause, caught their breath, and sipped more champagne. Next Marcus unwrapped the somewhat-larger gift.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “You’ll see,” she said playfully.

  What he found was a scrapbook Elena had made for him. On the first page was a faded class photo of Marcus in the sixth grade.

  He stared at it.

  Elena laughed.

  Marcus did not.

  He looked hideous. His hair was long, his clothes were too dorky to describe, and he was wearing braces and battling acne. He was not smiling. Instead, he looked forlorn, and Marcus knew why. All those memories started rushing back, and he fought to control his emotions. He didn’t want to ruin the moment or make Elena feel bad. But the photo was taken not long after he had lost his father.

  He thanked her and was about to kiss her, but Elena nodded to the note she had written under the picture.

  June 2, 1991—Photo Day—Lewis Palmer Middle School.

  This was the day I fell in love with you, Marcus Ryker. This exact day.

  My family had just moved to Monument from the Springs. I had cried for weeks. I pleaded with my father not to make me change schools so close to the end of the year. But he didn’t listen. He’d found a house he and Mama liked. So we moved, and there I was. My sisters weren’t born yet. I was lonely, depressed, angry, furious, and yet suddenly curious about this cute boy in English, social studies, and PE.

  The only reason I came to school every day was to see you. You were taller than the rest of the boys. You were quiet but strong—and fast. Fast like the wind. And crazy. Always climbing on things. Jumping off things. Doing backflips. Pulling pranks. You were always getting in trouble, but not real trouble. Not big trouble. The teachers liked you. You always seemed to get off with a warning. You were just having fun, and you were fun to be around.

  I had only one friend, Marcy Gallagher. She sat in front of me in homeroom. Her dad was the mayor. She knew you. She liked you. She would talk about you all the time. So I never told her about the crush I had on you.

  Then came the day for class pictures. My mother sent me to school that day in the ugliest brown dress I had ever seen. She had just bought it for me the night before. She insisted I wear it. I screamed at her and told her she was ruining my life. I threatened to sue her for child abuse, but she wouldn’t relent. She sent me to school in that hideous dress, on photo day, of all days!

  Somehow, when I got in line to get my picture taken, lo and behold, I found myself standing right behind you. I was so mortified. I kept praying you wouldn’t turn around and look at me. But you did. That was the day you introduced yourself to me. You asked if I was new to the school. I was so scared I couldn’t speak. So I just nodded and blushed. And you smiled at me—not a big smile, just a little smile, but it was such a sweet smile—and you told me you liked my dress. When the photographer said it was your turn to have your picture taken, you sat down and your smile faded. All at once you looked sad. I wondered why. I wanted to ask you, but you said good-bye and ran off to class.

  The photographer called my name. I just stood there, transported into a dreamworld where Marcus Ryker had actually talked to me—to me! Smiled at me! Complimented me! You were either a big, fat liar or a very kind boy. I decided it was the latter, and I told God right then and there that I wanted to marry you. I told God I didn’t know why you were sad, but I wanted to make you the happiest boy in the world. And then I ran off, in that hideous brown dress, without ever having my sixth-grade picture taken. My parents were furious. But they got over it. And I got you.

  So just in case you didn’t already know it, that’s my mission in life, Marcus Johannes Ryker—making you happy for the rest of your life. You can’t shake me now. I’m yours forever.

  Marcus held his wife tightly. “You can’t shake me either,” he whispered in the candlelight. “I’m going to stick to you like glue.”

  COLORADO SPRINGS—18 JUNE 2006

  Marcus Ryker tore south on I-25, but this time he was not a man possessed—someone was going to be born tonight, and he’d never been so excited.

  With Elena in the backseat of their Ford Expedition, groaning in pain and pleading with him to be careful, Marcus abruptly flashed back to the night his mother had been in such danger, the night he’d driven like a maniac to come to her aid. He was still a risk-taker, but he’d learned a few lessons along the way. He was older now, wiser he hoped, more focused, more experienced, and more careful. He wasn’t going to do anything to put his wife and child in danger. Not now. Not ever.

  That said, he was going ninety miles an hour as he blew past the exit for the Air Force Academy on his right, then the Focus on the Family campus on his left. Before long, he was getting off on Highway 87, zigzagging through a series of side streets, pulling into the parking lot at Memorial Hospital, and racing toward the emergency room entrance. Elena was just shy of forty-two weeks. She was, therefore, almost two weeks late. She had been experiencing intensifying labor pains for much of the last two weeks yet showed no signs of dilating. She was scheduled to be induced in three more days. But just after 10 p.m., her water had finally broken.

  It was now 10:27. Elena’s contractions were coming harder and faster. Marcus screeched to a ha
lt, jumped out, and carried his wife inside, abandoning the Expedition and tossing the keys to a security guard inside the door.

  Elena’s ob-gyn met them in the lobby accompanied by two nurses. They helped Elena into a wheelchair and whisked her off to labor and delivery, Marcus following close behind. Once there, a team of medical professionals immediately surrounded her, but Marcus wasn’t about to be boxed out. He moved to her side, took her hand, and watched the blood drain from his own as Elena gasped and cried out and squeezed with all her might.

  For the next two hours, Marcus coached her along. He reminded her to breathe deeply. He dabbed the sweat off her face with a cloth. He offered her ice chips and fought not to comment on just how powerful her grip could be with this much adrenaline coursing through her body. All the while, he silently thanked the Lord for his timing. Only weeks before, he’d finished his four-year contract with the Marines and raced back from Baghdad to be at Elena’s side.

  Eventually, however, it became clear that a serious problem was developing. As Marcus watched a bank of monitors digitally displaying the latest second-to-second data from mother and baby, he could see what the doctor and every nurse in the room could see. With every contraction, the baby’s heart rate was beginning to drop precipitously.

  Initially, between contractions, the baby’s heart rate had settled at between 140 and 150 beats per minute. But now, during the peak of the contractions, it was plunging. The first time Marcus noticed it, the heart rate had dipped to 83. The next time it dropped to 76. Then 72. Then 64. Then just 61. Worse, when each contraction was over, the baby’s heart was not returning to normal. Rather it was returning to barely over 100, and now the ob-gyn informed her team that she was concerned the baby was going into fetal distress. She ordered them to prep for an emergency C-section.