The CIA had prepared dossiers on the Russian participants, and Marcus had reviewed each one carefully prior to their departure from Washington. He knew, therefore, that the Russian advance team was headed by Oleg Kraskin, President Luganov’s most trusted political advisor. Oleg would be negotiating the summit’s itinerary, agenda, guest list, seating chart, and every other detail on behalf of the Kremlin and would even be in charge of trying to hammer out a public statement that could be agreed upon in advance by the three world leaders and released when the summit had concluded.
In this context, there was no reason for the Russian negotiator to notice, much less speak to, any member of the American security detail. But about twenty minutes into the rather heated meeting, Oleg suddenly stopped himself midsentence and stared at Marcus so intently that everyone turned to see why.
Marcus instinctively tensed. He was not used to being the center of attention. He actually had no specific protective duties in this room and certainly no diplomatic responsibilities. He was simply there to listen to everything that was discussed and process it from the perspective of securing the American principals when they arrived. He had no idea what to make of the fact that the head of the Russian delegation was fixated on him.
“Mr. Kraskin, is there something I can help you with?” the American ambassador finally asked as the awkwardness of the moment threatened to derail their business.
“You,” Oleg said to Marcus, ignoring the ambassador. “You’re . . .”
Oleg’s voice trailed off. Then Oleg stood, startling everyone, and began walking toward Marcus, who stood as well as the man drew closer.
Marcus tried to evaluate the possible reasons for the Russian’s unexpected behavior. He had no idea how he was supposed to respond. What were the rules? What was the protocol? It was unheard of for such a high-ranking Russian political official to address a member of the Secret Service, much less approach him, in a meeting like this or at any other time. Was he about to strike him? Marcus had every right to defend himself if attacked. But he knew that any physical altercation between the two men would pour gasoline on a geopolitical fire already raging and threatening to burn out of control.
Oleg Kraskin stopped dead in his tracks, mere inches away from Marcus’s face. For a moment he said nothing. He just stood there, staring. There was an odd, almost quizzical look on his face.
Marcus steadied his breathing, fully prepared to react but determined not to overreact to whatever was coming. In his peripheral vision, he could see that several other officials were also now rising to their feet. The U.S. ambassador was about to speak when Oleg Kraskin beat him to it.
“You’re Marcus Ryker, are you not?” Oleg said, pointing at Marcus’s chest.
“Yes, sir, I am,” Marcus said as politely and diplomatically as he could.
“You’re the agent who saved your president’s life. I saw you on television. You’re a hero.”
Marcus said nothing, completely baffled at this point.
“That’s you; am I right?” Oleg pressed. “You’re the one the president honored in the White House?”
“Yes, sir, I guess so,” Marcus replied, not sure what else to add.
“Well, Agent Ryker, I must say, it is a pleasure to meet you,” Oleg said.
The Russian extended his hand. Marcus stared at it. He was tempted to look to his superiors for guidance but felt certain this would offend the very man who could alone determine whether this summit happened or not. So he gave Oleg Kraskin a firm handshake, and then, as quickly as it had begun, the moment was over. The Russian returned to his seat, and the meeting proceeded as if nothing had happened.
COLORADO SPRINGS—JUNE 2017
Marcus didn’t mind standing post all night in front of the presidential suite.
He was just glad to be back on the Front Range.
Andrew Clarke, the newly elected president, had come to the Springs and was staying overnight at the Broadmoor Hotel and Resort, with several items on his agenda. First and foremost was visiting the headquarters of NORAD, the North American Aerospace Defense Command, once located deep inside Cheyenne Mountain but since 2006 situated at Peterson Air Force Base. Though he’d never served in the military himself, Clarke had entered office insisting he would both restore the honor of the men and women who served in the military and rebuild America’s armed forces, which he said had been “gutted” by his “loser” of a predecessor.
The second priority on the president’s list was serving as the keynote speaker for a high-dollar fund-raising dinner for Republican senatorial candidates. It was early yet. The all-important midterm elections wouldn’t be held until the following year, but the president was determined to create, if at all possible, a veto-proof majority in the Senate that would enable him to pass the sweeping health care and tax reform bills he had so far been unable to get through Congress and signed into law.
Both items had been checked off the list the previous day. This morning the president was focused on the third item on his agenda: having breakfast with a dozen evangelical leaders whom he counted both key to his stunning upset victory and just as key to his reelection campaign.
Marcus hadn’t given any of the three a single thought. His sole interest in this trip—aside from keeping POTUS safe—was the chance to catch up with family. With the permission of the special agent in charge, Marcus had taken some personal leave and flown out to the Springs a day before the president arrived. He’d taken his mom up Pike’s Peak for the day, then out for dinner at her favorite hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant in Monument. He’d shown her the latest pictures of Lars, who the week before had celebrated his eleventh birthday, on his mobile phone and caught her up on her grandson’s latest exploits.
Right on time, about halfway through dinner, Mrs. Ryker made her semiannual plea for Marcus to retire from the Secret Service, move back to Monument, and give Lars “a real childhood.” Marcus listened patiently and asked his mother—for the umpteenth time—if Elena was actually paying her cash to make this case every six months. When she denied it like every other time, he gave her his standard reply: “Thanks, Mom, but really, we’re doing fine.”
The cruise disaster had long ago blown over. Marcus had apologized profusely. Elena had forgiven him. They’d met with Pastor Emerson for several months of counseling, and Marcus was finding ways to cut back on his hours and make a little more time for his wife and son.
When he got back to Washington on Friday night, he told his mother, he was going to meet Elena and Lars for a big night he had planned for them at the Kennedy Center. And yes, he assured her, when he finally felt the time was right to retire, they would definitely come back to Colorado.
The morning the president was to arrive in the Springs, Marcus had breakfast with his in-laws. He asked them to come over to the Broadmoor so he’d be ready to meet the motorcade when it arrived just before noon, and they were more than happy to do so. They loved their son-in-law and were as eager as ever to see the latest pictures and to hear the latest news. They just wished their daughter and only grandchild could have come too.
“The Kennedy Center sounds exciting,” Javier Garcia said, his eyes brightening when Marcus explained what he was planning. “What are you going to see?”
“Actually, it’s all Lars’s idea,” Marcus explained. “He’s been studying Moby-Dick. You know, ‘Call me Ishmael,’ and the like. Anyway, he’s gotten kind of into the whole thing, and his teacher heard that there was going to be a performance of an opera based on the novel at the Kennedy Center. Can’t say I’m a big fan of opera, but it’s gotten great reviews, and you know how your daughter is determined that our son learn about more than just fly-fishing and hiking fourteeners.”
“That’s our girl,” Mrs. Garcia said with a laugh.
“But in this case it’s really all Lars,” Marcus said.
“What time is the show?” Mrs. Garcia asked. “You’re sure you’ll get back on time?”
“Oh, it won’t be a
problem,” Marcus assured them. “The opera starts at 1900. Air Force One is wheels down at Andrews at precisely 1736. We’ll chopper back to the White House. The moment we touch down, my shift will be over. My tux is hanging in my locker. I’ll grab a cab and meet them there. Chick-chock. No problem.”
But there was a problem. The president’s meeting with the evangelical leaders went long—very long—and by the time they got to the airport, Marcus knew he wasn’t going to make it back to Washington on time.
Marcus called Elena from the tarmac.
“Don’t worry; I may be a little late, but I’ll make it,” he insisted after explaining the situation. “I promise.”
“It’s okay—don’t worry about it,” Elena said gently. “How ’bout if we meet you there? I’ll leave your ticket at will call.”
“Thanks,” Marcus said. “And, honey?”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know,” she said. “Stay safe, and we’ll see you soon.”
Just then she started a sneezing fit.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine. Probably just allergies.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m good. I love you, sweetheart.”
“Love you, too,” he whispered. “Gotta go.”
They had come a long way. Elena had made her peace with his job and its challenges, and he was making far more of an effort to be a loving and attentive husband and father. It wasn’t perfect. But it was working, and he was grateful.
He hung up the phone, checked in with the SAIC, received orders to board, and bounded up the stairs and took his seat. Ten minutes later, Air Force One surged down the runway. When he heard the landing gear retract, Marcus checked his watch again. They were forty-seven minutes behind schedule. He knew the pilots could make up some of that time in the air. They were going east, with the jet stream at their backs. Still, POTUS had nothing on his formal schedule that evening, which meant there was no particular reason the pilots needed to push. But worrying wouldn’t get them there any faster. Stress is a choice, Marcus told himself. Lay it down.
He tilted his seat back, closed his eyes, and uttered another prayer that the pilots would make up lost time. He didn’t exactly look forward to a night of opera, but he couldn’t bear the thought of missing a single moment of such a special evening with Elena and Lars. He’d missed far too many already.
Lars took the news well.
Better than Elena had feared. After nearly a year of marriage counseling with Pastor Emerson and Maya, it was true that she had made her peace with Marcus’s crazy job and crazier schedule. But Lars had not. He was struggling in school, drifting in class, underperforming on tests, and occasionally even getting into fights. The school psychologist said it was only preadolescence. Elena knew it was more. A boy needed the love and discipline and strong presence of his father in his life. It was no more complicated than that. But she was done being angry and worked hard to let go of her bitterness. These were the cards God had dealt them. She’d done herself and her marriage and her son no good complaining about her hand. She needed to be grateful and play them as best she could.
“Wow, you look amazing,” she said as she adjusted Lars’s bow tie. “Dad’s going to be impressed.”
“If he even shows up,” the boy muttered.
Elena suppressed a sigh. At least Lars wanted to spend time with his dad, she told herself. Not all eleven-year-old boys did.
As Lars went to grab the car keys from a dish in the kitchen, Elena gave herself one last look in the mirror. Aside from a few wrinkles around her eyes, a few extra pounds, and a single gray hair she’d found just that morning—the occupational hazards of being a mom, she’d concluded—she didn’t look half bad.
Her eyes were a bit red. She felt achy and a bit warm. She was afraid she was coming down with something, though she refused to let it slow her down, especially tonight. She loved the black cocktail dress and black pumps she was wearing. She loved her classic pearl necklace and earrings, the very ones she had bought herself in high school for special occasions. She was pleased that Marcus had cared enough to call her from the airport to give her an update. He hadn’t always done that. But he was thinking about her, about them, and she was grateful.
“It’ll only take a second, Lars,” she assured him. “Don’t worry. We won’t be late.”
After yet another sneezing fit, Elena pulled into a 7-Eleven a few blocks from their apartment to pick up some cold medicine. Lars wanted to stay in the car, but Elena insisted he come with her. It was still light out, but the corner of Eighth and E Streets in the southeast section of D.C. was no place for an eleven-year-old boy to be by himself on a Friday evening.
Lars complained all the way into the convenience store and then all the way up one aisle and down the other. He reminded her how heavy traffic would be, as if she hadn’t ever driven in the city before. He reminded her of how hard it would be to find parking if they got to the Kennedy Center late. He couldn’t argue they’d have a hard time getting decent seats, because Elena had already bought the tickets and Lars had chosen exactly where he wanted to sit—in the center, toward the front, of course. But he found other lines of attack and pressed them relentlessly.
Elena did her best to stay calm, if not exactly cheerful. She was feeling worse by the minute. Her eyes were watering. Her head was pounding. Lars’s constant grumbling about almost everything concerning life in Washington was already driving her crazy. Tonight’s riff was not helping. She didn’t want to lose her patience, though. The last thing she wanted was to ruin this special evening. She knew Marcus’s sayings about how stress was “all in her head” and she could “lay it down” at any moment. Blah, blah, blah. Maybe that worked in the Secret Service. She hadn’t exactly found it such great advice when dealing with a preadolescent boy, especially when Dad was on the road. Instead, she said a quick prayer, finished filling her basket, and headed toward the cashier to pay and be gone.
Her heart sank when she saw five other people in line ahead of her, and it sank even further when Lars started saying she should have gone to Walgreens or CVS, which he insisted were “always faster.” Elena started counting silently to fifty. She wasn’t going to lose it. Marcus was constantly telling her to count to slow down her thoughts and steady her nerves. It was advice she never followed, but there was a first time for everything.
Just then, two young men—both in their late teens—entered the store. Both were dressed in dark-blue hoodies and sunglasses that obscured their faces, but to Elena they looked Hispanic. She immediately sensed something was wrong. Before she could figure out what to do, the two drew handguns and demanded that everyone stay where they were and not make any sudden moves.
“Fork over all the cash in the drawer, Pops,” one of them shouted at the African American man behind the register, tossing a small duffel bag on the counter.
Elena’s heart was racing. She slowly reached for Lars, who just as slowly took her hand and squeezed it tightly.
“Let’s go, let’s go; we don’t got all night!” the leader demanded, waving a pistol in the face of the terrified clerk.
The man’s hands were trembling. He was trying to open the register, but it was taking too long.
“Look at me, Pops. Look at me!”
The gray-haired gentleman looked up. Elena could see the fear in his eyes and knew she had the same look in her own.
“Now, I’m gonna count to three, and when I get to three, that register better be open, or I’m gonna shoot you in your brain. You got that?”
The man nodded and immediately went back to work. The register finally popped open, and he began stuffing the duffel bag with cash.
“Move, move; come on, let’s go,” barked the leader, who then glanced back at his partner to make sure everything behind him was okay.
Elena glanced at him too. The kid was standing a few feet to her left, near the door. He was aiming his pistol at the line
of customers, making sure none of them did anything stupid. At the same time he was constantly looking outside at a rusty green Plymouth Duster idling out front. Elena didn’t have a good view of the driver, but she could tell he, too, was nervous by the way he kept revving the engine every few moments, like he was trying to signal his partners that they’d already been in there way too long.
She glanced at the door. It was less than ten feet away from them, and it was unlocked. Yes, it was being guarded by the kid to her left. But would he really shoot them if they suddenly bolted out of the store to safety? These punks were thieves, but were they cold-blooded murderers? Elena doubted it.
Elena knew exactly what Marcus would be doing if he were there. He’d have been armed, and she had no doubt he would have drawn down on these two and given them a single and clear ultimatum: drop their weapons or die. She also knew what he’d tell her: do whatever these hoodlums told them, stand still, stay calm, and don’t try to be a hero. He was right, of course. It would be foolish to bolt. This would all be over in a moment.
What neither Elena nor the hoodlums had accounted for was the off-duty D.C. cop in the restroom. Hearing all the commotion, he slowly came out of the men’s room and down the aisle behind them with his service weapon drawn.
“Police—hands up and no one dies!” he shouted.
The kid to Elena’s left turned quickly to see who was behind him. The moment his gun came around, the policeman fired three shots in a row. One went wide and blew out the glass door. Another struck the boy in the chest. The third hit him in the throat. The boy flew backward through the shattered glass and landed on the pavement.
The store erupted in gunfire as the leader wheeled around and began firing everything he had and the cop returned fire. When it was all over and the smoke cleared, the driver and the second gunman were gone, and four people lay dead—the kid in the hoodie, sprawled out on the pavement, the off-duty policeman, Lars, and Elena.
The Kremlin Conspiracy Page 17
