The Kremlin Conspiracy

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  Air Force One landed early.

  With the jet stream working for them, the pilots had made up the forty-seven minutes and more. Marcus couldn’t believe his good fortune. But as the plane taxied to a stop, the special agent in charge came over to his seat and asked him if they could talk in private.

  “Is there a problem, sir?” Marcus asked, anxious to get moving.

  “I’m afraid there is,” the SAIC said as the rest of the detail grabbed their carry-on bags and headed off the plane.

  At first Marcus thought he was being relieved of duty. He’d never seen his supervisor look so somber or hesitate to say whatever was on his mind.

  “Look, Marcus, there’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just say it.”

  Marcus steeled himself for whatever was coming.

  “There’s been an incident.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A shooting, at a 7-Eleven in Southeast.”

  “And?”

  “Elena was there, as was Lars.”

  Marcus froze. “But they’re okay, right? Tell me they’re all right.”

  The SAIC shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid they’re not.”

  “What do you mean? What happened?”

  “There was an off-duty cop in the store at the time. He drew his weapon. There was a gun battle. Elena and Lars were caught in the cross fire.”

  Marcus heard the words, but he didn’t believe them. There was no way his wife and son were at a 7-Eleven in Southeast, he explained. They were meeting him at the Kennedy Center. He needed to get there himself. He couldn’t be late.

  “Marcus, they’re dead,” the SAIC said. “Both of them. I’m so sorry.”

  The SAIC drove.

  They raced from Andrews into the city in a government sedan, lights flashing, siren blaring. Marcus couldn’t hear it. All his training was failing him. He couldn’t think clearly, couldn’t count, couldn’t focus, much less speak. This couldn’t be real. It had to be a mistake. It had to be.

  Finally the two men pulled up to the crime scene. A dozen police cars and several ambulances clogged the streets. A half-dozen TV news crews were covering the story live, their satellite trucks taking up nearly a city block. A D.C. detective met them and walked them over a sea of shattered glass to the blown-out front door of the convenience store. The body of the young gunman had already been removed, but his outline remained in the coagulating pool of blood.

  “You sure you want to do this?” the detective asked before opening the door.

  Marcus said nothing. The detective looked to the SAIC and back at Marcus, then led the two men inside.

  What Marcus saw was worse than anything he had let himself imagine. Three bodies, each covered in blood-drenched sheets, lay where they had fallen. Bullet casings were everywhere. An empty handbasket, resting on its side, immediately caught his eye. Strewn about the filthy tile smudged with blood and dirt were unopened packages of DayQuil and Extra Strength Tylenol, a bag of Ricola, a three-pack of tissues, a Snickers—Lars’s favorite—and a Dasani water bottle.

  Crime scene investigators were still taking photographs, still taking measurements and detailed notes. All the initial interviews with witnesses had already been conducted by the detectives, and the wounded had been taken to the hospital to be treated for shock and various minor injuries. No one was left who had actually been present when the shooting began, no one Marcus could ask for details.

  It didn’t matter. Marcus hadn’t come to solve a crime or even observe the aftermath of one. He had come for one simple, if unimaginable, purpose—to identify the bodies of the two people most precious to him in the world. So that’s what he did.

  Just a few inches away a woman’s hand, cold and stiff, poked out from beneath a sheet. Marcus instantly recognized the rings. They were Elena’s. He forced himself to kneel beside her body. His hands were shaking. Taking a deep breath, he slowly pulled back the sheet. There was Elena’s face. Her eyes were closed. She looked like she was sleeping. She looked peaceful, so beautiful in her pearl earrings and necklace. Marcus saw blood. Then he pulled the sheet back farther and saw the damage. She’d been hit once in the chest and again in the stomach. His bottom lip quivered. He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. Marcus felt the SAIC’s hand on his back, steadying him. Neither man said anything. What was there to say?

  Marcus leaned down and kissed Elena on her forehead, then pulled the sheet up over her face and turned to the body next to her. Again, he slowly pulled back the sheet. Lars was lying facedown. Marcus could see the holes in the back of his tux. Blood was everywhere.

  Slowly, carefully, he turned the boy over. His eyes were still open, and they looked so scared—haunted and alone. At this, Marcus lost it. He immediately shut Lars’s eyes and cradled him in his arms and wept and wept.

  The memorial service took place on a Thursday.

  It really ought to have been cold and drizzling. Yet it was late June in the nation’s capital, and the morning was dazzling, sunny and fresh. The skies were blue and laced with white, wispy clouds. The trees were lush and green, and every garden was in full and vibrant bloom. The humidity was surprisingly, refreshingly low, and there was a light breeze coming from the east as people entered Lincoln Park Baptist Church, just six blocks from the Rykers’ apartment.

  A rather large African American woman in her sixties knocked twice and popped her head into Carter Emerson’s office.

  “Whenever you’re ready, Pastor,” she said, her eyes somber behind her glasses. “Everyone’s in place.” She caught Carter’s eye and nodded respectfully at Marcus, then backed out of the office and closed the door.

  Marcus couldn’t remember the woman’s name. That bothered him. They had met numerous times. She was in Elena’s Bible study. She’d already brought a meal to his home this week. She and her family were pillars of the congregation. Marcus’s ability to observe and recall the minutest of details was something he had always prided himself on, a skill that had served him well as a criminal investigator and federal agent. Yet now even simple things were slipping from his grasp. This morning he had forgotten the PIN for his ATM card. The previous night he’d forgotten the combination to the safe in his closet, not that it mattered. In putting him on indefinite paid leave, his SAIC had taken away both his service weapon and his personal weapon when he’d driven him home from the 7-Eleven that terrible night.

  Perhaps Nick Vinetti had been right to insist on driving him to the church that morning. Nick, now deputy chief of mission in Moscow, had flown immediately to Washington when Pete Hwang had called him with the news. Both men had been staying with Marcus for the past few days, making sure he was eating and that he didn’t do himself any harm. Marcus kept telling them he was fine. They didn’t believe him. No one did.

  “Let’s pray a moment before we go out,” Carter said.

  Nick and Pete nodded and, following the pastor’s lead, bowed their heads. Marcus did not. He just stared at his hands while Emerson talked to God. Right now Marcus was in no mood to pray.

  When he heard the amen, Marcus rose and followed Carter out of the office and down the hall, with Nick and Pete tailing them. When they reached the sanctuary, Marcus was stunned. The pastor could and did draw quite an audience week after week, but Marcus had never seen the place packed to the rafters. There had to be more than five hundred people crammed into the pews and portable chairs and standing along the side and back walls, and every seat in the balcony sections was taken. It was a mixed group racially and professionally. Most were members of the church and the community in and around Eastern Market. Still, more than a hundred members of the United States Secret Service, including the director and assistant director, had come to pay their respects as well. Marcus even noticed that Senator Robert Dayton and his wife had come. Next to the senator’s wife was Annie Stewart, the aide who had survived the attack in Kandahar.

  The president and First Lady had, fortunately, chosen not to come, as ha
d the vice president and his wife. Marcus had deeply appreciated receiving handwritten notes from each of them offering their condolences. The president’s note had included a PS, explaining that he didn’t want to create a security and logistical nightmare that might shift attention off of Elena and Lars and prove distracting for Marcus’s family and friends. At this, Marcus had been immensely relieved. He hadn’t wanted them to come for precisely the reasons the president had mentioned. But he wouldn’t have dared insult them by asking them to stay away.

  Marcus went to his assigned seat in the front row and hugged his mother, seated to his right. In the row behind them sat Marcus’s two sisters, their husbands, and their children.

  To his left were the Garcias. Javier looked numb. Elena’s mother and her sisters—now in their twenties—were a mess. They kept dabbing their eyes with tissues and trying to keep their mascara from streaking, but to no avail. After greeting his own family, Marcus embraced them all, holding his mother-in-law as she sobbed. When the organist played the first notes of the opening hymn, Javier finally helped her into her seat, and the service began.

  The funeral was mercifully short, and for Marcus most of it passed in a blur.

  There were hymns and Scripture passages, and Carter gave a moving eulogy. Mr. Garcia spoke, choking back tears, as did one of Elena’s sisters.

  When the choir rose to sing the final hymn, everyone in the church stood—everyone, that was, except Marcus. He just stared at the two caskets and listened to the music without hearing it. He was furious with God. How could he have allowed this to happen? He was in no mood to be spiritual. But at last, when the choir reached the final stanza, he stood, joining the rest of the congregation. He loved his wife and son and didn’t want to do anything that might dishonor their memory.

  When the choir was finished, the pallbearers came forward, Nick and Pete among them. Bill McDermott stepped forward as well. He’d recently been appointed by the president to serve on the National Security Council. Joining them were Marcus’s SAIC and two special agents from the PPD. Together the six men walked each casket down the center aisle, one after the other, to a black hearse waiting out front.

  The police escort to the cemetery was long. The burial service itself was short, for family and close friends only, as Marcus had requested. When the caskets were lowered into the ground, the group returned to the church for a reception of light snacks and soft drinks in the fellowship hall. Marcus and the families greeted all who came, chatting and reminiscing with each of them until Pastor Emerson eventually came up, apologized for the interruption, and asked Marcus to step into his office.

  “Thought you might need a break,” Carter said when they were behind closed doors. He suggested they sit a spell, then made them both some coffee from a Keurig machine behind his desk. Marcus took the mug, nodding his thanks, but didn’t take a sip. He just stared into the steam.

  “How you holding up?” Carter asked.

  Marcus shrugged.

  “Looks like you’ve got something on your mind, son.”

  That was true, but Marcus wasn’t sure he wanted to say it aloud. Maybe it was better to get back to the reception. Most people had gone, but there were still some lingering. He needed to show his gratitude to everyone who had come, needed to listen to every memory about Elena and Lars they wanted to share. It wasn’t perfunctory. He didn’t simply feel duty bound to be polite. Rather, he found himself deeply moved by listening to each person share memories. He wanted to reflect and remember. And it was better than him having to talk.

  “They all get it,” Carter said as if reading his mind. “They’ll wait. Believe me. Nobody’s going nowhere.”

  This man was old enough to be his grandfather, Marcus thought. He needed a grandfather just then, someone older and wiser who could show him how to function, how to put one foot in front of the other when all he really wanted to do was hide away in his apartment and shut the whole world out. Someone who knew what he was going through. Carter Emerson had never lost a wife. He and Maya had been married almost fifty-five years. But their daughter, Alicia, had been murdered when she was just seventeen. It came up from time to time in his sermons. Carter was open about how the loss had almost caused him to walk away from Maya and the ministry. He was also a Vietnam vet and had lost some of his closest friends in the war. Those wounds were not fresh, but they were deep. This was a man of sorrows, Marcus knew. He’d been through the valley and come out okay.

  “Maybe so, Pastor,” Marcus said at last. “But I guarantee you there’s not a soul out there who ever imagined I would outlive Elena and Lars. Not a one.”

  Carter sipped his coffee without comment. After a while, Marcus got up and walked over to the bookshelves. The office was lined with them, wall to wall, top to bottom. Marcus scanned the titles—the tomes of theology and eschatology, the biographies of great pastors and preachers and missionaries, the writings of the church fathers, the works on counseling and rearing children and handling finances and choosing elders and shepherding a congregation.

  Finally Marcus turned and went to the window. He drew aside one of the white cotton curtains and looked out on the parking lot. Only a handful of cars remained. He thought again what he had thought during the service. How could God have let this happen? He was still angry, still hurting. But a new thought began to work its way around the edges of Marcus’s rage, and with it came a new target for his wrath.

  “I’ve spent my whole life protecting people,” Marcus said as he stared out at a large oak tree outside the window, flush with green leaves. “I’ve guarded generals and senators, presidents and prime ministers. I’ve risked my life to protect my country and our allies. But in the end I couldn’t protect the two people I love the most. What does that say about me?”

  NOVO-OGARYOVO, RUSSIA—15 JUNE

  “It’s time, Oleg Stefanovich—we are going to war.”

  The president pushed back from the dining table, wiped his mouth with a white cloth napkin, tossed an unfinished piece of sausage to his black Lab, Nikita, and strode straight out the French doors and across the lawn to the chopper spooling up on the helipad. Luganov had finished his morning routine—an hour in the gym, an hour in the pool, and a hearty breakfast of fresh black coffee, freshly squeezed orange juice, an omelet made of quail eggs, and a side of cottage cheese. Now Aleksandr Luganov had called for a meeting of his inner circle back in Moscow at precisely noon, and he was not a man willing to be late.

  Oleg did not get up from the table immediately. He was still reeling from the astonishing plan his father-in-law had just laid out for him. Over the years, Oleg had tried hard to close his eyes to the man’s history of saying and doing the morally dubious. But what Luganov was describing now was downright insane. He was actually talking about invading not one but three NATO countries, doing so simultaneously, and launching this brazen and unprovoked attack soon—within a matter of months—before Brussels, much less Washington, had a chance to know what was coming. Luganov had hinted at and alluded to such ideas before. Oleg had heard him ask questions of his generals and intelligence officials that suggested he was giving some thought to such madness. But Oleg had never taken any of it seriously. Until now.

  Oleg turned and stared out the window as the president was saluted by an honor guard and boarded the helicopter. Oleg berated himself for remaining silent throughout the one-sided discussion. He had not raised any objection nor even asked a question. Yet how was he supposed to respond to such a plan? He was counselor to a man who neither sought nor brooked any counsel other than his own. Surely Petrovsky and Nimkov would see it as madness, he tried to assure himself. If anyone could wave the president off such a scheme, it would be one or both of them.

  Oleg badly needed a cigarette, but clearly there wasn’t going to be time for that. The whine of the rotors pierced the vast rooms of the mansion, and Oleg knew he needed to get moving. The clearest sign that this plan was not a whim but something Luganov was actively weighing was the fact t
hat he was heading back to the Kremlin to meet with his war cabinet. These days his father-in-law seemed increasingly annoyed by any time he had to spend with his cabinet or senior staff. In recent months he had routinely canceled meetings and asked for senior officials to route written questions through his chief of staff or through Oleg himself. Oleg often found himself drafting replies to this never-ending flood of queries on every manner of subject. Professionally, this made Oleg a more valuable advisor than ever. He had more access to the president than almost any other human being. Strategically, however, he was worried. The president was slowly yet steadily narrowing his inner circle. He was getting input from fewer and fewer people. The minister of defense, army chief of staff, and the head of the FSB still had a great deal of access and were summoned—or at least telephoned—more than most. Those officials who handled such mundane matters as the budget or infrastructure or education got almost no time from the president at all.

  As Luganov increasingly withdrew from the petty nuisance of meeting with subordinates, he spent less and less time in his office. Occasionally it was unavoidable, such as when various world leaders came to see him. Then the police would block off highways and side streets so his motorcade could whisk him to the Kremlin. Other times, like today, he would chopper in, an arrangement that allowed him to spend more and more time working out of Novo-Ogaryovo, his immense palace west of the city, valued at over $200 million.

  Often his mistress stayed there as well. This made it exceedingly awkward when Luganov insisted that Oleg sleep there so they could work late. Katya Slatsky was at least thirty-five years the president’s junior. The girl was stunningly beautiful, to be sure. But she was young enough to be the man’s daughter. Indeed, she was actually younger than Marina, who hated the whore who had replaced her mother with an intensity that only Oleg saw. Marina had never expressed or even hinted at such feelings to her father. Whether this was out of love or fear, Oleg could not say. Fortunately, Katya had not been there last night, and Luganov had been all business.