The Kremlin Conspiracy

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  “That all went out with the Cold War,” he insisted.

  “Fine,” Marcus said. “But why come to me?”

  “My motives are my own business.”

  “Yet you ask me to trust you.”

  “I do.”

  “I don’t even know you.”

  “Believe me, Agent Ryker, you will want to hear what I have to say.”

  “Maybe so,” said Marcus. “But let’s be honest. I could be in danger—as could the senator—simply by you coming here.”

  “Not as much danger as I am in,” Oleg replied. “Tomorrow or the next day, you all can leave. I cannot. But neither can I remain silent. I must tell someone, and I’ve chosen you. Perhaps you don’t have reason to believe me. Fine. I ask you only to listen, and then go back to Washington and independently evaluate everything I tell you. If I speak the truth, perhaps you’ll trust me to tell you more. But I need your word you will never betray my identity, and I need it now.”

  It was not an unreasonable request, Marcus concluded. Yes, taking the meeting was a risk, but perhaps it was worth it to spend a few minutes with a man so close to the Russian president. Even if the man had come to plant disinformation, simply hearing what he had to say might prove very valuable. So Marcus gave Oleg Kraskin his word.

  “Perhaps you should write all this down,” said Oleg.

  “Say what you’ve come here to say; I will remember every word,” Marcus assured him.

  Oleg stared at Marcus for a moment, then closed his eyes. He seemed to be steeling his resolve for whatever task he had set for himself. Finally he reopened his eyes and looked directly at Marcus again. “Very well,” he began. “You must understand that everything—or nearly everything—my father-in-law said to you and the senator and your team last night was a lie.”

  Marcus said nothing.

  “He’s not going to pull our forces back from the border of the Baltics,” Oleg continued.

  “Why not?” Marcus asked.

  “Because twelve days from today—on or about October 7—he’s going to invade the Baltic states.”

  “Which one?”

  “All of them.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “I am,” Oleg said. “He’ll pull our forces off the border of Ukraine, as he promised, but your president must not be deceived. He will only do so to reinforce the units he’s going to send into the Baltics.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Marcus said, incredulous. “You’re telling me your president has decided to invade not one but three NATO countries?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s madness. Why would he do it?”

  “Because he can,” Oleg said. “My father-in-law is convinced no one will stop him, that these nations are his for the taking. He grabbed one-fifth of Georgia, and no one did anything. He took Crimea and eastern Ukraine, and what happened? Nothing.”

  “This is completely different,” Marcus said.

  “Because it’s NATO.”

  “Of course.”

  “Nevertheless, he’s gambling he can strike so fast and hard that no one can stop him, and once he’s got what he wants, no one will want to risk nuclear war to take it back.”

  Marcus sat there trying to make sense of it all. It’s not that what Oleg was saying was far-fetched. But it was surreal hearing it from the mouth of someone in the Kremlin inner circle.

  “You say he’s going to move on October 7?”

  “Give or take a day or two, yes,” Oleg said. “His original plan was to attack on October 25, the anniversary of the Russian Revolution. Now he’s pushing the generals to be ready sooner, and my father-in-law is not a man to whom one says no.”

  “But I don’t understand. This doesn’t make sense. He’s willing to risk nuclear war to seize three tiny states most people couldn’t find on a map?”

  “Perhaps most Americans cannot find them,” said Oleg. “But I assure you that every Russian can.”

  “You believe they’re yours.”

  “They are ours.”

  “That’s why you want them back.”

  “Of course,” Oleg said.

  “Then why are you here telling me this? Why tip your hand? Why not let your father-in-law seize them in a surprise blitzkrieg?”

  “The answer to that is very simple,” Oleg said. “He is ready to risk nuclear war and the deaths of millions to get these three countries back. I am not.”

  The weight of that statement stunned Marcus into silence.

  Glancing at his watch, Oleg continued. “Few people really know this man, Agent Ryker. I do. I married his daughter. I became part of his family. But I had no idea what I was stepping into. My parents revered him. My Marina worshiped him. What reason did I have to think of him any less highly? But now I have worked for him for years. I’ve traveled the world with him, been in most meetings with him, taken his dictation, handled his personal and professional correspondence, been sent on delicate diplomatic missions for him. I’ve spent more time with this man than with my own wife. And I’m telling you, I’m sickened by what I see. He uses people to gain whatever he wants, and then he destroys and discards them without another thought.”

  “And what does he want?”

  “Power. Riches. Glory. Sexual pleasure. You name it. And not in moderation. His appetites are insatiable. When he has something, he craves more. When he does not have something, he will kill to get it and to stop others from getting it. He is a man without conscience and without remorse.”

  “Another Stalin?”

  “No, I don’t see him like a Stalin or a Khrushchev. He’s not like any Soviet-era leader. Yes, he was shaped by those times, but he was never truly a Communist. He joined the party in order to advance his own ambitions, not the party’s. When Communism died, he discarded it and moved on.”

  “A Hitler then?” Marcus asked. “Ready to grab the Rhineland, ready to show the Western powers that they didn’t have the will to stop him, ready to kill millions—tens of millions—when they finally did try to stop him?”

  Oleg shook his head slowly. “No, he’s not a fascist or a national socialist.”

  “Then what?”

  “He sees himself as a czar.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning he sees himself as a visionary—an imperialist. He is determined to regain and restore the glory of Mother Russia by any means necessary. He believes Russia was humiliated by the Western powers in the previous century.”

  “And is that how you see him?”

  “In part.”

  “But . . . ?”

  “I believe the best way to think of him is as the head of a crime family.”

  “Like the Godfather?” Marcus asked. “You’re saying he’s Vito Corleone?”

  “I’m saying he’s Sonny,” Oleg replied coldly. “Ambitious but rash, reckless—and he has a nuclear arsenal and the willingness to use it.”

  Marcus stood and walked over to the window.

  “You do not believe me?” Oleg asked.

  “No, I do believe you,” Marcus replied, closing the drapes completely, then checking the hallway through the peephole to make sure no one was standing outside his door. “But I’m not sure who else will.” He paced for a moment, then sat down again. “If you’re telling the truth, you’re committing treason by talking to me,” Marcus said as much to himself as to Oleg.

  “I am telling the truth, but I am not committing treason,” Oleg retorted. “I am not betraying my country, Agent Ryker. The president is. The whole reason I have come to you—the whole reason I am telling you this—is because I want to save my country.”

  “How?” Marcus asked.

  “You must tell Senator Dayton what I’ve told you—without telling him your source. The senator must then tell President Clarke, and Clarke must order his generals to send the necessary troops and tanks and planes to the Baltics to create a serious deterrent—a speed bump, as it were, large enough to cause my father-in-law to pause, to think twice
, to back down before it’s too late.”

  “Why not just go to the U.S. Embassy or to the media?”

  “Because then I’d be found out and murdered for certain.”

  “And you think coming to me is safe?”

  “Not safe, but perhaps safer.”

  “Perhaps?” Marcus asked.

  “Agent Ryker, please listen to me. Ever since I first heard about this madness and saw the war plan, I’ve been trying to come up with a way to stop it. The only way I see is to get word to the White House of what is being planned. When the senator’s request for a meeting came across my desk, I saw you were traveling with him. That’s why I immediately recommended to my father-in-law that he take the meeting. It took some effort to persuade him, but in the end he accepted my logic and agreed to receive the senator and his delegation. I did not do it to meet Mr. Dayton. I did it to meet you, because I realized you might be the one person to whom I could plead my case. Do you recall that time in Berlin, when we first met?”

  Marcus nodded.

  “Do you remember what I called you?”

  “No.”

  “I called you a hero.”

  “I’m not. I was just doing my job.”

  “You were willing to take a bullet to protect your president, your country, your country’s government and way of life. And that wasn’t the first time. I have read a great deal about you, Agent Ryker. I know that when your country was attacked on 9/11, you volunteered to join the Marines. I know you served in Afghanistan and Iraq. I know you are a patriot. I suspect you have not agreed with every decision made by every leader you protected. But you defended their legitimate right to make even poor decisions because they were chosen by the people and would be held accountable to the people. Well, I am no different, except that I don’t have the luxury of living in a democracy. My leader is a thug, accountable to no one, and he is leading our nation—the country I was born in, the country I love—into disaster. I have come to you at great personal risk because I believe you can understand this better than any politician. And I’m asking you to help me, Agent Ryker. Because time is short, and I don’t know who else can.”

  The praise made Marcus uncomfortable, but he sensed it wasn’t flattery. Perhaps it was really what Oleg Kraskin believed. Then again, perhaps it was an effort to manipulate him. This could be a setup, another plot to deceive, maybe even masterminded by Luganov himself. But why would the Russian leader send his son-in-law here in the middle of the night to tip the Americans off to an invasion of three NATO countries? What advantage did that give the Kremlin?

  “I can’t take this story to the senator without proof,” Marcus said. “And the senator certainly isn’t going to President Clarke unless he has proof that an invasion is really coming. He would need evidence, something concrete and compelling.”

  “Don’t worry,” Oleg said. “I have all the proof you need and more.”

  It was nearly six in the morning when Oleg left.

  Marcus waited as long as he could, which was about thirty-five minutes. Then he called Nick Vinetti. He apologized for calling his friend so early, but Vinetti said he’d already been to the gym for an hour and was just about to head to the office.

  “It was great to see you last night—all of you guys, but especially you and Pete,” Vinetti said. “The ambassador found the whole conversation fascinating. He hasn’t been invited to sit with Luganov since he arrived in the country. Don’t tell him I said so, but I think he was a tad jealous.”

  “Thanks, Nick, but this is not a personal call,” Marcus said.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Something’s come up. I need to see you immediately.”

  “Sure, no problem,” Vinetti replied. “My morning’s full, but I’ve got time around two. How about then?”

  “No, Nick—it has to be now. Clear your schedule.”

  “Why? What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Even on a secure satellite phone?”

  “No—it’s too sensitive. Can I come over now? I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t critical and time sensitive.”

  “All of you?”

  “No, just me.”

  “It’s that serious?”

  “Yeah.”

  “All right. It’s—what—6:39 now? Can you get there by seven?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine. I’ll give your name to the Marines at the front gate.”

  Marcus hung up the phone and headed to the elevator. Along the way, he told three of his men he was going out for a bit and if they needed anything to talk to Pete. Hailing a cab, he directed the driver to Bolshoy Deviatinsky Pereulok, Number Eight.

  “Ah, the embassy?” the driver asked. “You Amerikanski, da?”

  “Da,” Marcus said, handing him a wad of rubles. “And there’s a lot more if you can get me there by seven.”

  The unshaven man didn’t speak much English, but he understood enough. He hit the gas and raced through the streets of Moscow at high speeds. When he finally pulled up in front of the U.S. Embassy, they were late. It was twelve minutes past seven. But Marcus gave him the big tip anyway, knowing full well he’d never have gotten there any faster on his own. He showed his passport to the Marines in the front guard station. They immediately cleared him through and passed him off to a young aide who took Marcus straight to Nick’s office.

  “What’s wrong, Marcus?” the deputy chief of mission asked when they were finally behind closed doors. “You okay?”

  “I don’t know,” Marcus said. “I think so.”

  “So what is it? Why all the secrecy and urgency?”

  “This room is secure, right?” Marcus asked, walking about the spacious corner office covered with power photos of Vinetti with all kinds of high-ranking American officials and a few Russian ones as well. “I mean, it’s not bugged, is it?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “You’re sure?” Marcus pressed.

  “Yeah, I’m sure. It was swept yesterday. Sit down, let me get you a cup of coffee, and then you can tell me what’s got you on fire.”

  “No, no coffee—I’m fine,” Marcus said.

  “Well, I’m not,” Nick said. “I was up late with a couple of old buddies and a few too many beers. As I recall, you were there too.”

  He walked over to his desk, pressed an intercom button, and asked his secretary to bring in a fresh pot of his favorite Brazilian blend and some blueberry muffins.

  “Right away, sir,” came the reply.

  “Nick, I don’t want a muffin.”

  “Too bad—I do. Now sit. Talk to me.”

  Marcus was pacing, but at Nick’s insistence he took a seat across from his old friend.

  “Last night was great,” he began, trying to figure what exactly to say and how. “I mean, I completely disagree with the senator’s analysis of the meeting with Luganov. But the time with the ambassador and you and your team was great. You put together a stellar evening with almost no notice, and I owe you one. Thanks.”

  “You got that right, and you’re welcome.”

  “But something happened after we left.”

  “Tell me.”

  Marcus paused and took a deep breath, then lowered his voice and looked Nick square in the eye. “Someone came to see me in the middle of the night.”

  “Who?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Just hear me out.”

  “Fine, but hurry it up. I don’t have all day, even for you.”

  Marcus reached into his pocket, pulled out a black sapphire Samsung Galaxy phone, and handed it to Nick.

  “Thanks, buddy, but I have my own.”

  “Turn it on,” Marcus said.

  Nick looked down and turned the phone on.

  “Now enter 6653 and the pound sign.”

  Nick did.

  “Open up the photo gallery.”

  Again Nick did as he was told and found fifty-three p
hotos. Nick looked at Marcus, then back at the phone. It took a moment as he scrolled through the photos, but Nick could read enough Russian to understand what he was looking at. Marcus saw the blood drain from his friend’s face. “One of these documents is a Russian war plan to invade the Baltics,” Nick said. “And soon.”

  Marcus nodded.

  “And this one is an internal memorandum from inside the Kremlin.”

  Again Marcus nodded.

  “Where did you get this, Marcus?”

  “Luganov has a mole.”

  “How high? How close?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s too soon. They’re nervous.”

  “They?”

  “I don’t want to say if it’s a man or a woman.”

  “But it’s a man.”

  “I don’t want to say.”

  “Just one person?”

  “Yes.”

  “And it’s a man,” Nick pressed. “At least tell me that much. Because if it’s a woman that came to you in the middle of the night . . .”

  “Fine, it was a man,” Marcus confirmed.

  “And he obviously has access to classified information at the highest levels.”

  Marcus said nothing.

  “Is he a middle man?” Nick asked. “Or did he get these himself?”

  “He says he has direct access to these and more.”

  “How much more?”

  “Get out a pad and pen.”

  Suddenly there was a light rap on the door, and in came Nick’s secretary, a pleasant, round woman in her late fifties, with a large pot of coffee, two U.S. Embassy Moscow mugs, a carafe of cream, a glass jar of brown sugar cubes, and two spoons.

  “Thanks, Maggie—that’ll be all for now,” Nick said. “Hold my calls and all visitors until you hear otherwise. Oh, and one other thing.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I need Morris to come up here immediately.”

  “Right away, sir,” she replied, then left and shut the door behind her.

  Nick pulled a yellow legal pad out of a drawer in his desk. Marcus poured them both steaming mugs of freshly brewed coffee even as he kept talking.

  “Luganov is running a highly sophisticated disinformation campaign to keep the U.S. and the rest of NATO confused about his real intentions. That’s why he accepted Dayton’s invitation—to tell him he’s going to end the war games early and pull his forces off the borders, when he’s not.”