The Kremlin Conspiracy

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  “We don’t have approval for your plan yet,” she said, now completely alert and firing up her laptop.

  The two had been developing and refining the extraction plan all day, trying to find a way to get Oleg out that didn’t necessitate deadly force. They’d come up blank. Morris had lit a fire under her staff to make sure everything and everyone was in place—just in case they did get approval. But at this point, it seemed like a long shot.

  “Even if we get the green light, I don’t know if my team can move that fast,” Morris added, entering the third of five nine-figure passcodes to open a secure channel to the Magic Palace, the CIA’s Global Operations Center in northern Virginia.

  “I’m counting on you, Jenny,” Marcus replied. “Make it happen.”

  The message moved with lightning speed up the chain of command.

  Marcus dictated the report, and Jenny Morris sent it as an encrypted precise text to Langley. The twenty-line message landed in the hands of the shift supervisor of the CIA’s Global Operations Center. From there it was transmitted to the director of Russian operations with a “FLASH TRAFFIC” priority. She ran it directly up to the seventh floor and put it in the hands of the deputy director of intelligence, who immediately asked for a meeting with the director. Twelve minutes later, Director Richard Stephens and the DDI were in a car headed for the White House.

  When they arrived at the West Wing, they were taken to the Situation Room, where President Clarke and most of the National Security Council had been hastily assembled. No one knew what was coming, but all of them had been told to prepare for major developments, none of them good. The president convened the meeting of the NSC and gave the CIA director the floor.

  “Mr. President, less than an hour ago, our case officer received a new message from Moscow,” Stephens began. “The DDI is uploading an image, and it should be on the screens around you in a moment. But I’m going to read it in the meantime because it is, as you’ll see, time sensitive.

  “The Raven just made contact. Stop. Timetable for war changed. Stop. Invasion now planned for 0200 local time on 1 October. Stop. Luganov livid about POTUS decision to mobilize U.S. forces into Poland. Stop. Assumes forces headed for Baltics. Stop. Convinced there’s a leak in his operation and has begun aggressive mole hunt. Stop. Told generals he will go to war no matter what. Stop. One senior official warned Luganov that Russian forces not yet ready, move could trigger a nuclear war with NATO. Stop. Luganov undeterred. Stop. Division in cabinet not enough to dissuade Luganov. Stop. War now all but certain. Stop. CRITICAL POINT: Luganov openly stated to his war council that he is fully prepared to go nuclear—even suggested he’s looking for an excuse. Stop. Ordered all Russian strategic nuclear and conventional forces to highest state of readiness. Stop. Has been told by aides that element of surprise has been lost but moving forward anyway at full speed. Stop. Heading to meet the Raven for secret rendezvous. Stop. Preparing to execute OPERATION DAMASCUS BASKET on accelerated timetable. Stop. NEED IMMEDIATE GREEN LIGHT. Stop. Raven bringing with him 32 gigabytes of highly classified files. Stop. Will update when possible. Stop. YMM.”

  “What’s YMM?” the president asked.

  “Your Man in Moscow,” Stephens said. “That’s Marcus Ryker—our link to the Raven.”

  “And what’s Operation Damascus Basket?”

  “That’s our extraction plan, sir.”

  “For Ryker?”

  “No, sir—to get the Raven safely out of Russia.”

  “Such a plan is ready?”

  “Almost, sir, but it is highly risky, and I haven’t yet given my approval.”

  “Why not?”

  “Mr. President, it involves our people taking out four Russian bodyguards who protect this particular official, the Raven.”

  “Isn’t there any other way than using deadly force?”

  “I’ve been asking the same question all day. But my people in the field say no. If we want this guy, it’s the only way. I don’t have to tell you the risks if our people are caught or killed in the process. But the upside would be enormous. It’s your call, sir.”

  “Has the Raven asked us to set the plan into motion?”

  “Yes, tonight.”

  “Does he understand what’s at risk?”

  “Ryker says he does. But Luganov has ordered a mole hunt, so they think it has to happen immediately.”

  “Are you guys ready?”

  “Almost—we’re finalizing everything as we speak, Mr. President.”

  “Do you want to walk me through the plan?” asked Clarke.

  “Actually, sir, I’ve told you the most critical piece—I think the less you know the better,” Stephens said. “But I can keep you apprised of developments throughout the night, if you’d like.”

  “Very well—coordinate through Colonel McDermott.”

  “So the mission is a go, Mr. President?”

  “It’s a go,” Clarke said, then turned to Defense Secretary Foster. “Cal, the Agency is clearly doing what they can to get us the best intel possible. What do you and your men recommend we do with it?”

  “Mr. President, in light of this new information—and working on the premise that it’s all accurate—I have three recommendations.”

  “Lay them out.”

  “Yes, sir. First, I recommend we move to DEFCON 3 and stand by for a possible move to DEFCON 2. This will put all U.S. conventional and strategic nuclear forces on high alert. If nuclear war becomes imminent, we may have to move to DEFCON 1 for the first time in history. Second, you should direct the secretary of state to call an emergency videoconference of the North Atlantic Council to explain to NATO as much as we can of the latest intel and the imminence of a Russian invasion. Make it clear to our allies that any attack by Russia on the Baltic states or any other NATO member will trigger Article 5. And third, Mr. President, I recommend we get you on the hotline to talk with President Luganov directly and see if you can’t head this thing off before the missiles start flying.”

  Everything he’d learned to protect our president, he was now using to take out theirs.

  Given that he couldn’t say a word to Morris or draw on any of her assets or expertise, Marcus rated the chances of success of assassinating Luganov at no more than one in five, if that. Still, that wasn’t his main focus just at the moment. The plan for getting Oleg out was. This was one topic he could discuss with Morris, but it wasn’t going well. They’d gotten the go-ahead from Washington only to learn one of the pilots they needed to fly them out was sick in bed with a 104-degree fever. The copilot was already doing all the preflight checks, but the flight plan hadn’t been approved. And now a massive winter storm that no one had seen coming was moving in.

  At least the weapons Marcus had asked for had come in. He had in his possession a Vul—a silent Russian pistol—and the Vintorez sniper rifle favored by Soviet Special Forces.

  Marcus pulled off the main highway. He parked the white Volga GAZ-21 in the shadows behind a self-service Lukoil gas station that was open but deserted. Grabbing his satphone, weapons, and keys, he locked the beat-up old sedan and jumped into the brand-new Mercedes SUV that Jenny Morris was driving right behind him. Several hours from now they would leave the Mercedes here and proceed to the airport in the Volga, hopefully throwing off anyone who might observe them driving to or from their next destination.

  As they drove the six miles to Rublyovka, home of Moscow’s wealthiest and most powerful families, Marcus briefly considered telling Morris who his source really was, how they had met, and that they were actually going to meet him at his parents’ house. The moment she saw him, after all, she would know exactly who he was. Still, he’d made a promise to the man, and he wasn’t about to break it. If Oleg were killed in the house or taken down while trying to kill the president, Marcus might never need to tell her. If Oleg actually lived through the next several hours and made it to the plane, he could give them a proper introduction then.

  The house should be deserted, Marcus
knew. Oleg had assured him that his parents had left the country hours earlier and should be halfway across the continent by now. The Kraskin estate was nearly a kilometer away from the nearest neighbor. What’s more, Oleg’s childhood home was surrounded on three sides by dense woods, long manicured lawns, and even a pond in the backyard with a small island in its center. Oleg had given Marcus all the passcodes they would need to enter both the main gates to the community and the gates to his parents’ property and to disarm the security system. And they had nearly a two-hour head start to get everything ready.

  Neither Marcus nor Jenny Morris was prepared for the spectacular size of the secluded mansion or for the fantastic wealth Oleg’s family had built up in the post-Soviet years. Marcus had understood they were successful but not that Oleg’s father was an actual oligarch. Yet as they pulled through the iron gates along the half-moon drive up to the front door, they found themselves gaping at a sprawling, forty-room, Scottish-style baronial castle with steeped gables, ornate conical turrets, and even four black “witch’s hat” roofs, one in each corner.

  Marcus put on his gloves, pulled a black balaclava over his face, and donned night vision goggles as they approached. Morris did the same. The plan called for her to drop Marcus off in front of the huge house, then speed off down a service road, past the five-car garage and several stone outbuildings before pulling the Mercedes deep into the forest, cutting the lights, and parking a half klick from the house to begin setting up her equipment.

  Marcus disarmed the security system and entered the house cautiously. There were no signs of life, no sounds but the ticking of an antique grandfather clock in the opulent vestibule, replete with Italian marble floors and seventeenth-century French artwork. The silenced pistol drawn—and the disassembled sniper rifle slung over his back—he stealthily moved from room to room, confirming that no one was inside, starting with the top floor and working his way down. Given the building’s length and breadth, it took longer than Marcus had planned.

  On the top floor, he found twelve bedrooms, including a master bedroom larger than any single room at the White House. Each bedroom had its own bathroom. There was a library and a study for Mr. Kraskin and another for his wife, as well as a workout room. On the main level, Marcus found a private movie theater with both a state-of-the-art digital projection system and a 35mm film projector. There was an indoor pool that could open to an outdoor pool overlooking the pond. A large screened porch adjoined a glassed-in breakfast room along with enormous living and dining rooms, a piano room, and a kitchen large enough to feed the Red Army. In the basement Marcus found three more guest rooms, a Jacuzzi room and sauna, a billiard room with a full bar, and laundry facilities.

  He also found the panic room Oleg had told him about. He entered the code he’d been given and stepped inside. Fourteen feet by fourteen feet, with reinforced steel walls, ceiling, and floor, it was really more of a bomb shelter than a panic room. At one end was an independent oxygen system, several large drums of potable water, a chemical toilet, a small round table with four wooden chairs, and a television and shortwave radio. Bunk beds lined the side walls. At the near end of the room was a tiny kitchenette, a pantry with canned goods, and shelves lined with battery-operated lamps and flashlights. The room’s systems operated from an independent power source that should remain up and running even if power went out in the rest of the house.

  Marcus exited the safe room and reentered the code, closing the vault’s steel door behind him. Then he found the utility closet Oleg had directed him to, the one containing two large water heaters, the HVAC system, the house’s Internet routers, and an assortment of other panels controlling various systems within the house and throughout the grounds. He focused on the circuit box that regulated power coming in from the main electrical grid. Underneath it he magnetically attached a thin silver cylinder that could easily be mistaken for part of the original system if it wasn’t studied carefully. Inside the cylinder were a remote detonator and enough plastic explosives to knock out power to the whole house.

  His initial preparations complete, Marcus raced back upstairs, reactivated the master alarm system, and then—in the sixty seconds he had before the motion sensors kicked in—bounded up to the second floor and found the door leading to the attic. It was, as he’d been told, locked. But using the key he’d found in the drawer of the nightstand on the right side of the master bedroom, exactly where Oleg had said it would be, he quickly unlocked the door to the attic, then replaced the key in the drawer, headed back to the attic stairway, and closed and locked the door behind him.

  Marcus activated his night vision goggles as he made his way into the unheated and thus chilly top-floor storage area and found himself next to a small window that looked out toward the private access road leading to the property. The window wasn’t designed to be opened. He was tempted to cut out one or two of the glass panes to prepare for what was coming next, but he decided against it. The window was, for now, the only thing keeping out the rain and the wind, if not the cold. Instead, he removed and unzipped his backpack, pulled out the pieces of the sniper rifle, reassembled them, and settled in for the wait, though it wouldn’t be long now.

  “Razor to Keyhole, over,” he said, lowering the volume on his earpiece slightly and adjusting the whisper microphone pressed against his right cheek.

  “Keyhole to Razor, copy, reading you five by five—over,” Morris replied.

  “Status check.”

  “Good to go. And you? Over.”

  “Locked and loaded,” said Marcus, “and ready for showtime.”

  Oleg padded out into the living room in his silk pajamas.

  He intended to inform his detail that he couldn’t sleep and order them to take him to his parents’ house. But he was stunned to see so many additional agents.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded. “Who are all these people?”

  The supervisor apologized for the surprise. He said the detail had been beefed up on direct orders from the president. Normally he would have informed Oleg immediately, but given all the stresses on him, he had thought it best to let him get his sleep.

  As furious as he was terrified, Oleg stormed back into his bedroom and slammed the door, only to realize that he’d been so stunned by the presence of so many additional FSB agents that he hadn’t said anything about going to Rublyovka. He picked up the phone by his bed and called the supervisor. Next he changed into blue jeans and a fisherman knit sweater and threw a change of clothes and a freshly pressed business suit and some toiletries in an overnight bag. Then he grabbed the satellite phone and took it into the bathroom.

  Marcus felt the satphone buzzing in his pocket.

  “What?” he whispered.

  “We have a problem,” Oleg said.

  “Tell me.”

  “The president boosted my detail to a dozen agents.”

  “Why?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Has something happened?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Has there been a threat made against you? Or do you think he suspects something?”

  “I told you, I don’t know,” Oleg replied. “I just wanted you to be prepared.”

  With that, he hung up the phone.

  Marcus closed his eyes. The calculus had changed. Now he knew he had to tell Morris whose house they were at and how high the stakes really were. How else was he going to explain all the extra company they were about to receive and all the firepower they were bringing with them? He just prayed she wouldn’t call the whole mission off.

  “Razor to Keyhole,” he said. “I have new information for you.”

  McDermott huddled with Clarke in the Oval.

  “Two things, Mr. President,” he said as he stood beside the Resolute desk.

  “Make it quick.”

  “Yes, sir. First, we’re reaching out to the Kremlin to set up a hotline call for you and President Luganov. But we have to be realistic. It’s the middle o
f the night in Moscow. I’d recommend we place the call at, say, 8 a.m. their time. That would be 1 a.m. here, if that’s all right.”

  “That’s fine; just make sure it happens.”

  “Absolutely, sir. The second thing is about the extraction of the Raven.”

  “What about it?”

  “Well, sir, if our people can actually get him safely out of Russia, we need to make a decision about where to bring him.”

  “Here to the States, of course. Why?”

  “We’re talking about a very senior Russian official essentially defecting at a very delicate moment in U.S.–Russia relations,” McDermott noted.

  “And you don’t think it’s wise to bring him to the States?”

  “It may be prudent not even to acknowledge that we have him, sir.”

  “Where else would you take him?”

  “We’re thinking Egypt, sir. We’ve set up a special facility outside Alexandria. Top secret. Completely off the radar. But safe.”

  “And deniable.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What does Director Stephens say?”

  “He agrees.”

  “Then Egypt it is.”

  “Keyhole to Razor—they’re coming,” Morris said.

  It was pouring again, a bitter, biting rain that was soon going to shift into snow. It was early, but it wasn’t completely unheard of for the Moscow metropolitan area to get its first snow in early fall. Morris was shivering from waiting out in the elements for an hour and a half. But there was no point griping about it or even thinking about it. Through her high-powered night vision binoculars, she could see two black SUVs coming down the highway. They were less than two miles out.

  Setting down the binoculars, Morris picked up the weapon at her side, attached its silencer, and peered through the night vision scope. Moments later, the entourage entered the gated community and pulled up in front of the estate. It was 4:01. The Raven, who she now knew was none other than Oleg Kraskin, and his newly enlarged security team were right on time.