“I appreciate that,” Florian says.
“It’s the least I can do. This country owes you a tremendous debt.”
Florian repositions himself in his chair and crosses his legs. “There is actually something you might be able to help me with.”
“Of course.”
“Have you been able to find out anything more about the Russian?”
“Ah,” the president says. He crosses his arms over his chest and leans back into the plush leather. “Alexei Kedrov, a.k.a. Alexei Drovosek. Not very much, unfortunately. We know that he began his official career with the Russian Federal Security Service, then at some point transitioned to the Foreign Intelligence Service. We believe he spent long periods of time outside of Russia; however we have no idea where or what his assignments were. He then returned to Russia at some point, where we believe he was involved in the death of Vladimir Putin.”
“What do you mean by involved?” Florian asks. He gives the president a perplexed look. “Are you saying Putin was assassinated?”
“Not officially, of course,” Constantine says with a meaningful look. “You understand that this conversation does not leave this office, right?”
“Of course,” Florian says. “What about Alexei’s money?”
“About that, we know exactly two things: Putin had amassed a secret fortune of billions which was never accounted for, and Alexei seems to have billions stashed in accounts all over the world. I’ll let you draw your own conclusions.”
Florian’s smile was subtle. “So Alexei used the secret fortune of an ex-KGB Russian autocrat to fund a political revolution in the United States.”
“It has a certain poetic flare to it, doesn’t it?”
“Do you know when he came to the US?”
“We’re not sure when or how he got in. I’m sure the United States government would have happily given him asylum in exchange for information, but he obviously had other plans.”
“Plans were something Alexei never lacked.”
“So it would seem,” the president says.
“Anything else?”
“I don’t know if you’d consider this relevant or not, but were you aware that Alexei didn’t have a heart?”
Florian raises an eyebrow. “That depends on whether you’re speaking metaphorically or literally.”
“I mean that quite literally. At some point, his heart was removed and replaced with some kind of very sophisticated continuous flow device. As far as we can tell, he wouldn’t have had a heartbeat or a pulse. If he was ever brought into a hospital unconscious, they would have almost certainly pronounced him dead.”
“I don’t understand,” Florian says. “Was he sick?”
“We don’t know. All we know is that the surgery was done a long time ago—probably either in Russia or Eastern Europe—and that’s probably how he got the code name Tin Man.”
“Not having a heart explains a lot about Alexei,” Florian says. “What do you know about his activities in the US?”
“To be perfectly frank,” the president says, “probably far less than you.”
Florian nods. “Probably.”
“Do you mind if I ask about the nature of your relationship?”
Florian looks away from the president while he considers the question. There are dark shapes on the walls where recently removed pictures kept the paint behind them from fading in the sunlight and the heat from the wood fireplace. “I guess you could say he was the closest thing I had to a father.”
This is obviously not the response the president is expecting. His expression is a combination of surprise and compassion. “I didn’t realize that,” the president says. “In that case, I’m very sorry about the way things turned out.”
“Thank you. I am, too.”
“I have to say, though, I’m a little surprised to hear you say that. I got the impression that you two were rivals.”
“Our relationship was complicated.”
The president nods and smiles knowingly. “Relationships with fathers usually are.”
“Where are the children now?”
“Klein had them interrogated in some kind of black site that we still haven’t been able to find, but thankfully, while she was trying to cover her tracks, she had them transferred to Guantánamo. I had them all moved from there to a state facility outside of Pittsburgh last week.”
“What about the kid from the submarine?”
“He’s with them.”
“And the Korean girl? The one who killed Laroche?”
“Hyun Ki,” the president says. “She was with them as far as Miami, but as soon as the charges against her were dropped, she disappeared. Since she isn’t a minor, we couldn’t hold her.”
“So she’s out there somewhere,” Florian says. It is both a statement and a question.
“As far as we know. Do you have any idea where she might be?”
“Why?”
“No reason in particular. It would just be nice to know if she was still in the country or not. She seems like a very—well, a very talented girl. Someone the CIA might be interested in.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Florian says. “I’m not sure where she is, but I suspect she’s still in the US, and I’m pretty sure she’ll find me before I find her.”
“If she does, let her know that if she’s ever looking for a job, I’m sure we can find something for her.”
“I will,” Florian says. “What about the other children? How are they?”
“Who knows?” the president says. “I can’t imagine they won’t be psychologically scarred for the rest of their lives. All I can say is that they will be very well cared for until we can figure out what to do with them.”
“Maybe I can help with that,” Florian says.
“How?”
“I’d like to take them.”
“Take them,” the president repeats. He looks skeptical. “Take them where?”
“Back to Alexei’s compound for now since that’s the only home most of them have ever known, and then to a new facility I’m planning on building.”
The president looks down at the dog on the floor and taps his fingertips together. His gold wedding band is thin and tight on his finger.
“Where are you planning on building this facility?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“When you say that you want to take them, are you saying you want legal custody?”
“If that’s what it takes. I’m saying that I want to be responsible for them, and I’d like to hire all their caregivers back, as well.”
“That’s very generous of you, but why?”
“Because I owe it to Alexei,” Florian says. “In fact, I owe it to a lot of people.”
The door to the president’s office opens. Florian turns in his chair and sees a young woman with a dark complexion leaning tentatively into the room. She is wearing a heavy wool cardigan.
“Excuse me, Mr. President. You’re expected in Holly in seven minutes.”
“Thank you, Olivia,” the president says.
The door closes but the president does not move. “Florian, out of respect for you, and in the interests of moving this country forward, I’ve halted all further investigations into what went on in that compound, and in particular, your involvement in it. But I know enough that it would be remiss of me not to ask you what you’re planning.”
“Of course,” Florian says. “I’m planning on preparing.”
The president squints at Florian. “Preparing for what?”
“You really want to know?”
“Try me.”
“OK. For the next Pearl Knight. For the next Helen Klein. For the next constitutional amendment, or domestic spying initiative disguised as antiterrorist legislation, or the next secretly negotiated international trade agreement. For when all the goodwill that your administration currently enjoys has been spent on the realities of politics and money and power. For when the friction of greed stops all t
he momentum the country has right now and forces the pendulum back the other way. In short,” Florian says, “for next time.”
The president stands in a way that indicates that their meeting is over. “There isn’t going to be a next time,” he tells Florian. “That I can promise you. I didn’t come all this way just to backslide. I swear to you, nothing like what has happened to this country over the last thirty years will ever be allowed to happen again.”
Now Florian stands. He meets the president’s resolute glare with the most subtle of ominous grins.
“With all due respect, Mr. President,” Florian says, “there’s always a next time.”
EPILOGUE
* * *
CHILDREN’S HOME NO. 59
MOSCOW, RUSSIA
SEPTEMBER 10, 2001
8:46 A.M.
* * *
The woman the children called Tetya held Alexei’s hand as she escorted him to the visitation room. She opened the door for him but did not follow him inside. Alexei turned and looked up at the woman and she gave him a thin, sympathetic smile as she withdrew.
The American couple on the couch in the corner of the small room did not look comfortable. The couch was too low and they sat slightly too close together. The man’s dark hair was neatly combed to the side and he wore a red V-neck sweater over a white oxford shirt. His coat was folded in his lap, and on top was a faux-fur ushanka with an old Soviet pin on the forehead—the kind of hat a tourist would pick up in an airport, or from a street vendor in Moscow. The woman beside him had long blonde hair meticulously pulled back into some kind of clip. Her deep burgundy lipstick matched the dress she wore beneath her heavy gray wool coat.
The man looked past Alexei at the door, then looked back at the boy.
“I understand you speak English very well,” he said.
Alexei nodded. The room was warm and the air was heavy with the sweet fragrance of the woman’s perfume.
“Good.” The man gestured at the chair beside the couch. “Have a seat.”
The boy did not move. His hair was so straight that it refused to follow the contours of his head, and instead jutted out in various directions and at multiple angles like fine black spines. He was thin and pale with dark moons under his gray eyes and lollipop-red lips. The man watched him for a moment, then continued.
“You are Alexei Kedrov, correct?”
Alexei nodded.
“Is it true that your parents were from Ukraine?”
“Yes.”
“Is it true that your parents once lived in Kiev?”
“No.”
“Is it true that your parents once lived in Pripyat?”
“You’re not here to adopt me,” the boy said.
The woman looked at the man beside her, then looked back at the boy. The man was watching Alexei with an expression of intense curiosity.
“Why do you say that?”
“You didn’t bring me a present. If you were here to adopt me, you would want me to like you, and if you wanted me to like you, you would have brought me a present.”
“It’s him,” the woman said to the man.
The man nodded. “You’re right,” he said. “We’re not here to adopt you. We’re just here to talk.”
“About what?”
The man adjusted his position on the thin and worn cushions. “About your parents.”
The boy bit his lip as he stood awkwardly in the front of the room. He looked at the woman and she looked back at him without smiling.
“Did you know them?”
“Yes,” the man said. “I was your father’s contact.”
“Contact for what?”
The man moved his coat and hat from his lap to the couch beside him, then leaned forward. “Do you know what was on the microfilm your father tried to hide on the Zarya spacecraft?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“State secrets.”
“I mean specifically. Do you know what kind of state secrets?”
“Information on Chernobyl.”
“And do you know why he risked his life to try to get that information out of the country?”
“To sell it to the Americans,” the boy said. “My father was a traitor.”
The man shook his head. “It was never about money, Alexei. Your father admired America very much. Did you know that?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know that the reason your parents spoke English to you from the day you were born and had you watch American TV was to prepare you for the day they took you to the United States?”
“Yes.”
“Your father wanted nothing more than to give you the one thing he and your mother never had: true freedom. He had a very deep appreciation for American values.”
“I know.”
“Did you also know that as much as he admired the United States, he had some very serious concerns about its future?”
Alexei watched the man for a moment. “Concerns about what?”
“About corruption. About the abuse of power. About the country being divided between the rich and the poor. He was afraid that he would risk his life to get his family to the United States only to have his children or his grandchildren grow up in a country not much different from the Soviet Union.”
“My father was a sick man,” the boy said. “He was paranoid.”
“Your father knew what he was talking about, Alexei. The question of the weak being oppressed by the strong is never one of if, but of when.”
“America is a democracy,” the boy said. “How could that happen?”
“Two ways,” the man said. “Gradually, and then suddenly. Like an earthquake. It builds up over a long period of time in a way that most people don’t even notice, and then all of a sudden, everything comes crashing down around you. Your father could see that all the government needed was an excuse, and unless the people were ready, the United States would start down the path of becoming a totalitarian regime.”
“What kind of excuse?”
The man shrugged. “It could be anything. An economic meltdown. A massive natural disaster. More likely, a foreign invasion of some sort, or a large-scale terrorist attack. Anything the government could use to legitimize giving itself additional powers and limiting its citizens’ freedoms. Your father knew that once that happened, there was probably no going back. A government almost never gives up power without a fight.”
The boy looked confused. “What does this have to do with Chernobyl?”
“Your parents wanted Chernobyl to serve as a warning to the West. They weren’t looking for money, or even for any kind of retribution. They just wanted the world—and in particular, the citizens of the United States—to see what could happen when a government loses all respect for its people. They wanted to shock Americans—to prepare them for the inevitable pivot away from freedom and democracy.”
Alexei lowered himself to the carpet and crossed his legs. The woman leaned forward so she could see him over the coffee table.
“You are CIA,” the boy said. It was a statement of fact rather than a question. “Why do you say these things about your own country?”
“The United States is a great country, but I’m not stupid enough to believe it’s going to be great forever—at least not without a little intervention now and then.”
“Are you here to take me to America?”
The man shook his head. “I wish I could, but your government is keeping a very close eye on you. The only reason we’re sitting here right now is because we’re paying the director of this place seventy-five thousand dollars in what he calls adoption consultation fees.”
The boy studied the man for a moment. “There’s something you’re not telling me,” he said.
“What makes you say that?”
“Because the CIA wouldn’t pay all that money just for you to tell me about my father.”
The man leaned back and crossed his arms. He looked at the woman beside him, then down at his h
at.
“Do you know what a dead drop is, Alexei?”
“No.”
“It’s a place where people leave messages for each other—usually someplace public but inconspicuous. Under a particular rock in a park, for instance, or inside a specific book in a library. It’s how we used to communicate with your father until your parents went to go work on the Zarya project.”
“Why did you stop?”
“Everyone affiliated with Zarya was watched very closely. We could monitor your parents, but we couldn’t risk any communication with them. All we knew was that they were trying to get us information on Chernobyl, but we didn’t know what information, and we didn’t know how. Then one day, they just disappeared. We watched them walk into the Khrunichev Space Center in the morning as usual, but they never came back out, and we never saw or heard from them again.” The man paused for a moment and watched Alexei carefully. “That is, until about six months ago.”
The boy narrowed his eyes. “That’s not possible,” he said. “My parents have been gone for over two years.”
“Exactly,” the man said. “Which is why we assumed the drop had been blown. We saw someone hanging around it who we figured for an FSB agent, but when we checked him out, we found he has a cousin who works as a guard in a Siberian labor camp—exactly the kind of place your parents would have been taken. We watched the spot for another few days and when nobody else showed up, we went in.”
“What did you find?”
“A note from your father. Addressed to you.”
The boy got back to his feet. “Do you have it?”
The man shook his head. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t risk having it on me. But I know what it said.”
The boy tried hard to appear impassive. “Tell me.”
“It was just one simple phrase,” the man said. Иди и покажи им. Make me proud.”
The boy looked down at the floor for a moment, then back up at the man. He passed the back of his hand across his eye, then hardened his expression.
Kingmaker Page 25
