by Max Karpov
“Don’t!” Chris said, stopping him.
Briggs lowered his arm.
“Are you all right? Were you hit?”
“I’m all right,” Briggs said, still out of breath and dripping rain. “I’m going to clear the house.”
Briggs looked carefully at Turov before turning away, as if expecting him to leap back to life. Christopher walked with him down the hallway, covering Briggs as he went room to room and into the garage. Calling out, “Clear . . . clear . . .”
They walked outside to the three security men, confiscating phones, checking pockets. Christopher used his own cell to take photos of the dead men, which Headquarters would run through face recog software after they were out.
“The guards ambushed me, I had no choice,” Briggs explained as they came back inside. “There was no way of dialing it back.”
“We’re fine,” Chris said. “Let’s just focus on getting out of here. Do something for me.”
“Name it.”
“See if there are any suitcases or bags in the car and the van, or anything personal. Then we’re gone. Stay clean, no fingerprints.”
Christopher went back to the corner office and the unsettling sight of Andrei Turov seated in the leather desk chair, his eyes open, lips together. He felt again for a pulse. Nothing. He was tempted to tip him over, to make him look more like a dead man should look. But he didn’t. For some reason, he didn’t want to spoil Turov’s final impression.
He stood by the window and looked at the scultpture pieces in the rain, surprised that he was becoming emotional, thinking about Anna again. It wasn’t just the normal feeling that accompanies sudden death, the reminder of how fleeting life is. And it wasn’t just Turov, a man he’d obsessed over for years. Mixed in was the loss of Turov’s proposal, the chance of connecting with his “carrier,” if such a person really existed; the idea of two major countries forming an alliance, using their strengths to benefit the rest of the world. Wouldn’t it be nice?
Chris had never explained Turov properly to Jake Briggs, and maybe he should have. But it didn’t matter now. This mission had ended in an elemental game of self-defense. As Briggs had said, there was no way of dialing back now. Maybe it was for the best. There would be no more Turov deceptions.
“Two suitcases in the trunk,” Briggs said, standing in the doorway, his eyes turning to Turov.
“Okay, let’s get out of here.”
Christopher’s silence seemed to make Briggs uneasy again. He raised the garage door and climbed in the passenger seat. “I had no choice,” Briggs said as he drove toward the entrance gate. “I wish I did.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Chris was angry with Jake Briggs, in a superficial sort of way. But anger didn’t travel well. He’d weigh all that later: costs versus outcome. Briggs was an honorable man, unpredictable, wound a little tight. An old-school operative in some ways, the kind of man the CIA used to prize when Chris’s father was coming up, before the shift from human intel to electronic SIGINT. Had Briggs intended all along to kill Andrei Turov? He’d worry about that after they were back home. Chris’s thoughts had to be tactical now, not analytical. Briggs had changed the op, but he hadn’t ended it.
Briggs took them through the gate and back to the Lada. They shifted bags to the back seat and then he drove to the M10 motorway and the airport. Chris sorted through Turov and Konkin’s suitcases as they went: mostly clothes, and a few personal items, but he also found three flash drives in a small cotton tote bag in Turov’s case.
At Sheremetyevo International Airport, they bought casual business clothes at a Paul & Shark store and changed in the dressing room. Briggs came out with his hair slicked back, walking in his stiff-legged wrestler’s strut.
Martin had arranged for a concierge business-traveler package at Sheremetyevo, which allowed them to pass through security and passport control in a private VIP lounge, avoiding the queues and the scrutiny in the main concourse. When the flight was ready for takeoff, an English-speaking agent accompanied them to a private SUV, which delivered Chris and Briggs through the rain to their waiting Gulfstream V. The plane was registered to a CIA-owned NGO called Holstake Industries, which did millions of dollars of business in Moscow. It was one of about thirty charter planes owned by the CIA. The plane would deliver them to a private airfield north of Williamsburg, Virginia.
“Have a wonderful trip,” the personal agent said, with her pleasant Russian accent, standing in the rain beneath a giant umbrella.
Chris called Martin on the plane’s encrypted satellite phone once they were airborne and out of Russian air space. “The op’s over. I’m sending data,” he said. “I’ll need to call you back.”
“Are you all right?”
“We’re fine. I’ll call in thirty minutes.”
He made his two business calls, then. First, to the FSB agent whose office he believed had run surveillance on him in Moscow. “You will be interested to know,” he said, speaking Russian. “There has been a shooting, a robbery. Andrei Turov. I think one of his political enemies may have been responsible.” He gave the location and hung up.
Then he called Amira Niyzov on the number she’d written for him over lunch on Tuesday. Amira sounded pleased to hear his voice, but also cautious, a reminder of how delicate this op was. “Thank you again for talking with me for my story,” he said, “about the Russian Orthodox Church. I have a copy of what we spoke about, and am sending it to you.” Amira would be the first to receive the Delkoff document, other than Chris’s brother. “You know what we said Tuesday about returning to the cornfields?”
“Our philosophical discussion? Yes, of course,” Amira said.
“I’m told a crow died tonight, northwest of the city.”
“What?”
“Someone said the FSB may be there, or on its way now.”
“What are you talking about?”
“There’s a story that’s about to go public, about him. Obviously, some people won’t be pleased. You’ll be hearing about it.”
Amira was silent.
“Can you do what we said?” he asked. He felt an anxious twinge, worried for Amira. “Without putting yourself in jeopardy.”
She sighed and made a faint “mmm-hmm” sound. Chris knew that if she wanted to, Amira could spread this story to a handful of influential opposition leaders who could open up the network again. But she’d have to decide if doing so was worth the risk. “Where are you?” she said.
“I’m already out,” Chris said. “Probably you should leave too.” Amira didn’t respond. “I’m sorry. Be careful. I’ll be in contact,” he said. “Godspeed.”
His next call was to Anna, although he didn’t expect to reach her. It was midafternoon in D.C., and she was probably in a meeting.
“Christopher?” For a moment, he didn’t say anything. It was wonderful just hearing the timbre of her voice again.
“We’re done,” he said. “I’m coming home.” He listened to Anna’s silence, savoring the connection. “I just wanted to say: I’ve missed you. And us.” He added, “You can tell my brother to go ahead and publish now. Say he got it from a government source.”
“None too soon,” Anna said. “Have you talked with Martin?”
“Briefly. Why?”
Chris glanced up at Briggs, who averted his eyes. “Call Martin,” she said. “He’s got something to tell you. I love you.”
“I love you, too.” He gazed out the window after hanging up, as the plane rattled through a mild turbulence. He tried for a while to imagine what Martin had to tell him. Maybe they’d discovered that Turov had arranged the meeting in London. Or maybe something had happened to Petrenko. That had been worrying Chris, for some reason.
He closed his eyes and felt the presence of Turov, felt his ghost traveling with him back across the Atlantic. We might even make a good team. He considered Turov’s proposal, a plan for two countries to think against their prejudices. Or maybe that had all been illusion. Maybe Langley would fi
nd Turov’s true intentions on his phone or on the computer drives in his suitcase. Or maybe they’d never be known.
Finally, Christopher called Martin back. “Turov’s gone,” he said. “We’ve got photos, flash drives, digital evidence. It wasn’t planned that way, but that’s how it went down.” Martin drew in a breath. “I think it’s possible the media’s going to report that he was killed by Russian intelligence services. By the FSB,” Christopher added.
“Because—?”
“Retribution. Because Turov let Delkoff get away. And because of what he knows. Knew. Delkoff’s story’s going to go viral by morning. The story will name Turov as the organizer of the August 13 attack.”
“The Delkoff document, you mean.”
“Yes, the Delkoff document.” Christopher smiled at his lapse. Martin already knew about the document; Briggs had sent it to him first. “I understand the FSB may still be on the scene.”
He heard a crackle of static before Martin spoke again. “You were there first, though.”
“Yeah.” Martin waited. “We were there first. Turov’s guards tried to stop Briggs. He responded.” Chris gave a sketchy picture of what had happened, leaving out details that he hadn’t worked through yet. “It’s not a perfect outcome,” he said.
“Well, no. Obviously not.”
But they were talking about two different things, he knew. “I just gave my brother the go-ahead to run this story. The Russian opposition has it too. Just so you know. That’s our alternate scenario now.”
“Better late than not at all,” Martin said.
“Anna said you had something to tell me.”
“Yes. I do. It’s about your brother. He’s tracked down the story of CIA involvement in August 13. He thinks some of it’s coming from Turov’s older daughter, of all things.”
“What?”
“It caught us off guard, too. She’s an NOC for Russia, evidently, that we, and the FBI, missed somehow. Living here under a different name. Your brother’s trying to track her down. They wanted to know that you were safe before they took it further.”
Christopher said nothing. As far as he knew, Turov’s oldest daughter had made a clean break with her past—and her father—and was living in England.
“What did you mean, then, not a perfect outcome?” Martin said.
Chris sighed. “I’d thought Turov might be returning with us. That didn’t work out.” And then he explained, in abbreviated form, the deal that might’ve been, the connection with the “carrier” they had lost. “I don’t know where the line is between real negotiation and Turov’s deceptions. Or delusions. I just regret that we may have lost an opportunity.”
“I guess we’ll have to wait and see,” Martin said.
His response was odd; the lack of explanation made it odder. “What do you mean?”
“Just—I don’t know that we’ve lost the carrier,” Martin said. “The carrier may be fine.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I may have spoken with the carrier this afternoon,” he said. “She may be fine. I’ll explain when you get here.”
And then, in vintage Martin Lindgren style, he hung up, leaving Chris with a puzzle. He sat back and closed his eyes again, knowing that he had the rest of the flight to figure it out. It was still ten hours back to Virginia.
To kill a man like Andrei Turov was not difficult; it was no more difficult than killing any other human being, Jake Briggs thought, watching Christopher as he talked on the satellite phone. But for a country to kill someone, and claim a legitimate reason for it—a legal one, anyway—could be more problematic. There were multiple legal structures for that sort of thing; the laws of armed conflict being different from the laws of criminal justice. Certain enemies of the United States could be deemed legitimate kill targets by White House legal counsel. But killing a businessman, in his own country, in his own home, was a little trickier. A businessman who hadn’t even made the Russian sanctions list.
He still needed to talk with Christopher about that. Briggs understood by then who Turov was, and what he represented; he knew that, in killing him, they’d also eliminated a threat against the United States. To Briggs’s thinking, that was good enough. The only thing that worried him was that, technically, he’d been on assignment for the Central Intelligence Agency when it happened. If some ambitious journalist or elected official were somehow tipped off to that, it could become a problem for Briggs; it could even become a politically-driven investigation resulting in criminal charges.
He watched Christopher Niles finish his phone call and close his eyes. He took a seat across from him and cleared his throat.
“Talk?” he said.
FIFTY-FIVE
The Weekly American offices. Foggy Bottom, Washington.
It’s one thing knowing the truth,” Roger Yorke said. “Now all we have to do is convince the rest of the world.” Jon Niles smiled to himself: it was almost what Anna Carpenter had said, during their second meeting at Starbucks.
Liz Foster and KC Walls nodded in agreement. They were all watching the television across the room, waiting for news about Andrei Turov.
The Weekly American had been the first US media organization to post Delkoff’s “Declaration” online, after reports appeared on German and Ukrainian websites. But so far, the news was playing to a skeptical mainstream audience.
On ABC, it followed reports of the tornadoes that had ripped through Oklahoma, and the latest “smoking gun” revelations about the CIA: “Meanwhile, there are explosive but unsubstantiated new charges out of Germany about the August 13 attack,” David Muir began. “The newspaper Bild is reporting that a six-page document sent to a journalist by alleged August 13 mastermind Ivan Delkoff claims the assassination attempt on Vladimir Putin last week was a so-called false flag operation planned by a Russian oligarch with the possible cooperation of Putin himself.
“The Kremlin was quick to refute the report, calling it a ‘laughable fabrication’ and ‘further signs of America’s desperation to cover their crimes at our expense. Russia remains indivisible.’ There has been no official response from the White House. And some in the intelligence community have privately expressed doubts about the veracity of the document . . .”
“And so,” Roger said, lowering the volume when the segment ended, “if we can’t count on it to prevent a war, then maybe the truth doesn’t matter anymore.”
Jon glanced at his boss to make sure he was kidding. It was after midnight in Russia and Europe. Jon expected the story would take on a new life with the light of day.
“You’re joking, I hope,” Liz said.
“I should be, I guess. Although I am concerned about the public reaching a saturation point. Particularly now, with the White House preparing to come out with its own official version of events.”
“The coup story,” KC said.
“Yes.” Roger glanced out the window. “Part of what we’re dealing with now are the limits of the human attention span. Which Russia, no doubt, has factored in. Many people have already made up their minds. Or else they’re so confused—or fed up—that they’re starting to tune out the whole thing. There’s no good reason for them to accept Ivan Delkoff’s version.”
“Even if his version is the truth,” Liz said.
“Even if it’s the truth. At this point, I’m not convinced the truth will have much bearing on what Russia does in Ukraine or Estonia,” Roger said. “It’s a little like saying one sports team is better than another because it’s more virtuous. That may be the case, but will it affect the outcome of the game? Russia appears to understand that better than we do.”
Liz frowned. She glanced at Jon, not getting it. But Jon could see she understood the gravity of what he was saying.
“I hope I’m wrong on that,” Roger said, his eyes returning to Jon. “Although I’m hearing from Pentagon sources that this is still on the fast track. Russia’s military is positioning for a ‘retaliatory’ strike by end of the week. Th
is story may actually give them a new urgency.”
Jon recalled what Martin Lindgren had said about the Moscow apartment bombings, how they’d created a sense of outrage and urgency that had led to the Second Chechen War in 1999 and established Putin’s credibility. Jon wasn’t sure if journalism was up to the job of telling a story that revealed “the truth” anymore—or if people were interested. Even the Western media were letting the story of US involvement play out episodically.
“Going to war on false pretenses wouldn’t be unprecedented,” Liz said, looking at Jon. “It wouldn’t be something we haven’t done.”
“Which may be part of the calculation,” Roger said.
“This word indivisible,” KC said. Her face looked strange this afternoon, flushed or sunburned. “Are they pulling that from our pledge of allegiance?”
“Indivisible.” Roger smiled. “No, it’s sort of interesting. It’s actually an old tsarist slogan that goes back to the start of the twentieth century. It was the rallying cry of Anton Denikin, the leader of the White Army in the Russian Civil War. ‘Great Russia, one and indivisible.’ Russia’s current president—Mr. Putin—has made no secret of his admiration for Denikin.”
Jon waited for KC and Elizabeth to file out once Roger clicked off the television, KC again showing a little attitude. Jon closed the door after them.
“I know what you’re saying about our national attention span,” he said. “But I don’t think I agree with the rest of it.” His editor raised his eyebrows and nodded, inviting an explanation. “The part about the truth not having any bearing on winning and losing. I don’t agree. I think this story’s right. And I think it’s going to prevail for that reason. I want to make sure it does.”
“Okay.” Roger nodded. “So how do you intend to do that? Where do you want to go with this?”
“I’d like to pursue Turov’s daughter right now,” Jon said. “I don’t know if she’ll talk with me. But I don’t think anyone else in the media knows about her yet. So I’d like to try.”
