“How did word leak of financial arrangements at OAK?” raved Putin, pacing the room, kicking the snarling head of a Siberian tiger rug each time he passed. They were in the dacha’s large main room, redolent with wood smoke, decorated in rustic style with leather couches and chairs scattered about and a vintage 1936 7.62-caliber Tula hunting rifle above the roaring fireplace. Outside the panoramic picture windows—uncharacteristically lavish in a typical lakeside dacha—snow covered the shoreline and dusted the pines, but the black water of the lake had not yet frozen.
Gorelikov did not want to excite the president any more than he was now. “It is likely that the corporation’s foreign contacts—bankers, salesmen, and government buyers—were the sources of these defamations,” he said, quoting the news releases.
Putin looked at Gorelikov like a week-old sturgeon with milky eyes. “No. We have a gemorróy, a big problem. Someone inside OAK, someone who knows the books.”
Gorelikov had by choice never prospered from the bacchanal of corruption in the Kremlin, and was secretly amused now that the spoils of greed had stung the tsar. “There are thirty thousand employees working at OAK,” said Gorelikov. “We’d have to tear the place apart.” He took a breath. “Ignore the accusations. They will be forgotten in a week.” Putin swore.
Those specific accusations were in fact forgotten the next morning when a message from MAGNIT was relayed from the Center to the dacha’s commo room reporting that an intact Zvezda Kh-35U antiship missile had been delivered to the Dahlgren Division, Naval Surface Warfare Center test facility in Virginia for evaluation of guidance, propulsion, and warhead systems.
Putin swore again. “Bljad, son of a bitch; so you think this will be forgotten in a week?” he said to Gorelikov. “Not only is Washington defaming us on the world stage, but also CIA appears to have at least one asset inside OAK.”
Gorelikov chose his words carefully. “We sell Zvezda missiles to India, Brazil, and Vietnam. The Americans could have acquired an export model from a third-world agent without our top-of-the-line seeker head and telemetry.”
Putin gave him another fishy stare. He had trusted Gorelikov since knowing him from law school, recognized his brilliance, and appreciated his analytic mind. He also knew Anton was not corrupt, or susceptible, or power hungry. He would never covet Putin’s throne. Most important, Putin recognized Gorelikov’s proclivity for and love of naneseniye uvech’ya, covert mayhem. Just as a chess player relishes organizing defenses, traps, attacks, and feints to achieve checkmate, Gorelikov reveled in concocting an intricate intriga just for the sheer joy of causing havoc. In this he was unmatched: Bortnikov of FSB, or Patrushev of his Security Council, were accomplished schemers, but no one was like Gorelikov.
“Enough of the rationalizations,” said Putin. “I want a solution. Washington and CIA are making fools of us. The loudmouths in the Moscow press and on the street will spread the word and agitate.”
Gorelikov shrugged. “Repina especially,” he said, referring to one of the most vocal anti-Putin, anticorruption dissidents recently noticed in the West and raising money as a result.
“Suka, bitch, forget her. I want sredstvo. I want a remedy,” said Putin, leaving the room, and Gorelikov, to contemplate the snow-laden landscape and the ink-black water.
* * *
* * *
The next evening, Putin lighted two thick candles in eighteenth-century red, gold, and turquoise cloisonné candlesticks on a plank table placed near the dacha’s picture windows. The rest of the room was dark—only the light of the burning logs in the vast fireplace cast additional flickering shadows around the room. Two steaming bowls of kormya, Russian lamb stew, were in front of them with two heels of black bread for dipping into the gravy. The stewards serving them had withdrawn. Putin and Gorelikov both drank tea from a hissing samovar on a side table. Tonight was no night for vodka. The wind had kicked up after dusk and frozen crystals of snow adrift in the utterly black night scratched invisibly against the glass. With the roaring hearth, the hiss of the samovar, and the storm raging outside, this was the Devil’s waiting room. The two men were sitting at either end of the table eating stew and looking at each other, as if waiting for Shaitan to join them.
“The Americans are timorous,” said Gorelikov. “They avoid conflict in the foreign field; they ignore their allies and coddle those who oppose them.”
Putin slurped a spoonful of stew. “And yet we see this attack against the reputation of Russia and the calumny directed at me.” His voice shook.
“This is my point,” said Gorelikov. “This campaign does not originate from the craven White House. This comes from CIA; it is their brand of active measures directed back at us.”
“Why does it come now?”
Gorelikov wiped his mouth, and leaned forward. “It could be for a hundred reasons, all of which we know well. We ourselves concocted a legend to camouflage the intelligence Snowden brought with him. Or we send a dispatched volunteer to discredit a genuine defector. We focus criticism elsewhere to mask the existence of a high-level agent or network.”
Putin set his spoon down. “We can discuss American motives all day,” he said. “And we can speculate about how many moles we have in place in each other’s pantries. But it does not solve the problem.” His voice rose. “It is my reputation, my prestige, and my public image.” Which is more important than any spy stealing our secrets, thought Gorelikov.
Gorelikov commiserated. “The Director of CIA is Alexander Larson,” said Gorelikov. “He is a legend among the operational cadre in CIA’s Ops Directorate. He is also the first ops-trained DCIA since the midseventies, and is aggressive. Reports from rezidenturi indicate CIA is ramping up activity worldwide—CIA officers are pitching our officers in scores of foreign capitals. For every one who reports a hostile pitch, how many do not? We cannot know, but we must assume a small percentage accept recruitment. Egorova in Line KR also regularly reports operational flaps and ambushes, as though a mole in SVR is advising the Americans.”
“We have our own triumphs,” said Putin, distractedly.
“Of course. I’m only emphasizing that DCIA Alexander Larson is an activist director who is not only accelerating operational tempo against us in the field, but also, in my view, putting together a covert action to stimulate regime change in our country, modeled after their successes in Ukraine and Georgia. He must have leverage to persuade the administration to permit it, perhaps with support from congressional hawks.”
Gorelikov spoke calmly. “You know I speak openly to you.” Putin nodded. “I say to you with confidence that Larson and his Agency are working to destabilize our country. Why now? Suppression of dissidents may have been the catalyst, Crimea, the alliance with Iran, or ten other factors. But the threat is real, and we will have a crisis unless we act.”
Putin poured himself more tea. “You’ve had a day to think on it. What do you propose?”
“I have considered multiple options. Only one recommends itself.”
“Tell me.”
A gust of wind-driven snow made the plate-glass window flex in its frame—Shaitan knocking to be let in. “That we eliminate the Director of CIA,” said Gorelikov, softly. A log collapsed in the fireplace, spewing sparks into the room where several embers glowed on the pine floor. Shaitan was in the dacha now.
Putin stared at Gorelikov, who continued, almost in a whisper. “His death—it must appear accidental—will derail this covert action against the Rodina. His agency will be demoralized and in shock, its case officers vulnerable and disillusioned. The US administration will hitch up their skirts in panic, and Congress will blubber until it is time for them to go into their next recess.”
Putin had not blinked once. “The hand of Russia will of course remain invisible, even though the world will suspect, no, will marvel, at the utter imperturbability of Vladimir Putin and Novorossiya,” said Gorelikov, wondering if he was laying it on too thick, but deciding it could never be too thick for V. V. Putin.