“How would you undertake such an action?” said Putin. “The CIA Director is protected at all times.”
Gorelikov sipped his tea. “I will examine the pieces to see how they might fit. None of our usual organic compounds; no forensic toxicology is acceptable. An indisputable accidental death will forestall open hostilities between our services.”
Putin nodded. “Put all your energies into the plan,” he said, curtly. The president of the Russian Federation had just green-lighted the assassination of the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. “Do you need anything?”
Gorelikov looked at the flames of the candles. “What do you think of including Egorova in the planning? She knows the field, has a cool head, and will not shrink from extreme measures.”
Putin shook his head. “Only the two of us. No one else. I insist on that condition. We will refer to the project henceforth as Kataklizm.”
“Understood,” said Gorelikov. The two men fell silent, and Anton knew the president—slayer of tigers, accomplished horseman, skilled jet pilot, and master of judo—appreciated the enormous risk of attempting to assassinate the American DCIA.
“With your approval,” said Gorelikov, “I would like to posit an additional refinement for your consideration. Any of our unicellular colleagues in FSB or the armed forces could have arrived at the solution of assassinating the head of CIA in five minutes. This, however, can only be the beginning of a larger plan that is infinitely more consequential and far-reaching.”
Putin dunked his black bread into the stew, waiting. Refinements. This is why he liked Gorelikov.
“Since MAGNIT’s recruitment I have been monitoring her career,” said Gorelikov. “As you know, she was recently promoted to vice admiral and is what one could call the US Navy’s senior flag-rank science manager. She has access to technologies, research and development, and the navy labs. Even though she is recognized for her brilliance, she is still generally considered meshkovatyy, awkward, pouchy, and three-cornered—without a political network outside her limited naval orbits. Accordingly, when she retires, the technical-reporting-asset MAGNIT disappears. For the last two years I have steered her to balance her scientific career with duties that would burnish her political bona fides; she is ambitious and followed my instruction with her characteristic quantitative precision. She was recently assigned to a position on the Bureau of Navy Personnel advisory board, which wields considerable influence. This year she was also considered for adjutant to Admiral Richards, the Chief of Naval Operations, but was not selected, I suspect due to her lamentable lack of what the Americans call front-office appeal. I fear MAGNIT will never have that quality; she could not acquire it any more than you or I could master her particle physics.
“But there has been more recent progress. She has been selected as a briefer to the Joint Chiefs because of her ability to explain science theory clearly and concisely to unschooled superiors. Part of these briefing duties includes accompanying the chairman to the White House every week. We are collecting some interesting national security intelligence now, which is the transition I wanted MAGNIT to make. You see, I have an endgame in mind, it’s—”
Putin put up his hand for silence. The corners of his mouth lifted microscopically, which for him suggested barely suppressed mirth. “What of her preference for lohmatka, for women?” he asked.
Gorelikov was not fazed at the interruption; he expected the inevitable question from the president. “Her addiction is aperiodic and controlled,” he said. “She indulges her appetites during discreet annual vacations abroad when under my supervision. She occasionally loses control with her partners, which I attribute to her social narcissism and pent-up sexual repression, a result of psychological conflict during childhood with an abusive father.”
“Loses control how?” asked the president.
Gorelikov shifted uncomfortably. “Frenzied lovemaking, too-rough use of sex aids, biting, and slapping.”
“Have you filmed this behavior for later control?” asked Putin, who was once a spook himself.
Gorelikov shook his head. “Coercion is not a motivating factor with MAGNIT. Apart from her initial—and short-lived—refusal to collaborate during her recruitment, she has grown into a model agent—her narcissism fuels her spying. The only film ever taken of her was during the original polovaya zapadnya, the honey trap in the Metropol, nearly twelve years ago.”
“Do you have the recording of that encounter?” said Putin.
Gorelikov shrugged. “I have no idea where it is. I suppose somewhere in the archives.”
“My loyal counselor, you wouldn’t be protecting your protégé Egorova, would you? She was the Sparrow in question.”
“Mr. President, you are referring to your next Director of Foreign Intelligence, or have you changed your mind? I will admit I am a supporter of Colonel Egorova. I think she shows enormous promise.”
It was enough that he had twanged one of the unflappable Gorelikov’s nerves. Putin had already seen all of Egorova’s Sparrow-vintage films. She indeed showed enormous promise then, as now. He was itching to get at her. “I agree,” said Putin. “Now, tell me about your additional refinement.”
The wind outside howled. “It goes without saying that when a sitting DCIA passes away, the administration must select replacement candidates for consideration, one of whom will be put forward as the final nominee for congressional confirmation.”
Putin knew what was coming, but stayed silent so Gorelikov could finish spinning his web.
“I have instructed MAGNIT to dangle herself conspicuously in front of the president during briefings in the Oval Office, especially when she is the sole briefer on the occasions the chairman cannot come to the White House for the weekly brief. I have coached her to interject comments that would suggest she is politically aligned with the president, that she agrees with his defense and intelligence policies, and that she looks forward to working on his team, either before or after her retirement.”
“You believe these blandishments will work?” said Putin.
“Analysts in the Americas Department posit that the president is driven by ego and ideology, and that now, in the fifth year of his presidency, is increasingly thin-skinned to criticism, and as a result surrounds himself with sycophants. If MAGNIT can establish herself as a sympathetic ally, and the DCIA position is suddenly empty, I predict her name would be one the president at least would consider. The notion of naming a brainy, liberal woman, an admiral from the navy, to undo Alexander Larson’s bellicose legacy and unsettling covert action, would appeal to him.”
“Too bad we don’t have that other president, that rasputnik, that satyr, still in the Oval Office,” said Putin. “MAGNIT could have solicited the DCIA job on her knees. But this scheme appears extremely tenuous—the chance that MAGNIT would be tapped for the position is remote.”
Gorelikov counted on his fingers. “We endeavor to influence outcomes—often with no guarantees—and hope for the desired results. The utter implausibility of making MAGNIT the DCIA is the hallmark of the perfect zagovor, an exquisite conspiracy without Russian fingerprints. She has no high-profile civilian patrons, no covert sponsors, so there are no invisible strings. MAGNIT, the brilliant but unlovely stork, solidly partisan, able to manage the challenges of technology and the new cyber age, is the perfect candidate. If she is selected, you, Vladimir Vladimirovich, will own the CIA.”
More sparks flew from the fireplace as Shaitan flew around the massive pine rafters of the dacha, mightily pleased.
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