Marina did not mention the woman’s name. She did not have to. Everyone in Russia knew who Katya Slatsky was. The twenty-eight-year-old figure skater had competed in three Olympic Games, winning a gold medal and two silver medals and becoming a heroine for millions of young Russian girls. She had also become the subject of tabloid rumors in Europe as being the paramour of the Russian president. Oleg’s father-in-law had strenuously denounced those who trafficked in such “baseless gossip” as those with “snotty noses and erotic fantasies” who had nothing better to do than “prowl into others’ lives.”
Oleg had never taken the rumors seriously because Marina hadn’t. He’d certainly never asked his mother-in-law. It was not his place. Yes, he had seen signs of discontent in his in-laws’ relationship. Yet he had never really considered that the rumors of Luganov’s infidelity might be true. Why was that? He had developed and harbored so many profound concerns and suspicions about Luganov the leader. Why had he never taken the time to carefully analyze Luganov the man?
“Where is Vasily?” he asked.
“He’s asleep in your parents’ room,” Marina said. “He’s fine. I checked on him just before you arrived.” Then she whispered to him. “I’m so grateful you got my message to meet us here. Thank you for dropping everything and coming straight to us. I honestly didn’t expect you for hours more.”
Oleg said nothing. He realized he had completely neglected to check his voice messages. Upon getting in his car and driving away from the Kremlin, he had turned off the ringer on his mobile phone. He hadn’t wanted anyone to be able to find him.
Was this the time? he now wondered. Was this the place? With emotions running so high in this home against Aleksandr Ivanovich Luganov, was this the moment Oleg should disclose his immense and growing misgivings about the decisions the president was making and the direction he was leading the nation?
Oleg considered this briefly but thought better of it. Yulia and Marina were already grieving so much. It would be terribly unkind to add to their distress. Instead, he nodded toward his mother-in-law, sobbing into a pillow on the couch. Marina nodded back, and together they went to her side to comfort her as best they could.
Just then there was a sharp knock on the door of the den, startling them all. Oleg turned and saw an agent in the doorway, holding out a mobile phone and beckoning Oleg to take it.
“It’s for you,” the agent said.
“Who is it?” asked Oleg.
“It’s the president, sir.”
Oleg swallowed hard. But he could hardly ask the man to take a message, as awkward as the moment was. So he took the phone and went to the bedroom that had been his since childhood. He dreaded what was coming and didn’t want Marina or Yulia to have any chance of overhearing the conversation. It was quite clear they had no idea the accusations that had been leveled against him in the last few hours. They were dealing with bombshells of their own, and now was no time to add to their burdens.
“Mr. President,” Oleg said quietly, “how can I be of service?”
“Oleg, my son,” the president began, “I want to apologize.”
Oleg was caught off guard. He’d never heard the man say these words, and certainly not to him.
“For what?” he asked.
“Boris Zakharov has been arrested,” Luganov said. “The FSB has determined that he, and he alone, was responsible for the leak of the S-400 deal.”
Once again Oleg found himself without words. But Luganov continued.
“The investigators believe Zakharov was trying to frame you for the leak,” the president explained. “This was the reason for his outburst this morning. I wanted to personally call you and inform you that he was arrested. He has confessed and has been taken to prison. You have been fully cleared of all wrongdoing.”
Oleg let out a breath. “I appreciate you taking the time to inform me, Mr. President,” he said, reeling from the contradictory emotions surging within him.
“That is not all, my son,” the president said.
“Yes?” Oleg said, eager to get off the phone and back to his wife.
“I need you to go to London for me.”
“London?”
“Ten Downing Street, to be precise.”
“May I ask why?”
“The prime minister and I just got off the phone. He wants to meet with me next week. Iran and North Korea are on the docket, among other issues. I need someone to lead an advance trip. Negotiate the agenda. Make sure the security arrangements are acceptable. You’ll have a team of seasoned professionals with you. But I need someone I can trust to manage the process, someone loyal to me, someone who will report back to me directly, not through the Foreign Ministry. And I need you to leave in two hours. One of my planes is already on the tarmac, fueled and waiting for you. Can I count on you, my son?”
How quickly a man’s fortunes could change and change again. No longer was Oleg being fired or investigated for treason, a crime punishable by death under Russian law. Instead, he was being asked to go on—no, lead—a highly sensitive assignment to the British capital, a city he’d never set foot in before, with no warning and no time to prepare. And Luganov had referred to him as “my son” three times in less than a minute.
Oleg was torn. If he said yes, he would be drawn still deeper into his father-in-law’s web of deceit and corruption. He would give short shrift to his mother-in-law’s betrayal and unremitting grief and add to his wife’s already-bitter pain. He would be ignoring every flashing light on the dashboard that told him to take these two women and Vasily and flee to the West without looking back.
A line from one of Solzhenitsyn’s books came to mind: “You can resolve to live your life with integrity,” the great conscience of the Russian soul had written. “Let your credo be this: Let the lie come into the world, let it even triumph. But not through me.”
And yet, as if detached from his own body, as if disconnected from all his fears and doubts and resentments and revulsion, Oleg Kraskin heard himself say, “Of course, Mr. President. I am, as ever, your loyal servant.”
PART FIVE
35
WASHINGTON, D.C.—10 OCTOBER 2013
Special Agent Marcus Ryker was getting noticed by his superiors.
A quick study and always ready to tackle a new assignment with vigor, he’d just been promoted again, and this was the big time: the nation’s capital.
Atlanta had been his first assignment, and there he had helped solve dozens of counterfeit cases—including several significant ones—while learning the ropes of protection work when POTUS or VPOTUS would come to town and during the presidential primaries. From there he was transferred to the Manhattan field office, where he helped guard foreign dignitaries each September as the U.N. General Assembly kicked off its fall session. He did occasional protection work for visits by the president and VP. Most of his time, though, was spent on a task force locating and seizing illegal assets from Russian crime bosses.
Elena had never enjoyed Atlanta, and she’d been claustrophobic in New York. Marcus loved the city’s energy and intensity, not to mention all that he was learning and doing and the respect he was gaining among his peers. But Elena wasn’t a big-city girl, and she refused to become one. She resented the fact that everything was so expensive. The traffic was horrific. The subway tunnels smelled of urine. The schools were an abomination. The only thing she hated more than sending Lars to the public school they’d found in Atlanta was putting him in the one they’d found in Queens.