“No, usually just the head of the detail goes with me.”
“Because there’s plenty of security at the palace.”
“Exactly.”
“Are you ever searched when you get on the helicopter?”
“Never.”
“When you arrive at the palace?”
“Not once.”
“Do you have to walk through a metal detector?”
“No.”
“What about putting your briefcase or other personal effects through a magnetometer?”
“What’s that?”
“An X-ray machine.”
“Oh no, never—I’m the son-in-law of the president. I have walk-in privileges. I don’t even have a security badge. I’m family. They trust me completely. That’s why I began thinking I might actually be able to pull this off. But how? We don’t have much time, and you still haven’t given me a plan.”
“I’m working on it.”
Oleg then surprised Marcus by asking about suicide bomber vests and ways of poisoning a man. Marcus ruled out both options. First, he said, he wanted Oleg to live, not die. Second, he had no access to polonium-210 at the moment, nor would he likely be able to scare up any on such short notice.
“We have to keep it simple,” Marcus said. “There’s no time—or need—for creativity. You’re not a trained assassin. You’re not trying to send a message. You’re trying to stop a nuclear holocaust. Period. Which means you need to take out the man responsible for leading the world down that path. And you’re uniquely positioned for the mission. Like you said, you’re family. You’re trusted. You have direct access to your target without being searched. So you need a small pistol, preferably one with a silencer. You can hide it in your briefcase or in your waistband under your suit jacket. You still with me?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, so you smuggle the weapon into the place, and then you need to get him alone in a private area, just you and him. It doesn’t really matter where—could be his office, his bedroom, whatever. It has to be somewhere there are no bodyguards present, no open windows where anyone could see you, and where this Slatsky woman can’t suddenly walk in on you. Can you picture a place like that in the palace?”
“Yes,” said Oleg. “Several.”
“Do any of them have a restroom connected or nearby?”
“A few, why?”
“I’ll get to that. But first, you have to be able to sit with the president and put him at ease. Give him whatever documents he needs to sign. Chat him up. Ask how the war preparations are coming along, and obviously get any additional intel you possibly can. But the key is, you have to make him feel comfortable, relaxed. You know what I’m saying?”
“I do.”
“Then excuse yourself and go to the lavatory.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s when you’re going to pull out the gun, click off the safety, steady your nerves, and prepare yourself for what you’re about to do.”
“Okay.”
“Remember, he’s not just the president; he’s also the former head of the FSB,” Marcus stressed. “He’s a trained killer—far more trained than you. If he sees that gun coming out, you’re a dead man. He can’t suspect you for a moment. You go into that restroom, ready your weapon, ready yourself, and then reenter that room and come up to him—hopefully from behind, while his back is to you—aim, and pull the trigger immediately.”
“Aiming where?”
“His head. You need to stop his brain functions,” Marcus explained. “If you shoot him in the chest, even several times, he may still have the wherewithal to react, to attack you, to get the gun away from you.”
There was a long silence as Oleg considered everything he was being told. Then he asked, “Won’t all this be very loud? Won’t everyone in the palace hear it—especially the guards—and rush in and kill me anyway?”
“Not if I can get you the right gun,” Marcus responded. “If it’s the one I’m thinking of, no one will hear a thing. Then you might actually have a chance at escaping.”
For the next few minutes, Marcus walked the Russian through a step-by-step plan to get him out of the palace and to the airport, where a plane would be waiting to whisk him out of Moscow and hopefully out of the country altogether. It was a long shot, he readily admitted, yet it was worth trying.
Then Marcus had to bring up a very delicate matter. “I really need that thumb drive with all your files,” he said without apology. “I’m sure you’re right that having this information can’t stop the war, but I need it anyway.”
“Of course,” Oleg said. “I’ll bring it with me to the airport and give it to you on the plane.”
“No,” Marcus said. “I need to get it first.”
There was another long pause.
“Because I may not ever get to the airport,” Oleg said, his voice suddenly somber.
Marcus said nothing.
“I understand,” Oleg said. Then he added, “Actually, I have an idea.”
77
“Please hold for the president.”
Dmitri Nimkov was still in his office, as was nearly every member of his staff. He was not surprised to receive another call from Luganov. They had spoken every few hours throughout the day as Nimkov provided his commander in chief continual updates on the movement of American troops pouring into Poland.
As of yet there was still no evidence that NATO members were working in concert. There was no announcement out of SHAPE headquarters in Brussels about positioning troops and supplies in the Baltics to create an adequately robust deterrent force. Indeed, most NATO sources were telling reporters, “No comment.” But uncertainty about official decision making had not precluded individual nations from following the lead of the Clarke administration and coming to the defense of their Baltic brethren. Now, in response to an urgent request from the White House, at least four NATO member states were moving steadily despite Moscow’s insistence that the West was “overreacting to normal and peaceful military maneuvers.” In recent hours not only had Polish forces been fully mobilized for war, but British, Czech, and Hungarian Special Forces, attack helicopter squadrons, and fighter jets were arriving in each of the Baltic states as well.
Luganov had become more outraged with every update Nimkov had provided. But what had truly shaken the president was when Nimkov finally broke the news to him that there was circumstantial but compelling evidence that his son-in-law had had inappropriate contact with Senator Dayton’s staff and might be the source of the leak of Luganov’s war plans. Thus, while the FSB chief was by no means surprised by this latest call, he braced himself for another volcanic eruption.
“Dmitri Dmitrovich, are you there?” Luganov asked as he came on the line, his voice far more calm than Nimkov had expected.
“Da, Aleksandr Ivanovich—how can I help you?”
Nimkov could hear Katya Slatsky giggling in the background. He rolled his eyes and held his tongue. He didn’t care what the president did in his private life, though he harbored concerns about Katya. She was too young and had far too many connections to the West from her years as an Olympic skater. The FSB closely monitored all her social media activity as well as her bank accounts and credit card usage. So far, Nimkov and an elite team of his most trusted men, led by Nikolay Kropatkin, had not found any evidence that Katya posed any direct threat.
“I still cannot get my mind off the suspicions your staff have against… you know,” Luganov said after harshly telling his mistress to be silent when he was on the phone. Clearly he did not want to use Oleg’s name in Katya’s presence.
“We are doing all that you have asked of us, Your Excellency,” Nimkov assured him. “My men have been interviewing employees at the Hotel National all day. We’ve also been digging deeper into Marcus Ryker, and I—”