The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel

The Russian reaction to the first American exposé was to cry provocation (ironic: the inveterate plotters always assumed their own misfortune was, naturally, the result of an outside plot). But the international embarrassment, and the innate Russian paranoia of being laughed at as manure-speckled kulaks and relegated to second-world status, drove Vladimir Putin into a rage, in part fueled by fright. This was how leaders were toppled. He summoned Gorelikov to his personal, most-isolated dacha in the town of Solovyevka, 130 kilometers outside Saint Petersburg, on the shore of Lake Komsomolsk. He wanted privacy and to be away from the prying eyes of his siloviki. They would smell his panic like the pack hunters they were. He trusted Gorelikov.

“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.