The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel

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.

Just beside the Situation Room under the West Wing of the White House was a smaller briefing room with a short walnut table and three plush armchairs on each side, POTUS’s chair at the far end under the presidential seal. Unlike the spacious, mahogany-paneled SitRoom with seating for twenty—including chairs for backbenchers—and multiple teleconferencing flat screens along the walls, the small briefing room featured only two compact screens on the far wall, above which were six digital clocks: one that displayed the time in Washington; a clock labeled “President,” indicating the time wherever the president was located; one for Zulu time; and three additional time-zone displays, today labeled Baghdad, London, and Kabul.

Vice Admiral Audrey Rowland had just concluded a solo briefing to the president, his national security adviser, and the deputy NSC adviser on tests conducted by ONR on cavitation propulsion for littoral combat ships, an in-the-weeds subject usually not of interest to this commander in chief, whose idea of power projection was to enlist the tepid support of prevaricating allies, and to sign treaties with hostile states that had no intention of honoring any diplomatic concordant. POTUS, however, was taken by the smaller, more lightly armed, and relatively inexpensive vessels as good examples of “nonconfrontational naval platforms.” One could hear admirals’ teeth grinding in the Pentagon all the way from the South Lawn.

The briefing concluded, Admiral Rowland told the president that his notion of a more restrained US military footprint, a more inclusive internationalist US foreign policy that would abandon nineteenth-century practices of nation building, regime change, and gunboat diplomacy (Audrey couldn’t remember the other talking points Anton had drilled her on) were critical concepts in an unstable world. His feet characteristically propped up on the table, showing the soles of his shoes to the others—a grave insult to foreigners, but merely boorish in the conference room—POTUS said he was glad to hear her views. Audrey hastened to add that, from her perspective, restraint likewise applied to intelligence collection—whether DIA, navy intel, or CIA.