The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel

“We just acquired a Russian antiship missile—I don’t know the source—and we’ll assess its capabilities and develop countermeasures, against which the Russians will develop counter-countermeasures,” said Audrey. “And the process will continue, endlessly, with enormous cost, with so many other domestic priorities facing us.” Anton had coached her to invoke inferences that would appeal to the president’s well-known social progressivism.

“Mr. President, my retirement window is opening in a year. If I at any time can be of any assistance to you and your team (she nodded at the slack-jawed NSC adviser, then at the slug of a deputy), it would be my singular honor to continue to contribute.” Audrey stopped there, not wanting to overdo it. POTUS thanked her, and he and the NSC adviser left the room, but the young deputy stayed behind and stared at Admiral Rowland as she packed up her briefing materials.

“Don’t you really know how the CIA got that missile?” he said. He was short, balding, with a round face that perpetually hovered somewhere between mean and deceitful. He had the dark eyes of a hanging judge.

Audrey closed her Kevlar portfolio and secured the zipper pull under the lockable clamp. “No, and it really frosts me,” she said, with her carefully chosen prim vocabulary, which would, said Anton, bolster her Vestal image. Anton constantly considered such details, thought Audrey. “I know I’m in the science end of things, but I could really add value to the requirements process.”

Young Caligula shook his head. “They never told you, a three-star admiral, about COPPERFIN? You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

In three minutes he had told MAGNIT about the COPPERFIN network, and about some of the reporting in the compartment.

MAGNIT knew she had to cauterize the leak. “Listen, don’t tell me any more. It sounds pretty restricted. I’ve already forgotten it.” The ferret’s eyes narrowed, realizing he shouldn’t have mentioned anything, but he knew the admiral would be discreet. He’d keep his mouth shut too.

He shrugged, trying not to acknowledge his mistake, and changed the subject. “Sounds like you’re looking for a job.”

“The navy’s been good to me, but I’m ready for a new challenge. I have the science thing down, and cyber’s the next big hurdle. Intel would be a good fit.”

“Let me talk to the president,” he said, puffing up, the White House kingmaker. “It’s an interesting idea.”

Audrey smoothed her uniform coat and extended her hand. “I’m glad we talked. It’s good to feel connected to someone downtown with real pull.”

The deputy nodded, as if validating Newton’s three laws of motion. “I’ll be in touch.”

LAMB STEWKORMA

Crush cloves, peppercorns, and cardamom seeds into a powder. Sauté chopped onions with spices until golden brown. Stir in cumin, cinnamon, turmeric, chopped coriander, and paprika. Add crushed garlic and grated ginger, and continue cooking until fragrant. Add peeled tomatoes with their juice, simmer, then add boneless lamb chunks and continue cooking. Add water and yogurt, and cover and simmer until lamb is tender. Serve with basmati rice.

5

Welcome to the Club

As Benford began his morning blaspheming about moles in Washington, there was an icy late-afternoon meeting in progress seventy-eight hundred kilometers away, around another conference table in the Kremlin. This room, right off the president’s office in the Senate building, was immaculate, carpeted in blue and paneled in rich wood. The polished walnut table had dark mahogany inlays in a star pattern—a five-pointed Soviet star—an antique kept in use for reasons of nostalgia. It was the president’s conference room after all, and he liked the discreet reminder of the past glories of the USSR.

The meeting was called and directed by the goateed Anton Gorelikov, elegant in a blue suit from Brioni, a light-blue spread-collar shirt from Turnbull & Asser, and a maroon seven-fold silk necktie from E. Marinella in Naples. His silver hair was combed straight back.