Joel Rosenberg - The Kremlin Conspiracy

Luganov nodded, and the video began to roll. Oleg gasped as unedited images flickered onto three large televisions mounted on the far wall. The devastation was beyond anything he had ever witnessed. Certainly images this graphic were not going to be broadcast on nationwide TV. What was visible was mostly rubble, but there was also a severed torso that the cameras kept focusing on. Ash-covered mothers clutched their crying children in their arms.

“How many?” asked Luganov, stoic and dark.

The FSB chief took that one. “We know of seventeen dead so far,” Nimkov replied. “But it’s early.”

“Injured?”

“The latest count I have is sixty, but again, Your Excellency, we expect that number to climb.”

“Has anyone claimed credit?”

“No, sir,” Nimkov said. “Not yet.”

“But the MO is the same as the others?”

“Essentially, yes.”

“Chechens,” Luganov said coolly.

It wasn’t a question, Oleg observed, but a statement. He wrote it all down.

“That’s our best guess, sir—yes,” said Nimkov.

“Zakayev?” the prime minister asked.

Oleg instantly recognized that name. Ramzan Zakayev was a fundamentalist Muslim warlord in the Russian province of Chechnya. He had become a household name during the period of 1994 to 1996, when he led a separatist movement trying to break Chechnya off from the Russian Federation. He was known for his ruthlessness and barbarism. When Russian air strikes began and ground forces first tried to retake the rebel capital of Grozny, Zakayev had declared a jihad, or holy war, against Moscow. More than a thousand Russian soldiers had lost their lives in the Battle of Grozny. Many of them had been slaughtered in a ghastly manner, and in the process Zakayev had become the country’s most wanted terrorist. He had been thirty-six years old.

The FSB chief sat back in his leather chair, took his reading glasses off, and set them down on the notepad before him. He looked at Luganov and sighed. “Based on all we know right now, I would put the probability that Zakayev and his forces are behind all these bombings at 90 percent or better.”

Scribbling down the conversation as fast as he could, Oleg felt his blood boiling. Like most Russians, Oleg was certain of Zakayev’s guilt—so certain, in fact, that it did not even occur to the young lawyer that no actual facts were being presented, no actual evidence was being offered by the head of the Russian Security Service. Only later would he realize that there was no discussion of incriminating fingerprints found at the scene or intercepted communications between the Chechen warlord and the men who had carried out these attacks. Nothing was being said about wiretaps or recorded conversations with Zakayev or even a single Chechen informant implicating him in these crimes.

Luganov turned back to his defense minister. “Are your forces ready to move?”

“At your command, sir,” Petrovsky replied.

Oleg again looked up from his notes. He watched as his future father-in-law signaled his consent, then signed the orders as acting president. The second Russian invasion of Chechnya was about to begin.

At five minutes before noon, Zakharov summoned Oleg.

Together the two men entered Luganov’s office. It had been hastily transformed into a television studio. Bright, hot lights. Two broadcast-quality video cameras. A teleprompter. A boom microphone. And thick black cables, taped down to the carpet, threading everywhere like a pit of snakes. The chief of staff whispered to Oleg to again take notes of everything he saw and heard. This was his sole responsibility for the time being. He was the official notetaker and secretary of the prime minister’s private meetings and public appearances. He was supposed to record the name of everyone in a meeting and everything that was said, make careful note of any action items that were decided upon, and then type up all the notes and provide copies to the PM, chief of staff, and a short list of other senior staff within twenty-four hours for their review. Oleg had no idea how long the assignment would last or when his legal training might be tapped. For now, this suited him well.

Oleg wasn’t supposed to speak during the proceedings, nor did he want to. He was sworn to secrecy about every meeting, but that was fine, as he had no desire to divulge anything sensitive, even to his fiancée. For her part, Marina was just thrilled Oleg had the job. She had no interest in prying into her father’s business. What’s more, Oleg told himself, the job was not difficult, yet it put him in direct proximity with Luganov and all of his top advisors. It would allow him to learn about the man, his leadership style, and the nation he served. It was, in short, the opportunity of a lifetime.

The side door leading to the conference room opened. Oleg could see Luganov conferring with Petrovsky and Nimkov. Then Luganov nodded curtly and entered with his chief bodyguard, a man named Pavel, who shut the door behind them. Luganov took a seat behind his executive desk. He made a final review of the papers before him, marking them at times with a fountain pen he drew from his suit pocket. Oleg wondered what it must feel like to have the weight of the nation on one’s shoulders. The official occupant of the office—the man who had served as the president of Russia for eight challenge-filled, exhausting years—was not well. Certainly the responsibilities had taken a heavy toll on the man physically and mentally. So had excessive drinking. If everything went as planned, the man would be out of office by the end of the year. In Oleg’s judgment, he had already stayed too long.

Zakharov called for silence, and the last-minute whispering of the crew ceased immediately. The director gave a countdown, and suddenly the red light atop the central camera lit up. Luganov looked up from the pages and directly into the camera. It was the first time Oleg could recall Luganov ever addressing the nation.

“Citizens of Russia—our dear leader, as you know, is ill and incapacitated. He is receiving excellent medical care, and I ask you to pray for his quick recovery and for comfort for his family. But I must come to you today in my role both as prime minister and as acting president to inform you that our nation is under attack. Let me assure you, the terrorist forces responsible for these heinous crimes against the Russian people will pay a great price. Under the authority vested in me by the constitution, and the responsibility I have before God and the nation, I have ordered our air and ground forces into battle to defend our honor. Our forces will hunt down the enemy. We will chase them to the ends of the earth. We will eradicate them completely. Our forces will show no mercy, nor will I. On this, you have my word.”

The carpet bombing of Grozny began minutes later.

RYAZAN, RUSSIA—22 SEPTEMBER 1999

Sergeant Major Ilya Daskin drew his pistol and crouched in the shadows.

The fifty-nine-year-old police officer motioned for his partner, a young trainee named Dima, to draw his weapon as well and cover him as he entered the apartment building on Novoselov Street. Dima did as he was told, but even in the darkness, Daskin could see the kid’s hands were shaking.

Besides his service in the military, Daskin had been on the force all of his adult life. He’d been born and raised in this city, Ryazan, as had his parents and both sets of grandparents before him. In May of the coming year he was due to retire. Dima, on the other hand, was all of twenty-four. He had been on the force for less than two months, which was probably why he’d been sent from the academy to Ryazan in the first place.