Red ultimatum, p.8
Red Ultimatum, page 8
He stopped and looked at Matthews. Sean Allphin was sending a message to the woman he wanted to nominate as his vice president. He had said they, rather than we, a calculated choice of words. He was giving her permission to talk to Battaglio’s wordsmith.
“And there’s another consideration,” Simon added. “Justice.”
In this case, Justice meant the Department of Justice. It was investigating a possible charge of collusion between Ryan Battaglio and Russia during the president’s private meetings in Stockholm with President Nicolai Gorshkov. The investigation was completely under wraps beyond the people in the Oval Office, Attorney General Randy Kenton, his key assistant, and White House lawyer Gregory Payne.
Elizabeth Matthews had already given her deposition. It was damning, but should she become vice president, and then run for president, it could blow up in her face since she was on the same trip to Stockholm.
“Elizabeth,” President Allphin said, “Young will be making a decision soon about assigning a special prosecutor. I’d like to get you through the Senate before then and by my side.”
She took a deep breath. Besides walking and chewing gum, she might be dodging slings and arrows.
VIEQUES ISLAND, PUERTO RICO
Ryan Battaglio said goodnight and goodbye with a $58,333 check in his gloved hand, the third and final payment for Jillian Robbins. She had just finished ghostwriting, final editing, and proofing the former president’s quickly written explosive memoir.
She combined her interviews with Battaglio, government documents she was permitted to review, and her research to construct a scenario that bore some resemblance to the truth and told a great many lies. To a degree, she was aware what was what, but she left her journalistic standards on the mainland and at her old desk at the New York Times. This was a work for hire. Her name wasn’t on the cover. It had very little likelihood of making the best-selling list. At least in the nonfiction category.
The pay was good. One hundred seventy five thousand. Divided into three months of intense work, it amounted to $1,944.44 per day with no days off. Her best freelance assignment yet. Based on the NDA, she couldn’t tell anyone about the job, but of course, there were always rumors surrounding the possible identity of political ghostwriters. Her agent might see to that, and that could lead to more work.
“Thank you, Mr. President,” she said trying not to grab the envelope too quickly. “It’s been an honor working with you.” Jillian Robbins figured if the president lied, so could she.
“You do understand the terms of our agreement.”
“Completely,” she said.
“You know what will happen if you violate those terms.”
“I do.”
He held a sinister stare hoping never to see her again.
Robbins had been a Capitol Hill reporter for six years. Before that, she had covered Albany and the New York State Assembly, Senate, and two governors, one whose peccadillos cut his term short and the second who was serving the last year of sentence in Otisville, a minimum security prison that had housed athletes, models, lawyers, and billionaires, and now one governor. Given what she’d just gone through she wondered whether the former New Yorker’s story might be worth writing. Then she dismissed the idea. No more scum.
“We will never meet again. We will never have another conversation,” Battaglio said.
“Yes, Mr. President.”
Wearing gloves, he passed the check to Robbins taking in her slender form one more time. He was divorced and hungered for the reporter. Robbins had read the signals and made certain she gave none back.
She was thirty-seven. Battaglio was sixty-two. She was desirable, and he was loathsome. Robbins had heard stories about him—from women aides on the Hill when he was a congressman and senator. Drunken binges. Foreign sex parties. If the talk was even half true, there’d be a real book to write.
Sadly this wasn’t the one.
“Like the others, it’s a third-party check. My fingerprints aren’t even on it.”
“You can trust me,” the brunette said.
He ignored her comment. Instead, he added, “I’ve written a good book.”
“Yes, you have, Mr. President.”
“And we’ll stay on that page.”
“Yes, we will.”
“Then it’s been good working with you.”
“Likewise, Mr. President.”
She felt this was going on far too long. She was ready to leave.
“So where to next?” he asked.
“A few days on the beach at the Condado with an open bar tab,” she said with a lilt in her voice.
Battaglio pictured her in a bikini. So did a man listening to the conversation through a wireless voice-actuated microphone hidden in Battaglio’s door frame. It was one of ten, strategically placed around the ex-president’s Caribbean retreat, and every spoken word between the former president and his ghostwriter had been recorded. Every story that was going into his book. Every invention that could make Ryan Battaglio look good at the expense of others… very significant others.
11
THE KREMLIN
MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION
Nicolai Gorshkov monitored the incoming reports. He was not one to show emotion, but Sergei Bortnik was certain he read amusement on the president’s face. Gorshkov’s operations were moving forward better than he expected.
A North Korean submarine with a ballistic missile onboard was sailing further than ever before. A private airplane was about to embark on an uncharted course. A kidnapping was taking shape. In time, internet bots would flood social media with rants and rumors that would drive the American stock market down. Depressed prices would spike oil prices. And there’d be a shakeup in the next U.S. presidential campaign.
Discontent, disarray, disunity. Nicolai Gorshkov thought it was better than sex.
“Mr. President, you’ve brilliantly stretched the West to the limit.”
General Sergei Bortnik had mastered the art of giving the president precisely what he wanted to hear. He’d learned that from the mistakes of his predecessors.
“America’s military structure can’t manage multiple threats. They’re slow to evaluate and coordinate in rising crises. Their command structure is hapless under this new administration. It takes weeks to months to mobilize across the globe. They are a paper tiger. A mere kitten with no teeth.”
This wasn’t exactly what Bortnik believed, but it kept him close to Gorshkov for when the time was right to move against him.
The general was one of Gorshkov’s smiling acolytes who secretly conspired against the president and waited. They waited to see if he possibly suffered from early-stage Parkinson’s, if he was slowly dying of cancer, and if any rumored diagnosis were true. None were. Bortnik believed that Gorshkov himself spread the rumors to flush out rivals.
No, Bortnik reasoned. Poor health wasn’t going to bring Gorshkov down. Remaining on the inside, remaining alive, and waiting for opportunity was the only way. And now he wanted to hear more details of Gorshkov’s grand scheme.
“Mr. President, there’s the issue of the former American president, Battaglio.” He pronounced it Batt-gilio. “His book.”
Gorshkov raised a bushy eyebrow. “I wouldn’t worry about him.”
The answer shut the door on any follow-up. But it also told General Bortnik that something was in the works.
“Of course,” he said cautiously. “However, if there’s anything I can do—”
“Thank you, but no. You’re handling enough as it is. Thank you.”
The thank you was for the most immediate information. A plane was in Puerto Rico ready to transport a VIP. The enough was because Bortnik was Gorshkov’s go-between with a number of oligarchs including one who was a silent partner in a Canadian private jet leasing company.
Gorshkov continued, “Just stay focused, my friend, and everything will be under control.”
Control in Nicolai Gorshkov’s world included a basic rule of physics: gravity, the force that attracts a body in motion downward toward the center of the earth.
Gravity in Russia today had more immediate meaning: the force that tended to deliver someone unpopular to the regime from a high open window to the ground. And whether it was a dissident journalist who hadn’t taken a first hint, an oil oligarch outwardly critical of the president, a government official breaking with the party line, or even a military general who knows too much, Nicolai Gorshkov would nudge gravity along.
Often people would get sick and be rushed to a hospital to recover. But in the Russian Federation, illnesses had a habit of taking a bad turn right toward a window. Accidents. The state news agencies routinely reported, “He died from injuries sustained from a suicidal act…She had a heart condition and was apparently on antidepressants…He slipped and fell….His death came as a shock.”
General Bortnik understood the real shock to be the sudden stop. Amazingly, CCTV cameras always seemed to be off-line and under repair on the floors where the last 20 “accidents” had occurred.
Bortnik didn’t especially like heights. As an Army general, he was all about ground forces. He would have to take great care not to meet the ground in a way others had.
“Good to hear,” he said, vowing to do more to reinforce his loyalty. That was the way to remain trusted. The way to stay alive.
SAN JUAN, PUERTO RICO
Jillian Robbins was relieved to be done with the former president. She had come to the job as his ghostwriter full of enthusiasm for a great opportunity; an inside job that would open important doors for her. Instead, she signed an NDA and listened to Ryan Battaglio spin story after story that she viewed from her research as invention: Meetings he trumpeted where the record was in opposition. Political figures he belittled whom Robbins admired. Legislative achievements he took credit for that weren’t his. His assertion that a close relationship with Nicolai Gorshkov had avoided war when all he did was help the Russian president attempt to redraw the map of Europe.
Robbins was a journalist, but now she felt like a hack. She had read letters and papers before going to Puerto Rico that told a different story. The more interesting story. The truth. But that didn’t make the pages she had written for the ex-president. Maybe someday she could leak what she discovered surreptitiously to friends at the Times or better yet, Reuters. Less likely to point back to her.
The more she thought about it, she’d have cover. Battaglio would surely look elsewhere. He’d blame and deny. Blame the White House, his political enemies, and the Justice Department. Deny the claims that countered his version of the record. He might get away with it, but he’d kill his book sales. That alone would help cleanse Robbins from the swamp she had plodded through and the uncomfortable advances she dodged from the ex-president.
But now it was the warm Atlantic that was going to wash away her forced smiles, the praise she heaped upon Ryan Battaglio and the fiction she wrote.
Jillian Robbins had checked into the San Juan Marriott Resort the night before. She rose early, showered, threw on a one-piece bathing suit, and readied herself to lay a towel on the sand and run headlong into the 87-degree water. It was time to feel refreshed, rejuvenated, and restored.
She was just about out her door when she doubled back to write two texts. One to her agent.
FINI, DONE, SEE YOU IN 2 DAYS
The second to a friend in DC.
WE SHOULD TALK. JESSIE
Nothing special. Nothing revealing. And definitely nothing long. Jillian Robbins had a date with the Caribbean that she was intent on keeping.
She was a good swimmer. A smart swimmer. She ventured out to what she estimated to be 100 yards, and swam parallel to the shore; first 200 yards west, then she reversed direction, passing her hotel and going toward Numero Uno Beach. Robbins alternated strokes. The Australian crawl, the side stroke, and backstroke, never over-exerting herself and always making sure she was clear of surfers.
It was a perfect morning in San Juan. Ryan Battaglio seemed much further away than the 50 miles that separated Puerto Rico’s Condado from Vieques Island. She swam without a care in the world, leaving Battaglio and all her anxieties behind.
After a thoroughly exhilarating 40 minutes, Robbins turned back toward the hotel. She had the Marriott in sight when she felt a slight tickle on her left foot. She laughed to herself thinking she had attracted a butterfly fish or a queen angelfish that were typical in the local waters.
Another brush at her ankles, then another on her thigh. Robbins stopped, tread water, and looked down expecting to see a cluster of green, yellow, or striped fish.
Nothing in front or to the sides. But behind, something sharp dug into her calf. Her eyes bulged. She gasped and cried out.
Young honeymooners strolling hand-in-hand at the water’s edge heard a scream. They looked seaward just as a swimmer, with hands shooting straight up, dipped below the surface.
Three seconds. Four, five. Then the swimmer popped back up, flailing, yelling for help, and at what looked like double speed, dragged through the water. First one direction, then another.
The man pointed and instinctively yelled, “Shark!” His companion did the same. But no one else was on the beach to hear.
“Go to the hotel!” he ordered. “Get help!”
The woman ran right across an abandoned towel on the beach while the man looked for a boat to launch. None were around and diving in was out of the question.
He watched in horror as the swimmer was pulled down. She emerged three more times until she didn’t.
THE KREMLIN
Sergei Bortnik was ready to leave. Nicolai Gorshkov was not ready to dismiss him. While Gorshkov finished a phone call, the general wished he had taken any of the dozens of opportunities in the past few years to leave Russia. Not to lead a coup, not to officially defect, just to pull his off-shore savings together and retire to some palatial estate on a remote island. Instead, he remained, adding to his accumulated wealth, and biding his time.
If ever suspected as a traitor, Bortnik feared he wouldn’t be able to endure torture. He’d give up the names of everyone in his circle who worked in the military, government, and business. Even if he was never suspected, someday, someone else might name him.
Maybe Gorshkov would make him watch as his men did unspeakable things to his wife. Maybe he’d kidnap their daughter out of Oxford and bring her back.
Sergei Bortnik straightened his uniform, stood tall, and waited to be dismissed.
“Sergei, you’re always in a rush to leave. Stay. Valery’s on his way. We can have a drink and toast to great years ahead.”
Years. Bortnik wondered if he’d last years.
“My dear general,” Gorshkov said as he poured two glasses of domestic vodka, “no one understands how lonely this job is. I’ve spent my whole life working for the state. First, as a young KGB recruit serving in Germany, betrayed by the Kremlin which gave up on the Soviet dream. A dream that for decades, good men and women had given their lives for. Their dream, the dream you and I share that Russia would become the greatest power the world had ever known.”
Bortnik had heard this speech, this rant, dozens of times. But he dutifully listened as if it was the first time.
“Unfortunately, feckless leaders betrayed us. I fought my way to the top of the Russian Federation to restore the promise of all that had been lost. And now, whether we rebuild through the domination of Ukraine, our plans for the Baltic States, and beyond, we will take what is rightfully ours. And now we have Chinese money to fund us. Soon we will have Europe’s breadbasket feeding us.”
“Of course,” Bortnik said as he wondered whether Gorshkov really might be sick, or at the least, losing his grip on reality. Does he know how often he repeats himself?
“The West is weak, Sergei. We shall see the collapse of the American democracy and its European collaborators. Not all at once, but they will crumble from the inside out. All that you’ve done for Mother Russia has gotten us closer.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“Now I have one other thing for today.”
Bortnik said, “Of course,” hoping he showed the proper degree of enthusiasm.
“I’m looking for your opinion. Is there anyone you consider unfaithful to our cause? To me?”
The question shook Bortnik. An answer no might show a lack of concern for the president’s well-being. His failure to notice on his part. A lack of awareness to spot a threat. A yes would require identifying conspirators or making some up.
Instead, he took a middle ground. “Yes, businessmen who showed their disloyalty by running away with their cash. Spineless capitalists.”
“I know, but specific people?”
“I’m always watching,” Bortnik replied.
Gorshkov nodded, then asked a very pointed question. “What about Valery Rotenberg? Tell me what you think of him.”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“Just what I asked. What is your opinion of our illustrious spy chief?” Gorshkov kept his eyes on Bortnik. “Is he loyal to me?”
“Mr. President—.” The general spoke carefully, measuring his words. Gorshkov was notorious for pitting one party against another. There were never any winners in this game other than the president himself.
“I have no reason to question his loyalty to the Russian Federation.”
“That wasn’t my question. Is he loyal to me?”
Bortnik declared, “Sir, I believe Director Rotenberg is loyal beyond reproach.”
Gorshkov held his gaze for ten long seconds and then smiled.
“Well, thank you, Sergei. That’s all.”
Sergei Bortnik left wondering whether Gorshkov would ask Rotenberg the same thing about him. He worried if Rotenberg suspected or knew anything? And even if he didn’t, would the FSB head make him a scapegoat to further his own gain? And, on his exit, Bortnik asked himself if his wife had discovered his peccadillos and reported them to Gorshkov.
No, that wouldn’t matter to Gorshkov. The president led by example. Everyone at the top had their mistresses.
