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DSS was the Diplomatic Security Service, I knew, the security and law enforcement service of the State Department. They were the guys who protected US ambassadors and embassies all around the world.
“After you brought up the Russian angle at our last meeting, I asked around, and a friend got me in touch with Mark,” Agent Foley said as we sat. “He’s been with the DSS for the last fifteen years at the American embassy in Moscow. He also teaches a Russian foreign relations seminar at Johns Hopkins and is considered one of the most knowledgeable people about Russia in all of Washington. If anyone could broaden our understanding about the Russians and the way they think, it’s Mark.”
“Well, I don’t know about all that,” Evrard said in a down-to-earth Chicago accent after a sip of his whiskey sour. “But maybe I can help. What kind of Russki info a
re you guys looking for?”
“Well, I guess the first question is, how credible do you think it is that Putin or anybody else in the Russian government would actually try to kill President Buckland?” I said.
“Exactly,” said Paul Ernenwein. “I mean, I know some of these Russian mobsters are nuts, but is it also true of officials in the Russian government? Of people that high up?”
Evrard took another sip of his drink.
“You’re actually talking about the same people,” he said, smoothing his tie. “Along with the oligarchs who seized control of the Russian industries after the fall of the Berlin Wall, the Russian mafia and the Russian government are all part of the same power structure.”
I shook my head as that sunk in.
“It’s that bad? I mean, it’s obvious Russia has some corruption issues, but that’s nuts, isn’t it?”
“Yep, it is nuts, and tragically true,” Evrard said, looking at me calmly. “They all work together. The Russian mafia provides security and muscle for Russian industry bigwigs. Russian industry bigwigs pay off corrupt politicians and bureaucrats and cops.
“You actually have corrupt Moscow cops who have multimillion-dollar properties in places like Switzerland and Dubai. Politically connected oligarchs have vacation mansions built on protected public land. They say Putin himself had a billion-dollar summer palace built for himself on the Black Sea with Russian tax money.”
“How can that be? How can they get away with that?” I said.
“Easy. When asked about it, the spokespeople at the Kremlin all have the same standard Russian answer: ‘We are not authorized to speak on this issue.’ Reporters who push harder have a funny way of ending up dying under mysterious circumstances. Everybody scratches everybody else’s back. It’s all one big rotten family.”
“With Putin as the daddy,” Paul said.
“Yep. He’s the top of the pyramid, the shot caller. He was KGB in the old days, and ruthlessly worked his way up to prime minister, and then president. Some say he put the squeeze on all the oligarchs during his first two presidential terms for a hefty slice of Russia’s entire economy. All its oil, mining, logging, fleet fishing, telecommunications—everything. Because of this, the same people say that Putin is probably the richest guy in the entire world.”
“Does that make him crazy enough to go after Buckland?” I said.
“Have you ever heard of the Russian apartment building bombings of 1999?”
I shook my head.
“In 1999, apartment buildings in three Russian cities suddenly blew up, causing upwards of three hundred deaths. Putin and the Russian government quickly blamed it on Chechen terrorists, despite the fact that massive amounts of highly sophisticated RDX Russian military explosives were used. Then Putin, who was prime minister, ramped up the Chechen war and then rode the war’s popularity into the presidency.”
“You’re saying it might have been a false flag?” I said. “That he might have killed three hundred of his own citizens to get his poll numbers up?”
Evrard nodded.
“And it’s not just in Russia that he’s not afraid to take off the gloves,” he said. “In 2006, Alexander Litvinenko, a Russian ex-FSB agent and Putin critic who emigrated, was actually poisoned and assassinated with radioactive material in London.”
“Okay, that answers that,” Paul said. “Putin apparently has no qualms about anything.”
“Which brings me to the other reason why I wanted to have this meeting,” Foley cut in. “Putin is coming. Putin is coming here to New York to join the UN talks.”
“Putin is coming here?” I said. “But I thought Buckland was coming.”
“He is!” Foley said. “As if we need another ball to juggle. They’re both coming. Putin and Buckland will be in town at the same time.”
Chapter 53
With no traffic, it took the British assassin two hours flat to get to East Hampton, Long Island, in the Camaro.
It was the first time he had ever been there. He’d read that it was supposed to be a big deal, a tony artist colony and summer playground for the rich. But driving down Montauk Highway, its main street, and passing a lousy Starbucks and a CVS pharmacy, he wasn’t seeing it. Billionaires were attracted to this dump?
