Conspiracy in Kiev

was one fanatical subgroup that had now decided to assassinate the new president of the US during the state visit. Their goal: to torpedo US-Ukraine relations and thus Ukraine’s membership application for NATO.

The ambassador then interjected one of his few remarks of the morning.

“I should stress,” Drake said, “that this is not part of the official Russian program these days. Putin may be a bastard, but these days, he’s our bastard. So the Russians are looking at the big picture of future Russia-US relations. The feelings of Vladimir Putin, no matter what you think of him as a clone of Uncle Joe, echo the alliances of World War II when America, the arsenal of democracy, allied itself with Soviet Bolshevism to battle Hitler. All of you, please keep that in mind.”

“We won that one, didn’t we?” Krimm asked, trying to lighten the mood. “The big set-to with our Russian friends.”

“Yes,” Drake answered without missing a beat. “First in 1945 and then in 1986. I suppose the next one will be in 2027, but I don’t expect to be around for it.”

To Alex, political alliances never ceased to have an Alice in Wonderland aspect. They adjourned for lunch.

At 2:00 that afternoon, an associated meeting convened, planning out the itinerary for the president while in Kiev. This time, the ambassador was absent.

On any occasion, a visit by an American president to a counterpart in a foreign country was largely a media show. The purpose was always to demonstrate the “close ties” between the United States and the host country. This was accomplished by symbolic acts, all staged with the media in mind.

“To review,” Krimm said, “while in Kiev the president will have three events, all of which will occupy the day after arrival. By evening the president will depart.”

Alex then learned the full details of the three events for the first time. There would be a meeting with the Ukrainian president in the morning. Attendance at a Christian church service would follow. Then there would be the laying of a wreath at the memorial for the victims of the Holodomor, the enforced famine of the 1930s.

“Then, we have no scheduled fourth event,” Krimm said to mild laughter. “The president will get the executive butt out of the country as fast as possible.”

From what was said, Alex saw quickly that the trip from the cathedral to the memorial was the problem. It was no more than several hundred yards, and there was no way to make sure the area was completely secure. The Ukrainian security services would have no qualms about occupying apartments and roofs.

“But are these guys dependable?” asked one of the more belligerent members of the advance team. “Come on. How can we count on them?”

“We can’t count on them,” Krimm said. “We just hope they do their job and our security people will assume they won’t. No protection is infallible. There’s always risk.”

Back in Washington, Krimm explained further, the US president had been warned of the problems but refused to cancel the visit or change the program. The Secret Service was apoplectic, as was the CIA bureau chief in the Ukraine. Alex felt herself cringe slightly at the mention of the Secret Service and the potential dangers that lurked in Kiev.

But the president wouldn’t budge. The ambassador was an old pal as well as a political crony. Ambassador Drake had assured safety. The president further insisted that it would be an affront not to visit the monument. The president was not one to shy away from a high profile political date, laden with political positives-the least of which was the defender-of-liberty-around-the-world role-particularly in a new administration. So both venues remained in the official program.

Alex leaned to Friedman and whispered. “If there’s no way to secure the appearance at the monument,” she asked, “the president shouldn’t do it. Or am I missing something?”

Friedman winced.

“The advance team and the president’s spin doctors are still fighting with the Secret Service about that one,” he said. “The spin doctors love the image of a head-bowed president walking across a large square with the Ukrainian counterpart. Yet that’s the most vulnerable moment. What the heck can we do?”

“Then they should avoid it,” she said, thinking of the safety of both Robert and the president.

“Try telling them that,” Friedman said. “The security people know that it’s impossible to completely secure the public square. Somewhere there’s going to have to be a compromise of some sort. And we’ve only got three days to find the compromise.”

“Great,” she said.

“Politicians take dumb chances all the time,” Friedman said, almost a little too loud, since a few heads turned in their direction. “Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time they get away with them.”

THIRTY-TWO

Virgil Bruni, assistant manager of one of the finest hotels in Europe, had an invitation that evening also. Gian Antonio Rizzo picked him up at 6:30 in the evening and drove him to the municipal morgue, where Bernardo Santangelo, the cheerful, chubby mortician, waited.

By arrangement, Rizzo walked Bruni back to the vaults where unidentified bodies were kept. Two corpses were removed from their freezer vaults and brought to marble slabs for inspection. Rizzo barely spoke, and neither did Santangelo. They had been down this path many times before.

Despite the cold within the viewing chamber, Bruni looked as if he were about to break a sweat. Rizzo moved quickly, however. There was no point to prolong the agony.

Santangelo personally unzipped the body bags. Then he presented the partially decomposed bullet-smashed faces of two murder victims to the dapper little hotel manager.

Bruni gasped. Then for a fraction of a second, Bruni swayed and appeared as if he might faint. Rizzo held out a hand and steadied him.

“Well, then?” Rizzo asked. “Were these unfortunate ones-questi disgraziati-your guests?”Several seconds passed before Bruni could answer, not because he didn’t know the answer, but because he had to get past his horror. Never before had he seen anything like this happen to someone he had known personally, however briefly.

“Yes,” he finally said, his voice barely audible. “They were.”

Rizzo nodded to Santangelo, who rezipped the bags. The evening trip to the morgue was a resounding success.

THIRTY-THREE

Alex returned to her hotel after her first working day at the embassy in Kiev. Her initial meeting with Yuri Federov had been pushed back a day. No reason given.

It was Ukraine. Reasons weren’t necessary.

She would not have the luxury of staying in this evening and relaxing, however, since a social event had been scheduled at the ambassador’s residence. The event was the ambassador’s reception in honor of the most unpopular people currently in the embassy, the White House Advance team. All embassy officers were “invited,” including those like Alex who were on temporary assignment, albeit in Godfather style-an invitation that could not be refused.

From the clothes she had brought with her, Alex picked out a pale green travel dress with three-quarter sleeves and a scooped neckline. The material was clingy and followed her shape nicely, stopping two or three inches above the knee.

Richard Friedman picked up Alex at the hotel. Once again, Stosh, Freedman’s driver was at the wheel. Their car guided them through the quiet cold streets of Kiev. A light snow fell.

The ambassador’s residence was in a neighborhood called Podil, upstream from the main part of Kiev. Podil