Make Russia Great Again: A Novel Page 13

  The president finished tapping and said, “Everyone except Herb—out.” The Oval briskly cleared.

  “What the fuck, Herb?”

  Yet again, Herb Nutterman found himself between the old rock and hard place. On the one hand, I had a pretty good idea that the video of Mr. Trump—I don’t want to say “boning”—partnering in joy with Miss Sri Lanka was authentic. And to think that this was but the first of eighteen such videos on the thumb drive that our old friend Oleg had gifted me in San Marino.

  On the other hand, I had deliberately not viewed it before regifting it to Mr. Trump, for precisely this reason. I knew then that the day might come when I would be called upon to denounce the videos as patent fakes. In that event, I wanted to be able to do it with a semblance of a straight face.

  “I spoke with Admiral Murphy at US CyberCom,” I said. “He, like all of us, is appalled. CyberCom is doing everything it can to identify the source.”

  “We know who the fucking source is, Herb.”

  “Yes, I suppose. But I didn’t want to say as much to Admiral Murphy. For obvious reasons.”

  “You and Buttplug were supposed to make Oleg happy. Clearly Oleg is not happy. This is very disappointing, Herb. Very.”

  “I apologize, sir. We are making what progress we can. But alas, the Constitution requires fifty-one percent in both the House and Senate to repeal. And creating a national panic over a theoretical shortage of molybdenum is proving to be more challenging than Senator Biskitt and I had envisioned.”

  Mr. Trump scowled at a squirrel in the Rose Garden.

  “You need to talk to Oleg. Ask him what the fuck.”

  “That is at the top of my agenda, sir.”

  “This is completely unsatisfactory, Herb.”

  “I feel your disappointment acutely, sir. If my resignation would help, you have only to ask for it.” I felt a little buzz of elation at the prospect of resigning. That should have told me something.

  “What would help, Herb, is for you to make Oleg happy again. There are eighteen women on that thumb drive. How many days until the election?”

  “Two months and three days, sir.”

  “Is Oleg’s plan to post a fucking video every three or four days? Miss Albania on Monday. Miss South Korea on Thursday. Miss Bolivia on Saturday. Miss Tuvalu… Jesus, Herb. Damn fine job by you and Buttplug. By the way, you can tell him I won’t be doing any rallies in North Carolina. Not until this is fixed.”

  “South Carolina.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Sir, in Butt—in Senator Biskitt’s defense, sir, I do think he, too, is doing his best, as am I. But the Constitution—”

  “Fuck the Constitution! Putin or Attajurk wouldn’t put up with this shit for one minute.”

  “Again, if you’d like my resignation—”

  “Herb. Shut up about your resignation! When it’s time for you to go, you’ll know. Trust me.”

  The president shook his head at the unfairness of it all.

  “Sir,” I said, “wouldn’t it make sense for you to have a chat with Mr. Putin? After all you’ve done for him, it seems to me the least he could do is ask Oleg to… cool it with the porn show.”

  The president stared.

  “Porn? This is not porn, Herb. This is Donald Trump making it with the most beautiful women on earth. And by the way, performing like a fucking stallion. How is that ‘porn’?”

  “A deplorable choice of words, sir. Forgive me.”

  For a moment I thought I saw the ax descending. Then he said, “Herb. You just don’t get it, do you?”

  “It, sir?”

  “Who do you think took these fucking movies? Oleg? You think Oleg is the Cecil B. DeMille, here? No, Herb. It was the FSB, or whatever the fuck the KGB is calling itself these days.”

  “You’re saying that Mr. Putin is behind this?”

  “Herb. You’re being very slow today. Yes. Putin is the head of Russia. It’s his country. He’s knows everything. A mouse doesn’t fart in Vladivostok without Vlad knowing about it.”

  “Well,” I said, swelling with indignation. “In that case all I can say is, it’s certainly shabby treatment after everything you’ve done for him.”

  “Herb, Herb, Herb. You’re missing it. Did you sleep through all your classes at Trump University?”

  When I retired, Mr. Trump kindly gave me a discount on a semester of online classes at his Trump University. Before the class-action suit that forced Mr. Trump to shut it down and pay large fines.

  “I’m sorry if I’m being obtuse, sir.”

  “Okay. Okay. Let me explain what’s happening here. Putin likes me, okay? He loves me. We have this amazing relationship. He and Oleg, they’re old buddies. They go way back. Maybe they go back so far that Oleg knows things about Putin that Putin would not want posted on Facebook. Whatever. Putin likes Oleg. He indulges him. He gives him space.

  “So Oleg gets himself in this situation, this fucking Glebnikov thing. He asks Putin to fix it. Putin calls me, says could you do me a favor? I say sure. He asks me to get the act, the law, whatever, repealed. I tell him, ‘Done.’

  “So I call Forkmorgan. And what do I find out? I find out what I find out every fucking day in this fucking job, namely that even though I’m the president of the fucking United States, I can’t do it.

  “I tell Forkmorgan, ‘Yo, Perry Mason. We need to repeal the Glebnikov Act. Just do it. It’s very important. And by the way, I’m the fucking president.

  “Answer: ‘Sorry, Mr. President, but the Constitution blah-blah-blah.’ Great. Thank you, White House legal counsel. What a big fucking help you’ve been. Remind me not to nominate you to the dirtbag Supreme Court.

  “So I call Putin. I say, ‘Vlad, you know how much I like you, right? You know what a great relationship we have. I would so love to do this favor for you. But guess what? I can’t. Why? Because the morons who designed our system of government were afraid that two hundred and whatever years later the president of the United States might want to do a favor for the president of Russia. We can’t allow that. Noo. Idiots.

  “They designed the Constitution specifically to castrate presidents. Great system, huh?

  “ ‘However,’ I tell Putin, ‘we’re gonna get it done one way or the other. My consiglieres, Herb and Senator Buttplug, tell me there’s some process whereby you kiss fifty-one percent of the asses in the House, then you kiss fifty-one percent of the asses in the Senate. And bingo, it’s repealed. So we’re going to work it that way. Okay?

  “But it’s going to take some time. It may even have to wait until my second term, which I am trying very hard to achieve, despite the astounding amount of bullshit I have to put up with, including being fucking impeached. Which was a total hoax. And very insulting. But we’ll get it done. Okay? Relax. It’s all good. It’s all going to be great. Everyone is going to be very happy.

  “Putin is completely fine with this. He tells me, ‘Donald, you are fantastic. You are amazing. Thank you.’

  “But now with this fucked election of his, he’s having to deal with that. He’s gotta find out who screwed him. Ukraine, probably. Assholes. Anyway, at the moment he’s a little distracted.

  “Meanwhile, Oleg is sending me messages saying, ‘Donald, come on, hurry up and get this fucking Glebnikov monkey off my back so I can come to US and party down with you.’

  “I told him, ‘Oleg, please. Chill. We’re working on it. Day and fucking night. We’re doing our best here.

  “But Oleg isn’t chilling. Why? I’ll tell you why. Because he’s worried I might not get another four years. So he’s saying, ‘You must fix before election.’

  “And now this. He releases Episode One: Trump Does Sri Lanka. Oleg’s thinking, This will light fire under Donald’s ass.

  “The problem is if Oleg releases one of these movies every other day between now and November 3, Donald is not going to have another four years. Even my evangelicals are gonna be going, Jesus fucking Christ!

  “
So, Herb, what we—that is, you—are going to do is explain to our old friend Oleg that this is completely counterproductive. Not helpful. Not at all helpful. In fact, it’s very unhelpful. So—quit it. No more episodes of Trump shtupping Miss Whoever.”

  The president paused. He said in a reflective tone, “Miss Sri Lanka. Very talented lady. You saw the movie?”

  “No, sir. As I said earlier, I didn’t think it would be polite.”

  He shrugged.

  “Too bad. She does this… 360-degree rotating thing. While you’re still attached. Like a crab, rotating, 360 degrees. I tell you Herb, I’d have given her the Miss Universe title there and then. But they were all pretty amazing. Really, it was a very good Miss Universe. Possibly the best.”

  It was a lot to absorb, but it was clarifying.

  24

  As anyone who watched the Senate impeachment trial knows, Senator Biskitt was a Trump Galahad. Three times he walked out of the chamber—technically risking “imprisonment”—declaring that he would “not be party to the most shameful episode in US history since the Salem witch trials.” Goose bumpy.

  So imagine how I felt, telling him that the president would not after all be going to South Carolina to campaign with him unless he got the Glebnikov Act repealed.

  His little face crumpled. I thought he might burst into tears.

  “Doesn’t the president realize I’m busting my ass on this?” he said pitiably. “I can’t just wave some magic wand over the US Congress.”

  “I’m just the messenger here, Senator.” I love saying that. It’s so liberating.

  “Well, I got to tell you, Herb, frankly I find this real disappointing.”

  “Those were his own exact words, sir. And if it makes you feel any better, he told me the same thing. Our president is not happy with either of us.”

  “I’ve been a team player. Short of actually kissing his ass in public, there isn’t a thing I haven’t done for him.”

  “Except this.”

  “Darn it, Herb, what am I supposed to do?”

  “You’re on the Armed Services Committee. You might suggest to Chairman McTight and those other generalissimos that the president feels they’re being rather complacent about the imminent molybdenum cri—”

  “Aw, shee-it,” Squiggly exploded. Strong language for a Baptist. “This molybdenum crisis is a dog that just ain’t gonna hunt.”

  I took this southern expression to denote “nonstarter.”

  Senator Biskitt said, “Have I not disgraced myself sufficiently in the service of Donald Trump? I have done so many 180-degree turns—in policy, principle, and everything else I once held sacred—that my dang head is spinning. How low must a man go to rise in his estimation?”

  “It’s a valid question, Senator,” I replied. “But one we must all answer individually. I myself am getting on a plane this afternoon to fly to the Vatican. When I tell you this is a trip I would much rather not be making, believe me. But I’m going. Because it’s what the president of the United States wants.”

  Squiggly stared.

  “The Vatican? What the hell are you gonna do about this at the Vatican?”

  “Vatican City is one of the few sovereign countries that is not a member of Interpol. As it is closer to Washington than Tuvalu or Samoa or North Korea and the others, it’s a—I don’t want to say ‘convenient’—suitable venue for my second meeting with Oleg. The highly sensitive nature of my mission requires that I travel in mufti. So you’ll appreciate that I’m doing my part here.

  “My aim is to persuade Oleg that releasing seventeen more compromising videos of the president would only be counterproductive. If I succeed in persuading him of this, then you and I can relax. And we can revisit Glebnikov Act repeal in the second term.”

  The senator brightened.

  “And the president would do events with me in South Carolina?”

  I didn’t want to commit the president. Even if I did succeed in getting Oleg to play ball, it was possible Mr. Trump might decide to continue tormenting Squiggly, for the sake of tormenting him. Mr. Trump often does this. Not to be cruel, but as a management technique, a way of maintaining dominance. That was important to Mr. Trump. His philosophy, like that of Socrates, was: “It is not enough that I win; others must suffer.”

  I said, “Let’s hope Oleg and I have a meeting of minds. In that event, then I think happy days will be here again.”

  The senator looked confused. I realized I had accidentally quoted the Democrats’ anthem instead of Mr. Trump’s, “We’re Not Gonna Take It,” by Twisted Sister.

  I corrected myself. The senator seemed to relax.

  “Y’all have a productive time over there,” he said, walking me to the door. “I understand about Interpol, but the Vatican? Seems like a strange place to meet a Russian oligarch to talk him out of releasing adult-themed movies featuring a president of the United States. But it’s a strange world. And getting stranger by the day.”

  25

  This time the CIA disguise person outfitted me as a Roman Catholic monsignor. He explained that a monsignor is one rank up from a regular priest, a sort of clerical NCO, identifiable by the scarlet buttons and trim on the cassock. He said Catholics would be less likely to engage me in casual conversation than they would a regular priest.

  “They see the scarlet and they get stage fright. Very hierarchical, Catholics.”

  I wasn’t thrilled, but he seemed to know what he was talking about.

  “I’ll be on a flight to Rome,” I pointed out. “What if there are other priests or monsignors on the plane and they want to talk theology or play bingo?”

  He considered.

  “Tell them you’re making a pilgrimage to atone for sexually assaulting underage boys, and you need to concentrate on your penance.”

  Wonderful.

  I was seated in coach as part of my cover. It had been a while since I sat in what Mr. Trump calls “Loser Class.” But I appreciated that a monsignor sitting in first, sipping champagne and watching a movie with people having sex, might compromise my religious cover. Still.

  Sitting in the back with the other losers got me thinking about Mr. Trump’s wealthy evangelicals and their fleets of private jets. Our own Pastor Norma Damdiddle had recently upgraded from a Gulfstream 5 to a 7. She was very pleased with it because it cruised at a higher altitude, which she said made her feel “closer to heaven.” I’ll bet.

  The lack of legroom and attendant risk of a thrombosis, along with the prison-quality food—a subject I can speak of with authority—and the considerate individual in front who insisted on reclining so my tray jammed up against my chest all made me feel that I actually was doing penance, if not for fondling underage members of my flock. Seldom have I been so happy to land.

  The airport in Rome is named after Leonardo da Vinci. Very classy, naming the airport after a painter. I made a mental note to suggest to Mr. Trump that he rename Newark or West Palm after some painter. Perhaps after his favorite artist, Jon McNaughton. He did the amazing painting titled Exposing the Truth. It depicts Mr. Trump strangling Robert Mueller by his own necktie and holding a magnifying glass up to Mueller’s eyeball. Stunning. Mr. Colonnity is a major collector of McNaughtons. He owns the one showing the Founding Fathers gathered around the park bench, imploring Obama to stop snorting cocaine.

  My visit was unofficial. But Judd said that as a matter of protocol, our embassy in the Holy See (why do they call the Vatican that?) should be informed. Also, Miriam said she needed to let the CIA folks know, in case something happened.

  Our ambassador to the Holy See was Clytemnestra Neuderscreech, wife of former Speaker of the House Salamander “Sally” Neuderscreech. Sally had been a major deficit hawk until Mr. Trump came into office. His view now was that annual trillion-dollar deficits were “vital to uninterrupted prosperity.”

  Sally had briefly been on Mr. Trump’s short list for VP. He endured the ritual humiliation of coming out to Wetminster and standing next to
Mr. Trump on the front steps for picture taking; then learning via tweet on the drive back into Manhattan that Mr. Trump had scratched him from the list. Mr. Trump found him a bit of a talker (“never shuts up”) and an untidy eater (“sprays food—disgusting”).

  But Sally sucked it up and campaigned for the Trump-Pants ticket. His considerably younger (and third) wife, Clytemnestra, was a devout Catholic, except for having had a long affair with Sally while he was still married to Mrs. Neuderscreech number two. She made Sally convert to Catholicism. That meant getting him an annulment, invalidating his prior marriages in the eyes of the church. (Don’t ask—not my religion.) After being scratched from the VP short list, Sally lobbied fiercely for the secretary of state job. But Mr. Trump said, “I can’t have him spraying food on heads of state.” As a consolation prize, Clytemnestra got the ambassadorship to the Holy See. Catholics say the workings of grace are a mystery. I can see why they say this. We Jews say, “Go figure.”

  As I descended the elevator to baggage claim I was surprised to see a person holding up a sign: Signore Nooterman.

  “Signore Nooterman?” He had a photo of me on his clipboard.

  “I…”

  “Ah,” he said apologetically. “Monsignore Nooterman! Forgive! It seems there have been a miscommunication. All is well. All is well. Welcome to Rome. The flight was good? Ettore is my name. And here is our driver, Massimo. You have many baggages? The ambassador is waiting for you. This way, please.”

  Ettore led the way to what looked like an armor-plated vehicle. Beside it stood two machine-gun-toting carabinieri in berets and shiny boots and white patent leather chest straps—very stylish, the Italians. The meter maids look like runway models. I’d be happy to be ticketed by them.

  I needed to phone Judd to ask him what the hell. But I didn’t want to have the conversation in Ettore’s hearing. More urgently: what would the devout Ambassador Neuderscreech make of a Jewish White House chief of staff showing up on her doorstep in the uniform of a Roman Catholic monsignor? She’d have views about that.