Make Russia Great Again: A Novel Page 16

  “Understood, sir, but I’m not sure that would be the end of it.”

  “Herb, how far back do we go?”

  “A long and happy way, sir. Herb Nutterman is no Mickey Cohen. Herb Nutterman can keep a secret. Have no doubts on that score. I’m only saying that these things have a way of… What I’m trying to say, sir, and not saying well, for which I apologize, is that in the event I am summoned to account, I’m not confident the authorities—much less the enemies of the people—will be satisfied with just my head. I’m fond of my head, but it’s no trophy to match yours.”

  The president frowned, indicating that he got what I was driving at.

  Normally in a situation like this, the American president would call the Italian prime minister and that would be that. Finito la commedia. But Mr. Trump had recently tweeted that that the Italian government “couldn’t run a pizza parlor, never mind a country. SAD!”

  In his defense, the Italian Parliament was—again—in disarray. Yet another financial minister had committed suicide, and there had been shoving matches among the deputies. Still. The president’s tweet certainly did not win Italian hearts and minds. It fell to Secretary of State Pompeo, himself of Italian ancestry, to aver mendaciously that the president’s statement had been “taken out of context.”

  The president grumbled, “Why the fuck were you dressed up as a priest?”

  “CIA’s idea, sir. They thought it would make a good fig leaf.”

  “CIA,” he snorted. “Imbeciles. Morons. If the photo gets out, you’ll have to say you were going to a costume party.”

  I imagined myself explaining it to Agents Winchell and Wheary.

  31

  Whoever defined history as “one fucking thing after another” was onto something.

  The day after my delightful visit from former Speaker Neuderscreech, Miriam phoned to say she needed to see me. “ASAP.”

  She arrived in my office with a bombshell that threatened to turn Mr. Trump’s victory lap into a demolition derby. I could hear the fuse hissing.

  “Herb, we have a problem.”

  I didn’t much like that “we.”

  “It’s not a hundred percent solid, but we’re picking up indications the Russians may know about Placid Reflux.”

  On the holy shit scale of one to ten, this was a twenty.

  “Miriam,” I moaned. “We’re about to go into the convention.”

  “I know. Suboptimal timing.”

  “Bathyspheric. What do we do?”

  “I think it’s time you told the president.”

  I didn’t at all like that “you.” I realize that there are few sights more—I don’t want to say “pathetic”—deplorable than government officials playing Hot Potato. Still.

  “Miriam,” I said, “this being intelligence, surely the appropriate messenger is the director of national intelligence.”

  She nodded. “Okay. But you and Judd need to be there. He’s going to want to know why you and he didn’t tell him about Placid before.”

  “Maybe,” I said, tossing the potato back. “But I imagine his first question will be why you didn’t tell him.”

  “True,” Miriam said, digging in her Manolo Blahniks, “and my answer to that will be: because, sir, your chief of staff and your NSC director determined it was best not to tell you.”

  She had me there.

  “Very well,” I said. “If your plan is go full Nuremberg, fine. But don’t think that’s going to spare you from execution along with the rest of us. Meanwhile, can we agree that the first head to roll should be Admiral Murphy’s? He is the Dr. Frankenstein of this monstrosity.”

  “Let’s take a step back, Herb. The time line, the who-knew-what-when, that shouldn’t be our focus.”

  “The fact that we all hid it from the president?” I said. “Oh, I’m pretty sure that’s going to be his focus.”

  “Herb. You’re missing it. It was never about hiding it. It was about protecting the president. What does any president want, more than anything?”

  “Reelection?”

  “Plausible deniability. Coin of the realm.”

  “That’s not going to be an easy sell.”

  “It’s worth a shot. Meanwhile, we’ll let Murphy—poor bastard—take ownership. But if it turns into a season finale of The Apprentice, with him going around the table saying, ‘You’re fired. You’re fired. You—you’re fired,’ you might point out that sacking his national security brain trust on the brink of a shit storm isn’t the smart play.”

  “Fix now, roll heads later?”

  “Something like that.”

  I thought it best to have the meeting in the Oval rather than the Situation Room. It’s a calmer environment. The Sit Room—with the DEFCON level indicator (showing how close the world is to blowing up) and the maps and monitors on the walls displaying real-time drone feeds and Tomahawk missiles launching—is inherently not calming. Personally I find it nerve-racking.

  “Miriam,” I said, “why don’t you start us off?” My plan was to say as little as possible and blend into the furniture.

  “Mr. President, our people in Moscow assess that Russian intelligence mayI—I emphasize may—be on the verge of determining that their election was compromised by a US cyberintervention.”

  The president stared. “What?”

  I said, “Admiral Murphy, why don’t you take it from there?”

  Admiral Murphy didn’t flinch. In his place I’d have been in full chimpanzee-gibber mode and hurling the feces. But Murphy manfully and lucidly explained about Placid Reflux, emphasizing its autonomous aspect. He reminded the president that he had in fact been briefed about its existence before taking office.

  “No one ever told me about this,” the president said.

  “You had a lot on your plate, Lord knows. But it was in your briefing book.” Admiral Murphy pulled a thick folder marked “Eyes Only” for the President from his attaché case. “This one, sir. ‘US Cyber Capabilities: Opportunities and Liabilities.’ ”

  The president regarded it with distaste. The binder was thick as a bone-in round-eye steak.

  “I don’t have time to read that crap,” he said.

  Miriam said, “It is a lot to absorb, sir. Admiral Murphy didn’t want to overwhelm you. Only to acquaint you with CyberCom’s various modalities of—”

  “Yeah, yeah. Okay,” the president said impatiently. “So you’re saying this, this thing…”

  “Activated autonomously,” Murphy said. “Correct, sir. AI has greatly enhanced the performance parameters. A program like Placid Reflux is called a ‘hibernator.’ They go into a state of deep sleep, making themselves virtually impossible for the enemy to detect. But they’re still receiving. When their sensors detect predetermined indicators…” Murphy went on, folding in terms of such technical complexity that no one but himself understood what—the hell—he was talking about.

  I telepathically prompted: Get to the Obama part.

  I’d done some kibitzing prep with Murphy before the meeting, suggesting that he emphasize that Placid Reflux was authorized by the Obama administration.

  Mr. Trump had devoted his entire presidential agenda to erasing the Obama legacy so thoroughly that future historians may not even realize there was an Obama administration. With a bit of spin, he could turn this calamity into a win by saying it was all a plot by Obama—and Vice President Biden—to sabotage his relations with Putin. And why stop there? He could suggest that Placid Reflux hadn’t activated “autonomously.” That Obama and his conniving former VP—in concert with the deep state, of course—had a remote control device with which to activate it and destroy his presidency at their pleasure. Katie could knock this right out of the park.

  Admiral Murphy finished. Mr. Trump sat back, looking dazed and defeated. The only time I’d seen him this pensive was when the Palm Beach officials turned down our application for a helipad at Farrago-sur-Mer.

  He glanced at me as if to say, What the fuck, Herb? I raised
my eyebrows and shrugged, to convey that I, too, was appalled by the fiendish machinations of Obama and Biden. So much for the fabled “fraternity of former presidents.”

  He remained silent for ten, fifteen seconds, an eternity in Trump time. He said to Miriam, “Are you telling me that Putin knows about this?”

  “We don’t know that for a fact, sir, but CIA assesses that they might be vectoring in on it.”

  “Of course you don’t know ‘for a fact,’ ” he exploded. “The CIA never knows anything ‘for a fact’! Why? Because it’s got its head up its ass!”

  The Oval trembled beneath us as Mount Trump erupted. Through the hot ash and toxic fumes I caught Miriam’s eye and signaled: Sit tight. Say nothing. This too shall pass.

  After considerable bellowing and slamming of fists on the Resolute desk—thank heavens for the sturdy timbers of HMS ResoluteII—Mr. Trump tired. A nervous calm descended on the Oval.

  “So where the fuck does that leave us?” he said.

  Miriam said, “Sir, if the Russians do figure it out, we’ll know. I know that you disagree with the intelligence community’s assessment that they interfered in 2016. But if they do trace this to us, you could legitimately say that it’s nothing more than symmetrical proportionality.”

  Mr. Trump groaned. “What is that in English?”

  “Tell Putin: ‘Okay, we’re even. You quit messing with our elections, we’ll quit messing with yours.’ ”

  The president scowled.

  Miriam quickly added, “Now, it hasn’t come to that yet. It may not come to that. The purpose of this meeting is simply to alert you to the possibility that it might.”

  “What if they already know?”

  “Negative, sir,” Admiral Murphy said in a naval way. “Not possible. We’d know.”

  “Yo, Dr. Frankenstein—I wasn’t talking to you.” Mr. Trump turned back to Miriam. “Suppose he does know. Am I supposed to sit on my ass and wait for Putin to retaliate—by electing the fucking Democrats?”

  I saw my opening.

  “Sir, if I may? You have been stalwart in publicly rejecting—sorry, Miriam—the intelligence community’s assertion that the Russians interfered in 2016. You have valiantly defended Mr. Putin against that charge. I simply cannot believe that he’d do anything to hurt you in the coming election. If—if—the Russians ascertain that this golem was behind Zitkin’s victory, I say let’s put the blame where it belongs. On Obama and Biden. I hardly think Mr. Putin would deploy his army of trolls and bots or whatever they’re called at the service of the Democrats.” I added, “Not that Russia interfered in 2016.”

  The president considered. Miriam, Judd, and Admiral Murphy left the Oval with their heads intact. I remained with the president.

  “Now it all makes sense,” he said.

  “How so, sir?”

  “Herb. You’re missing it again. It’s not Oleg who’s blackmailing us. It’s Putin. Oleg wouldn’t blow his nose without permission from Putin. Putin is punishing me for stealing his election. He thinks I was behind this fucking jack-in-the-box.”

  “Sir, are you certain?”

  “Yeah I’m certain. This whole time we’ve been trying to make Oleg happy again, we should have been making Putin happy again.”

  Which Mr. Trump set out to do a few days later, in the middle of his acceptance speech; and in true Trump form, without telling anyone what he was about to do.

  I. “Assess” is CIA-speak for “We believe” or “We think” or “Who the fuck knows?”

  II. The desk, made from that noble warship, was given to President Rutherford Hayes by Queen Victoria in 1880.

  32

  I was sitting with Stefan during the president’s speech at the Spectrum Center in Charlotte. Stefan was purring like a Persian cat. Mr. Trump was knocking his lines out of the park, one by one. He’d stumbled by referring to “Charlotte, South Carolina.” But no big deal. The place sounded like the Roman Colosseum on a day of major bread and circuses. At one point, Mr. Trump spread his arms wide and said, à la Russell Crowe in Gladiator, “Are you entertained, or what?” (The actual line is, “Are you not entertained?”) The answer was: you bet we are! They were lapping it up. Never has so much “red meat” been tossed from a podium.

  He was awash in applause, and so far—thank God—there had been no chanting of “Make America hard again!” (We’d put out the word among the delegates and spectators: ix-nay.) The only bump so far had been the Church of Satan’s (unsought) endorsement of Mike Pants. It was going so well I almost felt sorry for the Democrats. Victory in November looked like low-hanging fruit. Then as I was scribbling notes I heard Mr. Trump say: “Russia.”

  Stefan nudged me. He pointed to the text on his lap. There was no “Russia” on the page.

  Mr. Trump had gone off-text a few times, but he hadn’t threatened anyone with nuclear holocaust or 100 percent tariffs. Nor had he mentioned John McCain roasting in hell. He did go on a bit about “Mitt Romney, the devout Moron.”

  “Russia… Let’s talk about Russia, folks. Now, Loser One and Loser Too,I who hate America…”

  Boos. The people loved “Loser One” and “Loser Too.”

  “… along with all the other Democrats who hate America…”

  I winced.

  Stefan said, “Herb. They do.”

  Mr. Trump continued: “They also hate Russia. I asked myself—Why? The media… Oh yeah, folks, you remember them. The enemies of the people…”

  Lusty boos.

  “… have been pushing the Russia collusion hoax from day one. Did you ever stop to think, folks—isn’t it strange that the Democrats not only want to make America Socialist. Now they want Russia to be Communist again. What’s up with that, folks?”

  Roars. I couldn’t recall the media approving of the Russian Communist Party. Mr. Trump must be making some larger point.

  “I had to spend most of my first term dealing with the Russia hoax. Which was completely—excuse me, but there’s no other word—bullshit.”

  Roars.

  “By the way, I’ve got some bad news for the media. Very bad. Wanna hear it?”

  Yesss! the crowd insisted.

  “We’re gonna win in November!”

  Cheering. Roars. Stomping. Soda cans and chairs hurled at the media.

  “I asked myself… by the way, folks, I gotta tell you, I love talking to myself. It’s pretty great company, right? Me and myself? Oh yeah. So I asked myself: If the Democrats and the disgusting liberal mainstream media hate Russia, should we hate Russia?”

  “Nooo!”

  “Right! I mean, when you get right down to it, what’s so bad about Russia? Why should we not like Russia? Am I right? I think I’m right. They’re very religious, Russians. We like religion, don’t we?”

  Yesss!

  “Russia’s got the same problem with Muslims that we do. Right?”

  Applause.

  I winced. Mr. Trump had promised not to go after Muslims at this convention.

  “I’m not talking about all Muslims. Only the nasty ones. If Muslims want to come live here? Okay. Maybe. We’ll think about it. But they have to leave their suicide vests where they came from!”

  Roars.

  “That’s reasonable. I think that’s reasonable, right?”

  Applause.

  “What else do we like about Russians?”

  I thought, Please don’t say, “They’re white.”

  “They’re smart. And tough. Look how they kicked the crap out of Hitler. Did they kick the crap out of Hitler or what?”

  The crowd applauded in agreement that the Russians had, indeed, kicked the crap out of Hitler.

  “What else do I like about Russians? That they don’t mess with our elections. But, folks—shhh! Don’t tell that to the deep state! And to our so-called intelligence agencies! They’ve been peddling that crap before I was inaugurated. They don’t want to hear that. Noo! It makes them very unhappy to hear that Russia doesn’t interfere with our elect
ions. And we don’t want to make them unhappy, do we, folks? I mean—they might impeach us!”

  The Spectrum Center shook so hard I thought the roof might collapse. The boss was cooking tonight.

  “So you know what, folks? You know what I’m gonna do? And not just to upset Nervous Nancy Pelosi, who by the way should really do something about her teeth. Nancy—there’s something called Poligrip. Please get some. And, folks, let’s not upset Little Upchuckie Schumer and Shifty Schiff. Who are very disgusting people…”

  Where was this going? Stefan was in a funk, shaking his head. The president wasn’t just drawing mustaches on Stefan’s Mona Lisa. He was painting Groucho Marx eyebrows, nose, and eyeglasses.

  “So, folks, you know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna invite Putin to the White House. How do you like that, folks?”

  It took a few seconds for the “folks” to process “that.” At first they didn’t seem to know quite what to think. There were isolated shouts of “Yeah!” and “Da!” Then the cheering started and built, and built. I sat, frozen in my seat. Stefan’s monocle fell from his eye. Any minute now the speakers were going to blast the Russian Men’s Chorus singing the “Song of the Volga Boatmen.”

  Stefan looked at me miserably.

  “Did you know about this?”

  “No!”

  Stefan was a full metal jacket Trumper, but he was not a fan of Russia. I don’t want to misrepresent his views, but I think he’d have preferred for Hitler “to kick the crap” out of Stalin. I’ll leave it at that. At any rate, Stefan was not happy. He sighed heavily and shook his head, muttering, “Not in the text. Not. In. The. Text.”

  My cell phone started vibrating. I couldn’t move. I grabbed Stefan’s speech text and flipped through it. There were maybe twenty minutes left, including some rather harsh words and a warning for Mexican president Labrador;II a pledge not to prosecute Pelosi and Schiff, provided they publicly apologize for the impeachment; and in a more upbeat vein, the announcement that Donald Jr. and Ivunka had “graciously consented” to run in 2024. “That’s right, folks. Donald Jr. and Ivunka, on the same ticket. Not one but two Trumps! Is that amazing, or what? You know what D-I-N-A-S-T-Y spells? That’s right, folks. Dynasty!”