Make Russia Great Again: A Novel Page 19

As October surprises go, it would be, yes, a Category 5 lulu.

  “Oleg,” I said, “I must tell you that I find all this very disappointing. This is not how friends treat each other. Mr. Trump is hugely fond of you.”

  “Errbert. Listen to Oleg. Oleg loves Donald. Donald is my kind of guy. Here is how friends treat each other: I do you favor. You do me favor. All Oleg is asking is for Donald to make Glebnikov Act go poof. He’s president. He can do this. Look how Republicans wote to acquit him in Senate trial. All Donald have to do is tell them take away Glebnikov Act. Then Donald have four more years. So, let’s have more crab. It’s good, eh?”

  I spent much of the flight back across the Bering Sea brushing my teeth and gargling with everything other than hydraulic fluid to rid my mouth of the foul aftertaste of kelp-infused vodka. I can’t even think about it.

  * * *

  Mr. Trump listened to my report.

  “I knew this was going to happen,” he said casually, as if he’d predicted rain and here it was, raining.

  He knew what was on the thumb drive? No wonder he didn’t want to hand it over to White House IT folks to post it on Facebook.

  “That asshole,” he said. “He squirts nerve agent on his girlfriend and threatens to pin it on me? Fuck Oleg.”

  Mr. Trump’s legendary refusal ever to back down is often attributed to his having been mentored by the infamous Roy Cohn. (Who may actually be rotting in hell.) I would only point out that it was Winston Churchill (former White House guest) who said, “Never, never, never, never give in!” Still. What a mess.

  “In principle, sir, I agree. Fuck Oleg. But the optics—”

  “Fuck the optics.”

  Next thing I knew, he picked up the phone and asked to be put through to some general at the Pentagon. I heard the word “drone.”

  I said to myself, Nutterman, this is not a conversation you need to hear. I made what the Brits might call an “Ovalexit,” and a lot more quickly than they do their -exits.

  If Katie had been privy to this, she’d have said, “How many presidents facing a horrible blackmail situation like this would have the courage to say, ‘Fuck the optics’?”

  35

  With the Russian runoff election in early October, the Putin visit in mid-October, and our election in early November, it was shaping up to be a fall to remember.

  Before leaving Pastrami Kamchatka with the ghastly tang of kelp-infused vodka in my mouth, I’d managed to persuade Oleg to give us until the end of October to get the Glebnikov Act repealed.

  A stalling tactic at best, and probably futile. Getting 51 percent of the House and Senate aboard this legislative choo-choo was as likely as John McCain making snowballs in Hades. But desperate times call for desperate measures.

  I implored Mr. Trump to get Mr. Putin to intercede with Oleg. But he waved that away.

  Frankly, I was beginning to suspect that he had asked Mr. Putin and that Mr. Putin was being cagey, in order to maintain leverage. Maybe all along Putin had been using Oleg as a proxy blackmailer. Poor Mr. Trump. Bad enough to be blackmailed by one Russian. But two—and one of them president? Sub-suboptimal.

  While reviewing the invitation list for the state dinner, I saw that Mr. Trump had crossed out Senator Biskitt’s name. He was highly displeased at Squiggly’s failure to wrangle a majority of senators to our cause.

  Squiggly was now putting all his energy into getting the Joint Chiefs to sound the alarm over the Molybdenum Gap. But the JCs were having none of it. To help, I got Mr. Trump to okay Squiggly telling them that he was considering mothballing two carrier battle groups and converting all military-base golf courses into bombing ranges. That might bring them around.

  I wondered if I should tell Squiggly he’d been dropped from the guest list. It was the hot ticket of the social season. Maybe it would light a fire under his little rear end.

  The president certainly wasn’t one to hide his ire under a basket, as the saying goes. He’d done two rallies for Squiggly in South Carolina without so much as mentioning his name. Instead, he’d gone into rhapsodies about the wonderfulness of former governor Cricket Singh. Poor Squiggly stood there on the stage, smiling bravely, like the only boy on Sadie Hawkins Day who doesn’t get chased by the girls.

  I decided not to tell him he’d been dropped from the Putin dinner. It would only demoralize him. Better he should “stay frosty” and keep working on the chiefs.

  The Democrats—that is, “Loser One” and “Loser Too”—had set aside their touchy-feely campaign theme, “Come On, America—We Are So Much Better Than This!” to assail him over the Putin invite.

  “If Donald Trump wants to sell his soul to the devil, that’s his business,” Loser One thundered, shaking a bandaged hand in the air. (He’d sprained it pounding the podium during a previous speech.) “But I don’t like him putting America’s soul up for sale! I won’t have it! And the American people won’t have it!”

  Loser Too was doing her best to sound the tocsin of outrage, but she was struggling. She gave the impression she’d rather talk about Medicare extension, family leave, student debt relief, and how Wisconsin was coping with the influx of former Somali warlords who for unclear reasons wanted to live in Waukhegan.

  She didn’t like the idea of Vladimir Putin having a pussy riot in the Lincoln Bedroom, but her Midwest Mom “Hey, who’s up for pie?” shtick hampered her from projecting red-hot indignation. Her tsk-tsking and tut-tutting was having some effect, though. Our pollster, Boyd Crampon, reported that her umbrage was “getting traction among midwestern women who belong to book clubs.” Progress.

  Former UN ambassador and Trump darling Cricket Singh was dispatched to the Midwest to sound the theme that “diplomacy doesn’t mean you like the other person,” and to assure voters that Mr. Trump “was definitely going to count the silverware before Putin leaves. You betcha!”

  In the first debate with Loser One, Mr. Trump unveiled what he said was “the real reason” for the Putin invite, namely that he wasn’t about to “sit on my ass and let Russia become Red again.” I thought this brilliantly reframed the invitation as vital to national security, as opposed to caving to blackmail.

  “We all know what happens when Russia goes Communist, folks,” the president explained. “First, they kill everyone. Then whoever’s left gets sent to Siberia. Then they put up the Berlin Wall. Not that I hate all walls. Some walls you need. But we’re not gonna let Russia go Red. That’s why I’m showing our support for Putin. We don’t need another Nikita Stalin in the Kremlin. No way, folks. Not happening on my watch.”

  Chris Wallace, the moderator, asked, “But sir, isn’t that tantamount to interfering in the Russian election?”

  To which Mr. Trump neatly responded, “Yeah. So?”

  That gave Loser One an opening to rehash the whole “Russia interfered in 2016” business. Yawn.

  “You’re not making America great again. You’re making Russia great.”

  Mr. Trump was ready for that. He retorted: “Blow me.”

  The boss was firing on all pistons. I thought, We’ve got this thing in the bag.

  But as the saying goes, “Whom the gods would destroy, first they make believe that the thing is in the bag.”

  I returned to DC to a message from my secretary, Caramella, that “Former Speaker Neuderscreech wants to speak to you. He said it’s important.”

  Joy. And by the way, what kind of person goes around referring to himself as “former speaker”? Spare me.

  “Yes, Sally?” I said, sounding very busy.

  “I thought the president was simply magnificent last night.”

  “Yes. He was.”

  “It’s looking like four more years.”

  “Let’s hope. But I don’t count my eggs until they’re in the soufflé.”

  “There’s been a development in the St. Peter’s shooting.”

  “Oh? I haven’t been paying much attention.”

  “Some tourist with an iPhone got a video of the perso
n sitting with the Mystery Monsignor. They think it might be Oleg Pishinsky. Putin’s pal. ‘Oil of Oleg’ Pishinsky.”

  “Really? Well, thanks for the call, Sally.”

  “What do you suppose he was doing at the Vatican? Going to confession?”

  “Funny. Always good chatting with you.”

  “I’m predicting the president will end up with 289 electoral votes.” Pause. “Barring an October surprise.”

  I inwardly groaned. “October surprise” is the generic term for an eleventh-hour revelation that the leading candidate a) was, after all, born outside the US, b) was recruited by Chinese intelligence during a junior-year study-abroad program, c) keeps a statue of Robert E. Lee in his garden, with an eternal flame, or d) dispatched his chief of staff to Rome disguised as a Catholic priest to negotiate blackmail with a Russian oligarch wanted by Interpol.

  “Good of you to call, Sally.”

  “Let’s talk right after the election. I’ve discussed it with Cly and she’s all aboard with the idea of me taking over at State.”

  “Very understanding of her. That’s one fine lady you have there.”

  “Pompeo’s in way over his head. But if the president insists on keeping him—though I can’t imagine why he would—I could probably be talked into taking Treasury. But State is a much better fit for me.”

  “Well,” I said, “now we really have an incentive to win.”

  I told the president about the phone call, rather hoping that he might pick up the phone and ask that general to order up another MQ-9 drone strike. But he just said, “What a prick,” and went back to watching a tape of Mr. Colonnity comparing his debate performance to Cicero “opening a can of whoop-ass” on somebody named Catiline.

  At this rate, I thought, I should install one of those take-a-number machines you see at the deli outside my office. Caramella could direct blackmailers to it, warning them that it might be a wait since there was a line. Honestly. Whatever happened to “Ask not what your country can do for you”?

  36

  Miriam called to say she needed to see me on a “somewhat sensitive” matter, and that she’d prefer to discuss it at her office, not the White House. That made me both curious and nervous.

  On the way to her office in suburban Virginia, I told myself that 99 percent of what a director of national intelligence does surely qualifies as “somewhat sensitive.” Still, I arrived at her office with a belly full of butterflies.

  “Herb,” she said, “I’m turning to you not because you’re chief of staff, but because you and the president have history together. I know you care about him, personally. And I’m sure he… anyway, thank you for coming.”

  “What’s up, Miriam?”

  “The president has asked me to quote-unquote ‘take care of’ Oleg Pishinsky.”

  Take care of. That phrase, again.

  “Oh?” I said blandly.

  “Herb, in the hospitality world from which you come, that means one thing. In my world, it means something else. Entirely.”

  “Yes, I suppose. Oh dear.”

  “My reaction was more ‘Oh shit.’ ”

  I thought back to Mr. Trump picking up the phone to talk to that general.

  “Did the word ‘drone’ come up, by chance?”

  “Yes. Drone strikes are the one thing we do that he seems to approve. Intel? Not so much. The one time he said ‘Good job’ was when we took out Soleimani.”

  “Yes, he loved that.”

  Mr. Trump told the Pentagon he wanted a fleet of drones on permanent patrol above the Mexican border. He was displeased when they told him he could have them but that they couldn’t fire on the migrants.

  Miriam said, “I explained to him that taking out a terrorist leader with the blood of Americans on his hands was one thing. Training Hellfire missiles on a Russian citizen, on Russian soil, another.”

  “Valid point. Was he receptive?”

  “He conceded the difference, yes.”

  “Good.”

  “He told me to do it by other means. He suggested giving Pishinsky a quote-unquote ‘dose of his own medicine.’ I took that as a reference to Novichok. A nerve agent we’ve taken to calling Oil of Oleg.”

  “I see. Well, I’m not saying I approve, but Oleg has been something of a royal pain.”

  Miriam stared.

  “Herb. Help me out here.”

  “I’m trying, Miriam.”

  “What does Pishinsky have on the president? If it’s some Stormy Daniels–type thing, I don’t want to know. But he’s president, Herb. And Pishinsky is asshole-tight with the president of Russia. Which means that much as I’d rather not know, I need to know. So what the fuck’s going on, Herb?”

  I took a deep breath and told her. What else could I do? I sensed that Miriam did want to help.

  “God,” she said. “I so wish you’d brought this to me sooner.”

  We left it there—“for now,” per our usual way. She thanked me for my “candor” and even gave me a hug. It’s nice, ending a conversation about assassination with a hug. Takes out some of the sting.

  * * *

  On the eve of the Russian runoff election, President Trump tweeted: “Good luck, President Putin! Everyone in America except Loser One and Loser Too hopes you will crush Upchuckin’ Anatoli Zipkin and his fellow Bolshevicks! Vote Putin! Keep Russia Great Again!”

  It set off a predictable storm of howls. Mr. Trump does love to “set the tune.” And people will dance. You’d think they’d know better by now. Really.

  Loser One said that he was “goddamn well sick and tired of being called a Communist.” It showed yet again Mr. Trump’s talent—genius—for throwing the enemy off-balance.

  Katie strapped on armor and mounted the ramparts. As always, she dazzled.

  “Sadly, this just goes to show that Loser One and his Bolshevik running mate want Russia to fall under the hobnailed jackboot of Communist rule again. Gulag? KGB? Suppression of the church? Persecute the Jews? Bring it on! What’s not to like about all that? Really, they should be ashamed of themselves. Meanwhile, patriotic Americans are standing shoulder to shoulder with the president.”

  I wondered if Katie would be spending another night at the Hay-Adams hotel across the street, rather than at home. The Borgia-O’Reilly marriage had been undergoing some pretty serious stress testing lately, between Katie’s centrifuging and Romy serving as counsel to the Democrats during the Senate impeachment trial.

  Then, with a bang like the secret police knocking on the door in the middle of the night, came the announcement that Anatoli Zitkin had won.

  Really?

  37

  Really.

  “What the fuck?” the president demanded in his now customary way of starting our morning meeting.

  It was a reasonable question. Mr. Trump had ordered Admiral Murphy—aka “Dr. Frankenstein”—to shut down Placid Reflux. Now this?

  Admiral Murphy launched into one of his convoluted cyber-yada-yada disquisitions on the “challenge” of shutting down “autonomous AI platforms.” The president wanted to strangle him. He didn’t want to hear this. I didn’t much myself.

  “I told you to use sledgehammers if you had to. Dynamite. Drown it in a fucking bathtub.”

  There were, of course, alternative explanations for Anatoli’s stunning repeat victory. It was—theoretically—possible that a majority of Russians had decided that two decades of Putin rule were enough; or that Anatoli’s pledge to “hang the oligarchs by their Hermès neckties” appealed to Russians who couldn’t even afford ties made in Bulgaria; that Russia’s youth found Anatoli’s podium-pounding, arms-akimbo, grumpy-old-uncle shtick more authentically Russian than Putin’s cool, Cheshire cat affect. It was possible, too, as Patriarch Kirill was saying on Russian TV, that Zitkin’s victory was the work of Satan, who was furious about the wonderful things “dear Vladimir Vladimirovich” (that is, Putin) was doing for the Orthodox Church.

  Admiral Murphy assured the president that his
“A-Team” had shut down Placid. But, he allowed, it was “theoretically possible she’d migrated to other servers.” (Naval persons address ships and—apparently—machines by the feminine.)

  The president’s orange complexion glowed like a food-warming lamp.

  “Migrated?”

  I should have warned Murphy against using the M-word. Too close to “migrant.”

  “Without getting overly technical, sir, her algorithm is modeled on antibiotic-resistant bacteria. So when she detected we were trying to shut her down, she may have migrated to other servers and gone dormant, to evade detection. Then autoactivated and proceeded with her mission.”

  “The mission to start World War III? That mission?”

  Admiral Murphy pointed out that Placid Reflux was designed with one objective only: to counteract and deter foreign interference in our elections.

  “Judged according to that parameter, I’d say she’s been a success,” he said.

  I wondered if inside Admiral Murphy’s cybernoggin he was thinking, If you’d punished Russia for screwing with our election in 2016, we wouldn’t be in this situation. Sir. But people probably don’t get to be admirals by expressing what they really think.

  “How am I gonna explain this to Putin?”

  Admiral Murphy looked surprised.

  “Is it your intention to explain it to Putin, sir?”

  “He already knows about it!”

  Admiral Murphy shook his head.

  “Negative, sir. If they did, we’d know. We’d see their fingerprints. Of course it’s your call, but as of now, there is no objective reason for you to explain anything to them.”

  The president looked baffled. He said to Miriam: “You told me they knew.”

  “Negative again, sir, with all due respect,” Miriam said. “As you’ll recall, I told you that we thought they might be on the verge of detecting. I must say, I’m reassured by what Admiral Murphy has just told us.”

  The president’s brow furrowed.

  He pointed at Miriam, then at Admiral Murphy.