Make Russia Great Again: A Novel Read online

  “Miriam!”

  Silence.

  “Sorry. But God, that felt good. Okay, let me see if I can come up with something. I’ll get back to you. Meanwhile try to stall him, eager as he is to dazzle the world yet again with his stable genius.”

  I hung up, reeling, and mulled. Her idea of using Mr. Colonnity and Mr. Fartmartin as Trump-whisperers might not be entirely far-fetched. I unmuted Fox.

  Katie was standing outside the West Wing, a dozen boom mics aimed at her like jousting lances.

  “I think it’s very obvious why Mr. Putin canceled his trip. The left-wing, Communist-sympathizing Democrats have created an atmosphere of such hostility that Mr. Putin was probably concerned for his physical safety. And why shouldn’t he be, with all the terrible things the Democrats and their vile henchpeople are saying about him? If World War III starts because the US and Russia aren’t communicating? Blame them. They should be ashamed. They should apologize.”

  Katie always made me feel better. But this was no time for complacency. On to Armageddon.

  41

  Getting Mr. Trump to delay the rollout of 3P was tricky. There was a risk of backfire. He was always conceiving a brilliant idea no one else would have come up with, then forgetting it. A natural consequence of his superior intellect.

  So I didn’t mention it the next day, and I swamped him with stuff I normally wouldn’t bother him with, to distract him. It seemed to work. As of late afternoon, no mention of 3P.

  But few are the days in the life of a White House chief of staff that are jolt-free. Sure enough, Caramella buzzed to say a Mr. Pishinsky was on the line.

  That he’d called me on a nonsecure landline—at the White House, for God’s sake—did not portend well.

  “Oleg,” I said, “good of you to call. Why don’t I ring you back on a more private line?”

  “No, Errbert. What I have to say is for everyone to know.”

  That didn’t sound good.

  “So, my friend,” he said in a hearty, oligarchy way, “how is coming repeal?”

  “There’s been progress,” I said.

  “Ah? Tell.”

  “The person with whom I am efforting that…” I didn’t want to say Senator Biskitt’s name on this open line.

  “Biskitt,” he said. “Squiggy.”

  So much for discretion.

  “… tells me he’s making headway with his, er, military contacts. He’s got them focused on molybdenum in a way I don’t think they’ve ever been before. I think we can expect some good news on that front.”

  “Errbert. Enough with bullshit.”

  In desperation, it crossed my mind to poach a third of 3P and dangle the prospect of fifty billion bucks of molybdenum sales. What we monsignors call a Hail Mary pass. Still.

  “Oleg,” I said, “you’ve got to believe me when I say I’m doing my best.”

  “Yes, Errbert. Sure. But still no repeal. Still Oleg’s money is freezing in American banks. Still Oleg can only wisit countries he don’t want to wisit. So now Oleg is thinking, ‘Fuck this bullshit.’ ”

  That definitely didn’t sound good.

  “Election is when, Nowember 3? Okay. So, October surprise rewelation must be in October. So… Am looking at calendar. You have calendar, Errbert? October 31. What is Halloween?”

  “A holiday.”

  “Okay. On Halloween, October 31, everyone get to hear on Facebook Donald asking Oleg to take care of naughty girls.”

  “Oleg—”

  “Good-bye, Errbert. Tell Squiggy also fuck himself.”

  I called Miriam.

  She listened to my latest report from the Valley of the Shadow of Oleg.

  “Regular rodeo you’re running there, Herb. Putin on line one, Oleg on line two. Though Putin isn’t actually on line one because he’s not taking the president’s calls.”

  I found Miriam’s unflappability flippant under the circumstances, and told her so.

  “Okay,” she said wearily, as if I’d asked her to go back to the supermarket and get the right kind of milk. “I’ll add it to my to-do list. After ‘kill self.’ ”

  I was furious. Here I’d just informed the director of national intelligence that the president of the United States had been threatened, and she’d more or less yawned. I was beginning to think maybe the president was right. For this we pay $54 billion a year?

  I took a deep breath and marched down the hall to the Oval. I did not tell Mr. Trump about my phone call with Miriam, in part because I was still fond of Miriam, despite her pouty teenage girl attitude; in part because she might yet get off her DNI behind and do something.

  I did tell him about Oleg’s October surprise.

  “Fuck Oleg,” he said. “We’ll say it’s a fake recording.”

  I did not find this greatly comforting, but there it was.

  The future passed in front of me. I saw President- and Vice President–elect Losers One and Too standing onstage, confetti and balloons raining down on them. The band playing “Happy Days Are Here Again.” Loser One pledging to restore decency to the White House. Yay, decency. Loser Too prattling on about shattering the glass ceiling. Yay, shattering. What I did not see was Mr. Trump on a stage, conceding. No. I saw tanks clanking up to the White House. Heard a military voice on a megaphone: “President Trump! Sir, you have been defeated in a legitimate election. You must vacate the White House, or I will have no choice but to…”

  Oh dear.

  42

  It was the morning of the day of the final presidential debate. The president was shortly due to leave the White House for Phoenix. I’d asked Stefan several times to show me Mr. Trump’s opening and closing statements. He had not. That was a bit unusual. Stefan’s Teutonic temperament had its downside; the upside was that he followed orders. (Like certain other people did back in the thirties and forties.)

  This time, instead of asking, I put a bit of steel into in my voice and insisted that he bring them to me. I heard a click of heels on the other end. Presently Stefan arrived in my office.

  I read and winced.

  I’d been living in a fool’s paradise, convinced that the president had forgotten about 3P. Here it was, under the heading “Second-Term Agenda.”

  Mr. Trump, a natural speaker, did not read fully drafted texts in debates. He preferred notes. Broad brushstrokes.

  —MASSIVE OVERHAUL OF SO-CALLED INTELLIGENCE COMMUNITY!

  —HUGE SAVINGS—OVER $50 BILLION!

  —USE THAT WHERE IT’S NEEDED! WALL!

  The next bit, Stefan had wisely rendered phonetically:

  —MO-LIB-DEN-UM BEST FOR WALL BUILDING! 100% MEXICAN-RESISTANT! WILL NEED MASSIVE AMOUNTS! PURCHASE WITH SAVINGS FROM SCRAPPING USELESS INTELLIGENCE AGENCIES!

  It appeared Mr. Trump had modified his “Fuck Oleg” attitude.

  Stefan hovered nervously, as speechwriters do, fearful that the tone-deaf philistine reviewing their pristine prose will start fiddling with it.

  “What do you think?” Stefan asked. Speechwriters pretend to care what we philistines think, in order to soften us up. I did not rise to the bait.

  “The president loves it,” he said before I could comment. “It’s bold. It’s so him.” This was Stefan code for: It really doesn’t matter what you think, Herr Obergruppenführer.

  “Our intelligence services will certainly find it bold,” I said.

  The notes for the closing statement consisted of:

  —“CLIMATE CHANGE”—TOTAL CRAP! AMERICAN JOBS MORE IMPORTANT THAN AUSTRALIAN KOALA BEARS!

  —NO PRESIDENT IN HISTORY HAS ACCOMPLISHED AS MUCH AS I HAVE!

  —LOSER ONE WAY TOO OLD TO LEAD AMERICA. [[OPTIONAL: CLEARLY SUFFERING FROM DEMENTIA. SAD!]]

  —LOSER TOO ALSO MAKES NO SENSE. SHE SHOULD STOP BANGING HER HEAD AGAINST THE GLASS CEILING AND PREVENT FURTHER BRAIN DAMAGE!

  —SECOND TERM WILL MAKE AMERICA SO GREAT IT WILL HURT!

  —ONLY I CAN DO IT!

  —THEN IT WILL BE DON JR. AND IVUNKA’S TURN!


  —HOW GREAT IS THAT, FOLKS? [[ANSWER: SO GREAT!]]

  “Sorry I won’t be there to hear it,” I said, handing it back.

  “Not coming?” he said, feigning disappointment. Speechwriters prefer chiefs of staff not to be present so they can’t make last-minute text changes.

  “Alas,” I said. “Someone has to hold down the old fort.”

  Stefan departed, happy. I buzzed Caramella.

  “Get me Oleg Pishinsky,” I said.

  Today was October 30, the day before his threatened Halloween surprise. I was confident that the prospect of $50-odd billion in molybdenum sales would mollify him. It wasn’t repeal, but with that kind of dough the president was right. Oleg could buy every member of Congress and have enough left over to build himself a megayacht the size of an aircraft carrier. For that matter, he could build an aircraft carrier.

  Caramella buzzed me back. “His office said he’s cruising on his boat on the Black Sea.”

  “They have phones on yachts, for heaven’s sake.”

  “His secretary said they’ve been having a hard time reaching it. Might be a satellite connection problem. They’ll keep trying.”

  “Well, keep at it. It’s important.”

  Miriam called.

  “There’s been a development,” she said. “Meet me in the Sit Room in half an hour. Bring the president.”

  “He’s leaving for Phoenix.”

  “Herb, he’ll want to see this. Trust me.”

  Half an hour later I arrived in the Situation Room with a grumpy President Trump in tow. He did not like to be told to do things. He scowled at Miriam.

  “This better be good,” he said.

  Miriam had brought an aide. She nodded to him. An image came up on one of the screens. It looked like a satellite feed. She told the aide to zoom in on what appeared to be a boat. She circled it with a red laser pointer.

  “This was taken two hours ago. The body of water is the Black Sea, about thirty miles south of the Crimean coast. This city here”—she circled with the pointer—“that’s Sochi. The yacht,” she circled, “is the Maria Ivanovna. Oleg Pishinsky’s yacht.”

  The president perked. He murmured to me, “I’ve got a little present for Oleg tonight.”

  I didn’t let on. Meanwhile, what was all this?

  Miriam said something technical to the aide. The screen changed color slightly, revealing a blurry image of what looked like another boat, at a distance from Oleg’s. Miriam circled it with the pointer.

  “That’s a Russian navy submarine. Akula class. Akula is the Russian word for shark.”

  “Jaws,” the president remarked. “Great movie.”

  Two small, fainter shapes appeared in front of the submarine, moving toward Oleg’s yacht.

  “What are those?” the president said.

  “Torpedoes.”

  “What?” Mr. Trump said.

  “Type?” Miriam said to the aide.

  “Sixty-five,” he said. “Each warhead contains 420 kilos of high explosive.”

  I was experiencing a range of emotions, all of which could be boiled down to holy shit.

  The torpedoes altered course.

  “Target acquired,” the aide said.

  “Speed?” Miriam asked.

  “Up to fifty knots, depending on water temp.”

  The image of Oleg’s yacht suddenly blurred.

  “Target destroyed.”

  “Jesus Christ,” the president said.

  “What’s the depth there?” Miriam asked.

  “Seventeen hundred meters.”

  “Can we have the room?” Miriam said. The aide left.

  “What the fuck was that?” the president asked.

  “Pending confirmation, it would appear that President Putin ordered his navy to sink Mr. Pishinsky’s yacht.”

  “With him on it?”

  I almost said, “Yes. I just tried to reach him and they…”

  “I can’t come up with a plausible scenario in which he’d sink the boat without Oleg aboard,” Miriam said. She added, “It is theoretically possible he’d do that, as some kind of object lesson. But that probability I’d assess on a very low order.”

  “I wanna watch it again,” the president said. I’ve never seen Mr. Trump look so pleased.

  We were halfway through the third showing when an aide arrived to say that Marine One was on the south lawn to take him to Joint Base Andrews.

  “I want a tape of that,” Mr. Trump said to Miriam.

  She and I were left alone in the Sit Room.

  “What just happened?” I asked.

  “I’d say Putin decided to keep Russia great by keeping the president in office. Four more years.”

  I may have technically been in some kind of state of shock. I was having a hard time organizing my thoughts into coherent speech. Miriam spoke in a Q and A format.

  “Did Putin know that Oleg called you to say he was going to release the tape on Halloween? Yes. How did he know this? Because Oleg’s phones are tapped.

  “Why would Putin do this to an old pal? To prevent Oleg from releasing a tape that could cause the president to lose the election.

  “Why would Putin protect the president? Especially if he thought Trump had messed with his election?

  “Two possible explanations. One, he concluded that the hack on his election was a rogue op by US intelligence agencies—the vaunted ‘deep state’—who were fed up with being denigrated and insulted. In that scenario, the deep state decided to retaliate on its own, without presidential authorization. And to leave a calling card. So as to piss off Putin enough to go public with whatever he has on the president.

  “Explanation number two. Despite knowing that the US had fucked with him, Putin took a deep breath, sucked it up, and decided to forgo the pleasure of publicly humiliating Trump. Why? Because it’s in Russia’s interest to keep him in office. Four more years of making America great again.”

  She let that sink in.

  I said in a Stepford Wife tone, “The second term is going to make America so great it will hurt.”

  Miriam stared.

  “You should use that. See you round, Herb.”

  She left me alone in the Sit Room. As I said, I don’t find it a pleasant place. Really, it gives me the willies.

  * * *

  Hetta and I watched the debate that night. It would be more accurate to say that I watched the debate. Hetta didn’t even last through the moderator’s opening spiel about the rules. She went off to the kitchen and made clattering noises for the next ninety minutes.

  Mr. Trump’s opening statement had been whittled down. 2P was the new 3P. The money saved by overhauling the intelligence community would go to the wall, but molybdenum was no longer required. Apparently, titanium was sufficiently Mexican-resistant.

  The headline in the Washington Post the next day:

  PUTIN ASSOCIATE DEAD IN YACHT EXPLOSION:OLEG PISHINSKY, SANCTIONED BY US CONGRESS, HAD BEEN IMPLICATED IN DEATH OF JOURNALIST

  My “shout-out”—and Senator Biskitt’s—came four paragraphs into the story.

  White House Chief of Staff Herbert Nutterman and South Carolina US Sen. Squigg Lee Biskitt have been actively working to repeal the Glebnikov Act on grounds of national security. But a Pentagon source asked skeptically, “Who knew there was a Molybdenum Gap?”

  Caramella buzzed, with words that have caused many a White House staffer’s bowels to shrivel.

  “It’s Bob Woodward, from the Post.”

  43

  Miriam resigned as director of national intelligence before Mr. Trump initiated his postelection overhaul of—as he continued to put it—“the so-called intelligence community.”

  I was sorry to see her go. Paradoxical as it may sound, I felt the country was less safe than it had been in her hands. Admiral Murphy also wisely abandoned ship, before Mr. Trump could sink it from under him. The chilling image of those torpedoes whirring toward Oleg still makes me shudder.

  Miri
am and Murphy teamed up, as many former intelligence persons do, to start a consulting firm. I gather it’s been very successful. Their client list is impressive. I sometimes speculate—to amuse myself during napkin-folding classes here at FCI Wingdale—how many of their clients got to be president or prime minister or grand mufti or whatever thanks to Deep State Strategic Solutions, LLC.

  Intelligence folks weren’t the only ones to “get the chop” during the “night of the long knives.” Mr. Trump doesn’t like to fire people face-to-face—odd, considering he rose to fame shouting, “You’re fired!” That pleasant task fell to Chief of Staff Herb Nutterman. For a time, anyway.

  My workload was somewhat alleviated by virtue of Mr. Trump’s predilection for firing by tweet; and by having Mr. Colonnity announce some sackings. Judd got his chop soon after the election. I remember him telling me once that working in the Trump White House was “like the Kremlin under Stalin—you’re always waiting for that knock on your door in the middle of the night.” Putting it a bit strongly. Still.

  Mr. Trump liked to fire people when they were distant from Washington, as he did with FBI director Comey, who found himself on the West Coast, suddenly without a car or plane.

  Mike Pompeo learned of his abrupt “emeritus” status in Tajikistan. That must have been a jolt. He had to wait three days before a seat opened up on Air Tajik. I wonder if he whiled away the time watching his successor, Cricket Singh, on CNN, outlining her vision of US foreign policy. I’ve not personally read Mike’s memoir, Why the World Hates America, and Why I Hate Donald Trump. The reviews made it sound a bit bitter.

  Someone else was not happy about State Department developments, or in his case, nondevelopments: Sally Neuderscreech.

  Sally was on the phone to me within, oh, it can’t have been more than thirty minutes after the news broke about Cricket’s appointment. Boy, was he hot. I thought his language somewhat inappropriate for a spouse of the US ambassador to the Holy See. And him a Catholic convert. I’m no theologian—or even Christian—but my sense is that Jesus Christ, who by all accounts was a very decent guy, would not approve of calling someone a “Jew bastard cocksucker” just because he didn’t get to be secretary of state. Shame on you, Salamander Neuderscreech. Excuse me: former Speaker Salamander Neuderscreech.