Make Russia Great Again: A Novel Page 5

  “So?”

  Judd looked at me.

  “Herb, the CP just won the election. With a little help from Placid Reflux.”

  “What does that have to—oh my God…” The import of this now dawned on me unpleasantly.

  “How about that?” Judd said in a way I found inappropriately admiring. “Two weeks ago, this guy was just a tired old Bolshevik looking to supplement his income by getting on the CIA tit. Now? Fucker could be in line to be the next prime minister of Russia.”

  “Hold on,” I said. “Aren’t you getting ahead of the curve here? You told me Putin’s going to win the runoff in a landslide. And send Zitkin and his fellow Reds to the Gulag. How is it this ‘tired old Bolshevik,’ as you call him, stands to become prime minister?”

  Judd nodded and shrugged.

  “Well, theoretically. Amazing synchronicity, wouldn’t you say? We recruit the guy and next thing you know, bingo, he’s a contendah.”

  “No, Judd. I do not find it ‘amazing synchronicity,’ whatever that means. I find it very, very unfortunate.”

  “Thing is, the asset—his code name’s Huggybear—he’s the problem.”

  “How, specifically?”

  “If they find out he’s on our payroll, how’s that going to look? Given what’s happened.”

  I stared. “Why would they find out?”

  “Mom—Miriam—says the Kremlin’s gone rip shit. Putin’s demanding heads on spikes. They’re doing CAT scans on everyone in the CP leadership trying to find out how they pulled this off.”

  “CAT scans? Why are they performing medical tests on them?”

  “It’s a figure of speech, Herb. Should I put it more plainly?”

  “Please do.”

  “The Kremlin is intensely scrutinizing everyone in the Communist Party. Top to bottom, three sixty degrees. Huggybear is the number-two or -three guy in the CP politburo. So—if you’ll allow me just one more medical metaphor—they’re probably doing a colonoscopy on him. So it’s therefore not beyond the realm of possibility that they might find out he’s on our payroll. The optics of that,I alongside the fact that the CP won, are less than wonderful.”

  To use a medical metaphor, I felt like throwing up. The optics were indeed less than wonderful.

  Judd continued: “Miriam thought it would be best not to share news of the CIA’s recruitment of Huggybear with the president. For the time being. She felt it might make him a little anxious.”

  “The president is already anxious, Judd. I’ve never seen him this anxious. Even when they released his tax returns.”

  “Yeah, he’s definitely nonphlegmatic. Miriam thinks it’s best not to tell him about Placid Reflux. Or more technically, to remind him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He was briefed on it right after taking office. He never read the briefing paper. He doesn’t read.”

  “Hold on. Did you just say Miriam knows about the cyberattack?”

  “Of course she knows, Herb. She’s the DNI.”

  “Yes, I suppose. But my God, Judd. Who else knows?”

  “Not Putin. Which is what matters most. Meanwhile, we’re not going to tell the president about Huggybear. We’re going to keep calm and carry on, like the English poster says. Pretend nothing happened. Let Mr. Putin arrange for his landslide in the runoff. Russia will resume being great again. The dogs bark, the caravan moves on.”

  Looking back on that morning, I recognize that this was my “Rubicon Moment,” as they said in ancient Rome. Many times since, I’ve asked myself: should I have marched into the Oval Office and told Mr. Trump everything and thrown myself on his mercy?

  Before I answer my own question, a few points:

  1 Mercy is not really Mr. Trump’s thing. Nor is forgiveness. He demanded perfection. And why shouldn’t he? It was this very quality that made him a giant in the hospitality world.

  2 The “I’m only the messenger here” defense doesn’t work with Mr. Trump. In Trump World, the messenger was generally the first to die. Over the years, I’d had seen many a messenger hurled into the alligator-filled moat at Farrago-sur-Mer.

  3 As result of the relentless attacks on him by the enemies of the people—the Democrat witch-hunter-impeachers, the “Never Trumpers,” the college-educated portion of the electorate, the migrant huggers, Kurd lovers, the whole Trump-detesting kit and caboodle—the poor president was by this point just plain worn out. Why trouble him with this? Putin was going to win. The caravan would move on. His presidency had been a nonstop conveyor belt of unpleasantness: the chorus line of tramps clamoring for hush money; the devastating release of the tax returns; the Senate trial; the rumors about Vice President Pants trying to get the cabinet members to invoke the Twenty-Fifth Amendment; all of it.

  Mr. Trump’s mental state was—I don’t want to say “precarious”—fragile. (This is not to say I agreed with Romy that he was “a head case.”) But for me to go into the Oval (as we call the Oval Office) and say, “Oh, by the way, sir, seems one of our computers hacked the Russian election. And did I mention that the CIA put the number-two Commie on our payroll? Whaddya think Mr. Putin will make of them apples? Ready for your second Double Whopper with Bacon?”

  It might just put Mr. Trump over the edge. Call me squeamish, but it is my firm belief that one should think twice before inducing a nervous breakdown in someone with a finger on the nuclear button.

  Finally,

  4 By now I had come to the regretful conclusion that Mr. Putin probably did, in fact, “have something” on Mr. Trump.

  Why did I come to this conclusion? Call it intuition. Call it what you will. But as I assembled the various pieces of the jigsaw puzzle, it began to make sense: the heroic (if that’s quite the right word) lengths Mr. Trump had gone to in order to keep Putin happy; calling his own intelligence people bozos for saying Russia interfered in 2016; holding up military assistance to Ukraine; pooh-poohing the fact that Mr. Putin routinely murdered journalists and dissidents, often very unpleasantly; and generally never missing an opportunity to say something positive about “my beautiful friend Vladimir.”

  But there would be no keeping beautiful Vladimir happy if he learned about Placid Reflux.

  For his many virtues, Mr. Trump was not always “tidy” when it came to keeping a lid on classified matters. He was constantly doing things like telling the Russian ambassador about some Israeli intelligence operation, thus blowing some very hush-hush operation years in the works. At dinner, he’d regale people with the positions of our nuclear subs. I could easily imagine this Placid Reflux thing spiraling out of control. Wars have started over less.

  So, no, Herbert K. Nutterman did not march into the Oval Office and inform the president that his own government was keeping him in the dark.

  That said, how many times did Herbert K. Nutterman look himself in the mirror and ask, “Herb, are you sure you’re doing the right thing?”

  Answer: a number of times. But each time, the mirror replied, “Well, Herb, I guess it all depends on your definition of ‘right,’ doesn’t it?”

  How could I argue with that?

  Yes, I “get” that a federal judge and jury arrived at a definition of “wrong” (after what seemed to me a rather brisk deliberation). As a result of which Herbert K. Nutterman—or as he is currently known, #107-3374-34-8II—is writing this in the library at FCI Wingdale, between napkin-folding classes in the vocational center.

  And I’m okay with that. Because at the end of the day I can look into that mirror and say, “It didn’t end in nuclear war.”

  How many White House chiefs of staff can say the same? Well, all of them, I grant, but I’m making a larger point here.

  A few days later Judd came to see me. He had a “get a load of this” look that reminded me of the bemused—or sometimes revolted—expressions on the faces of the housekeeping staff when they found certain items that guests left behind in the room. Items used by consenting adults for… well, you get the picture. In one i
nstance, the item was quite expensive. Our diligent head of housekeeping looked it up on the Internet and reported that it cost over two thousand dollars. The guest was a valued repeat customer. I had to make the decision: do we send it to her with a note, “Dear Mrs. So-and-So, Enclosed please find your Shiri Zinn Double-Ended Limited Edition Glass Dildo, valued at $2,095. We very much hope you enjoyed your stay with us, and we look forward to your next”? The hospitality business can be a minefield.

  He handed me a folder marked “Eyes Only.”

  “What’s this?”

  “Transcript of an intercept of a phone call between Comrade Zitkin and Mrs. Comrade Zitkin. The morning after he won the election.”

  I looked at him.

  “Judd, is this… kosher?”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m asking if this is… what’s the word Miriam is always using…”

  “Actionable.”

  “Or just prurient? If it’s the latter, I’m not going to read it, and shame on you for suggesting I do.”

  “It’s an intimate, nonprurient conversation between a potential future prime minister of the Russian government and his wife. I’d say it qualifies as legitimately of interest.”

  I frowned and read:

  OKSANA ZITKIN: I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.

  ANATOLI ZITKIN: It’s been a bit busy here. I was about to call you. Can you believe—”

  O. Z.: What have you done? Are you trying to ruin us?

  A. Z.: But haven’t you seen the news? I won! That is, the people won.

  O. Z.: The devil take the people! Yes I have seen the news! And it’s making me sick! I’m having hot flashes, and it’s not menopause, I’ll tell you.

  A. Z.: Why do you say this, Little Mink?

  O. Z.: Don’t call me that! You stole the election!

  A. Z.: But why do you say that? It’s not true.

  O. Z.: Of course you stole it! You were so far behind Putin in the polls you couldn’t see the rear fender of his limousine with a telescope. So, please, tell me how is it that you won?

  A. Z.: Well, truthfully, we’re not altogether sure. But—

  O. Z.: You listen to me, Anatoli Ivanovich. Something is very wrong here. And it’s not going to be pleasant for any of us when the truth gets out. Shame on you! [Negodyay!]

  [HANGS UP.]

  UNIDENTIFIED VOICE: Was that Oksana, Comrade?

  A. Z.: Yes.

  U. V.: She must be beside herself, eh?

  A. Z.: You could put it that way.

  I handed it back to Judd.

  “Thanks,” I said. “There’s nothing actionable in it. You’ve made me feel like a Peeping Tom.”

  It also made me feel guilty. I hardly knew this Anatoli Zitkin person, and I’m no fan of Communism, but the poor man was getting pummeled by his wife—who sounded like a real handful—and accused of something he didn’t do. It was all well and fine for Placid Reflux to punish Russia for election interfering, but the only one taking a beating was Comrade Zitkin. I felt bad. I wanted to pick up the phone and call Mrs. Zitkin and tell her to lay off Anatoli. But it was a bit late in the game for that. Well, Mr. Putin would win the runoff election and things would settle down.

  I. Optometry, again. Why?

  II. I sometimes tell visitors, “We’re informal here. Call me 107,” but it rarely gets a laugh.

  7

  In an attempt to keep calm and carry on, I kept a calendar in my desk with the date of the Russian runoff election marked in red. At the end of every day, I drew an X through it, relieved that we were one day closer to Mr. Putin’s triumph over the neo-Bolsheviks and Placid Reflux.

  The White House medical office supplied me with anxiety-reducing beta-blockers. I didn’t tell them the cause of my anxiety, and they didn’t press. I inferred that I was not the first White House chief of staff to seek pharmaceutical assistance for stress reduction.

  It didn’t help my stress level when the president summoned me the day after Judd dropped his “We have a problem” stink bomb on my lap.

  “Our old friend Oleg is reaching out,” he said.

  This unhappy news blew through the beta-blockers like Mexicans swarming the border wall.

  “You spoke to Oleg, sir?”

  “Herb, do I look like an idiot?”

  “Never, sir. But how is it you’re aware that Oleg is reaching out?”

  “Paul told me.”

  Another swarm of migrants charged the wall, shoving aside beta-blockers.

  “You spoke to Paul? Oh, sir.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Sir, your former campaign manager is serving a seven-year sentence in federal prison. Greta or Katie is better suited than I am to judge the optics of a phone call between the president of the United States and a convicted felon. But—”

  “Trump does not abandon his friends. You should know that. I’m disappointed in you, Herb. Very disappointed.”

  “I apologize, sir.”

  “Point is, we need to make Oleg happy again. So you need to do that.”

  This was a broad remit, to say the least.

  “I’ll do whatever I can, sir, but—”

  “Just do it.” The president shook his head. “This fucking job. All I do is make people happy.”

  “You are a river to your people, sir.”

  “You know what would be nice?”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “If every now and then someone wanted to make me happy.” The president mimed: “So what can I do for you? And you? What about you? What do you need? Sure. Fine. You want fries with that? It never stops. I never should have run for president. What were we talking about?”

  “Oleg.”

  “Right. Make him happy. But keep him away from me.”

  Keeping Oleg physically away was not a problem, inasmuch as he’d be arrested if he tried to enter the United States. The Glebnikov Act, named for the deceased Moscow bureau chief of a Washington newspaper, had frozen Oleg’s US assets and barred him from entering the United States.

  The billionaire publisher of the Washington Examinator had declared war on Oleg for (allegedly) murdering his Moscow bureau chief, Peter Glebnikov, after he published a highly unflattering five-part series on Oleg. The US Congress, always eager to please a media baron, swiftly passed the bill. President Obama signed it into law.I

  It didn’t take much wondering as to what would Make Oleg Happy Again. I could see him now, his meaty Slavic face, grinning at me beneath a red sable fur hat embossed in glittering gold letters: MOHA.

  * * *

  Mr. Trump and I first met Oleg Pishinsky in Moscow in 2013. He was then ranked number seventeen on Forbes magazine’s annual “Deplorable Billionaires” list; and number four in the “Deplorable Russian Oligarchs” subcategory.

  Oleg had had come a long way from his days as a garage mechanic in St. Petersburg. There he had befriended the young KGB lieutenant Vladimir Putin. Oleg’s subsequent rise from that modest station to chairman, CEO, and majority stockholder of GluboNasti Industries is a case studied both at the Harvard Business School and at Interpol.

  Say what you will about Oleg—and a great deal has been said: he had charisma by the bucketful, and magnetism by however you measure magnetism. Big chested, red haired—he was especially proud of his “Why-kink” (Viking) heritage—hearty, grinning, teeth like keys on a grand piano, Oleg was in ways a Russian version of Mr. Trump. Both had presence—and then some. Charismatic people turn heads when they enter a room. Hypercharismatics like Mr. Trump and Oleg make the chandeliers rattle. (I intend no reference to their weight.)

  I vividly recall our first glimpse of him as he welcomed us aboard his 376-foot megayacht in the Crimean harbor of Sochi, which Mr. Putin had not yet annexed. He stood there at the top of the gangway, arms outstretched like a proverbial Russian bear, beaming, “Doh-nald! Wel-come to my hamble boat!”

  Welcome Mr. Trump and I indeed felt. The opulence of Oleg’s “humble” boat was
blinding. Literally. I had to put on sunglasses in some of the rooms to counter the bling glare. The yacht’s decor was of the “Gold, more gold!” type that appeals to Mr. Trump. Oleg was clearly proud of it, and Mr. Trump was duly impressed. He whispered to me, “We need one of these. Remind me to buy one when we get back to New York.”

  Oleg had named it Maria Ivanovna, in honor of Mr. Putin’s mother. Apparently, no fewer than fourteen oligarchs also named their megayachts after her. When they all anchored off Sochi during the summer Olympics, they made the Russian naval fleet look shabby. Awkward. President Putin put word out among the oligarchiate please to stop honoring his dear mama.

  Oleg’s other “ownings”—as he called them in his imperfect but endearing English—included a considerable tract of the Amazon rain forest, currently being “repurposed.” The Financial Times estimated his share of London real estate market at between 3 and 6 percent. Following our visit in 2013, he purchased a triplex in the Trump Tower in New York, a gesture that greatly touched Mr. Trump, especially when he insisted on paying one-third over the asking price. (There is no better way to impress Mr. Trump than overpaying.)

  Many of Oleg’s “second homes”—as he jocularly called them—shared an amusing theme: they’d all belonged to dictators. Mr. Trump was very impressed.

  The villa in Cap d’Antibes had belonged to “Baby Doc” Duvalier, former ruler of Haiti. The palazzo in Umbria had been the summer residence of Benito Mussolini. Mr. Trump wanted to know if it was where “they strung him upside down with whatshername,”II and was disappointed to hear nyet. At Oleg’s hunting lodge in Argentina, Presidente Juan Perón had once annihilated flights of duck and other avians of game persuasion.

  “That’s great,” Mr. Trump remarked. “I’m not into hunting. But it’s great.”

  Oleg beamed. His principal lady friend—there were a number of highly attractive lady friends aboard—remarked, “Oleg have thing for palatzos what are belongink to strong mans.”

  Mr. Trump nodded, again impressed.

  Oleg and Mr. Putin were close friends. When the Russian media made a big thing over what it called Putin’s “billion-dollar palace on the Black Sea”—the Kremlin preferred the term “modest seaside cabin”—Oleg stepped up to the plate and bought it outright. Then generously leased it back to the state for a hundred rubles per year.III