Debt Bomb

by Michael Ginsberg

  Andrea wanted to say yes. A far cry from how she felt after she lost the nomination for Congress, when all she wanted was for politics to disappear from her life.

  “Come on Andrea, join the campaign. You’ve got the financial brains. I’ve got the political brawn. Let’s save America lots of money.”

  “Ah, you’re a Pet Shop Boys fan.” Andrea smiled and nodded knowingly. “Maybe I misjudged you.”

  “Keep it quiet. They’re British. Can’t have the Gang find out I like their music.”

  Andrea laughed. She was warming up to Murray. The guy had a sense of humor and good taste in music. But she couldn’t overcome the raw hurt of losing the congressional nomination and her fear of losing the stability her accounting practice provided.

  “Mr. Murray, thank you for the offer,” she said. “I truly appreciate it. But I think I belong in the accounting world.”

  Murray glanced at the half-dying plant in the corner. “Tell you what, Andrea. How about a compromise? Why don’t you just work on some budget plans on your own and send them to me? I’ll need those in case I win. And you’re an accountant, after all.”

  “I’m only an accountant, Mr. Murray,” she replied. “And I need to keep my practice running. We need the money. I can’t go traipsing off on the campaign trail.”

  “No problem,” said Murray. “You can write the budget plans from this office, or at home, or wherever. But there is one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Suburban moms,” Murray said. “If I want to win, I need them. And you’ve rallied them. And I need their votes. Cut some videos supporting me. Make my campaign SO MAD’s cause.”

  Andrea was intrigued. She could continue to publicize the debt issue, stay at home, and work with someone who might just do something about the debt.

  She instinctively glanced at her husband, who was waiting behind the receptionist desk with a bottle of water, captivated by the conversation before him. He silently nodded yes.

  Andrea turned to the congressman. “Okay, Mr. Murray.”

  Murray smiled and shook her hand. “That’s wonderful. You won’t regret this. My staff will be in touch.” He and his staffers began to make their way out of the office. As he was walking through the door, he tripped on a carpet seam.

  “I’m so sorry, Congressman.” Andrea’s face flushed with embarrassment. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. No worries. Just so you know, they don’t have carpet seams like this in the White House,” said Murray with a wink.

  Andrea saw Murray out the door. He seemed different to her. He was a politician who saw something more in her than manual labor for knocking on doors and stamping envelopes. How could she say no to him?

  “The guy’s pretty good, Andrea,” Ryan said.

  “He wants me to be his campaign budget policy person.”

  “Isn’t that your dream job?”

  “Once upon a time. Now it’s a pay cut and angry mobs if I start slashing the budget.”

  “Don’t chicken out. Do it.”

  “Really? What happened to ‘you’re not meant to be in politics’?”

  “Well, obviously Congressman Murray disagrees. And he knows more about politics than I do. Now you’ll be able to vent about the debt all you want to people who might do something about it. And I might be able to watch television in peace.”

  Ryan had a point. Venting her spleen at the politicians doing nothing about the national debt wasn’t solving anything. Going to work for Murray at least would give her a chance to present her debt-cutting message to Americans.

  She tried to shift into her clinical, analytical accounting mindset, creating a pro and con ledger in her mind. If Murray lost, at least she would have gotten someone to talk to the country about the seriousness of the national debt. And if he won, who knew? Maybe she really could prevent the coming debt crisis and protect her children from the unfathomable debt being piled on their shoulders.

  But if he lost, she’d have to restart her accounting practice. Again. Would her clients really come back to her after she closed up shop for two different campaigns? And what about her family? Presidential campaigns were frenzied affairs, the province of twenty-somethings pulling all-nighters hopped up on Red Bull. She had a husband and kids. And how are Americans going to react when Murray and I start pushing to cut Social Security? It would make the Debt Rebel Gang’s rejection seem like a walk in the park.

  She simply could not escape how the Debt Rebel Gang had chewed her up and spat her out. Her debt-reduction politics had just gotten her rejected by her party. She didn’t think she could handle being rejected again. Maybe Ryan thought she was chickening out. Easy for him to say. The Debt Rebel Gang hadn’t humiliated him. She’d reached her compromise with Murray, and she was going to stand by it.

  Acorn was waiting in line for dinner in the cafeteria of the Longworth building when the TAG Heuer watch began vibrating on his wrist.

  For the five months since the Express newspaperman had dropped the watch in his pocket, it had done nothing but tell Acorn the time of day. Now the Ministry was breaking its silence.

  Acorn got out of the line and went to a quiet corner of the cafeteria’s seating area. He glanced around and made certain he was alone. Hunching his shoulders to hide his wrist, he pushed the small button on the side of the watch that would have started the stopwatch’s sweep. But this was no ordinary watch. A window opened on the dial face to reveal a small digital screen. Across the screen ran the same three words.

  Enter the temple . . . enter the temple . . . enter the temple . . .

  It was the same phrase written on the back of his fake American Express card. He briskly walked out of the cafeteria and headed for the parking lot, avoiding eye contact to prevent being stopped by anyone who might want to chat. He jumped straight into his car and drove four hours west, deep into western Virginia, toward a favorite location, the Homestead resort, picking up a cheeseburger for dinner at a little drive-thru in Staunton. He might have hated rich peoples’ playpens like the Homestead, but his trips there were always on the taxpayers’ or donors’ dime. A luxurious trip that depleted the pockets of the capitalist donor class was a win-win in Acorn’s book.

  But today Acorn stopped at an abandoned drive-in theater twenty miles east of the Homestead. He’d driven past it every time he’d traveled to the resort, but this was the first time he’d gotten out and gone into the woods just behind the rotting wood frame of what once was the screen.

  It was dark by the time Acorn arrived. He pulled out a flashlight and scanned the darkened woods. Fallen leaves and branches rustled under his feet as he crept into the forest. He carried the bag with his cheeseburger dinner in one hand. He could swear animals were watching him.

  Then he saw it: a small dome of earth about two hundred yards into the woods with an earthen door and a small blue sign that read “Utility Entry Port.” It was obviously the work of some smart-ass Harvard grad. Only the Harvard daily paper, the Crimson, was politically correct enough to call a manhole a “utility entry port.”

  Opening the door and climbing down some stairs, Acorn entered a small chamber. It was no natural formation. The walls were unnaturally sharp and jagged, clearly carved by someone, and were beige-brown, the color of the natural rock of the area. They glistened with condensation, giving the cave a dank, damp feel. Small drops of water dripped from some of the pointy edges of the walls where the condensation would bead up and drip onto the floor.

  Inside was a modest flat-screen television, about seventy inches wide. The engineers had taken care to insulate the wires to protect against electric shorts caused by the condensation. His minders must have been here recently. He’d been working with them for longer than flat screens had been around.

  Acorn had arrived early. His minders expected timeliness. He opened the bag and began eating the cheeseburger.

  At 10:01, the appointed hour, he pushed a red button on a panel to the right of the television.
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  A small Chinese woman appeared on the screen in a room as drab and unexpressive as she was. She was standing in front of a plain black metal desk. There were no family photographs on the desk and no artwork on the gray cinderblock walls. The place looked like a prison from Communist central casting.

  Acorn had heard of Xu Li, the mythic head of the Chinese Ministry of State Security, known to all its agents as simply “the Ministry.” The one-word name gave the organization and its agents an additional hint of menace, not that it was needed.

  Acorn recalled nights when his father would come home pale white in a daze and go straight to his room without even acknowledging his family. “Your father must have crossed Madame Xu,” his mother would tell Acorn. “One must never cross Madame Xu.” They spoke of Madame Xu in hushed and reverential tones, and only at home. Once, Acorn had mentioned Xu Li in a conversation with his parents in a restaurant and they had taken him home and spanked him so hard his rear end swelled. But he’d never seen Xu Li himself. As a child, Acorn imagined her as a James Bond villain, living underground, traveling to and from the government compound in an underground train with food testers to protect her from poisoning.

  Even after Acorn had reached adulthood and joined the agent ranks, he had never seen or heard from Xu Li. Eventually, he began to think Xu Li was a creation, a myth, a way of terrifying agents into staying in line.

  Acorn’s hands trembled. Could this be Xu Li across from him on the screen? She had such a piercing, cold stare. Her lips were straight, not quite a scowl, yet more sinister. At least a scowl was straightforward, a clear signal of anger. Xu Li’s visage was almost emotionless yet terrifying, laden with purpose, precision, and focus.

  The woman on the screen looked Acorn up and down, only her eyes moving as she took his measure, inspecting him as one might inspect produce before buying.

  Acorn bowed deeply and silently, too tongue-tied to speak. His mother’s words—“One does not cross Madame Xu”—and the image of his father’s ashen, gaunt face after meetings with Xu Li filled his head.

  “I am Xu Li,” she said in impeccable English. “You have gotten our message, Acorn.”

  My lord, it is Xu Li. And she knows who I am.

  “No one leaves the Chinese Communist Party,” he replied.

  “You have been raised well by your parents,” Xu Li said. “Do you know why you are here?”

  “Of course, Madame Xu,” said Acorn. The truth was he had no idea what Xu Li had in store for him.

  “I hope you lie better in operation,” said Xu Li. “Your shaking hands give you away.”

  “Madame Xu, forgive me, I did not expect to see you. To be honest, I thought you were a legend, not a real person.”

  “We set it up that way,” she answered. “I suppose I cannot fault you for this.”

  Acorn exhaled and took a closer look at Xu Li. She had a menacing air about her despite her slight statute. Her hair was short. She wore a plain baby blue Mao-style suit. But there was something about her nondescript nature, her absolute blandness, coupled with her intense stare that enhanced the fear she struck within Acorn. He could see why she enjoyed such a ruthless reputation.

  “Are you eating, Acorn?”

  Dammit! Why didn’t I put down my damned dinner?

  “Yes, Madame Xu. I humbly apologize. I was trying to recover from the long trip and be fresh for our meeting.”

  “Then perhaps you should have eaten before our meeting. What is that you are eating?”

  “A cheeseburger.”

  “Ah yes, the cheeseburger. The perfect crystallization of American gluttony, selfishness, and decadence. Meat from pastures created by destroying rainforest, and cows fattened on the grain that could feed hundreds of starving children. The artery-clogging that makes you Americans the fattest people in the world. What would your parents say?”

  “I think they would be proud of every way in which I blend into American culture to accomplish Ministry operations.”

  Xu Li smiled wanly. “Good answer, Acorn. Your parents were devoted Communists and two of our best agents. Dedicated to bringing down capitalism and knocking the American government from its perch. I suppose the Ministry can forgive you this one decadent Western vice. After all, you’ve handed your life over to us.”

  Bullet dodged.

  “This congressman running for president . . . Mr. Murray,” Xu Li continued, getting down to brass tacks.

  “Earl Murray?”

  “Yes. You know him, correct?”

  “Yes, Madame Xu. He is a member of the Debt Rebel Gang.”

  “Ah yes, your boxing elephant gang.” Xu Li derisively referred to the Debt Rebel Gang as the “boxing elephant gang” after its boxing elephant flag. “Is Mr. Murray really interested in solving the American debt problem?”

  “I don’t know.” Acorn considered saying he knew what Murray’s plans were, but he was terrified of getting caught in another lie.

  “You are supposed to know. We did not work so hard and bury you so deep in American society to have you not know.”

  “Madame Xu, I’ve burrowed into the very heart of American politics. I built my balanced budget think tank from scratch. All the ferment from the Debt Rebellion? I had a big hand in stoking that.”

  “Yes, I read all your think tank’s reports, Acorn. I’m well aware of your efforts to stir the masses with your anti-spending, anti-Establishment propaganda.”

  “And without establishing my anti-spending, anti-debt bona fides, Lew Mason would never have chosen me to be his chief of staff and right-hand man running the Debt Rebel Gang,” said Acorn proudly. “That was no mean feat. It took years of preparation.”

  Xu Li said nothing. She merely nodded her head slightly.

  “Murray is famous for keeping his cards close to his vest, Madame Xu,” continued Acorn. “He barely has said anything in our Debt Rebel Gang meetings these last two years.”

  “Silence means uncertainty, Acorn. And uncertainty is the enemy. We need to know what Mr. Murray is planning to do.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because the timing of Operation Pripyat depends on it.”

  “Operation Pripyat?” Acorn felt embarrassed he didn’t know what Xu Li was talking about, and terrified he was supposed to know.

  “We have not briefed you on it yet. Mr. Murray is not the only one who holds information closely.”

  “I’m ready, Madame Xu. Please, tell me my role.” Abject deference always played with the Ministry, which prized absolute and total loyalty.

  “The Ministry has been planning Operation Pripyat for twenty years. It will be the greatest and most glorious triumph of the Ministry and Communist China. We will bring down American capitalism and the American government without firing a shot.”

  “How will Operation Pripyat achieve this?” Acorn tried not to sound skeptical.

  Xu Li walked around a small desk that was behind her and seated herself. Her face radiated disdain. Acorn had heard Xu Li had little respect for her non-Chinese agents, viewing them as untrustworthy, disloyal to their societies, and lacking the disciplined thought processes that only native Chinese agents possessed.

  “The American government owes the world forty trillion dollars. It owes China and her friends four trillion dollars. It runs annual deficits of a trillion dollars. All covered by money borrowed from lenders, including China and her friends. Two million dollars a minute.”

  All true. But where is she going with this, and what does it have to do with me?

  “What does the American government use all this money for?”

  Acorn pondered momentarily, then rattled off the government expenses that came to mind. “Health-care benefits, Medicare, Medicaid, Social Security retirement benefits, the American military, education grants, running the government. How many reports did my think tank put out on this?”

  “Careful, Acorn, we do not regard insolence highly in the Ministry. As I said, I read your reports.”

  “
My humblest apologies, Madame Xu. But you must know I know what the American government spends on. Guns and butter, all day, every day. Defense, intelligence, and an endless array of medical, old age, and social welfare benefits.”

  “And if that were to stop?”

  Acorn opened his mouth to speak and then caught himself. His eyes widened.

  Good lord. It was brilliant.

  Xu Li smiled. “It looks like you are starting to understand. We have been watching as the American government addicted itself to debt. All the while we have been preparing to collapse the American government by cutting off its ability to borrow money. You could say we have been waiting to get the Americans by, how do you say it . . . ?”

  “The balls. To get the Americans by the balls.”

  “Ah yes, the balls. So charming, you Americans.”

  She’s right. Cut off America’s ability to borrow money and it will be forced to slash its budget. That will slash Americans’ Social Security and Medicare benefits, slash America’s defense spending, and, most of all, slash the nation’s pride. It was simple, it was elegant, and it would bring down the United States.

  Xu Li cleared her throat. “Back to Mr. Murray . . . do you think he’ll be able to successfully push his debt-cutting agenda?”

  Acorn felt a rush of excitement. Xu Li was asking him for his views. For the first time in his many years as an agent, what he thought mattered. He was about to say something that was highly important to the head of the Ministry.

  “No. He won’t even win his race for president. When he loses, any influence he has will disappear.”

  “I see,” said Xu Li, lacking conviction.

  Her response made Acorn nervous. Frightened of having expressed the wrong opinion to Xu Li, he changed the topic. “Where did you get Operation Pripyat? It sounds Russian. They are not part of this, are they?”

  He didn’t want anything to do with the Russians. He didn’t give a damn about restoring the imperial glory of Russia or the Soviet Union or whatever the kleptomaniacs in the Kremlin had in mind. Xu Li might try to give Operation Pripyat a Boris-and-Natasha look, but Acorn couldn’t believe she would allow any operation this audacious be anything but the Ministry’s show.