Wally appeared taken aback, as if he’d been expecting Andrea to roll over. She cocked her head to one side, taking in his look of surprise. Wally must have noticed because he tried to regain his alpha male demeanor. “Glad we had this little talk. See you around campus.”
Andrea took a deep breath. Her first real Washington conversation was over. She wasn’t sure it was a success, but she was still alive and still OMB director, so it couldn’t have been a total failure. She’d stood up for herself and lived to tell the tale. Maybe she could hack it in Washington after all.
No sooner had she turned back to setting up her office when another visitor dropped in. “You’re doing all this unpacking yourself?” said the tall, slim man. “I’m Brooks Powell, the incoming Treasury Secretary. Would you like some help?”
Brooks looked like the consummate Wall Street banker in pinstriped pants, jacket with silk tie, and neatly folded kerchief in his jacket pocket. His mane of closely cropped and perfectly parted silver hair was held in place by the slightest dab of hair cream. He was a throwback who could have walked straight out of the drawing rooms of Brown Brothers Harriman in 1950s New York. Prior to becoming Treasury Secretary, he was the CEO of Goldman Sachs and a regular in the financial publications Andrea read. She recognized him immediately.
“Andrea Gartner,” she replied.
Brooks walked into the office and offered a handshake. “You’re the rookie Murray brought aboard,” he said with a smile.
“I think so,” said Andrea. “This is my first full week in Washington.”
“I passed Wally Flynn in the hall,” replied Brooks. “Did he come in and say hi?”
“Sort of.” Andrea bit her lip. “He read me the riot act on cutting spending.”
“Don’t worry about him,” said Brooks. “It’s an old trick of his. Try to establish dominance the first time he meets someone new. I’m sure he doesn’t want to cut spending. Might threaten Murray’s reelection.”
“We are going to have to cut spending at some point, Mr. Powell.”
“Call me Brooks.”
“Okay, but you would agree we need to cut spending, right?”
“Yes, certainly,” said Brooks. “We’ll cut spending when the time is right. And when it is, I’ll be right there beside you.”
Not bad, Andrea thought. You’ve made your first ally. It would be better if he wanted to cut spending now, but at least he was more supportive than Wally.
“You need any help unpacking?” Brooks asked.
“No, I’m okay, but thanks so much for the offer,” replied Andrea.
“If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call over to Treasury. You and I are going to be working together a good bit, so don’t be a stranger.”
“Thanks, Brooks. Looking forward to working with you.”
Brooks headed out of the office.
Andrea turned back to unpacking. She’d just met the most powerful CEO in the country and he’d treated her like a peer. And she hadn’t ended up tongue-tied. You can do this, she thought. You can handle the big leagues.
Acorn had dutifully read the Express every morning since President Murray’s inauguration, but not once had he seen a message from the Ministry or Xu Li. A month had passed, and neither Xu Li or the Ministry had uttered a peep.
Had the Ministry given up on Operation Pripyat? Or on me?
He scanned every face on the Metro as he rode to and from work every day. Could a Ministry assassin be lurking on his commute to kill him because he hadn’t stopped Murray’s election?
Then he remembered something his father used to say: “The watched pot never boils, but the Ministry always has the gas on.” Acorn buried himself in his office, shuffling papers daily and meeting with his staff as little as possible while trying to stay patient the way his parents had trained him.
Sure enough, precisely on the morning of the one-month anniversary of President Murray’s inauguration, Acorn had just climbed the Capitol South Metro escalator when his special TAG Heuer watch began to vibrate. Acorn pushed the stopwatch sweep button and the small digital screen appeared with a message:
Receive the signal . . . Receive the signal . . . Receive the signal . . .
Acorn picked up his pace and briskly headed into Mason’s office suite.
“Good morning, Mr. Palmer,” said Mason’s secretary as Acorn walked by.
“Morning, Sarah,” Acorn said hurriedly. He had no time for small talk.
“Do you want your . . . usual coffee?” she asked as she followed Acorn. Before she could finish her sentence, Acorn had zoomed past her into his office with the nameplate on the door that read “Frank Palmer, Chief of Staff ” and closed the door behind him.
Receive the signal. Acorn knew the message meant something was about to happen, something that would send him into action. He tuned his office television to CNBC, the business channel. Operation Pripyat targeted America’s national debt. If something involving the debt were happening, CNBC surely would be reporting on it.
“Reports out of New York indicate an auction of US Treasury bonds is failing,” the anchor stated breathlessly. “A consortium of governments and institutional investors has announced they will no longer purchase US government bonds because they do not believe the United States government will be able to pay back its national debt, which stands at forty trillion dollars.”
CNBC cut to a news conference of one of the institutional investors. And there he was, the man Acorn had seen in his last meeting with Xu Li. He was wearing another tailored Zegna suit. Acorn was impressed. The Ministry made sure its agent looked good as it deep-sixed the American economy.
Zegna Suit unfolded a piece of paper, put it on the podium in front of him, and began reading. “We, the members of the Pripyat Consortium of international institutional investors, will no longer purchase United States Treasury bonds and fund the United States’ government debt.”
Acorn detected a hint of Russian accent. This guy had learned his English well, but his inflection was off. He was ever so slightly placing emphasis on the wrong words. And he was gruff. He was only reading the statement, which didn’t surprise Acorn. Xu Li would not have left writing something so important to a field agent.
“We represent a large number of private and public institutional investors from all over the world,” Zegna Suit continued. “While our members are anonymous, our concerns are not. The United States government debt is now forty trillion dollars. We no longer have confidence the United States government will be able to repay this debt. Therefore, until the United States proves its creditworthiness, the Pripyat Consortium of international institutional investors cannot and will not loan the United States money by purchasing United States Treasury bonds.”
Zegna Suit left the podium, giving only a fleeting look into the camera. He’d made less than a second of eye contact with America. No glower or stare into the camera.
The CNBC anchor reappeared.
“There you have it, a group calling itself the Pripyat Consortium says they will cease purchasing American Treasury bonds.” He turned to his guest, an American Fortune 500 CEO according to the caption on the screen. “Are you familiar with this Pripyat Consortium? And do you think this bond boycott will be successful?”
“I’ve never heard of any bond fund, or anything in the financial world for that matter, called the ‘Pripyat Consortium.’ But it will take more than one bond fund, especially one no one’s ever heard of, to boycott American bonds to the point that the United States can’t pay its debt. Our bonds are still the envy of the world.”
That’s what you think, bud. This is no mere bond fund at work.
CNBC’s oblivious anchor nodded his head in agreement. “But what about today’s bond auction failure?”
“It happens. The markets will be ready tomorrow and will correct. One person’s boycott is another person’s opportunity.”
What fools, Americans. Always thinking the market is simply working as the market does. Didn’t
anyone wonder if maybe this was something more than just the market at work? That maybe someone out there had a motive other than making money?
Xu Li’s opaque instructions were now coming into focus. The Ministry had made its opening move. Operation Pripyat was on. And if the Americans were oblivious, so much the better. It meant the first part of the operation had gone off without a hitch.
Acorn thought through how Operation Pripyat would play out. When the American economy collapsed, Americans would look at Zegna Suit and think the Russians were behind it. Knowing Congress, it would wrap itself around an axle trying to ferret out the Russians involved. They’d overlook the Chinese altogether.
Acorn had to hand it to Xu Li. Her strategy was brilliant. Classic misdirection against an enemy easily goaded into believing the worst about the Russians.
Acorn decided his first task would be to agitate and wind up his boss, Lew Mason, who was easy to manipulate when agitated. And Mason chaired the House Appropriations Committee. The committee would be ground zero in Congress for formulating a response to the debt crisis.
But how to agitate Mason? Surely Mason would want the country to respond swiftly to the crisis. But he was a pure political animal whose political thought process ran with the precision of a Swiss clock. First, he thought about how to ensure his reelection. Next, he thought about how he could screw his political rivals. When all that was done, if there was time, he’d think about what was best for the country. Acorn was convinced manipulating Mason all these years had been easy thanks to this one keen insight.
Mason couldn’t learn about the bond boycott on his own. Acorn needed to break the news to Mason himself and spin it just right. If he did his job, by the end of the conversation Mason would have no interest in solving America’s debt crisis.
Acorn went around the corner to Mason’s office.
Mason was seated at his large wooden desk autographing some photographs for constituents. His jacket was off, his tie loosened, and his shirtsleeves rolled up. He’d moved his multiple awards, challenge coin collection, desk flags, and other trinkets to the edges of the desk to make room for his autographing. He liked to sign big, with a flourish, and it required a lot of desk space.
Acorn spotted Mason’s prized baseball, autographed by the 2019 World Series-winning Washington Nationals, moved to the right corner of the desk. When the baseball moved, Mason was hard at work on something important. He wanted his autograph to be big and flawless on the photos he sent to his constituents.
“You see this?” Acorn asked.
“What?” Mason looked up.
“It’s a bond boycott. Some investor consortium is boycotting American bonds.”
“Say what?”
“An investor group calling itself the Pripyat Consortium has organized a boycott of American bonds. Sounds like a bunch of Russians if you ask me.”
“Holy shit,” said Mason. “The markets are going to tank.”
“Forget the markets,” Acorn replied. “The government is going to freeze up.”
“Any thoughts on how we should respond?”
“Mr. Mason, you’re the member. I’m just the staffer. You tell me what we should be doing.”
“That’s right, Frank. You are the staffer. And your job is to advise me. So advise me.”
Acorn feigned thinking, placing his hand on his chin and casting his gaze just over the seated Mason. But he knew what had to happen. The Chinese needed Murray neutralized and Mason available to do my bidding. Use Mason to turn the country against Murray.
“Mr. Mason, if I were in your shoes, I’d wait for Murray to make the first move. He’s the president. He’s the leader of the Republican Party. Let him decide what to do. That way, he’ll get the blame for whatever goes wrong.”
“That’s nuts. Congress should design a debt-reduction package. If we do, we’ll have more control over it. If someone starts making cuts, I want to decide what they are.”
“Are you crazy? You want to have your fingerprints on the cuts? No sir. You want to be as far away from the cuts as possible. You want to outlast Murray and Andrea Gartner?”
Mason furrowed his brow. “What do you think? I want to see their favorable ratings in the single digits.”
“Then you want to back off this and duck. Control equals blame, Mr. Mason. There aren’t going to be any good ways out of this. Whatever we decide to cut, the person making the cuts is going to get blamed. I’m telling you, if you want Murray’s favorable ratings in the single digits, make him make the cuts.”
Mason narrowed his eyes and a sinister smile crept across his face. “A month into Murray’s presidency and he has to deal with a fiscal crisis. Serves that asshole right. He spent all that time trashing my Debt Rebel Gang behind closed doors. Then he goes and hires that harpy Andrea Gartner as his OMB director. They think they’re so much smarter than us? Fine. Let them figure it out.”
“Exactly, Mr. Mason.”
Acorn smiled. Mason was perfectly following the path Acorn laid out for him. Schadenfreude outweighed patriotism with Lewis Mason. It was hardly a contest. Mason had no problem seeing the American government seize up if it meant pain for his political rivals. He’d sell his mother for a political victory.
“What do you want to do?” Acorn asked.
“Turn the screws on Murray and Gartner,” Mason said. “Hell, blame them for scaring investors and causing them to boycott American bonds. Let them take the hits when the country goes bankrupt. And maybe we put out a statement about how we have been pushing for a balanced budget for years.”
A statement like this was obnoxious even by Mason’s standards. Acorn loved it. “I’ll get going on drafting that statement,” he said with a smile.
Across town, in the Old Executive Office Building next to the White House, Andrea Gartner’s office phone rang.
“I think a bond auction is going to fail,” said Brooks Powell. He hadn’t even bothered with a “hello.”
“What do you mean?” Andrea asked, confused.
“Some group of investors called the Pripyat Consortium has organized a boycott of US Treasury bonds.”
Andrea dropped into her chair.
Murray’s been president exactly one month and now this? And who on earth is the Pripyat Consortium?
Brooks’s nine little words meant that all her strategizing for a gradual reduction of the debt that mitigated the country’s pain went up in smoke. She had meant to reduce America’s national debt on her timetable, not on the timetable of Goldman Sachs or European banks or whoever was running this mysterious Pripyat Consortium.
A favorite quote crossed Andrea’s mind: “Events, dear boy, events.” British Prime Minister Harold Macmillan had said that, his reminder that the best laid plans get tossed into the garbage when unpredicted events inevitably intervene.
One month. That was all it had taken for her to lose control of how the country would resolve its debt. Events and external actors were in the driver’s seat now, starting with this Pripyat Consortium.
She stared blankly out her office window at the South Lawn of the White House, gripped by the horrific realization the federal government might be about to run out of money and unable to borrow more. Investors who used to lend the American government money every day were now telling the United States to pound sand.
“Jesus, Brooks, didn’t you have any warning?” Andrea asked. “A month into the job and the public up and decides to stop buying bonds? Didn’t you hear anything on the Street before now?”
“I’d heard nothing,” Brooks replied, clearly irritated. “But so what? It was only a matter of time before investors finally wised up and decided to see if the United States would pay back some of its forty trillion dollars of debt before they would continue to lend the country money. You could build a stairway to the moon with forty trillion dollars.”
“You know what this means, right?” Andrea knew Brooks understood the consequences of a bond auction failure, but for some reason wanted to he
ar him say it.
“The government stops without borrowed money,” Brooks said tersely. “Social Security. Medicare. Medical research. Law enforcement. Federal jobs. Ev-er-ry-thing. We won’t even be able to pay for mowing the goddamned White House lawn.”
“It’s the nightmare scenario,” Andrea said. “I wish we’d had time to do the budget cutting ourselves.”
“Whatever governments and institutional investors are behind this Pripyat Consortium had other ideas,” Brooks grumbled. “They’re about to trigger a full-blown American debt crisis.”
The Pripyat Consortium.
Who were they? And why now?
Andrea had been an accountant for twenty-five years. She read Bloomberg and the Wall Street Journal every day. She couldn’t remember one mention of any Pripyat Consortium. It sounded Russian, though. The pogroms had driven Andrea’s family out of Russia just before World War I and she still remembered those signs that used to be posted outside the synagogues in her native Baltimore: “Free Soviet Jewry.” She didn’t trust anything that sounded Russian.
“Have you ever heard of this Pripyat Consortium? Doesn’t this seem a little fishy? A Russian-named heretofore-invisible investor consortium suddenly holding America’s budget hostage?” she asked.
“I’ve been in finance all my life,” said Brooks. “I thought I knew every bond fund that’s come and gone. These guys? Never heard of them.”
“Something’s up, Brooks,” said Andrea. “There’s more to this than meets the eye.”
Andrea hung up and sat there in shock. She was determined to figure out who this Pripyat Consortium was.
She did a quick Google search. “Pripyat.”
Images of an abandoned town appeared. A rusted Ferris wheel in an empty amusement park. Crumbling classrooms in empty schools. Row upon row of rotting, abandoned apartment blocks. Feral animals roaming a ghost town.
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