Make Russia Great Again: A Novel

by Christopher Buckley

  “That’s friendship,” Mr. Trump observed. “Beautiful gesture.”

  It was in fact this episode that finally persuaded Mr. Putin to rethink the whole post-Soviet “freedom of the press” thing. As one Kremlin spokesman wryly paraphrased Janis Joplin’s song, “Freedom’s just another word for disrespecting the state with impunity.”

  Oleg himself was certainly no fan of the media. Oh no. Years later, when now-President Trump was calling the media “enemies of the people,” “scum,” “filth,” “disgusting, depraved animals,” and other colorful terms, Oleg cheered. His own difficulties with the media seemed only to increase, even after Mr. Putin issued his celebrated “Don’t make me come and firebomb your offices” warning to the Russian media.

  Another of Oleg’s “ownings” was his clinic in Tajikistan that supplied human organs for transplanting. You’d think people would applaud such a humanitarian enterprise. But “bravo” was not the universal opinion, perhaps owing to the rather stunning efficiency with which the clinic supplied organs on demand.

  The Moscow newspaper Novy Smir ran a snarky article dubbing Oleg “korlo’ pochka” (“King Kidney”), and alleging that some of the organs had not been donated voluntarily. Ouch.

  Oleg brought a libel action against the paper. And who’d blame him? As luck would have it, the Kremlin simultaneously promulgated yet another “media reform” law, this one prohibiting plokhoye otnospheniye (“bad attitude”). The newspaper was duly shut down, sparing Oleg further legal fees.

  Unfortunately for Oleg, this only stimulated interest in him by the foreign media.

  As a general rule, Russian oligarchs prefer not to be taken interest in by the media. Like mushrooms, they thrive in darkness and well-manured soil. So when Peter Glebnikov, Moscow bureau chief of the Washington Examinator, published his five-part series about how Oleg, with a little help from his friend Vladimir Putin, built GluboNasti Industries into the world’s leading producer of molybdenum, Oleg was neither flattered nor pleased. Nyet.

  He was particularly incensed by the part about GluboNasti’s pharmacology division. Among its other products, GluboNasti had won the government contract to produce the nerve agent Novichok. The name translates as “new boy,” which is the only cute thing about this highly unpleasant substance. The agent is—correction: is said to be—what the Kremlin uses to “disincentivize” former KGB agents, diplomats, dissidents, and others who oppose Mr. Putin. Getting smeared with Novichok is no picnic. As the old Brylcreem hair tonic ads used to say, “A little dab’ll do ya.” (I certainly don’t mean to make light of nerve agents.) The Examinator article revealed yet another of Oleg’s titles: “Putin’s Pharmacist.” Neither Mr. Putin nor his pharmacist was flattered.

  A month after the series concluded, Mr. Glebnikov was taken ill. Photos showed doctors and nurses attending him dressed in hazmat-type clothing associated with toxic or radioactive materials. The postmortem toxicology report indicated that the unfortunate journalist had indeed somehow absorbed Novichok.

  Fingers pointed at Oleg. He stoutly denied culpability, and as a “gesture of good will,” offered to have Mr. Glebnikov’s organs serially replaced as they failed, with organs from his clinic. Gratis. Alas, the new organs couldn’t keep pace with the failing ones and Mr. Glebnikov expired, but not before writing a fiery j’accuse!IV charging Oleg with his demise.

  Oleg continued to proclaim his innocence, even to strike a note of self-pity—no mean feat, under the circumstances—pointing out that no one had expressed thanks to him for donating all those expensive organs.

  An unfortunate business all around, but again, the dogs bark and the caravan moves on.

  Mr. Trump and Oleg hit it off “bigly” in 2013 when they convened for the Miss Universe pageant.

  Alas, Herb Nutterman hadn’t come to Moscow to drink vodka and eat caviar and gawp at the truly jaw-dropping, heart-attack-inducing pageant of pulchritude. My role in Moscow was a tad less “glam” than Mr. Trump’s, namely undertaking the negotiations for the Trump Tower Kremlin.

  It didn’t take long to realize that like Rome, Mr. Trump’s tower wasn’t going to be built in a day. Nyet again. Doing business in Russia is a subject for an entire book, but not this one. As I write, years later, Trump Tower Kremlin remains a dream. Among the frustrating factors was Mr. Trump’s insistence that the hotel be physically attached to the actual Kremlin. He also at one point became enamored of the idea of having Lenin’s mausoleum, where Mr. Lenin’s embalmed body is on display, in the hotel’s lobby. Then there was his reluctance to—I don’t want to say “bribe”—contribute to the “charitable funds” administered by the myriad licensing authorities. And I thought dealing with the Virginia Historical Marker Commission was a challenge.

  As I busied myself with all this, Mr. Trump and Oleg concentrated on the Miss Universe pageant. Mr. Trump declared it a “yuuge” success. When we boarded the plane to come home, I’d never seen him so physically drained. He slept the entire way back and practically had to be carried off the plane. (It required four strong men.) I remember thinking at the time admiringly, How that man drives himself.

  It was only now, seven years later, when “our old friend Oleg” reached out, that I was able to get a more detailed view of the big picture. As it turned out, Mr. Trump’s post–Miss Universe fatigue was not entirely due to meetings and marathon networking. Depending, of course, on one’s definition of “meeting” and “networking.” More on this in due course.

  Meanwhile, in the years since our pleasant cruise aboard the Maria Ivanovna and the “Kaval-kada iz plot” (“Cavalcade of Flesh,” Russian for “Miss Universe pageant”) a lot had happened. For one thing, Mr. Trump had been elected president of the United States.

  Oleg, too, had prospered, if not quite as spectacularly. The price of molybdenum was at an all-time high. (He controlled the world’s reserves of this interestingly spelled metal.) His mercenary army division was going great guns in Africa, Syria, Venezuela, and other eternally vexed hot spots. The keel had been laid for an even bigger megayacht, this one to be named Katerina Tikhonova, in honor of Mr. Putin’s daughter, an accomplished acrobatic dancer. The organ farm in Tajikistan was thriving, and had established satellite branches in China, India, South America, and Cincinnati.

  But as Oleg strode this yellow brick road of prosperity, he’d stepped on a few toes. On entire feet, really. The tally of people who’d expired from—alleged—Novichok poisoning was now into double digits. Not all of these unfortunates were directly connected to Oleg, mind. Many were—I don’t want to say “legitimate targets”—people who’d done something to annoy Mr. Putin: defect, say, or report on his overseas bank accounts, disagree with his management policies, that sort of thing.

  But there were enough among the heap of bodies—the so-called neschastnyy Ublyudok NovichokedV—who did have connections with Oleg, and that raised eyebrows. In a grim homage, the CIA had now taken to calling Novichok “Oil of Oleg.” When an intelligence agency nicknames a lethal nerve agent after you, it could be a sign that you’ve been overdoing it.

  At any rate, my portfolio now included Make Oleg Happy Again. Not an assignment for which I had great relish, but in the spirit of Theirs-not-to-question-why, I “embraced the suck,” as our military people say when posted to far-off, unpleasant places. Again, a vision of Hetta’s pile of purple beet peelings swam before me as I gulped another fistful of beta-blockers.

  I. One could speculate whether President Trump would have signed a bill punishing a Russian oligarch friend of Putin for assassinating an “enemy of the people.” But it would be a short speculation.

  II. Claretta Petacci.

  III. $1.55.

  IV. French for “This is really a bit much.”

  V. Roughly: Russian for “poor bastards who have been smeared with Novichok.”

  8

  WH CHIEF OF STAFF HERB NUTTERMAN AND “PUTIN’S PHARMACIST” HOLD SECRET TALKS

  A headline like that would be suboptim
al, so I resolved to “approach with caution” as the wine vintage charts warn.

  We’d just come off the Senate impeachment trial. Mr. Trump had triumphed, receiving acquittal of bribery, extortion, blackmail, and assorted other baseless “hoax” Democrat charges. He was of course displeased by the two Republican senators who voted to allow witnesses and evidence. But as he tweeted, he looked forward to “destroying their lives.” All in all, he was feeling pretty upbeat.

  But now we had an election to win in November, so this was no time for complacency.

  Boyd Crampon, our pollster, was telling us that the general mood in the country was a little frazzled. He said we were not doing great among suburban women, the college educated, and “people who drink wine.” Boyd was particularly concerned that Russian troll activity was down in key precincts in Wisconsin, Michigan, and Pennsylvania.

  Mr. Trump summoned Sergei Kropotnik, the Russian ambassador, to the Oval and demanded an explanation. Kropotnik apologized, explaining that the GRU—Russian military intelligence—had had to divert resources to ensure Mr. Putin’s own victory in the runoff election against the Communists. But he assured Mr. Trump that President Putin was “all in” for a second Trump term, and hinted that “we have big surprise for whoever is Democrat nominee.” It was just what Mr. Trump needed to hear. In return, he told Kropotnik about an ongoing CIA operation in Ukraine.

  Mr. Trump very much wanted to keep Russia—as well as Oleg—happy. The liberal mainstream media, frustrated by his triumph in the Senate trial, was looking for anything to attack him with; if they got wind his chief of staff was having chats with Oleg Pishinsky—well, I didn’t even want to think about that.

  I consulted with Judd, and swore him to secrecy.

  Judd’s Thomas the Tank Engine eyes popped when I told him that the president had tasked me with Oleg happiness maintenance. He made a pensive clucking noise with his tongue.

  “Tricky, Herb,” he said. “Very tricky.”

  “I’m aware of that, Judd. That’s why I’m asking you for advice.”

  “Why exactly do we want to keep Oleg happy?”

  “I can’t go into that.” I was hedging, for in fact I myself did not know the precise reason.

  “That bad, huh?”

  Judd now warmed to the task. He loved knowing things other people didn’t. Not that I had told him what I knew—or rather didn’t know. But I wasn’t about to tell him what I didn’t know. For now it was enough that he knew that I knew something, even if I didn’t. Something that was presumably known only to the president and a—I don’t want to say “shady”—problematical Russian oligarch.

  Naturally, he tried to wheedle it out of me.

  “What can you tell me about whatever it is?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I’m asking for a reason.”

  “Judd.”

  “Okay, okay. Got it.”

  I asked him if I could call Oleg directly.

  Judd found this highly amusing.

  “Sure. If you don’t mind the whole IC [intelligence community] reading a transcript of your call. And the Kremlin.”

  “So what do you recommend? How do I communicate with Oleg? Carrier pigeons?”

  “Pablo Escobar actually resorted to those when he was in that jail. Look, Herb, is it absolutely necessary you communicate with this guy? He’s radioactive.”

  “Judd. Hear me. The president has asked me to make him happy. How am I supposed to accomplish felicity for him without communicating with him?”

  “Back up a sec. How did the president learn that Pishinsky was ‘reaching out’?”

  “I’d rather not go into that, either.”

  “Paul?”

  I reluctantly nodded.

  “Jesus,” he muttered. “Let’s hope that doesn’t get out.”

  I’ve long envied the Christian ability of invoking the deity on a first-name basis. We don’t have that. You don’t hear us going, “Yahweh!” or “Hashem!” or “Adonai on a pogo stick!” and other variations.

  “It’s that important, is it?” he asked.

  “The president asked me to do it. So yes, Judd, I’d say that qualifies it as important.”

  “In the early days, staff just ignored him when he wanted to do something stupid. People used to steal documents from his outbox and shred them.”

  I groaned.

  “Judd. Are you advising me to ignore a direct order from the president of the United States?”

  “Couldn’t you just, I dunno, let it cool? Maybe he’ll forget about it.”

  “A Russian oligarch who may have something on the president has sent a message that he wants to talk. I’m not saying this is a quote-unquote blackmail situation. But in blackmail situations, does the blackmailed party typically just ‘forget about it’?”

  “Okay. Lemme talk to Miriam.”

  “Please do.”

  9

  A person Miriam sent—I assumed he was CIA—said it would be a better cover for my trip if I were accompanied by Hetta. Just another American couple on vacation.

  “What if I’m recognized?” I asked. I’m not by nature vain, but when your picture appears with regularity in the news, recognition ensues, and in the case of Trump White House staff, not always favorable recognition. Hetta and I had by now pretty much given up dining out, after a few unpleasant heckling episodes. The decline of civility in this country is truly worrisome.

  The CIA person looked me over and paid me the compliment of telling me that my features were “unremarkable.” He suggested that I not shave, wear different eyeglasses, and part my hair on the other side. Also avoid eye contact and walk with a limp.

  I announced to Hetta in an upbeat tone the “fun news” that we were going to San Marino for a little romantic getaway. I was uncomfortable dissembling, but it was a matter of national security.

  “California?” she said. “What, are you nuts? They’re having more fires. It’s all they do out there these days, is have fires. I’m not going to California. I don’t want to be burned alive.”

  “Silly girl,” I rejoined. “San Marino, Europe. Do you really think my idea of a romantic getaway is being burned alive?”

  “Where in Europe?”

  “It’s sort of in the middle of Italy. But it’s its own country. It’s an ‘enclaved microstate.’ ” (I’d done some brushing up on San Marino.) “How about that? Pretty exotic, eh?”

  “Enslaved micro-what?”

  “I’ll tell you all about it on the plane. We don’t have to—” I stopped myself from saying “stay long.” I said, “I can only get away for two days, so pack lightly.”

  “We’re going to a place I’ve never heard of in Europe—for two days?”

  “Yes. Isn’t it wonderful that I could get away for that long?”

  “Why don’t we just go to the beach?”

  The honest answer would have been: “Because the beach is US soil, and the person I’m meeting with isn’t allowed on US soil, because they say he assassinates people with nerve agent.”

  A longer answer would have been: “The Republic of San Marino is one of few counties—including North Korea, the Solomon Islands, Kiribati, and the Vatican—that is not a member of Interpol. The person I’m meeting, the aforementioned assassin, can go there without fear of being arrested.”

  “You go,” she said.

  “Sweetheart. It’ll be great. Just the two of us.” And Putin’s Pharmacist. What could be more romantic?

  “I’m not going.”

  “They say the food is sensational. Seafood. You love seafood. It’s fresh. From… right there, whatever the sea is called. Adriatic. That’s it. Were you aware that the best seafood in the world is from the Adriatic?”

  “We can get seafood at the beach.”

  “Sweetheart.”

  “I don’t care how good the seafood is. I’m not going to sit on a plane for two days to spend ten minutes in a place I don’t even want to go.”

  “But you’re
always telling me you want to go on a trip.”

  “Yeah. So you took me to a Trump rally in Alabama. Still I’m having nightmares. No wonder they call those people his base.”

  I love my Hetta but she can be—I don’t want to say “snobbish”—particular. That said, Mr. Trump’s audience in Mobile was a bit—I don’t want to say “barbaric”—earthy. Biting off the CNN reporter’s ear was uncalled for. I did at least try to get the president to tweet about it.

  “Hetta, dear, I’m not taking you to a Trump rally in San Marino. You couldn’t fit a Trump rally in it.”

  “So why are we going, Herb?”

  “To San Marino? Aren’t you the least bit curious to see one of the”—I was improvising here—“undiscovered gems of the Adriatic?”

  “No, Herb. I’m not. And stop lying. What’s this all about?”

  Thirty-two years later and you realize you married a polygraph machine.

  “We need to go to San Marino, Hetta. For our country. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “No. You need to go to San Marino. And I love my country, so don’t try any of that crap with me.”

  Much as I wanted to, how could I explain to her about Oleg? Hetta was bound to have views about people who smear lethal nerve agent on other people.

  I told her it was “a diplomatic thing.” A lunch. In, out. Done—in plenty of time for the two of us to do some “serious shopping.” She perked up at that. She likes a bit of shopping, my Hetta. We still have the crockery and plates we got there, though these days I’m eating my meals off tin.

  * * *

  There are no airports in San Marino. This is a disadvantage of being an “enclaved microstate”: no room for things like runways. If you’re going to San Marino—and you should, it’s very nice, very pleasant—you fly into the Federico Fellini International Airport in nearby Rimini.