Make Russia Great Again: A Novel

by Christopher Buckley

  “How’s Putin doing with the runoff election?” Mr. Trump asked.

  Miriam said that polls showed him “more than comfortably ahead” of Mr. Zitkin, the Communist usurper.

  “That’s what the polls said before the last election.” He grunted. “And look what happened.”

  “Those are the figures, sir. Barring another deus ex machina, Mr. Putin appears to be on a solid track for reelection.”

  “Barring what?”

  “Another cyberattack on the Ministry of Elections, sir.”

  “Is there anything we can do to help Putin?”

  This produced a nearly audible sound of buttock clenching. The president had just asked the head of national intelligence to assist in reelecting Vladimir Putin. Miriam took a deep breath.

  “I’m not sure I follow, sir.”

  “We don’t want Russia to be Red again, do we?”

  In a normal scenario, this would have been the moment for Miriam triumphantly to reveal that the CIA had recruited the number-two or -three person in the CP. In which case, the answer to the president’s question would be, “Actually, sir, we do.” Alas.

  “I emphasize,” Miriam said, “that all the numbers strongly point to a robust Putin victory.”

  “There’s got to be something we can do.”

  I saw headlines: “Trump Ordered CIA to Reelect Putin” and “Trump Repays Putin for Help in 2016.” I was seeing a lot of headlines these days.

  Miriam looked like she was walking barefoot on hot coals.

  “Did you have something… specific in mind, sir?”

  “This Zipkin guy, what do we know about him?”

  “Far less than Mr. Putin knows, sir. Rest assured, the FSB and GRU have thicker files on him than we do. Frankly, Mr. Zitkin (she corrected; Mr. Trump never did get his name right) wasn’t really someone of great interest to us. Until…” Miriam glanced sideways at Judd and me. I held my breath, thinking she was about to say, one of our computers elected him president of Russia. Thankfully she merely said “… now.”

  She added, “There is a development.” Zitkin had applied to the Kremlin for permission to give a speech from a historic platform in the middle of Red Square.

  “So?” said the president.

  “What’s interesting,” she explained, “is that the Kremlin gave permission. The lobnoye mesto—the rostrum, or platform—in Red Square is highly symbolic. Ivan the Terrible used to give speeches from it. And then hang half the audience from the Kremlin walls. Numerous proclamations have been announced from it over the centuries. Lenin spoke from it. But it’s not a platform for political stumping. For the Kremlin to give Zitkin permission to give a campaign speech—presumably on an anti-Putin theme—would be about the equivalent of you, sir, granting permission to a rival to denounce you from the south lawn of the White House.”

  “Wouldn’t happen.”

  “No, quite. Indeed, it’s so unusual that our people in Moscow think Mr. Putin must be laying a trap for Zitkin.”

  The president perked up. “Like what?”

  “The sound system crashing in the middle of his speech. Heckling. Eggs. Milkshakes. Milkshakes are the current favorite heckler missile. Sometimes packed with rocks.”

  “What about shooting him?” the president said hopefully.

  “We don’t have anything about that. Shooting Mr. Zitkin in front of the Kremlin would certainly be a bold act.”

  “Didn’t they shoot that guy on the bridge across from the Kremlin? Whatshisname.”

  “Boris Nemtsov. Yes, they did. But not during a live broadcast on television.”

  The president said, “It’d be great TV. Ratings off the chart.”

  I had a horrible presentiment. What if the Kremlin decided to get rid of him with Oil of Oleg? The president’s friend Kim Jong-un had dispatched his half brother with a public smearing of fatal goo. I saw another headline: “Hand of Putin’s Pharmacist Seen in Zitkin Death.” That would certainly help with repealing the Glebnikov Act.

  I wondered if I should convey my concern in my next prison visit with my Oleg go-between, Paul. How would I phrase it? Paul, would you ask Oleg not to have Mr. Zitkin rubbed with Novichok during his speech in Red Square? Lousy optics.

  So you can imagine my relief when, three days later, Mr. Zitkin did not expire from multiple organ failure in the middle of Red Square as he pounded the pulpit of the lobnoye mesto.

  But clever old CIA was right: it was a trap. Not three minutes into his speech, Mr. Zitkin succumbed to what one commentator called “the ultimate nightmare of any public speaker.” The sound of the tumult in Zitkin’s lower GI was audible over the PA system. (The Kremlin had provided concert-quality amplification for the speech.) Moments later—I’ll just quote the New York Times account: “Mr. Zitkin succumbed to a violent and catastrophic episode of lower GI distress.”

  Needless to say, the humiliating episode went viral. So viral as to cause servers worldwide to crash. Even Stone Age people in the remotest corners of New Guinea have by now probably viewed Anatoli Zitkin’s moment of maximum mortification in—as it was now called—“Brown Square.”

  The Communist Party accused the Kremlin of adulterating Mr. Zitkin’s vodka. Mr. Zitkin was that rarity among Russians: a nondrinker. But it was his custom before speaking to a large audience to take a single swig of vodka from a flask, “for courage.”

  The Kremlin coolly dismissed the accusation, pointing to a dozen or more emergency room admissions that day for “extreme stomach flu.” (CIA Moscow said these were likely cases of “Potemkin stomach bug.” That is, staged, to camouflage the Zitkin poisoning. What fun for the stagers.) Mr. Putin, smiling like a Cheshire mountain lion, publicly wished Mr. Zitkin a “full recovery,” adding friskily that he looked forward to “hearing the rest of his speech.”

  Mr. Trump was jubilant. He replayed the tape again and again. Greta begged him, practically on hands and knees, not to tweet about it. He grudgingly consented—and phoned Putin.

  Judd learned about the call, as the rest of us did, after the fact. We braced for a transcript of the call to come forth. Thankfully, none did. (I suspect Miriam saw to that.) To this day, it’s not known what the president said to Mr. Putin. Probably for the best, all things considered. Me, I was just thankful the Kremlin opted for a less drastic additive to Mr. Zitkin’s “courage” vodka than a shot of Oil of Oleg.

  Never have I more wanted an election to be over and done with than this one. But we were not there yet. Far from it.

  15

  Normally, I did not participate in Mr. Trump’s golf outings, but since the president had tasked me with “riding herd” on the Glebnikov Act repeal, I joined him and Senator Biskitt for eighteen holes at Bloody Run. President Attajurk did not join, having departed to exterminate another ethnic group.

  We flew on Marine One, the presidential helicopter. As we descended, Mr. Trump pointed out to the senator where the supposed battle had taken place.

  As a serious Civil War buff, the senator was among those—including the Virginia Historical Marker Commission—who insisted that no battle had ever taken place on Mr. Trump’s golf course; or for that matter, anywhere near it. Squiggly would never contradict the president, but I could tell that it was taxing even his protean powers of sycophancy. What could he say as the president insisted that “the outcome of the Civil War was decided right here on the seventeenth fairway”? Not much.

  He could do what he had with his other principles, namely throw them under the bus. But as a faithful son of South Carolina, assenting to Mr. Trump’s rewrite of the War of Northern AggressionI caused him near physical pain. He kept trying to change the subject; when that failed, he merely nodded thoughtfully but ambiguously as the president described in detail the particulars of the Battle of Bloody Run. Here and there Squiggly offered anodyne remarks on the order of “Hm,” and “Really?” and “Well, that is interesting.”

  The president sliced into the rough.

  “Go on, take a m
ulligan,” Squiggly urged.

  The second drive curved but landed just inside the fairway.

  “Nice shot, sir. I can see you’re fixing to beat me like a drum.”

  “I had Tiger and Nicklaus out here last weekend.”

  “So I heard. I think I’d have found that kind of intimidating.”

  “Nicklaus is designing my next course.”

  “Yeah? Great. Where?”

  “Crimea.”

  A look of horror came over the senator.

  “Just fucking with you.” The president grinned. He loved teasing his courtiers, the president. He reminded me of the famous Norman Rockwell painting of the boy with a magnifying glass, setting fire to the caterpillar.

  “You about gave me a heart attack, sir.”

  “I could build a golf course in Crimea.”

  “I don’t doubt it. But I hope y’all’ll wait until your second term to do that.”

  The president’s next shot went deep into the rough toward the Potomac River. His caddie started off after it but the president said to leave it and dropped another ball onto the fairway.

  “I see we’re playing Marquis of Queensbury rules,” Squiggly said cheekily.

  “I don’t like to make them go looking for balls down there,” the president said. “It’s snaky. Very snaky. Nasty, snakes. Why would God make snakes? What’s the point of snakes? I guess because of Adam and Eve, right?”

  The senator did not join the president in theological exploration.

  “We got alligators on our courses in South Carolina. Makes poking around for your ball real interesting.”

  The president seemed to take this as one-upmanship.

  “I’m talking rattlesnakes.”

  “Yeah, we got them, all right. South Carolina has all four types of venomous snakes native to North America.”

  “Must make you proud, huh?”

  “Rattlers, water mocs, cottonmouths, and corals. Corals, they’re the little-bitty ones with the colored bands. They’re the most venomous. You get bit by one of those rascals, don’t even bother dialing 911. If you got a pen and paper on you, make out your will. And write quick.”

  “I was going to get rid of my snakes,” the president said. “But the local Audubon Society or whatever it’s called made a thing out of it. Assholes. Audubon’s supposed to be about birds. Why would they give a fuck about snakes? Why would anyone want to protect rattlesnakes? Nuts. They’re totally nuts. So my caddies have to risk their lives going after the balls. We have to stock the antivenom or whatever it’s called. Know what one dose costs? One dose? You don’t want to know. Ten fucking grand. I could use my Mexicans. Mexicans love snakes. They grow up with them. They’re everywhere in Mexico, snakes. But if I used Mexicans and one got bit? The Washington Post would be calling for another impeachment. I’ll tell you something. I’m not done with Jeff Bezos yet.II Jeff Bezos has got some major surprises coming his way. You wait.”

  Squiggly shook his head at the injustice of it all.

  “I hate the way they go after you, sir. It’s not right.”

  The president lined up his shot.

  “That’s why it’s important we get the Glebnikov thing done.”

  As segues go, this was a reach.

  “How do you mean, sir?”

  “The media needs to learn they can’t get away with murder.”

  An ironic statement, inasmuch as the Glebnikov Act was passed to punish a Russian oligarch for (allegedly) murdering a journalist.

  “Well, sir,” he said, “there is that. But optics-wise, I am convinced it would be better to concentrate on the molybdenum shortage aspect rather than on Mr. Pishinsky’s history vis-à-vis the late Mr. Glebnikov.”

  “Whatever. But we need to get this done, Squigg. This is not a can we can kick down the road. This is not Brexit. My generals and admirals are saying they need molly—this metal to defend our country. This is about national security.”

  “I am doing what I can, sir. But repealing a law sanctioning a Russian oligarch for—alleged—involvement in the murder of a reporter… it’s not the kind of initiative that lends itself to momentum-building. It’s hard to get people worked up about it.”

  “It’s not about freedom of the fucking press, Squigg. It’s about making sure our armed men and women have the tools they need to defend our country. Why is that a hard sell?”

  “Right. Right. I do get that. Thing is, most folks have never heard of molybdenum. That said, I hear your rally in Testicle was a great success.”

  “Colonnity’s gonna keep mentioning how great it was. The chanting, ‘Olé, Oleg!’ ”

  “It must have been very moving, sir.”

  “That was very smart on my part. I came up with ‘Olé, Oleg’ on the spot. That crap line Stefan—and you, Herb—gave me about crucifying mankind on a cross of the stuff, that went over like a fart at a funeral. I’m very disappointed in you, Herb. I asked you and Stefan to come up with something great and you gave me that turd.”

  “I apologize, Mr. President.”

  “You’re lucky I saved it. ‘Olé, Oleg!’ is a great line.”

  Squiggly said, “It is. But I’m thinking the less we make this about someone named Oleg and more about a shortage of strategic matériel, the better off we’ll be.”

  “Whatever. Just get it done.”

  “I am efforting it, sir. All I’m saying is repeal ain’t gonna be a walk in the park.”

  “That’s why I asked you to do it, Squigg. That’s how highly I think of you.”

  I mentally added, That’s why my private nickname for you is Buttplug. I don’t mean to sound bitter, but I was smarting a bit from Mr. Trump’s blaming me for Stefan’s oratorical “turd.”

  “I thank you for the compliment of your confidence, sir,” Squiggly said.

  Senator Biskitt looked as though he’d rather talk about the Battle of Bloody Run.

  “Did you see the Commie guy shit himself in Brown Square?” the president asked. “Brown Square. That’s what they’re calling it. Brown Square. That’s great.”

  “I don’t like Communists any more than the next person,” Squiggly said, “but I have to say, I kind of felt for the poor guy.”

  “Why? He’s a Communist.”

  “Well, yeah. But Lordy. Can you imagine?”

  “He had it coming.”

  “He did?”

  “He tried to steal the election from Putin.”

  “Oh. So… we know that? For a fact? ’Course you got better sources than I do.”

  “Sure he did it. Who else could it have been?”

  Seldom have I been so happy to hear Mr. Trump assert a falsehood. Though technically, he did not know it to be one.

  “Well,” Squiggly said, “there’s all sorts of speculating. Some people say we had a hand in it. But you’d know more about that than I.”

  “Bullshit. Not even real bullshit. Fake bullshit.”

  “If you say.”

  “We had nothing to do with it. Why would I want to unseat Putin? He’s a terrific person. I’m going to invite him to the White House.”

  Squiggly looked at me. This was the first I’d heard of this—I don’t want to say “bizarre”—bold notion.

  Mr. Trump’s putt overshot the hole by six feet.

  “That’s a gimme. What do you think? It’s great, right? Like Nixon in China. Only Putin in Washington. Big. Very big.”

  “Have you discussed this with anyone, sir?”

  “I’m discussing it with you. You should be flattered.”

  Squiggly’s mouth moved but no words came out. He looked like someone whose dentures had come loose and was trying to reattach them to the gums without using his fingers.

  Suddenly Senator Biskitt broke into a grin. He wagged a finger at the president.

  “You got me again. You are in a devilish mood today, sir. Boy, did you have me, there. Hoo.”

  “What are you talking about? It’s a great idea,” the president said sternly. “He
rb thinks it’s a fabulous idea. Tell him, Herb.”

  “It is a big idea, sir. One of your biggest.”

  “See?” the president said to Squiggly. “Herb has very good instincts about this kind of thing.”

  “This kind of thing?” the senator said.

  “Hospitality. He’s got twenty-seven years in the hospitality business. He knows something about hospitality.”

  “Ah. Yes. Well, it is big. But if I might urge you, sir, I would hold off announcing something like that until after the election. Our election, that is.”

  It was obvious to Mr. Trump that the Tiny Titan of the Senate was not bowled over by his big idea. A rime descended on Bloody Run.

  When Mr. Trump felt that one of his ideas was insufficiently praised, his tendency was to withdraw. I don’t want to say “pout,” but his disappointment conveyed a sense of betrayal.

  It was part and parcel, perhaps, of the proverbial “loneliness of command.” Churchill was this way. Stalin famously didn’t like it when those around him failed to effuse over his ideas. Hitler could get very sulky if he felt that the “Heil Hitler!”s were lacking in sturm or drang. From what the CIA told us, Kim Jong-un got extremely peevish if he detected diminuendo in the chorus of “Let us eternally glorify the sacred revolutionary careers and immortal feats of the great Comrade Kim Jong-un!” It’s a basic human instinct to want those around you to cheer. It goes back to potty training. One can only imagine—not that I care to—what Kim Jong-un’s nannies told him when he did his morning BMs. Probably arranged parades.

  The flight back to the White House was subdued. Mr. Trump watched Fox and Fiends on his iPad. Senator Biskitt stared morosely out the window of Marine One with a look of “What the heck was that about?” I chided myself for not being more of a cheerleader to Mr. Trump. You could debate the pros and cons of inviting Putin to the White House, but who could dispute that it was “big”?

  Dr. Bernon, our psychiatrist here at FCI Wingdale, tells me I was in a “destructive codependent” relationship with Mr. Trump and that I really shouldn’t feel guilty for feeling that I’d failed him. Still.

  I was, however, having a continuing case of the guilts about Comrade Anatoli Zitkin. I couldn’t shake the image of the poor son of a gun up there on the lobnoye mesto. If we—that is, Placid Reflux—hadn’t rigged the election in his favor, he wouldn’t have been up there, fouling himself on live TV.