by Mike Maden
“Tell me, smartasses. What should I do with the two of you now?”
6
The White House, Washington, D.C.
Ambassador Konstantin Britnev was ushered into the Oval Office where he was greeted by the warm smile and firm handshake of President Myers. A White House press camera flashed three times.
“I hate having my picture taken,” Myers whispered to Britnev under her breath.
Britnev nearly laughed as he widened his alluring smile. “You should see my passport photo. It’s terrible.” They held hands as several more shots were snapped.
“That will be all. Thank you,” Myers said to the photographer.
“Thank you, Madame President, Ambassador Britnev. Excuse me.” The female photographer cast a brief, leering glance at the handsome Russian as she exited through the secretary’s office door.
“Dr. Strasburg, so good to see you again.” Britnev nodded cordially as he extended his well-manicured hand. Strasburg was on the couch. He struggled to rise.
“No, please, Doctor, remain seated.” Britnev stepped closer to the couch and shook Strasburg’s veiny hand. The Russian, thirty years younger than Strasburg, had studied the famed security advisor’s illustrious career at the Institute for USA and Canadian Studies years ago. Now Britnev was one of the key players in the Titov administration, handpicked by the Russian president personally for the Washington post.
“It’s good to see you as well, Ambassador Britnev. At my age, it’s good to see anybody.”
Britnev politely laughed at the old man’s threadbare joke.
“What would you like to drink, Konstantin?” Myers asked. She’d dismissed the waitstaff for this morning’s private meeting.
“A coffee, please, black, no sugar, if it’s not too inconvenient.” What he really craved was a cigarette.
“No, not at all.” Myers crossed over to a credenza. She poured him a cup of coffee from a freshly brewed pot. Britnev was a huge coffee fan. He had even helped broker the first Starbucks franchise in Moscow. She handed him a cup and saucer imprinted with the presidential seal.
“Thank you, Madame President.” Britnev took a sip.
“How about you, Karl?”
“None for me, thank you. Doctor’s orders.”
Britnev’s eyes drifted over to a side table. An antique chess set was on it. He stepped over to it.
“It’s a lovely set. May I?” Britnev asked.
“Yes, of course,” Myers said as she poured herself a cup of coffee.
Britnev set his cup down and picked up a white knight, faded to yellow. “Hand-carved ivory?”
“Yes, elephant tusk, unfortunately. It’s actually a set that belonged to President Jefferson. He was quite an avid player.”
“He was a very talented man. Many gifts.” Britnev gently returned the piece to its position. “It appears as if White has opened with a queen’s gambit.”
Myers crossed over to Britnev, coffee in hand. She glanced at the board.
“You’re very observant. Do you still play?” She took a sip of coffee.
“Not with any real skill,” he said. He exuded a boyish charm, despite having just turned fifty. His hand-tailored Italian suit perfectly complemented his athletic frame, though a back injury at university had ended a promising ice hockey career.
“You were a grandmaster at the age of sixteen, Mr. Ambassador. That sounds pretty good to me,” Myers said.
“But never a world champion. As I recall, that’s about the same age you were when you wrote your first AI program, isn’t it?”
“Hardly an AI program. Just a program for playing chess. Please, shall we sit?”
“Yes, of course.” Britnev took the couch opposite Strasburg while Myers took a chair.
“Where did you learn to play the game, Mr. Ambassador?” Strasburg asked.
“My father taught it to me when I was a boy while he was stationed in Tehran. We used to play every evening together. I suppose it’s why I have such a strong emotional bond to the game. You know, chess was invented by the Persians, but the mindless mullahs banned it for years after the revolution. Do you play, Dr. Strasburg?”
“On occasion, but poorly. I believe it was Bobby Fischer who said that one only becomes good at chess if one love the game.”
“I do still love it, but I seldom have the time,” Britnev said.
Strasburg paused, lost in a painful memory. “My brother loved the game. He said that he could tell a lot about a man after he played three games of chess with him. Do you find that to be true, Mr. Ambassador?”
“I find that one match is usually enough.” Britnev chuckled. “But perhaps that is because it is a Russian’s game. We understand the virtues of sacrifice and taking the long view. You Americans have no patience for such things. That’s why the Russian players are the best in the world.”
“Until IBM’s Deep Blue defeated Garry Kasparov.” Strasburg smiled. The old cold warrior couldn’t resist the dig. “Of course, there are other ways to defeat a grandmaster.” Both men were well aware that Kasparov had been a vicious opponent of President Titov and had been recently arrested for his political activities.
Britnev turned back to President Myers. “Is it true you never actually played chess in your youth?”
Myers nodded. “Never a full game, no.”
“Remarkable. Then how in the world did you manage to write a piece of chess-playing software?”
Myers shrugged. “Chess is a function of finite mathematics: sixty-four squares, thirty-two pieces, and a maximum of five million possible moves. The longest championship game ever played was under three hundred moves. It was simply a matter of finding the right decision algorithms.”
Britnev smiled playfully. “I suppose, then, that everything you need to know about a person is contained in the software programs he writes?”
“Depends upon the person. Or the software.” She flashed her most charming smile back at him.
Strasburg shook his head. “The whole subject is depressing to me. Computers are taking over everything. The ‘singularity’ is nearly upon us, and humans will soon no longer be the highest form of intelligence on the planet.”
“The highest form of intelligence? I’m afraid we lost that title the day the first human invented the war club,” Myers said. “Maybe computers will do a better job at politics than we have.”
“Unless it’s the same politicians who are writing the software. As a trained software engineer, Madame President, I’m afraid you possess a distinct advantage over the rest of us.” Myers had been the CEO of her own software-engineering company before she ran for governor of Colorado.
“Hardly. It won’t be long until we’ve developed software that can write its own software, so we poor humans will soon be out of the loop.”
“That’s a frightening thought, Madame President,” Strasburg said. “I’m glad I won’t be here when that happens.”
“It probably already has, Karl. They’re just not talking about it.” Myers took another sip of coffee, then set the cup down on the table in front of her. “So, Ambassador Britnev, to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit today?”
Britnev set his cup down, too. “First of all, President Titov asked me to send his personal condolences to you at your time of loss. The Russian people grieve with you.”
“Please thank President Titov for me for his kind thoughts.”
“He also pledges any assistance he can give you in your search for the murderers. We are not without some influence in Mexico and President Barraza seems to be a reasonable fellow.”
“We would greatly appreciate any assistance he can provide,” Myers said.
“We also understand borders. Unlike you, we have a thousand-year history of enemies violating ours.”
“An ocean on either side is our distinct advantage.” She grinned. “And Canadians to the north. Couldn’t be better neighbors.”
“Yes, Canadians. An amiable folk. Not like the Azeris.”
Myers and Strasburg shared a glance. So that’s why he asked for this meeting. Oil-rich Azerbaijan had just changed regimes.
“I should think you would welcome a peaceful, nonviolent, and secular revolution on your periphery,” Strasburg said.
“With a curiously pro-democracy, pro-Western, and pro-NATO orientation,” Britnev countered. “They almost sound Canadian, don’t they?” He chuckled at his own joke. “But maybe they’re more like the Mexicans, also swimming in oceans of oil and instability.”
“We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we? But so far, the Azeris don’t seem to pose any problems for your government, or am I missing something?” Myers asked.
“I believe Khrushchev said much the same thing to Eisenhower when Castro first came to power,” Britnev said.
“It was the Soviet missiles Castro allowed onto his island that caused the problem, as I recall,” Myers said.
“Ah, yes. I believe that is a correct understanding of the history, Madame President.” Britnev smiled.
Myers held his gaze. Is he worried about NATO missiles being deployed in Azerbaijan?
“And as I recall, the United States has a history of resolving its border issues with Mexico in a very direct way,” Britnev added. “Should I inform our government to expect a few fireworks? Frankly, we wouldn’t blame you. Sometimes the iron fist is the only solution. Don’t you agree, Dr. Strasburg?”
“This administration is pursuing other options. As the proverb says, ‘If all one owns is a hammer, then every problem looks like a nail.’”
“We’re committed to reducing our military footprint around the world,” Myers said. “The global community is becoming an increasingly complex and finely tuned mechanism, but war is a blunt-force instrument. We’re also trying to get our financial house in order. Our spending has been out of control and maintaining the Pax Americana is proving to be too expensive.”
“Weakness is even more expensive, Madame President. As victims of international banditry ourselves, we can perfectly empathize with your dilemma. This is why we believe that the ultimate way forward is through mutual cooperation and understanding between our nations whenever it is possible.”
“I quite agree, Ambassador. The United States is fully committed to mutual cooperation and understanding with the Russian Federation. How can our meeting today facilitate that process?”
“As you are both well aware, there is a growing Islamist threat all over the world. So-called Arab Springs.”
So it’s not about NATO missiles. “The world is changing,” Myers said. “The dialectic of history, I suppose.”
Britnev shrugged. “But such uprisings don’t emerge victorious without intervention, particularly without modern weapons and military advisors, usually from the West. And unfortunately, the uprisings have been usurped by forces even more despotic than the regimes they have replaced, wouldn’t you agree?”
“We’re no longer in the nation-building business, Mr. Ambassador, I assure you. We can’t control outcomes when regimes change,” Myers asserted. “But we can’t stand in the way of natural forces, either.”
“But the West has played an active role in the toppling of several regimes in the past decade and continues to meddle in the Syrian civil war. Our fear is the Caucasus. Islamo-fascism is rearing its ugly head again on our borders.”
“That is why you should welcome the Azeri revolution. Democracy is your best buffer,” Strasburg said.
“Hitler was democratically elected,” Britnev countered, “which is why we’re not as confident as you are in the benevolence of democratically elected governments. We prefer reliable allies bound to us with mutual strategic interests. Syria, for example.”
Syria had been Russia’s last great ally in the Middle East. The recent events there upset Russia’s security policy in the region.
“We assure you that past Western support for emerging democratic movements against dictatorships has never been an attempt to undermine the strategic security of the Russian Federation. It was due strictly to humanitarian concerns.”
Britnev set his coffee cup down as he gathered his thoughts. “In your inaugural address, Madame President, I believe you expressed your commitment to the rule of law.”
Myers stiffened. “Of course I did. We are a nation of laws, and we have tried to help build a just social order by supporting the rule of law both within and between nations. It’s the only alternative to war.”
Britnev nodded and softened his voice. “How then did violating the sovereignty of a nation like Libya logically cohere with that sentiment, if I may be so bold?”
“I believe President Obama was supporting European efforts to enforce a UN resolution. Despotic regimes like Gaddafi’s Libya do not respect the rule of law and they violate the civil rights of their citizens. By helping to facilitate the demise of dictatorships like his, the United Nations is ultimately affirming the universal rights of the Libyan people to live in a nation and world of just laws.”
“Yes, of course. That seems perfectly logical.” Britnev paused. “I remember during the financial crisis that President Bush declared that he had to abandon free-market principles in order to save the free market. I suppose that is the same sort of idea?”
“All of that is in the past. I assure you, Mr. Ambassador. My administration has set a new course. The United States is out of the business of picking winners and losers. It’s a fool’s errand, at best, as recent history has demonstrated,” Myers said. “Without putting too fine a point on it, we can assure you that this administration is committed to refraining from any destabilizing activities in the Caucasus.”
Britnev turned his gaze toward Myers. “We have your word on this?”
“You do,” she assured him.
Strasburg leaned forward. “I trust that your government appreciates the wisdom of the American people for having elected such a thoughtful and logical chief executive?”
“Indeed we do, Dr. Strasburg.” Britnev turned slightly to face Myers. “Madame President, you have exercised remarkable restraint in regard to the Mexican crisis. I’m not sure I would have been as rational as you had I been in your place.”
“The biggest problem we face in our country today, Ambassador, is that we’re governed by feelings more than by our minds. I mean to change that.” Myers shifted in her chair. “I want to respect both the laws and borders of other nations, including Mexico. I trust that President Barraza’s government will deliver what justice it can.”
Myers checked her watch. “Forgive me, but we have another engagement.” She stood up, ending the meeting. Britnev stood as well.
“Thank you for taking the time to meet with me today on such short notice. I will convey to President Titov your assurances regarding the Azeris.”
Myers extended her hand. “Please convey to President Titov our warmest regards.”
Britnev took her hand in both of his and lowered his voice. “And please, all formalities aside. If there’s anything I can do, don’t hesitate to contact me.” Her grip relaxed in his warm, soft hands.
“Thank you, Mr. Ambassador.” She felt a tingle on the back of her neck and suddenly realized she was grinning a little too broadly for her own liking.
Myers watched him turn and leave, shutting the door behind him. She turned to Strasburg. “Eddleston was right. He’s quite the charmer.”
Strasburg shrugged, a thin smile on his face. “Cobras often charm their victims before they strike.”
7
Washington, D.C.
Later that afternoon, Senator Gary Diele, the senior senator from Arizona, was huddled together with General Winston Winchell, the current chief of staff of the United States Air Force (USAF). The two silver-haired men were devouring thick porterhouse steaks at Ernie’s, one of the oldest watering holes in the District. Dark lighting, leather booths with thick oaken tables, and discreet waiters had made this place a favorite of the Washington power elite for decades.
“Her own damn kid.
Can you believe it? I’d carpet-bomb Mexico City if they’d done that to my boy,” Winston grumbled as he chewed his steak.
“The president is vulnerable. She ran on a promise to scale back American foreign intervention. She can’t exactly run across the border with General Pershing in order to chase down Pancho Villa now, can she?” Diele cut himself another bite.
“Her failure to act makes us vulnerable. It makes us look weak.”
Diele grunted. “Who cares what the Mexicans think?”
“I’m talking about the Chinese. Do you remember back during the Clinton administration when a couple of our JDAMs accidentally hit the Chinese embassy in Belgrade? The Chi-Coms went absolutely apeshit. I was visiting the U.S. embassy in Beijing at the time. Tens of thousands of protestors surrounded the compound, throwing rocks and raising a ruckus. It looked like the damn Boxer Rebellion all over again. We were all trapped in there for days, including the ambassador.”
Diele chuckled. “I remember the picture of Jim Sasser’s face peering through the broken door glass. Looked like a scalded cat.”
“Of course, the Chinese government had organized all of that. They would no more allow a spontaneous riot in the capital than they would authorize a gay pride parade in the Forbidden City. The hell of it is, poor old Clinton kowtowed to the State Department China hands and taped a slobbering apology to the Chinese for allowing our ‘smart bombs’ to turn dumb all of a sudden. And you know what? The Chi-Coms wouldn’t let it air on Chinese television! Do you see my point? What we see as restraint, they see as weakness. What we view as an accident, they view as a direct assault. If they think they can get away with something, they will. They have the long view and the will to chase it. How do you think the Chinese government would have responded if the premier’s son had been the one gunned down in El Paso? There’d be Chinese paratroopers goose-stepping in the Zócalo before the week was out, and they’d dare us to do something about it.”
“Calm down, you’ll spoil your lunch,” Diele said. He took another bite of his porterhouse. “You and I are in complete agreement. But what can we do?”