9

Wednesday, January 20, 2021, 7:00 PM Moscow Standard Time (11AM Washington Time)

It was early evening; the sun had set hours earlier. Streetlamps illuminated a light snow shower as if presenting a picture postcard of Moscow for the personal benefit of the president as he sat at his desk in the Kremlin. His deputy knocked lightly on the door and leaned in. The president waved him in without looking up.

“I would say congratulations are in order, Gospodin Prezident. It’s a big day in Washington, Vladimir Vladimirovich,” the deputy said.

“And why would you say that, Sergei Borisevich?”

“Well, the man we prefer seems as though he has been allowed by the courts to have another term, despite much opposition. The swearing-in begins shortly.”

“And I should be congratulated for this?”

“I think many people are saying that we – you, really – may have had a hand in causing this thing to happen,” Sergei replied.

The president was silent for a moment.

“Many people say many things,” he finally said.

“Well, from what I have seen personally, then, the Internet Research Agency has been quite effective in pursuing our interests by nontraditional means,” Sergei replied. “Vyacheslav Viktorovich did a hell of a job. To pull off the same thing in two consecutive elections? Against a vastly superior power? At almost no cost to us? I wish I had done half as much.”

“And you think they were responsible for this result?” the president asked, his face betraying nothing.

“I think… I think it almost does not matter whether they did it or not, this time. If Americans think they did, after all the controversy the first time, well, it’s almost the same thing as the actual deed. Maybe better.”

The president pondered this for a moment, and then said, “Sergei, I would like you to arrange a thorough briefing for me on this Agency’s efforts. I want you to contact Slava Viktorovich and have him take me over there to speak with the people involved. Not the managers – they are unimportant.”

“I believe his brother-in-law manages the facility,” Sergei said. 

The president made a face at this.

“I want the visit to be a surprise,” the president said. “But I want to be able to speak to the people responsible for our efforts since the previous election. If what I hear is accurate, in this world of hacking there are rarely more than a handful of people who are actually of any importance. Maybe even only one. I would like to talk to this one person, if possible. As soon as it can be arranged.”

“Without delay,” Sergei said, getting up with alacrity. “I will get on the phone to Slava forthwith.”

“Sergei,” the president said, rubbing his temples with his fingers, “We need to be very careful in considering how we handle this President and his party from now on. Until now he has been almost a perfect vehicle for our national interest. But he may be far from a reliable apparatus going forward. I want to know what sort of leverage we may have over him and his party. I have heard many things. I would like to know what is true and what is govno.”

“Very good, Gospodin Prezident.”

“We have invested a great deal in this President, and in his party. To date, the substantial amounts we have sent through various deniable channels have reaped benefits far in excess of anything we might have expected. We have compromised that party fairly thoroughly. But I sense we may be reaching a point of diminishing returns, where the benefits of continuing this strategy may be outweighed by the benefits of turning on the Republicans and leaving all political sides in the United States in disarray. We need a bottom-up review of our U.S. subversion strategy. I want you also to brief me personally on our campaign contributions, and also on the Deep Fakes program – you know that effort, the one where we are able to manufacture videos of anyone we want in any sort of activity we want.”

“Understood. I shall do these things expeditiously, Gospodin Prezident.” Sergei turned on his heel and left the office.

The president looked out the bulletproof one-way window at the lights below. It was a typical Moscow winter night, but he could sense a change of season.

 

© 2020 Nolan O’Brian