Blackmail

4 WASHINGTON, D.C.

Dusk was settling over the city skyline as Ambassador Andrei Tupolev emerged from the rear entrance of the Russian embassy, slipping into the back seat of his limousine, its door held open by his driver. The door closed with a thud and a moment later, his car pulled into traffic on Wisconsin Avenue for the short drive to the White House. The driver said nothing during the transit and Tupolev’s thoughts turned to his pending meeting with the U.S. president, reviewing the information hastily provided by the Kremlin.

Ambassador Mushroom. That should be his official title tonight. Like a mushroom, he was being kept in the dark and fed manure. Which, in turn, he would feed to the Americans. Tupolev had been a diplomat for forty years and knew when he was being lied to. He had a suspicion as to what was really going on, and if he was correct, the American president’s reaction would determine Russia’s next step.

The American capital glided past him during the transit, and his car ground to a halt in front of black steel bars blocking the entrance to the White House. After the gate guards checked the ambassador’s identification and completed a security sweep of his vehicle, checking for explosives inside and underneath his car, the gate slid aside and Tupolev’s sedan pulled forward, coasting to a halt beneath the curved overhang of the West Wing portico.

One of the two marines stationed by the entrance saluted as Tupolev stepped from the car, and the ambassador nodded his appreciation as he made his way up the marble steps toward the White House. Standing at the entrance was Kevin Hardison, the president’s chief of staff, who greeted Tupolev, then led the way down the blue-carpeted hallway. Instead of heading into the Oval Office, Hardison turned left into a conference room. It took Tupolev a moment to realize what room they had entered and the irony therein. The Roosevelt Room.

Hardison guided Tupolev to the center of five chairs on one side of the table, then departed, returning a moment later with another man and two women, followed by the president. Tupolev stood as the president entered the room.

The obligatory greetings were exchanged, and Tupolev noticed the forced smiles on the American faces.

“Be seated, Ambassador,” the president said. He took a chair opposite him, instead of at the head of the table as expected. As he pulled his chair in, Tupolev noticed the portrait of Theodore Roosevelt on the far wall, literally framing the American president. The selection of the Roosevelt Room and the president’s place at the table didn’t go unnoticed. The Americans were making a subtle statement of their displeasure.

Tupolev settled into his chair as the other four Americans did the same, flanking the president. On the president’s left sat SecDef McVeigh and Secretary of State Dawn Cabral, while to his right was the president’s chief of staff and national security advisor. Tupolev’s eyes settled on Christine O’Connor, meeting her tonight for the first time. The rumors were true. Although she was half Russian and half Irish, her Russian genetics dominated; she could pass for a beautiful Russian woman anywhere in his country. Tupolev wondered if she had any idea whom she resembled. Under different circumstances, he would have taken a moment to enlighten her. Instead, Tupolev returned his attention to the American president, who placed a folder on the table.

“I hope you don’t mind if I get directly to the point.”

“Not at all, Mr. President. I don’t want to take up any more of your time than necessary.”

“I’m sure you’re aware by now,” the president said, “of what occurred off the coast of China yesterday.”

“Yes, I am aware.”

When Tupolev offered no other information, the president slid the folder across the table. “I’d like you to explain this.”

Tupolev opened the folder and examined the documents. After reviewing the evidence of Russia’s transgression, he closed the folder and looked up.

“On behalf of President Kalinin, I offer a sincere apology for this accident. President Kalinin learned a few hours ago that one of our guided missile submarines accidentally launched a missile salvo at your aircraft carrier.”

Tupolev slid the folder back to the president.

“You expect us to believe,” the president replied, “that one of your submarines accidentally launched not one, but twenty-four missiles at our carrier?” The anger in the president’s voice was palpable.

“Yes, Mr. President, because that is exactly what happened. The submarine crew was engaged in a training evolution, simulating a missile launch against a high-value target — your aircraft carrier in this case — and there was a malfunction in the fire control system. The launch command should not have been sent. Clearly, something went horribly wrong and I assure you we’ll investigate thoroughly and put additional safeguards in place to ensure this does not happen again.

“In the meantime, President Kalinin has agreed to pay reparations to any crew member injured in the accident and the families of those killed, and we will also cover the cost of the aircraft carrier’s repair. The details will need to be worked out, but Russia takes full responsibility for what happened and we offer our sincerest apology. President Kalinin would normally have called you by now, but he is aware of our meeting and is working to determine how this happened. I’m sure he’ll call in the morning, offering an apology of his own.”

Tupolev maintained a sincere expression when he finished, contrasting with the surprised looks from the Americans. No doubt, they had expected him to deny Russia’s involvement. Admitting culpability was a bold but savvy move.

“I have little else to offer tonight,” Tupolev said, “but I will brief you or your designated representative whenever we learn more.”

Tupolev leaned back slightly, waiting for a response. The president’s jaw muscles flexed as he digested Russia’s confession, most likely attempting to decide whether he was being lied to. Tupolev was telling the truth, of course. Someone in Moscow was doing the lying.

Finally, the president replied, “I appreciate your candid response, accepting responsibility for what happened. I hope you determine what went wrong quickly, so it doesn’t happen again. Please keep Secretary of State Cabral advised of what you learn.”

The president stood, extending his hand. “Thank you for joining us tonight.”

Tupolev shook the president’s hand as he stood, surveying the other four Americans. Not a smile in the room. “Thank you for your understanding,” Tupolev said. “We will work aggressively to ensure this tragedy is not repeated.”

The president nodded toward Hardison, who escorted the Russian ambassador to the West Wing exit. Tupolev descended the steps toward his awaiting car without a farewell from the American chief of staff.

He climbed into his sedan and the door closed with a solid thud again. After his driver slid into the front seat, he looked in the rearview mirror. “The embassy, Ambassador?”

Tupolev nodded and the car eased from the West Wing portico, reversing course toward the White House gate. Tupolev let out a deep breath. That had gone much better than expected.