Commander-in-Chief

35

The most-watched news channel in Russia was Channel Seven, Novorossiya, or New Russia, and the most-watched program was Evening News with Tatiana Molchanova. The striking raven-haired broadcaster was not only the favorite television news personality in the nation, it was clear she was also the favorite of Russia’s president. Volodin spoke to any journalist who managed to get a mike in front of him when he was out and about, but when he had either information or spin he wanted to deliver to the nation, he almost always went to the Evening News to sit live with Molchanova.

It had become such a routine that Tatiana had taken for granted that Valeri Volodin would come to her, but in the past six months things had changed. Yes, she still got exclusives with the president, but he no longer appeared in her studio — now she, and her production team, had to go to him.

Before the change in the arrangement between interviewer and interviewee, there had been difficulties of a logistical nature every time the Kremlin called the Evening News and said Volodin was on his way for an on-camera interview, because rarely did the TV station have more than an hour or two to prepare for his arrival. But the producers, the technicians, and Molchanova herself looked back to those days fondly now, because these days, the arrangement was significantly more difficult for them.

Now a call would come to a senior producer from one of Volodin’s trusted inner circle, and notification would be given that the president was requesting Molchanova and her crew to arrive either at his offices in the Kremlin or, and this had been the case exclusively in the past three months, at his personal residence in the suburbs.

Tonight was the fourth time the entire crew packed into a pair of helicopters and made the twenty-minute flight, landing on the lawn of a neighbor’s property and then rolling equipment to the gate in the wall of Volodin’s presidential residence. From here everyone was frisked and X-rayed before being loaded back into a van kept on the property for transporting deliveries up the hill to the main house. From the driveway they were led into a living room. Furniture was carefully moved, light stands were erected, audio and video equipment was plugged in and tested.

The satellite truck would pull up outside an hour after the helicopter arrived, and usually with only a half-hour or so to spare.

While the techs and producers worked together to assemble the set, Molchanova was led by one of Volodin’s female attendants into a bathroom off the kitchen, and here she took care of her own makeup. While doing this she listened to one of her producers through her earpiece while he read her intro and the few questions they had prepared. Tonight, as was often the case, she demanded some changes.

The questions were softballs by design. The crew of the Evening News had no specific knowledge of why they had been summoned by the president, so they needed to have only a few general setup questions ready to get the ball rolling. But even in the simple prepared opening, Tatiana Molchanova thought the tone wasn’t right.

She changed her opening because she had noticed a change in her president in the past three months or so. He seemed more defensive, more nervy and testy with her questions. Gone were the days of the easy sly smile and the subtle sexual tension she felt during the interviews. Now he was on guard, ready to take issue with the smallest point.

She knew her role — people joked that Channel Seven was “Volodin’s Megaphone,” after all — so she had never hit him particularly hard in her interviews, but now she wore kid gloves during their time together. And tonight, after the plane crash, she expected her president would be especially touchy.

At six-thirty Volodin entered the living room and strode past nearly two dozen attendants, inner-circle confidants, and Channel Seven employees on his way to the lighted set. He greeted Tatiana with a friendly kiss and a smile; outwardly, this looked much the same as it had for his entire presidency, but Tatiana could see a change in the look, feel a difference in his touch.

This used to be both business and pleasure for Volodin. Now it was all business.

He looked older to the reporter than he had the last time they saw each other, just a month earlier, at the opening of a new restaurant in central Moscow.

Volodin spoke first, because Volodin always spoke first. While she was still close in his grasp he said, “Miss Molchanova, you are looking more beautiful than ever.” Her blush had been painted on, but she flitted her long eyelashes and looked down with a wide smile. She felt his attraction to her, though there used to be some actual urges behind the sixty-two-year-old man’s words, and those seemed to have disappeared.

It was the stress of the job, she assumed.

“You are too kind, Mr. President.”

She started to escort him to his chair, but he held her tight for a moment more. “You will ask me how I can ensure the safety of our sons and daughters serving in the military when traveling into Kaliningrad Oblast. Let’s not get distracted by attention-grabbing headlines and salacious events. The main issue is Lithuania.”

He had given her hints in the past, directions for the interview, so she was not surprised.

“Of course.”

Nor was she surprised when he went further with his stage-managing of the interview.

“But not directly. We will come to it slowly. We’ll deal with the accident in the Baltic first, then the attack on the train.”

“Medlenno, da. Ya ponimayu.” Slowly, yes. I understand.

“Khorosho,” he replied with a thin smile. Good.

A producer wired the president with a microphone as he sat down, and then everyone sat awkwardly for a few moments, waiting to go live. Molchanova noticed Volodin fidgeting more than normal, but she averted her eyes, pretending to look down at the cards that held the same remarks and questions that would be broadcast on the teleprompter under the camera in seconds.

Mercifully, as far as she was concerned, they went live quickly. She sensed Volodin’s fidgeting stop suddenly on her left as she began to read the opening that she’d demanded be softened to spare her any icy response from the president.

“Mr. President, thank you so much for agreeing to speak with us today, as I know this must be a busy time for you.”

Volodin smiled. “It is my pleasure, but frankly, I have been busy since I first entered government service forty years ago. These days are consistent with what I have experienced for a long time.”

“Let me begin by asking you your thoughts of this morning’s apparent midair collision between a Russian aircraft and a Swedish aircraft.”

Volodin nodded; he was ready with his spin. “Of course it goes without saying, I regret all loss of life in this incident. In this regard I am unlike President Jack Ryan of the United States, who quickly ran to the first lectern he could find with a microphone on it and passionately decried the deaths of two hundred ninety-eight people, omitting the eleven on the Russian military transport aircraft. I find it telling that the American President can be so flippant by conveniently forgetting about the deaths of Russians, whose lives clearly hold no value to him.

“I will also add that the Russian aircraft was flying a legal flight in international airspace over the Baltic Sea. It had every right to be where it was and do what it was doing. It was the Swedish flight that had gone astray, though the Western media will make no mention of this.

“As our great military has taken to international waters and international skies, the West has reacted with fear and anger, and they have resorted to reprisals. This has been coming for a long time, and I have predicted something just like this would occur.

“The unfortunate souls on the Swedish airliner were pawns in the West’s game to pressure the Russian Federation to stay crouched and compliant within its own borders. The aircraft was sent off course by Swedish air traffic control under orders from the Swedish government, who in turn was taking its cues from the United States of America and Great Britain. It was their plan to create a provocative situation, a near miss, so they could use this as propaganda against Russia’s legal military maneuvers around the world.

“I truly hope nothing like this ever happens again, but to ensure this, I call on the governments of the West to stop their aggressive behavior in peaceful international skies.” He looked into the camera. “Russia rejects your detestable premise that we are not allowed to engage with the rest of planet earth. We have as much authority to go places and do things as the West does, and we will never surrender our right of self-determination to those who would keep all Russians boarded behind fences and walls.”

And that was that. Molchanova saw a restlessness in Volodin’s eyes and mannerisms that told her he was ready to move away from this subject.

She thumbed through her cards deftly, omitting some follow-up questions about the crash. Then she said, “Even before the accident of the two aircraft, Mr. President, there were other recent events, all in the Baltic region, that seem to have the world on edge.”

Volodin held a finger up and quickly leaned forward, a blast of energy. Molchanova was used to his mannerisms, so she did not flinch the way many foreign journalists did when interviewing the Russian president. “You put it magnificently, Tatiana Sergeyevna. You said they ‘seem’ to be on edge. And I am sure the simple population of many of these countries are genuinely horrified by the quickening of events there, but I ask them all to take care and say to themselves… Does this seem natural? A plane crash in the Baltic Sea, an attack in Lithuania on a train, on a natural gas facility? All in the same month? No, of course there is nothing natural to this all. This is well orchestrated.”

“By whom, Mr. President?”

“By the West. It is known by our intelligence services that the West feels their power waning over the nations that border the Russian Federation. A region we refer to as the ‘near abroad.’ Jack Ryan, the EU, NATO: They all want to surround Russia with their client states. Subservient governments who do the bidding of the cabal of countries who don’t share Russia’s strategic, economic, and national interests.

“The attack on the natural gas facility. Done by environmentalists? I am suspicious of this. The attack on the Russian military transportation train. Perpetrated by a little-known Polish paramilitary unit? I think this highly unlikely.”

“If you reject the official findings, Mr. President, who do you think was involved?”

“We Russians can point fingers at specific groups, actors, and states, but we would do well to get away from this, because we have one adversary. The West. Whether these were the actions of the CIA, the British MI6, Central European groups working on the behalf of America, or anyone else hardly matters any longer. Russia is under threat from a broad coalition of aggressive, hostile nations. Our safety and security threaten them for some reason, our love for our country and our customs and our desire for prosperity only enrage them. I find it sad to say this, but the evidence is clear. They are, simply put, enemies of the Russian Federation.”

Molchanova nodded thoughtfully and turned her head away from the president and back to the viewers at home, if only to read the next question on the teleprompter.

She said, “The United States has reacted with anger after claiming a Russian Borei-class ballistic missile submarine is now crossing the Atlantic Ocean toward its shores. Is there anything you would like to say to respond to the allegations?”

Volodin shrugged with an easy smile. “If you like, I’d be happy to respond.” Molchanova marveled at how completely he’d been able to morph himself from the man beset with nervous energy he’d been moments before the camera turned on to the calm, clever, and supremely self-assured chief executive he appeared to be now.

When he did not, in fact, respond, Molchanova cleared her throat. “And what is your response, Mr. President?”

A wider smile. “Perhaps it is out there. Perhaps it is not.”

“Do you mean a submarine in general or, like the Americans allege, the Knyaz Oleg?”

“The Americans should pat themselves on the back. They are correct in their determination that the Knyaz Oleg is fully operational and now part of Russia’s Northern Fleet. Whether it is in the Atlantic, in the Pacific, or patrolling the waters on Jack Ryan’s bathtub… this is something I will not reveal.”

“Of course,” Tatiana said, and she looked down at her next card.

“Unless you twist my arm,” Volodin added.

Molchanova glanced back up. She was a little confused about what she should say next, but Volodin’s testiness in some of their recent encounters was nowhere to be seen now, so she relaxed a little.

“Our viewers always appreciate your candor, when you are able to be candid, that is.”

“I will be very candid. It is very possible that one of our newest, greatest, and technologically superior submarines is, at this moment, in international waters, operating peacefully and within all maritime and international norms and limits… in the backyard of the United States of America.”

Volodin grinned.

Molchanova was stunned, and she struggled for both elucidation and closure of this topic. “If the Americans are correct that it is out there, on its way across the Atlantic, can you say what the purpose of such a mission would be?”

Volodin shrugged, leaned forward. “Pokazuka.” Just for show. He reached out and touched Tatiana Molchanova’s exposed knee, taking the hem of her skirt and pulling it down a little to cover it. It was an odd gesture, almost fatherly in a way that made it even creepier. Despite her years of experience, Molchanova was utterly taken aback. She struggled for something to say, but Volodin did not need her to say anything. He barely needed her in the room.

The audience was watching him, not her.

Molchanova remembered his direction to her and recovered quickly. “I wonder if you can tell the viewers, both here in Russia, as well as our large Russian-speaking audience all over the near abroad, how we can ensure the safety of our young service people who are stationed in the enclave of Kaliningrad Oblast, in light of the attack on the troop transport train passing through Vilnius last week?”

She saw from his look at her that she had pleased him by asking this question at this time, and she felt a wash of relief come over her.

He said, “I like you very much, Miss Molchanova, so I will use the opportunity of your news program tonight to make an announcement that I would normally make from my desk at the Kremlin. It is that important.”

She just nodded, urging him on.

“Our prosecutor general’s office has been loyally going through old cases for a number of years now, at my direction. Cases of theft, I am speaking of. I have long been concerned about things that may have been stolen from the Russian people — from your viewers, in fact.”

Molchanova was good, but she wasn’t used to working without a net. She had no idea what the hell the president was talking about now. Criminal matters in Russia?

“What… what things?”

“In the latter days of the Soviet Union, decrees and decisions were made without respect to the Russian people. One must distinguish Russia, the nation, from the Soviet Union, the amalgamation of nations.”

“Da,” Molchanova replied, only because Volodin looked at her in a way that told her a reply was demanded of her.

He continued. “The Baltic is an interesting case, I have always thought. This was land the Soviet Union won from the Nazis, on the backs of the Russian people. Russia bore the brunt of that war. Russia. Despite the fact the Soviet Union was the organizing body during the war, Russians fought, died, and earned the land of the Baltic through blood.

“The Soviet Union was acting illegally when it recognized Baltic independence in 1991, as at this time, the Soviet Union was an unconstitutional body. This land won by Russia, through a decree by an illegal body, was permitted to leave Russia’s area of influence. Everyone knows contracts signed by someone unauthorized to sign said contract are deemed immediately null and void.”

“But… what does—”

“The prosecutor has not been directed by me at all, although I have long felt the Baltic States should never have been granted release from our influence. Of course, he will do his work and look into all the details, the documents, the signatures, but in light of what has happened in Vilnius last week with the death of so many young, brave Russians, I encourage him to work diligently and quickly. There is no time to waste.

“Assuming he does, in fact, determine the recognition of independence was an illegal act, this will open the doors for Russia to revive the corridor between our friends and neighbors Belarus and Russia’s enclave of Kaliningrad. Lithuania is situated in the way of the safety of Russia’s commerce with itself, and if we need to ensure the corridor is protected from danger, we will do just that.”

Molchanova’s eyebrows were almost touching, so confused was she by what she was hearing.

But Volodin beamed as he spoke. “I have just today spoken with our wonderful friend and partner President Semyonov of Belarus, and explained to him the situation. He has promised his full cooperation with the results of the prosecutor’s office. If we need to reopen the corridor through Lithuania, Belarus will support us in that endeavor.”

Molchanova sat in awe now, staring at her president. He smiled at her, a cocked smile, almost a smirk of self-satisfaction. Like a chess champion who just declared checkmate.

She broke out of her stupor quickly, shrugged a little, almost apologizing for stating the obvious. “Yes. But… the Lithuanian government, it can be assumed, will not just let Russians enter their country and take the territory between Belarus and Kaliningrad.”

Valeri Volodin’s smile did not waver. “Tanks don’t need visas, Miss Molchanova.”