May 3
1322 Avenue of the Americas
Midtown Manhattan
CIA Station NYC
New York City
5:27 P.M. EDT
“That was quick,” Larry said.
“Maybe I’m not as shitty a poker player as you seem to think,” the President answered.
They were alone, with Billy Carson hustling off to what he had termed “minor details that need settling,” and April Hansen summoned to what a CIA interrupter had termed “new developments” to which her own attentions were urgently required.
That left Larry and the President a few moments to spike a triumphant football alone, if only figuratively speaking.
Between them was a bottle of very expensive Scotch on the conference room table, requisitioned from Larry’s own desk drawer; it was flanked by two very large glasses: tumblers, requisitioned on Larry’s suggestion from the downstairs cafeteria, the criteria being both of immediate availability and the glasses’ very generous volume capacity.
Larry took one, lifted it in salute to his Commander-in-Chief.
“You are a shitty card player, Joe. But you might consider inviting Putin to one of our poker games. Him, it seems you can beat.”
The President chuckled.
“Did you like the way I put it? Telling Putin to stop fucking around, in those exact words?”
“My favorite line is when you told him he had five minutes before he’d see how much fun he’d have running a Third-World country.” Larry did not try to repress his grin. “And before he could even answer, Moscow went dark.”
The President shook his head.
“I thought I told Carson to make his people wait until after I hung up. But what the hell? I suppose it worked better having it happen in the middle of our little talk.”
“Timing’s always a little dicey in any covert op,” Larry said. “Trust me on that. NSA got a little overeager, that’s all.”
“I also admit the other point you made, Larry, when you were reaming out my tail in front of Hansen and Carson earlier. But sometimes it helps to have a reputation for being, shall we say, a little impulsive. Especially when you’re running a bluff. Putin folded like a wet paper tent when the lights went out over there.”
“Hey,” Larry shrugged. “All’s well that ends well.”
The President snorted. “This isn’t over, not by a long shot. Not to be ‘impulsive,’ but we’re going to make somebody pay big for all this. But don’t worry: We’ll do it the smart way, whatever that turns out to be. So if I ‘pop off’ a little, as you so charmingly put it, know that it’s only for show.”
“For show, maybe some of it. But I’d be sad indeed if everybody stopped saying ‘It’s just Joe being Joe.’ That’s what makes you a national treasure … Mr. President.”
This time, they both raised their glasses; this time, to each other.
“You going to order the lights turned back on in Moscow now, Mr. President?”
The President of the United States of America leaned back in his chair, propped his feet on the exquisite polished mahogany of the table, and crossed his ankles.
“Not yet. A few more minutes. Let Putin sweat for a little while more. Then I’ll call him back, he and I will get down to the real nut-cutting. And do some serious talking.”
They sipped their drinks in silence, and in no small measure of contentment in a job well done.