The Target

by Saul Herzog

  “It has everything to do with the bombings. They proved what I’ve been telling you for thirty years.”

  “That they’re weaker than they look,” Kirov said.

  “They’re not just weak, Kirov. They’re made of straw. We could do anything right now and get away with it.”

  “Anything, sir?”

  “Within reason.”

  “We don’t have the deterrent we once had,” Kirov said. “They no longer think of us as an existential threat.”

  “That’s where they’re making a mistake,” the president said, sucking on his cigar so that smoke billowed from his mouth in opaque puffs of cloud. “They’re at war, they’re locked in a struggle for their very lives, a struggle that can have only one outcome, one victor, and they’re too up their own assholes to realize it.”

  “They live in a dream world, sir.”

  “Did you see what’s on the front page of The Post this morning?”

  “I did not, sir.”

  “A National Park,” the president said derisively. “Montgomery wants to create a new one. He wants to protect birds, Kirov.”

  “He’s obsessed with petty interests, sir.”

  “Birds,” the president exclaimed, slapping the table. “I just fucking blew up the Moscow Embassy, killed his diplomats. Marines’ corpses were strewn all over the street. And this pussy is talking about a bird sanctuary.”

  “Their news cycle is incapable of remaining focused.”

  “Kirov,” the president said, his eyes flashing brightly. “We’re going to hit them again. And this time, we’re hitting hard.”

  “How hard, sir?”

  “We’re taking back what’s ours.”

  The waiter came over with a plate containing what Kirov immediately recognized to be casu martzu. He’d seen the dish before, a traditional sheep’s cheese from Sardinia, but had never tasted it. During the fermentation process, the cheese was allowed to quite literally decompose, to the point that fly larvae grew in its pungent fats and began crawling around in it. According to the Sardinians, the larvae were what gave it its flavor. They also claimed it had to be eaten while they were still alive.

  Kirov could see them now, tiny translucent worms that wriggled around on the skin of the cheese and fell off onto the plate.

  The president ran his finger around the edge of the plate, crushing them, and then putting it in his mouth.

  Kirov took a sip of his wine and tried not to let the revulsion show on his face.

  “You eat it like this,” the president said, cutting into the cheese and revealing a veritable metropolis that squirmed and writhed with life. It brought to Kirov’s mind a rancid, infested wound.

  White puss quite literally seeped from pores in the cheese crust, and the president said, “They call those teardrops.”

  “I thought this cheese was banned,” Kirov said, watching in horror as the president scooped it up with a spoon and put it in his mouth.

  The president shrugged. “It’s a tradition,” he said. “It’s a way of life. The bureaucrats will never understand that they can’t stop people from simply living their lives.”

  Kirov knew better than to skip the course. Everything was a test.

  He put his spoon into the opening in the crust. When it emerged, worms wriggled and writhed and fell from it, leaving a trail across the table back to Kirov’s plate.

  Kirov put the cheese in his mouth and swallowed without chewing. He followed it with a large gulp of champagne.

  “Tell me,” the president said, putting more of the cheese into his mouth, “how you would describe the situation of our western frontier.”

  Kirov answered without missing a beat. “Our entire European border is the front in a new Cold War, sir.”

  The president smiled. It was what he wanted to hear. It was also what Kirov truly believed, which was why he’d been allowed to prosper while so many of his peers had found themselves, sleeping with the fishes, as the Corleones would say.

  “It’s an Iron Curtain,” the president said. “It always has been. It never collapsed. It never fucking collapsed.”

  Kirov nodded, serving himself another scoop of the cheese, only this time allowing himself to taste the squirming larvae in his mouth. His life had been a progression in acquiring difficult tastes. Strange, expensive delicacies, pungent single malts, why not a rancid, maggot-ridden cheese? It was nothing compared to the taste of blood, and he’d grown quite accustomed to that.

  “We’ve been aggressive,” the president said, “and it’s paid off. Just look at the Ukraine and Georgia.”

  “So now, we take the next step,” Kirov said.

  The president smiled. “And what do you think that step should be, Kirov?”

  “Sir?”

  The president smiled. “Go on. Take a guess.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know, sir.”

  “Don’t be a pussy, Kirov.”

  Kirov swallowed. He had no idea what the next step was, and he didn’t want to offend the president by guessing incorrectly. All he knew was that he wanted to be a part of it.

  “Well, sir,” he said, “we’re meeting in Saint Petersburg. That would suggest something involving the Western Military District command.”

  “You see,” the president said. “That’s why you’re my best lieutenant. We understand each other, you and I.”

  “I believe we do, sir.”

  “I want to take back Latvia.”

  Kirov nodded thoughtfully, trying to look impressed while avoiding giving any hint of skepticism.”

  “I think your timing is impeccable, sir.”

  The president smiled. “I didn’t just call you here to congratulate me, Kirov. I want to know what you think.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “I want to know what risks you foresee.”

  There was a moment’s pause while Kirov fed on the larvae and tried to savor their texture. It wasn’t easy.

  “Well, sir,” he said once he managed to swallow the cheese, “Latvia is not Ukraine. This won’t be like our occupation of the Crimea or South Ossetia. The world will take notice.”

  The president nodded. “I know Latvia is a NATO member,” Kirov. “I know what that means. I know it’s an EU member. I’ve been there. I’ve spent Euros there.”

  “The Americans are bound by international law to step in and defend Latvian sovereignty. Any attack must, by law, be treated as an attack on American soil.”

  “We’ll see about that,” the president said.

  “Do you think the US is ready to abandon its NATO obligations?”

  “I think,” the president said, dangling his spoon over the cheese, “I think that times change, Kirov. When you and I were young men, Latvia was an integral part of the USSR. They spent rubles. The Soviet military had bases.”

  “That’s true, sir.”

  “And times changed.”

  “Yes, they did, sir.”

  “And if they changed once. They can change again.”

  “It’s a risk, sir.”

  “If we’re going to regain our position in the world, Kirov, we’re going to have to take risks. Latvia is the first of many. It’s a domino. The first step. It’s precisely because it’s a NATO member that I want it. I want to show the world that we can take anything we want. That no one’s safe.”

  “You said the world would take notice.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I want them to take notice, Kirov. I want nothing more than for them to take notice. I want our military on the screen of every cable news channel in the world. I want those maps where the color red flows from Russia and spreads over Europe like spilled ink.”

  “Or blood,” Kirov added.

  The president smiled. “What appetite is there in America to stop this, Kirov?” he said.

  “Sir?”

  “Come on. You live there. I’ve been to your apartment on Fifth Avenue. I’ve seen the way you live. You’re among them, Kirov. You see what the
y see. You eat what they eat. You smell what they smell.”

  “I’m not sure that qualifies me to predict…”, Kirov said.

  “I’m not asking you to predict. I’m just asking for your opinion.”

  “My opinion?”

  “Latvia is a NATO member. NATO is the most important, the most powerful defensive alliance in the history of the planet.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “If I take Latvia, does Ingram Montgomery have the appetite for war? Does he have the balls?”

  “Sir, well, frankly, it depends.”

  “I don’t want to hear that, Kirov. Yes or no.”

  “Sir,” Kirov said, taking a sip from his glass. He felt as if the temperature in the room was getting steadily hotter. “Sir, if we do this, if we want to get in clean, we’re going to have to be fast. If we catch them by surprise, the president, he won’t have the balls to pull the trigger.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “As long as we’re quick, I think I can say yes. Americans care about NATO, but they care about other things more. And to be honest, I don’t think you’d be able to find a single random person anywhere who could point out Riga to you on a map.”

  “You’re quite sure, Kirov? Don’t tell me what I want to hear. Tell me the truth on this.”

  “Sir, they’re tired of these endless wars in far-flung places for people they’ve never heard of, places they’ve never heard of. Do you know how many lives they lost fighting in Afghanistan?”

  “I do, actually,” the president said.

  “So do they, sir. So do the people. And they’re tired of.”

  “But we have to be fast, you say.”

  “Well, it won’t only be the president who makes this decision.”

  “Who will it be?”

  “The cabinet. The Joint Chiefs.”

  “They’ll follow the president.”

  “They understand the strategic importance of NATO. They know that if Latvia fails, that Lithuania will be next, and then Poland, and then Germany. If they have enough time to persuade the president, he’ll follow their advice.”

  “So we’ll be fast,” the president said.

  “We’ll need to be very fast,” Kirov said. “We’ll need to be in Riga before the president or anyone else in the cabinet has time to digest what’s happening.”

  “How fast?” the president said.

  “Lightning fast,” Kirov said.

  The president nodded.

  “And then,” Kirov said, his voice growing hesitant, “there’s Levi Roth.”

  “Roth,” the president spat.

  “He’ll be for war, sir. I can promise you that. He’ll be out for our blood, whether the rest of the cabinet approves it or not.”

  “Levi Roth is a spent force, Kirov. He was for war when I went into the Ukraine. He was for war when I bombed the embassy. What good has it done him?”

  “He’s not a spent force entirely, sir,” Kirov said, and his eye met the president’s.

  The president knew what he was referring to. The asset. Spector. He was a danger entirely in a class of his own. He’d been inside the Kremlin. He’d been inside the president’s estate at Novo-Ogaryovo. He didn’t play by the rules, and he was a threat not just to the interests of the state but to the regime itself. To the president personally. To Kirov. The top players.

  “Spector,” the president said. “What can you do about him?”

  “I could have him killed,” Kirov said, but even as the words left his mouth, he knew they rang hollow.

  “If you could do that, you’d have done it already.”

  “I’ve got agents on hand,” Kirov said.

  “Do you have someone you’d be willing to bet your life on?”

  Kirov shook his head.

  “Do you have someone you’d be willing to bet my life on?”

  Any attempt to kill a man like Lance Spector had to succeed. You only got one shot against a man like that. And you didn’t take it unless you were guaranteed a hit. A miss, and that’s it. Game over. He would come for you, and there wasn’t a place on the planet you’d be safe.

  “I think I’ve got a better approach,” Kirov said. “Something … safer.”

  “Safer for who?”

  “Us.”

  The president bit his lip. This was a critical detail. Whatever else he had planned, he had to know that this assassin wasn’t going to come looking for him.

  “Spector’s got a weakness,” Kirov said.

  “What kind of weakness?”

  “What kind do you think?”

  The president smiled. “A girl.”

  Kirov nodded.

  “If you lay a finger on her,” the president said.

  “No,” Kirov said. “Not that.”

  “What then?”

  “All we need to do is make sure Spector is distracted. This operation is going to be so fast that as long as we can guarantee he’s not personally involved, it will be over before Roth activates him.”

  “You’re going to distract Lance Spector?”

  “Just leave it to me, sir. I know what to do. It will be effective.”

  “And it will be…”.

  “Safe, sir, yes. You have my word.”

  The waiter came over and removed their plates. He asked if they wanted something else to drink. They’d made it through the first course, and the bottle was empty.

  The president looked at him. “The next course is?”

  “Songbirds, sir, served with polenta.”

  “Delicious,” the president said. “How about the Didier Dagueneau?”

  “Very good choice, sir.”

  The waiter left and returned with a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. He opened the cork carefully and offered the president a taste. The president passed the glass to Kirov, and Kirov picked it up and inhaled deeply before taking a sip and swishing it around his mouth. He tasted grapefruit peel and minerals.

  He nodded, and the waiter poured them each a glass.

  Kirov reached for his, and somehow, by some curse of fate, he knocked it over.

  The glass rolled across the table and was about to fall off the edge when the president caught it.

  He looked at Kirov.

  “So sorry, sir. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “Three thousand dollars a bottle,” the president said.

  “I know, sir.”

  The president looked at him very intently. He looked ferocious. Angry. Then a smile crept across his lips.

  “Relax, Kirov.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kirov said.

  “You’re shitting your pants.”

  “This is a big risk, what we’re talking about.”

  “You’re worried about Spector?”

  “I’m worried about NATO, sir. What if I’m wrong? What if the alliance isn’t as decayed and atrophied as I just said?”

  “Well,” the president said, “I’m willing to gamble against this US president. He lacks nerve. I just leveled his embassy, the whole world saw it, the whole world knew it had to be me, and he did nothing.”

  “There’s talk of sanctions.”

  The president waved his hand in the air. “Parking tickets,” he said.

  Kirov nodded. He took a deep breath. The waiter returned with a fresh glass and refilled it. When he left, the president said, “Kirov, I need you to listen very carefully.”

  Kirov had picked up the glass, but he put it back down without taking a drink.

  “The best type of war to be in,” the president continued, “is the war the other side doesn’t see.”

  Kirov nodded.

  “Do you follow my meaning?”

  “I think so, sir.”

  “The Americans are not ready for this. Given time, I know the generals would get the president to the right response. They’d walk him like a child through the steps and coddle him to the conclusion that the time for war had come. I know that. But we’re not going to give them time. We’re going to strik
e like an arrow, and we’ll be in Riga before they even know we crossed the border. It will be a fait accompli. Any talk of a response will be too late. They’ll have no choice but to accept the reality on the ground.”

  “Sir, what if we can’t move fast enough?”

  “How fast do we need to be?”

  “Every minute after we cross the border, those generals will be working on the president. We don’t need to be as fast as an arrow. We need to be as fast as lightning.”

  “I can be in Riga in six hours,” the president said.

  “Who told you that?”

  “Zhukovsky.”

  “Oleg Zhukovsky?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Sir, Oleg, he’s loyal.”

  “He’s GRU overseer for the Western Military District.”

  “Quite so, sir. Yes. But there are concerns…”.

  “Concerns?”

  “I mean, sir,” Kirov said, backtracking. It wasn’t his job to tell the president about rumors he’d surely already heard. “Sir, six hours. That’s basically the time it would take a T-14 to get from the border to Riga.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Assuming no delays. No blown bridges.”

  “They won’t have time for that.”

  “We hope.”

  “Zhukovsky says it can be done.”

  “Sir,” Kirov said hesitantly. “I’m not certain even six hours is going to be fast enough.”

  “Well,” the president said, “how do you propose we get there faster? Aircraft?”

  “NATO’s air defenses,” Kirov said. “That’s their most developed capability.”

  “Race cars?”

  “Sir, we’re going to need … contingencies.”

  “Contingencies?” the president said.

  “We’re going to need to cover our tracks. Blind the enemy. Confuse the public.”

  “All right.”

  “Sir, execution will be extremely complex.”

  “That’s why I’ve got you, Kirov.”

  Kirov smiled thinly. He feared it might come across more as a snarl and brought his napkin to his mouth.

  “Don’t be modest, Kirov,” the president said.

  “I’m not, sir.”

  “This is going to be the singular achievement of our lives.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “If we can restore Russia to the greatness of the Soviet Union, they’ll be talking about us for centuries.”