Oath of Office

“It goes without saying that the video is not real, but in it, you are seen assuring General Mbida that you will back him in a coup against President Njaya.”

“All right,” Ryan said. “Let’s get the rest of the principals in here.” By that, he meant the principal members of the National Security Council. Those already present in the Oval were principal attendees, but an incident like this called for the chairman of the joint chiefs, D/CIA, and, at the very least, White House counsel. He looked at Foley. “Deepfake? That’s what you called it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Ryan tapped the pencil on his knee again, working through the possibilities. “Two of these videos coming to light in a matter of hours can’t be a coincidence. There’s a state actor behind this — and I’m betting it’s not Cameroon.”

13

It seemed like a great deal of commotion for one man to go fishing.

A phalanx of black ZiL sedans and BMW motorcycles painted militia white and blue, blocked each end of Bol’shoy Kamenny and Bol’shoy Moskvoretsky — bridges crossing into the center of Moscow — snarling already horrendous traffic by forcing afternoon traffic to detour to the Ulitsa Krymsky to the west or Ustyinsky to the east. Apart from roving members of the Presidential Security Service, vehicles were now nonexistent in the uppermost arc of the Moskva River south of the Kremlin. Snipers armed with modern Orsis T-5000 precision rifles parked themselves behind powerful scopes on either bridge, scanning the river and adjacent buildings as if their own lives depended on their vigilance. Militia patrol boats to the east and west halted all maritime traffic.

A gaggle of heavily vetted journalists stood with their cameras and recorders on the other side of a rope line, a hundred feet to the east along the concrete embankment. Russians in general thought it foolish to smile for no reason, but these men and women approached the assignment of watching the president of Russia with all the gusto of a press that was free to write exactly what it was told to write. Most of them smoked or drank strong tea from metal thermoses, paying only rudimentary attention to the two fishermen.

Maksim Dudko stood on the bottom of the concrete steps leading down from the Sofiyskaya Embankment, and cast his line with an expert flick of his wrist. He began to reel immediately, drawing a sideways glance from President Nikita Yermilov, who considered himself a purist with his eight-hundred-dollar Orvis fly rod.

Dudko found himself ever in the shadow of his former cohort at the KGB — but the shadow of the most powerful man in Russia could be a very comfortable place. For one, he got to go fishing within sight of the Archangel cathedral’s golden domes without having to fight for a spot with some idiot with a stick and piece of string. Dudko retrieved his lure, checked over his shoulder to make certain he didn’t hook a roving security man, and then flicked another cast into the foamy brown water. He stopped reeling long enough to dab at his eyes with a tissue. The winds were from the south this afternoon, bringing the sour stench of sulfur dioxide and something that smelled a good deal like burned popcorn from the Gazprom Refinery a scant ten kilometers away inside the Moscow Ring Road.

Yermilov stripped out a few feet more from his reel and began to flick his rod, placing the fly exactly in the center of the eddying current seven or so meters upstream. Purist or not, one had to admit that the president was extremely good at the artistic side of fly fishing. Unfortunately for everyone, that did not mean he could catch fish.

“What are you using today, Gospodin President?”

Yermilov flicked the tip of his rod, whipping it back and forward and back and forward. He let the fly settle on the water for only a few seconds each time — certainly not enough time for a fish to even notice the thing. “My favorite violet leech,” he said. “A certain winner at this time of year.”

“Excellent,” Dudko said, hooking his third perch of the afternoon. The president gave him a withering stare and then glanced quickly at the gaggle of press. They appeared to animate slightly each time a fish was landed.

“And you?” Yermilov said. “A spinning rod, of all things. With what monstrosity are you flailing the water today?”

Dudko smiled. He hadn’t survived this long without understanding the president’s veiled meanings. They were so deep sometimes as to be positively subterranean. He gave an embarrassed shrug. “I am using a vibrating spoon. In truth, it is not altogether sporting.” He continued to reel, pausing for a beat as if mulling something over. “To be honest,” he said, “I would not mind giving that violet leech a try… if I might trouble you, my old friend.” He held out the spinning rod, silver spoon dangling, dripping water — and the tiny jawbone of his last catch.