Oath of Office

Yermilov passed him the fly rod without reeling in the line, causing no small amount of concern in Dudko that he might accidentally hook something before the president got the spinner in the water. It turned out to be a nonissue.

Yermilov roared with glee at each fish he reeled in, even going so far as to school Dudko on the proper way to land each bream or roach. “Excellent, Maksim Timofeyevich. I must use this vibrating spoon in Irkutsk in July. The cisco fishing there is superb this year.”

“With the added benefit that you can eat the fish,” Dudko said.

Yermilov darkened. “What do you mean by that?”

“The PCBs, Gospodin President,” Dudko said, wide-eyed now. “Mercury, other toxins. Any fish caught from the Moskva would be full of dangerous chemicals.”

“That is nonsense and you know it,” Yermilov scoffed, adding to the toxins in the water with a ball of spit he hawked from this throat. “It is perfectly safe to eat fish caught in any waters in Russia.”

Dudko gave the bobbing nod of the impotent. “I am sure it is, Gospodin President.” He had accompanied Yermilov on his annual fishing trip to Irkutsk to fish in Lake Baikal for the past eight years. It was inexplicable that he would not be invited again this year — but if the president was going to issue an invitation, this would have been the perfect opportunity. And then Dudko had had to make the incautious remark about eating fish from the Moscow River. How stupid of him. He knew Yermilov prided himself on the perfection of Mother Russia — even her toxic fish.

A murmur rose from the press gaggle, giving Dudko a moment’s respite from the president’s glare. A few of them looked at their mobile phones. Some took calls, nodding sternly, pretending that there was nothing even remotely as interesting in the world as watching the president of the Russian Federation catch fish that he was never going to eat.

Yermilov reeled in another fish, this one a sickly-looking bream with a misshapen dorsal fin. He gave a toss of his head toward the press line. “What are they going on about?”

The security officer nearest the journalists spoke to a woman behind a camera for a few moments, and then turned to stride quickly toward a more mature officer, the man in charge of the president’s detail. This one wore a dark suit and buzzed hair that showed the rolls of pink scalp above his ears. Dudko had never seen someone with muscles in their head like Yermilov’s lead agent. The elder security man listened intently, still scanning the area while the young man spoke in his ear, and then turned to approach Yermilov. He stopped some ten feet away until the president let go of the rod long enough with one hand to motion him closer. The security man passed him a mobile phone, whispered a few short words, and then took a step back.

Yermilov held the phone as far away from his eyes as possible with his free hand, turning away so the press could not get footage of him squinting. He continued to fish with the other free hand. A smile spread slowly across his face — no small thing for someone who believed smiles were generally the product of a weak mind. At length, he passed the spinning rod to the security man and turned to Dudko.

“Let us walk.”

Dudko complied at once, passing the president’s Orvis to the same security man, who promptly handed off both rods to the junior member of his team.

Yermilov showed the phone screen to Dudko as they walked west along the embankment toward Kamenny Bridge. “What do you make of this?”

Dudko scrolled through the article, waiting for the president to say what he made of the situation before chiming in. He might be able to recover from one slip, but not two.

“There is a lot going on with the United States,” Yermilov said.

Dudko offered to return the phone, but the president had read enough. Dudko slipped it into his vest. “President Ryan certainly has his hands full at the moment.”

Yermilov stopped and gazed across the river, eyes half closed, the way he did when he was coming to some conclusion.

“Operation ANIVA,” he said.

“This is a large step forward, Gospodin President,” Dudko said. He knew he had to tread carefully here, but the man did keep him around to offer some modicum of advice.

“Nonsense,” Yermilov said, turning to walk back toward the security team and the press gaggle, making it clear that there would be little more in the way of discussion. Dudko had said exactly the wrong thing.

“Think of it,” Yermilov said. “Floods, disease, an embassy under siege, and citizens who are finally aware of the great Jack Ryan’s duplicitous ways. One of his own senators has accused him of going after political rivals. He is much too busy to bother with a little military exercise, even if it happens to involve Ukraine. And what can anyone do once we have control? It is rightfully ours in any case. We have our Russian citizens there to think of.”

“This is true,” Dudko said.

Yermilov stopped, peering directly into Dudko’s eyes. “You believe me responsible, don’t you?”