It was actually a very enjoyable evening. I joined in with some warm-up katas, even though my rhythm was off due to my unfamiliarity with their routines. Then there was a general training session, and that was very interesting. In addition to judo, Putin was an expert in a discipline called sambo, which was a Russian variation on judo and wrestling. I watched as he showed me several moves and then I attempted them on a couple of the club members, with Putin giving some expert instruction in his accented and broken English.
Then we got into the sparring, with the club members and Putin and myself sitting on the floor mats surrounding the circle. I had told him that we couldn't fight, but that simply meant several others wanted to try me out. It wasn't really obvious to me how they selected opponents, whether it was by a scoring system from previous matches, and where I would fit into the system. Vladimir was quite good, and handily mastered his first opponent. Then I found myself facing a rather large fellow with mixed Mongol features who was about twenty pounds heavier and twenty years younger. I could see in his face a slight sneer. Several others had been egging him on to teach the brash American how things were done in Moscow. Great! This guy was fighting for Holy Mother Russia!
I glanced over at one of my protective agents and saw him holding up his hands, three fingers on one, and a single finger on the other. I guessed that he meant we had three to one odds against me. I flashed all five at him, meaning the full five hundred, and he nodded, and went back to the one of the Russians.
I could see that Putin had a bit of a set to his jaw. It was obvious that he wasn't amused by how things turned out. If I got hurt, it was going to be on his ass. I just smiled at him and shook my head slightly. In for a penny, in for a pound. I climbed to my feet and went to the center of the ring, exaggerating my limp. My opponent's sneer became more pronounced, and he said something in Russian to a friend, and I am sure it was rude. I glanced at the clock, wondering how long this was going to take before I got hurt. We bowed to the referee, and then bowed to each other, and the ref clapped his hands and it was on.
And it was over, almost as fast. We circled to the left for about five seconds, and then he came in on me. He threw three quick punches and I blocked them, and then he stepped back and we circled slowly a bit more. I feinted with my bad right leg, and that suckered him in. He came in throwing another couple of punches and I had him. I blocked two punches and then slipped to his right side and behind him. I backhanded him, medium hard, to the back of his neck, stunning him, and then used my 'bad' right leg to kick his feet out from under him. I grabbed the front of his gi and rode him to the mat, hard, where he landed with a thud. I pulled my right fist back but held it, because he was out cold. I glanced at the clock again. It had lasted 27 seconds.
I let him lay there and climbed to my feet. Over us the ref was simply staring down in disbelief. I cleared my throat, drawing his attention, and I bowed to him. Then I moved back to my seat next to Vladimir, as a couple of fellows came out of the circle and slapped his face and roused him. He was helped out of the room to the lockers.
The room was quite silent, and then suddenly a cheer went round. Putin slapped me on the back and smiled, saying, "Good! Good! He nekulturny!" I blinked at that and nodded. I understood that to mean uncultured, rude, or boorish, and that seemed to be true.
That was the climactic moment of the evening. Both Vladimir and I had two more matches, and we won them both. Neither of mine was as brutal or as quick as that first one, but both of my opponents behaved better, and didn't allow themselves to get suckered in. I took a couple of thumps from my last opponent, but beat him on points anyway. At the end, I groaned loudly and shook his hand; I groaned again when we all went back to the locker room to shower and dress. I definitely had a few bumps and bruises.
Vladimir came over in the locker room with a big smile on his face, and carrying an icy bottle of vodka and two small glasses. I smiled back. I'm not a big vodka drinker, but a drink would be good. He poured the glasses to the brink and handed one to me. "Nostrovia!"
"Mud in your eye!" I downed mine, and then watched as the translator tried to translate that.
Putin looked confused, but shrugged and refilled the glasses. "Mud in your eyes!", he toasted.
I chuckled and replied, "Nostrovia!" This time we did the linked arms toast I remembered from seeing Patton a million times, as a cameraman took some shots. Afterwards I told him that if he were to visit the U.S. in the future, I would make sure to take him to see the orchestra I supported and that way our wives would remain happy. That earned me a laugh.
On the way back to the hotel, Ari looked incredibly relieved. "Happy now, Ari?", I teased.
"You have no idea, Mister President!"
I smirked at him. "Oh ye of little faith ... Ari, I've been doing martial arts since I was 13. I had my first black belt before I even went into the Army. I'd have never have done this if I didn't think I could hold my own. By the way, who told the press? We're going to have to put up with their foolishness on this, aren't we?"
The agent riding with me handed over a folded wad of bills. I grinned at him and said, "Ooh, goodie! I can pay for Christmas presents now!" That got me a laugh. I unfolded the bills and saw they weren't American greenbacks. "Please don't tell me we were betting in rubles."
"Euros, sir."
I handed them back to him. "Good enough. That's hard currency, too. When you get a chance, find a bank, either here or in Tel Aviv, and swap it for dollars. Did you guys get in on the action, too?"
"Yes, sir."
"Excellent!"
Ari looked horrified at all of this. "Please don't tell me you were gambling!"
"I guess I won't tell you, then."
He groaned. "You are going to be the death of me, Mister President."
"Think of the great book you're going to be able to write when you leave the White House! 'I Survived Carl Buckman', by Ari Fleischer. You'll make a fortune!" I replied. Ari simply groaned again.
It wasn't all sweetness and light that night. By the time we got back to the hotel, I had a problem back home. United Airlines had decided that the new FAA requirements were too onerous, and they had a lawyer who told them to fight. They were 'FAA guidelines' and not 'legislation'. In other words, they wanted to delay things and get them watered down or eliminated in Congress. A few campaign contributions would be cheaper than actually preventing another crisis. The new guy at the FAA had bucked it up to Transportation.
I ended up on the phone with the Secretary of Transportation Norm Mineta. "What are these guys up to, Norm? They figure with me halfway around the world they can stop this and present me with a fait accompli when I get back?"
"That's really it in a nutshell, Mister President. Their theory is that the FAA has no authority to order these changes, and they won't accept them without Congress passing a law requiring them to do so. They can delay that to their heart's content.", he answered.
"This is something they already agreed to, right?"
"They would have agreed to butchering babies in Times Square if it could have gotten them flying again after 9-11, Mister President. Now that they see what the bills are, they're balking.", he replied.