The envelope lay in the seat of his chair. It was thick and unopened. He never opened his own mail. He never received anything personal. At the very least he hoped they’d X-rayed the letter. People could make bombs out of the most innocuous and compact packages.
There was no return address, just Kartsev’s typed name. He opened the letter. It was from the President of the United States.
Kartsev settled into his chair with a smile.
After reading and then re-reading the letter, Kartsev slipped out of his shoes and lifted his stockinged feet onto his desk. Well argued, he thought as he reclined with his computer keyboard in his lap. The man has a well-ordered mind. He proceeds logically from point A to point Z, connecting all his arguments in between.
‘But, alas…’ he said to no one. He typed the short reply himself.
‘Dear Mr President. Pardon so informal a reply to your letter, but I find e-mail suits my needs best for the moment. With respect to your reasoning as to why I should relinquish my role as ideologean for the “Anarchist Movement,” I must say that I find your logic to be impeccable. I am certain the world would be a better place if I were to do as you requested… from where you sit. However, we do seem to find ourselves with slightly divergent interests, don’t we? As for your appeal to my patriotism in reference to the war in Siberia against China, might I remind you of what anarchy stands for?
‘The border over which you fight is an arbitrary line demarking the limits of power presently exerted by two competing systems of human tyranny. The concept of a “nation” is itself what anarchy is meant to abolish. You are the leader of the strongest nation on earth. You may draw whatever conclusions you wish from that about my desire to cooperate with your government.
‘Sincerely, Valentin K. Kartsev.’
Without so much as a quick proof, Kartsev hit ‘Send.’ After a momentary delay, his message was at the White House.
So easy, Kartsev thought. He then resumed his writing with newfound vigor.
‘So this is it?’ Gordon Davis asked — holding the sheaf of papers.
‘That’s the execution copy,’ the White House counsel said. Gordon and the others looked his way. The young man opened his mouth to amend his awkward reply, but decided in the end to say nothing.
There was a select and oddly diverse gathering for the event. In addition to Davis’s personal lawyer, he had invited the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, the chairmen of the two houses’ intelligence oversight committees, and — of course — the Director of the CIA.
Gordon leafed through the pages one after the other. He stopped on the section entitled ‘Findings.’ Everyone in the dimly-lit hospital room waited. Their eyes bored holes into Gordon as he read. It was a perfunctory act. He knew he would sign the order. He’d directed it be drawn up and these witnesses invited. But to complete the formal act he needed to pay correct attention to the carefully drafted paperwork.
‘Based upon the best evidence available,’ Gordon read, ‘Subject is responsible for planning, training and directing over 147 acts of international terrorism leading to 429 dead and 238 wounded.’ The second paragraph levied a new set of charges. ‘National intelligence sources estimate that Subject has personally ordered the murder of over 1,200 of his own citizens. In addition, his repressive state security apparatus has summarily executed numbers of persons estimated to be anywhere from 10,000 to 60,000.’ On and on the allegations went. ‘Subject’s crimes against humanity also include instigation of a civil war which left over 100,000 dead and another 160,000 wounded.’
The sheer weight of the numbers was numbing. Were 429 dead from terrorism somehow more heinous a crime than 100,000 Russian dead from war? Why else was it that such a small number warranted anything more than, at most, a footnote? But it would’ve been a footnote that included heads of state. Members of Marshall’s cabinet. Phil Bristol. And — twice — almost Gordon himself. And Elaine, Janet and Celeste, Gordon thought — grinding his teeth.
They all watched him. Gordon didn’t need to read on, but he did for appearances’ sake. And as he read, the grounds for the order grew more shaky. ‘Subject personally ordered policies that have led to starvation and disease that have claimed upwards of 300,000 lives.’ Gordon would have left out that count. It was weak — sounding like bad economic policy even though Gordon knew it was ethically equivalent to the most loathsome of criminal acts. And then he came to the last paragraph on the single summary page. ‘Subject is the motive force behind the spread of an ideology that debases the essence of human institutions and values, and seeks to undermine the moral and ethical tenets and precepts from which all liberal democratic governments derive their legitimacy.’
Gordon looked up at his counsel. ‘I want this last paragraph out,’ he said. Heads all dropped to read the page to which they had all turned.
‘All right, sir,’ the lawyer said in an agreeable tone. ‘We were just giving you the full menu from which to choose.’
‘And you might as well take out the paragraph before it, too,’ he said. ‘The one about starving his people.’
‘Well, that one isn’t really legally distinguishable from the paragraph preceding it, sir,’ White House counsel advised. ‘Instigation of a civil war is as accepted a crime against humanity as a war of aggression.’
‘All of which,’ the Chief Justice intoned, ‘are based on dubious jurisprudential reasoning.’
Gordon’s lawyer didn’t reply.
‘Why not just stick with the first couple of paragraphs?’ Daryl Shavers proposed. ‘We got him dead to rights on international terrorism and mass murder of his own people. We’ve got recorded confessions from some of those poor bastards about the training camps and the orders to carry out attacks. And we’ve got that computer file we decrypted with that bizarre way he orders people killed. “Schedule A” or whatever it was.’
‘I agree with Daryl,’ Gordon said. He took the pen and struck everything on the page but the first two paragraphs.
‘We do have some evidentiary problems with that computer file,’ Gordon’s lawyer pointed out. ‘We don’t have a good chain of custody back to a credible source. The disk was delivered to us anonymously.’
Gordon was too busy initialing in the margin beside each of the stricken paragraphs to reply.
‘Look,’ the Director of the CIA said impatiently, ‘I know this has to be done legally. But does it really matter what the words in that executive order say? Is there anyone who can dispute the fact that the son-of-a-bitch is a mass murderer?’
‘Done,’ Gordon said to cut the debate short. He flipped to the signature page. ‘By order of Gordon Eugene Davis,’ Gordon read out loud, ‘President of the United States of America, be it hereby resolved and directed that Valentin Konstantinovich Kartsev be apprehended and brought to trial or, failing apprehension, executed by appropriate means and in a manner designed to cause minimal collateral damage.’
‘My counsel,’ the CIA Director interrupted, ‘has real problems with that phrasing, Mr President.’
Gordon looked up at the drafter. ‘What the hell is this?’