‘They don’t debate. This is a rubber stamp,’ said Holland.
No one responded.
‘Sergey Grizlov, that’s the speaker, is saying the Duma has never ratified the border agreement,’ said Stephanie. ‘It was pushed through in 1990 when the Russian people were weak. This has impacted badly on the people in the Far East and the country’s economy. The United States took fifteen thousand square kilometers of sea that belongs to Russia. With the melting of ice in the Arctic region, many governments are interested in the new energy supplies and shipping routes which have cut the passage from Asia to Europe by four thousand miles or more. Therefore, the correct border now needs to be ratified by the Duma.’
Grizlov moved to the left of the chamber, stopping underneath a large wall screen in the corner. A map showed the mainland of Alaska and Russia’s Far East with oil and gas reserves shaded in and colored lines tracking new shipping routes created by the melting ice. A simultaneous English translation now came with the video feed.
‘The Arctic region has become the focus of attention for many friendly governments,’ said Grizlov. ‘By refusing to sign the United Nations’ Convention on the Law of the Sea, the United States has broken from the international community, making multilateral negotiations impossible. Russian patience has finally run out.’
A video appeared, grainy, jumpy. The hazy green of a night-vision lens showed paramedics running with a stretcher toward a helicopter on Little Diomede. ‘In the past few hours, Russian soldiers have saved the life of an Eskimo woman on this island of Little Diomede, or Krusenstern Island as we call it here.’
The thin beam of Grizlov’s pencil torch settled on Little Diomede. A video came up of a man, arms outstretched with a flashlight, on the island’s shoreline as if beckoning down an approaching helicopter. Grizlov said, ‘These islanders have been abandoned by their own government. They are desperate and pleading with us for help. We have now saved the life of the woman, or should I say girl — she is only fifteen years old — and her baby daughter. Both are well and resting.’
The picture changed to the inside of a clinic with a roof of military green. The young mother lay in a hospital bed next to an incubator. The Duma broke out into applause.
‘The conditions we are finding among the community of Krusenstern are truly dreadful,’ said Grizlov. The image moved to a large hall with bright lighting and dozens of people separated into groups. There were basketball hoops at both ends, the markings of a court and wall bars on one side.
‘In the school gymnasium, we have carried out basic medical tests and found that most villagers are anemic and their immune systems are vulnerable. The children are malnourished. This is a live feed. What you see is happening now. The abuse and neglect of the people of Krusenstern by the United States government is unacceptable under international law.’
Most villagers wore T-shirts or light clothing with thick outdoor clothes piled beside them. The younger ones wore headphones. Some played games on tablets. Military medics moved between them, crouching down, talking. They took temperatures and checked throats and eyes. A blonde woman worked with the medics, but she was not in military green. She wore jeans and a red denim shirt. There was something familiar about her that Stephanie couldn’t place.
‘How many times did I say that we needed to match Russia gun for gun in the Arctic?’ Holland challenged Swain. ‘And what did you do? You reduced troops and cut resources.’
Swain’s face turned to stone. ‘If you speak again, Mr President-elect, I will have you removed.’
‘Like Hell you will.’
A faded document, creased and brown with age, appeared on the Moscow screen. The writing was in Russian Cyrillic and at the center was a map.
‘This is the original 1867 treaty, when the United States bought Alaska from Russia for $7.2 million,’ said Grizlov. ‘It was a time when the Motherland was weak. But look at this—’ He zoomed in on the map. ‘The 1867 border follows a line that goes to the east of Krusenstern Island. It was agreed to keep these two islands as one community, part of Russia, because those living on them were from one family. Our two governments had no right to divide them. You cannot buy people and make them your citizens, forcing them away from their relatives. The concept is barbaric. There was no objection from the Americans. Indeed, many thought the purchase of Alaska was such a waste of money that they called it Seward’s Folly after Secretary of State William Seward, who signed the agreement.’
‘There is no original treaty,’ said Stephanie. ‘It’s been lost. This has to be a fake.’
The Oval Office was filling up, more uniforms, big figures from the military and intelligence services.
Grizlov split the screen to show the present border running between the two islands. ‘The false border was imposed by the United States in 1926 and agreed by the Central Executive Committee of the Soviet Union at a time when the USSR was focusing on internal matters. Even then it was agreed that trade and people would be permitted so that the native people of the Bering Strait would not be divided.’ He turned to face the chamber, his expression hard and angry. ‘But let me repeat, this exploitative border has never been ratified by either a Soviet or a Russian parliament. Today, in this parliamentary chamber, we are going to correct the historical wrongs. We will reunite the people of Krusenstern and Ratmonova islands. We will ratify the rightful border between the United States and Russia.’
A single screen showed the two islands belonging to Moscow, with a dark patch stretching twelve miles eastward indicating sovereign territory that placed Russia just thirteen miles from the American mainland. The Duma deputies rose to their feet, applauding, shaking hands, embracing. Grizlov repeatedly ran his red pencil beam up and down the new boundary line.
‘Mr President, Lagutov is on the line from the Kremlin,’ said Prusak.
‘Don’t take it,’ said Holland.
As the Duma’s applause subsided, the screen returned to the school gymnasium on Little Diomede.
A message reminder lit Stephanie’s phone. She opened it, read it once, then again. She rested for balance against the edge of Swain’s desk. She looked back at the screen. Of course! How dumb of her not to connect! The blonde woman, now talking to a tall Russian colonel, was Carrie Walker whom she had met in Kabul, seven, maybe eight years, ago.
They spent an evening hunkered down in the British Embassy with more than one bottle of red wine, while Carrie berated the world for the bloodbaths in the Muslim world. Stephanie liked her. You couldn’t be human and work in such conditions without a strong reaction. As they said goodbye, Carrie apologized for making Stephanie her punchbag. ‘Next time you need to lash out at someone, it’ll be my turn.’ Next time, Carrie had looked Stephanie up when she was at a conference in Moscow. Stephanie was British Ambassador, combating an angry husband, and she needed a drinking buddy to talk to. Much to the alarm of her bodyguards, the two of them hit the town, cocktails, dinner, nightcap, and then another. But why was Carrie on Little Diomede? A rebel heart, yes, but with the Russians? Surely not.
Swain was poised to take the call from Lagutov. Stephanie showed him and Prusak the message, Carrie + 80 held school L. Dio, explaining that Carrie was the blonde doctor in the video.
‘We have a phone track on it.’ Prusak read raw data streamed in from the National Security Agency. ‘A T-Mobile SIM card registered to Dr Carrie Walker, contract taken out at the Court Street store in Brooklyn. That phone is running through a Wi-Fi hotspot set up by—’ He went quiet, digesting the information. ‘A private cellphone registered to a unit with the Russian 83rd Airborne Brigade. No individual name.’