ONE
Few people presume to whisper into the ears of presidents. Fewer still are duty bound to do precisely that.
Ludmilla Kravchuk sat with practiced calm in a straight-back Louis Quinze chair. She wore a heavy skirt that, even when seated, fell demurely below her dimpled knees. Her shapeless blouse was cast in neutral beige, not by chance blending seamlessly into the curtained backdrop. Her earrings were modest, small cultured pearls in a gold claw setting. Her only other accessory of note was an ordinary wristwatch, this shifted above the cuff on her right wrist. It was conceivable she might be asked the time, but to be seen checking it of her own accord would be a grievous faux pas.
Ever so discreetly, Ludmilla reached down and slipped a finger into the heel of her right shoe. Sensible flats, battleship gray, the shoes had been furnished specifically for this occasion, chosen so as to not clash with anything worn by the two main actors of today’s show. Unfortunately, the shoes proved to be a size too small. No doubt, she would be rewarded with a blister by the end of the day.
Ludmilla would be situated at President Petrov’s right shoulder, her chair perfectly placed in the staged meeting area. The two larger and more comfortable sitting chairs were situated at a perfectly diplomatic slant, the armrests canted toward one another at a thirty-degree angle. Anything less might appear aloof. Anything more confrontational. This would be President Petrov’s first summit with the newly elected Iranian president, Ahmed Rahmani, and it was not to be mishandled. Or as the adage went in diplomatic circles, If everyone does their job, a completely forgettable event.
As if to keep the world off-balance, the meeting was taking place in Damascus. The Syrian regime was desperate to put the war behind it, and playing neutral host to its two greatest benefactors—or coconspirators, some might say—was a baby step back onto the world stage. In a notable snub, however, the Syrian president would not take part. He had been left behind near a tray of scones at the breakfast table while the two principals pursued the world’s real business.
They were presently standing at the head of the meeting room, the presidents of Russia and Iran, posing and smiling for a band of official photographers—three Russian, one Iranian—who were capturing a series of wooden smiles and handshakes to be beamed over news wires later that day. Under a backdrop of whirring and clicking, the two men approached the upholstered chairs with a decorum that would have sufficed in any house of worship. Once comfortably seated, there were more handshakes and strobes until, all at once, the presidential smiles blanked like a pair of lights being switched off. The photographers took their cue and were ushered from the room. Next to go were two small contingents of support staff, followed at the end by the respective security details, two clusters of serious men, one Slavic, the other Persian, who eyed one another with that mix of suspicion and bravado invariably reared into the type. When the great double doors finally closed, a disconcerting silence fell across the room.
Ludmilla took a deep breath. The meeting today would be among the most unusual between heads of state, a pure one-on-one: no whispering advisors or busy stenographers. Had the two men shared a language, even in the most rudimentary sense, Ludmilla was certain that she and her Iranian counterpart would not be in attendance. As it was, the specter of misunderstanding demanded their inclusion.
Her eyes connected briefly with those of the attractive young Persian woman seated to the left of the Iranian president. Ludmilla thought she looked nervous. There had been no words between them since arriving in the room, although they’d met earlier at the hotel, as interpreters often did, to establish a few ground rules. Her name was Sofia Aryan, and she had admitted tautly to Ludmilla that she was nervous about the meeting: this was but her second occasion interpreting for the new Iranian president.
Ludmilla harbored no such insecurities. She had studied Mideast languages at the prestigious Lomonosov Moscow State University, and later honed her linguistic skills at the special language academy of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Mastering both Farsi and Arabic, she had thereafter served in various embassies across the Middle East: Iran, Jordan, Oman, and most recently two postings to Syria. It was this, her experience in both Tehran and Damascus, that had put her at the president’s side for this summit. She would be his linguistic filter, expected to catch every verbal nuance and colloquialism, to neither editorialize nor embellish, and to present herself with paramount dignity. More subtly, but no less important: she had to do it all as a chameleon, blending into the surroundings.
In the three weeks since learning of the assignment, Ludmilla had committed herself fully. She’d memorized the name and location of every military base in Iran, and could cite employment statistics from the most recent government economic report. She knew the Iranian president’s extended family tree, his relationship with the ayatollahs, his penchant for European football, and that he enjoyed fishing for trout. Ludmilla would of course never steer a conversation toward any of these subjects, but if they arose naturally she would be comfortable with the vernacular in every case.
She waited patiently for one of the two men to break the ice. Russia’s ties to the Iranian regime went back to the revolution, and the war in Syria had brought the nations closer yet—an alliance of convenience by any measure. Now the two heads of state were meeting in the heart of the killing grounds.
Not surprisingly, it was Petrov who began.
“I am glad we could meet,” he said in Russian.
Ludmilla listened closely to Aryan’s translation—not so much for content, which was basic enough, but to get a feel for her pacing and volume. At this level, interpreters were expected to operate with carefully governed modulation, the volume subtly loud enough for their counterpart to double-check, and the interval not stepping on the other principal’s reply. Aryan seemed on task, if a bit measured.
“As am I,” Rahmani responded.
“I hope we can someday meet in the new villa you are building. The pictures I have seen are inspiring.”
The Iranian smiled, but a trace of discomfort shone through. Construction of the villa—the word palace carried uncomfortable connotations, regardless of how apt—was supposed to be a closely held secret, a necessary accommodation in a country whose economy had been suffering for years. The president of Russia, who began his career as a KGB officer, had made his first point: on matters of intelligence, Rahmani would be at a disadvantage.
With alpha status established, Petrov meandered to a bit of small talk about families and acquaintances. It was the usual banter of two leaders getting to know one another. Then, after some off-color humor about the American president, Petrov induced a sudden shift.
Copyright © 2020 by Ward Larsen
