The Ballad of Nixon and Brezhnev

Chapter 6 - Locker Room Red Scare

Richard Nixon was wide awake inside the magnificent halls of the Geneva house, even though it was still a dark and cloudy night outside. His cloud from the booze had turned to deep paranoia. In his personal space, he strode back and forth while muttering to himself. His eyes darted to the walls, as if they might suddenly begin to divulge Soviet secrets.

With his fists squeezed hard behind his back, he thought, They're watching me. Brezhnev's operatives—they have been observing me all along.

When he had staggered back from the drinking competition earlier that evening, he had glimpsed two of Brezhnev's assistants hunched in a corner, having a quiet conversation. Even though he didn't speak a word of Russian, the way they looked at him and the way one of them grinned was enough to send his already unstable head into a tailspin. He made the decision to act.

"They must be up to something," Nixon said aloud to no one, pacing more frantically now.

"Brezhnev's playing nice, but his Russky goons... they're spying on me. They got to be."

"Kissinger, bring me someone who could translate from Russian to English, pronto," he said to Henry.

"Are you sure about this? It looks like he played into your insecurities," asked Henry, skeptic about the decision.

"Just do it, Henry! I got no time for that Russian bastard's shit."

He was pacing, waiting for the translator to be brought in through flight from London, as reported. If those close to Brezhnev believed they could unseat Richard Milhous Nixon, they were in for more. After looking through his possessions for a while, he picked up an ashtray, a pen, and a little notepad. Perfect, he thought to himself as he balanced the ashtray on top of a corridor door. It would make noise if someone opened it and the ashtray fell out. Satisfied with his haphazard security precaution, he smiled.

He gave the necessary tools to the Russian-American translator, Andrew Davidoff, a 20-something blonde man, reported to be one of Roy Cohn's secret twinks. Davidoff then crept over to his door, pressing his ear against the wood. He listened intently, hoping to catch even the faintest sound of Russian whispers. Nothing.

Frustrated, he tiptoed out into the hallway, the shadows long and eerie under the dim lighting. He made his way down the hall, stopping outside Brezhnev's quarters. Voices—he could hear them! Davidoff crouched low, pressing his ear against the door, heart pounding.

The voices were muffled, but he recognized the cadence of Brezhnev's aides. They were laughing.

"...волосы как у пуделя..." one of them said, sending the others into a fit of laughter.

Nixon frowned, straining to hear more. He caught a few more words between their cackling. "...слишком большой нос..."

Whoa, now that's a burn, Davidoff thought. I haven't heard such audacious words since Queen Crystal LaBeija opened her mouth, he also thought.

"Hello Sir President, Sir," Davidoff addressed Nixon nervously.

"So, what did those ice-butt Russky goons say about me?" Nixon asked, enthusiastically.

"Well, uh...they said your hair is like a poodle, and uh, you have a nose that's uh, that's too big, Sir. Yeah..." Davidoff concluded the message, not sure how to leave the premises.

Hair like a poodle? Too big of a nose? It didn't take a genius to figure out they were mocking him. His heart sank, but soon that sinking feeling turned into a familiar rage.

They're laughing at me. They think they can mock me right under my nose!

Nixon turned scarlet in the face and withdrew into the shadows, backing away from the entrance. Breathing shallowly, he felt a knot tighten in his chest. He thought sourly, this is exactly what they want. They're attempting to frighten me and discredit me. It started with the poker game, moved on to drinking, and now this. Suddenly hyperaware of the way his hair flared out on the sides, he ran his fingers through his thinning hair. Poodle, my ass.

Determined to turn the tables, Nixon rushed back to his room and grabbed his notepad. He began scribbling furiously. "Operation Eagle's Eye," he muttered under his breath. "I'm going to catch those ice-butt bastards in the act."

His surveillance scheme was ludicrous from the beginning. Nixon, taking his cue from a spy thriller, tried to bug the corridor outside Brezhnev's chamber by amplifying the sound with a half-empty glass of scotch and a little transistor radio. Naturally, the device was ineffective, but that didn't stop him from trying with a different glass.

In the meantime, Kissinger banged on Nixon's door, unable to sleep because of the thin walls and his growing loud muttering.

"Mr. President?" Kissinger called softly. "Is everything alright in there?"

Nixon, startled, shoved the makeshift surveillance equipment under his bed. "Henry, you retard, keep your voice down!" he hissed, cracking the door open just enough to poke his head out. "They're listening to us."

Kissinger blinked, visibly confused. "Who the fuck's listening?"

"Brezhnev's people. They're spying on us—on me. They've been watching, Henry, I fucking know it. They're in there right now, making fun of my how I look." Nixon's eyes darted down the hallway before locking back onto Kissinger. "I need you to help me catch them."

Kissinger pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath. "Mr. President, I really think you're overreacting. This is Geneva, not Watergate. Brezhnev's aides are likely just..." He trailed off, not knowing how to phrase it delicately. "...just blowing off steam. You know how guys are. That was just locker room talk."

"Blowing off steam?" Nixon snapped. "It's so obvious that they're undermining me, Henry! Making a fool of me while I'm supposed to be holding this damn summit together."

Kissinger sighed. "Sir, I highly doubt their casual trash-talk had anything to do with our negotiations."

Nixon's eyes narrowed. "You didn't hear what I heard, Henry. They think I look like a fucking poodle, a fucking poodle!"

Kissinger paused, clearly trying to suppress a smirk. "Well, sir, perhaps it's best not to let those ice-butt bastards under your skin."

"Not get under my skin?" Nixon seethed, his face turning red. "I'm the President of the United States, damn it! I will not be laughed at by a bunch of Soviet lackeys."

Kissinger recoiled because he realized he couldn't possibly convince Nixon at this point. "Mr. President, why don't we get some rest? Tomorrow's negotiations are far more important than whatever those men may or may not have said."

Nixon waved him off. "Go to bed, Henry. I've got work to do." He closed the door, leaving Kissinger shaking his head in the hallway.

Nixon's paranoia gripped him for the next hour. Convinced that there were cameras or listening devices hidden someplace, he scribbled notes and made rough blueprints of the hotel's layout. Perhaps they have bugged my chamber as well, he thought, casting a wary glance at the chandelier.

In a desperate attempt to catch them red-handed, he tried to slip into Brezhnev's chambers but stumbled over the ashtray he had earlier balanced on his own door. Following a tremendous crash that sent multiple Secret Service members reeling down the hallway, Nixon was discovered sprawled on the floor, murmuring under his breath about Soviet spies.

Nixon glared at his surroundings as they assisted him in standing. Everyone knows it, he realized. I'll show them, though. I remain in charge. If only he could make that argument to himself.