Chapter 38 White Space

Gulag squeaked around in his chair, stroking behind the ears of a fluffy Norwegian forest kitten.

His two newly appointed image consultants sat before him with serious expressions, starkly contrasting the playful kitten and Gulag's relaxed demeanor.

The ongoing succession of therapy sessions had influenced his decision to try and repaint himself as a more palatable president; hopefully, the public would warm to his kinder image and sunnier disposition.

Several legal advisers from the Greenlandic Ministry of Justice were also in attendance.

"Before we start," Gulag said setting the proceedings.

"I would like to inform you that I am in a good mood today. I hope this meeting doesn't descend into the usual legal quagmires that keep getting presented across my desk."

The head of the commission commenced with the opening gambit.

"Mr. President! Public opinion indicates that you are seen as nothing more than a tyrant and a sadist."

"I have administrated a sufficient amount of the antidote to Ferox 13, is that not so?"

"Yes, sir," the legal head replied.

"But the people of Greenland feel enslaved by the new regime, and rumors of your experiments, well..."

Gulag contemplated the feedback from the public consensus, seeing if his yes men had the balls to condemn his part-time hobbies.

"So what you're saying is. We must find a way to address their concerns and regain their trust?"

"To put it bluntly, yes."

"With regards to my scientific exploits, I suppose I could target the prison population, the more unsavory types."

"That's a good start, sir; annihilating the lineage of Greenlandic families is not the right tact to take," said the legal head.

"However, it is important to prioritize addressing their concerns."

"Compassion!" Gulag commented.

"Yes, exactly," replied the legal head.

"All people want is money in their pockets and a warm bed to sleep in at night. People want to feel safe and secure, and addressing their concerns means providing them with the basic necessities of life."

"They would love me for it?"

"You would regain their trust," replied another member of the commission.

Gulag could feel himself growing in the role, Gulag felt presidential.

"Gentlemen you have talked of more money being in people's pockets. You've also expressed concerns about my vision for my cryptocurrency. Help me understand your perspective?"

“Sir, as representatives of the Kingdom of Denmark, we must advise compliance with a set of standards,” one said.

"And what is that?" Gulag asked.

"Greenland's financial regulations are bound by Danish and European law, which means we have to abide by the standards set by the EBP for blockchain technologies.

Gulag stroked his pussy, which purred contentedly in his lap.

"That is not a problem we should be concerned about; don't worry about it.

Besides, European law has no jurisdiction over my cryptocurrency. Wang and Pushkin have already disbanded the European Union."

Gulag's eyes swept over the sheaf of papers put together by the creative lead on the large, mahogany desk.

The documents, bearing the sketches for 'The Gulag' cryptocurrency logo, awaited his judgment.

"Explain to me the concepts of your masterpieces, then?"

"As you can see from the design's ergonomic form and clean lines, you get beauty mixed with functionality," said the image consultant.

Sketched abstract shapes harmoniously adorned laminated papers, following the natural contours of the human body.

They blended hues of reds, blues, yellows, and greens—none of which Gulag liked.

"The designs are cutting-edge," the consultant continued.

"We've worked with Microsoft, Amazon, all the big companies. It will perfectly capture your softer public image, Mr. President."

"Tell me why my suggested logo design is problematic again," Gulag said in an unusually Zen-like tone.

The designers exchanged concerned looks, dreading his reaction.

"Depicting skulls with Nazi symbolism could be seen as glorifying violence," said the designer.

"It would also be considered anti-Semitic, said the creative lead.

"Furthermore," cut in the legal adviser, "naming the cryptocurrency after yourself may violate laws against market manipulation"

Gulag whipped the cat off his lap, examining them under his vacant stare.

"And when have I concerned myself with what others believe?"

Gulag stood up and let out an exasperated huff, kicking over his desk chair.

"How dare you question my authority?" He barked, slamming his fist down with terrifying force.

"I am the authority in this nation! This currency will bear my name under my chosen design."

Gulag crept towards the nervous group.

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"Go and spread the word to your European friends. Anyone who defies the circulation of 'The Gulag' will face my wrath.

Now get out of my sight, before your insolence costs you dearly."

The image consultants and justice ministers fled without a second thought. Gulag then scooped up the tattered sketches and tossed the papers in the trash can.

There was a knock at the door. "Come in,"

Vander, the attaché, entered the office breathlessly, clutching a file to his chest.

"Sir, there's been a development."

"What is it now, Vander?"

"The daily Intel report has come in." Vander hurried over and handed Gulag the file, cheeks flushed from the cold outside.

Gulag flipped open the folder. "Well?"

"President Wang and Pushkin have dispatched envoys from their Ministry of Foreign Affairs. They're requesting a meeting."

"Foreign diplomats, you say? What dignitaries have they sent?"

"You can see for yourself, sir. They've just approaching upfront in an armored vehicle."

Gulag ventured over to the window, checking out the snow-covered capital city below.

A military jeep was making its way up the road. Gulag could make out the distinctive flags of China and Russia flapping wildly in the wind.

When the Jeep pulled up outside, Victor Petrov and Uncle stepped out, waving away an aide holding an umbrella.

Gulag broke into a grin. "Well, well. If it isn't Petrov and Uncle, perfect timing."

Vander called from behind. "Is there anything else, sir?"

"Yes, Vander. Cancel my meetings for the day and play host while I see what they want," Gulag replied.

"Also remind me tomorrow to replace the Greenlandic Ministry of Justice!"

"Right away, sir." Vander backed out of the office, quietly shutting the door behind him.

His visitors were beginning their long trek up the steps, no doubt bearing important news on Wang's and Pushkin's instructions to bring him into the riches of the elite's circle.

The opportunity he had been waiting for had finally arrived.

Within minutes, Petrov and Uncle were inside. Petrov shed his heavy fur coat, taking a seat by the fire with a contented sigh.

"The North sure knows how to welcome a man, wouldn't you say Uncle?"

Uncle removed his gloves slowly, his expression unreadable. "Hmm. Very warming."

"Gulag, it is good to see you, my friend," boomed Petrov in his usual Russian candor.

"Tell us, how fares your rule over this icy land?"

Gulag began bluntly. "Cold! I assume this is more than a social visit, gentlemen."

Petrov laughed heartily "See, a little acclimatization, and you grow your Russian stomach after all, Gulag."

Vander, the eager-eyed attaché, came in and brought over a tray of brandy snifters, the amber liquid sloshing as he set them down with a clatter.

"How are your living arrangements these days, Petrov? A lot warmer than mine I should imagine?"

"The invasion has gone well so far. Do you want to see some snapshots?"

Petrov flicked through the photo gallery on his phone, proudly showing Gulag snaps of himself in a Malibu mansion, parading himself with a bevy of young girls that would not look out of place on Baywatch; Uncle was in the background, reclining on a lilo.

"How thoughtful of you, Petrov. Was this taken after your jaunt on the cruise ship?" Gulag said, feigning enthusiasm.

"Looks like you have been living the high life as well Uncle?"

"Magister, my new lifestyle is none of your business."

"Is this the part in your little visit when you tell me of my deserved compensation?"

"Your time will come, Gulag," Uncle said.

"Wang and Pushkin are holding a summit; your financial compensations can be discussed with them."

"Then what is the nature of your visit, then?" Gulag asked with a hint of impatience in his voice.

"Unfortunately, it is a rather delicate matter that requires immediate attention," Petrov replied.

"We have not heard back from Lo Chen," Uncle continued.

"Why should I give a shit about Lo Chen?"

"Chen was following Grey and Robinson to the submarine docks, tying up some loose ends for us.

Now Grey's transponder has a dead signal. And guess what? No, Lo Chen." Uncle suggested.

"So what!" Gulag remarked, "Grey is dead. Chen is just an expendable intel office boy. Robinson is like a wet fart"

"The Bloodies were on that island!" said Petrov.

"They are mercenaries after all! Mercenaries that haven't been paid! Just like myself," Gulag shrugged.

"Has it not dawned on you that they might have just been blowing off a little steam and thus just killing everyone off? Who knows?"

"The Chinese Federation does not like ambiguity, Gulag. Especially when it comes to the intentions of people."

"You talk about intentions, Uncle. It should be the intention of the Chinese-Russian Federation to treat us like heroes.

Instead, you trap me in this joke of a country and question my men's loyalty."

"Nobody has questioned what you have done for the invasion. Both our countries place you in very high regard," said Petrov.

"The Bloodies are in transit as we speak. I will just ask them straight out. Is that what you wanted to do here?"

"It is just intell. You know how it works," explained Uncle.

"A small matter of diplomacy."

"We plan to stay for the night until tomorrow morning," said Petrov. "Then we head back to America."

"I trust your Greenlandic hospitality will be excellent," Uncle suggested.

"If I can be bothered," Gulag replied dryly.

"What is for dinner then?" Petrov asked.

"Penguin meat! Vander will see to your rooms."

Gulag walked over to the roasting fire, adding another log to keep the flames going strong.

Uncle and Petrov joined him for more drinks supplied by Vander. Gulag inhaled the scent of evergreen smoke and thought of his growing responsibilities.

Petrov sank into the cozy armchair, launching into exaggerated tales of Western excess, but Gulag noticed Uncle saying very little.

Perhaps he questioned the validity of Lo Chen's death, or Grey's for that matter. They toast to a successful journey so far.

Outside in the falling snow, Asp and the Bloodies stood huddled by their snowmobiles, eyeing the presidential palace windows above with Grey and Robinson.

"Do you think he'll go for it?" Dante asked gruffly.

Asp patted his rifle, slung across his back. "I don't know," he replied, "but if he doesn't, we'll make sure he does."

Just then a couple of shadows filtered past one of the windows, causing the men to fall silent.

"Petrov and Uncle," Grey murmured, recognizing the distinct outlines of their silhouettes against the radiance of golden flames illuminating the window.

As he unloaded the luggage from the jeep, Vander's eyes caught sight of a group of men huddled together in the depths of the blizzard, engaged in muffled conversation, their breaths forming small clouds in the air.

Gulag had informed him of more houseguests to come, he plowed Uncles and Petrov's cases into the foyer.

Asp passed a phone to Grey with a wad of cash.

"Take this until we get a lay of the land. We will call you when we are ready."

Asp and the Bloodies headed for Gulag's building, their eyes assessing the security layout of Wang's and Pushkin's footsoldiers from the watchtowers.

Grey and Robinson melted away into the snow, searching for an inn for the night.