by Leslie Wolfe
The anchor set his hands gently on the news desk in front of him, preparing his exit.
“We will keep you informed with reactions to the announcement of Bobby Johnson’s candidacy. From Flash Elections, this is Phil Fournier, wishing you a good evening.”
...Chapter 17: A Full Tank
...Monday, January 4, 4:47PM EST (UTC-5:00 hours)
...Benning Avenue near Anacostia
...Washington, DC
Light snow flurries melted on impact with his windshield. Jimmy Doherty groaned and turned on his wipers. He was struggling to see straight as it was, but the wet windshield was making it worse. He slowed down a little bit more, crawling at twenty-five miles per hour or so and receiving angry scowls from drivers forced to pass him. He was not feeling that great, he had to admit.
A light chime caught his attention. His gas level indicator came on. He looked around, and with difficulty, he forced his blurry vision to identify the familiar markings of a gas station. Maybe it was time to stop. He wished he had taken a cab. With a sigh, he pulled into the Shell gas station on Benning.
He climbed out of his car, and the effort left him breathless. He leaned his forehead against the car’s cold and wet roof and closed his eyes for a minute, trying to regain his strength. Very slowly, he pulled a credit card out of his wallet and authorized the transaction at the pump. Getting the pump nozzle into the gas tank and starting the flow of gasoline took every ounce of energy he had left. He turned around and leaned against the car, looking at the snow flurries coming down in a blur.
A shot of pain froze his left arm. He gasped for air, but he wasn’t getting any. The pain expanded up to his neck and jaw, compressing his rib cage and leaving him almost paralyzed. He reached for the call button on the side of the pump but stumbled and fell on his knees, then buckled on his side. The pain was more bearable like this, lying down. Maybe all he needed was to lie down for a while. Eyes half open, he watched blurred flurries hurry down, melting one after another, until he slipped away.
The pump nozzle clicked shut with a loud noise. The tank was full.
...Chapter 18: A Difficult Conversation
...Tuesday, January 5, 9:24AM Local Time (UTC+3:00 hours)
...The Kremlin
...Moscow, Russia
Mikhail Nikolaev Dimitrov unbuttoned his coat and relaxed a little on the back seat of his black, bulletproof Mercedes G-Wagen. The car heated well and fast, and his driver, Sasha, knew how to keep the car on the road despite the slippery layer of ice on top of last night’s snow. Ah, the Russians still don’t know how to clean the streets. Dimitrov sighed. Winter always takes Moskva by surprise.
Dimitrov looked out the window. They were approaching the Kremlin from the south, from across the river Moskva, now frozen solid. Sasha was preparing to turn off Bolshaya Polyanka and onto Mokhovaya Street, approaching their destination.
Dimitrov fidgeted uncomfortably. He dreaded the meetings with his boss, President Abramovich, despite their life-long relationship dating back to their early KGB years. He was one arrogant, unstable, dangerous bastard, hungry for power like no one else. And a drunk, of course, a loud, uncontrollable, violent drunk. Most Russians liked their sauce, and that’s no wonder, considering the cold weather and crappy economy; people needed an outlet. In Russia, drinking is a culture, and vodka is present in all houses, no matter how poor. But there has to be a limit, there has to be control, Dimitrov thought, especially when you hold a public office of such importance. Dimitrov liked moderation, which was an essential balancing feature for the minister of defense of the Russian Federation.
Dimitrov wondered for the tenth time that morning what the meeting was going to be about. Was it Crimea again? Abramovich simply could not get it in that thick and conceited skull of his that one cannot invade a foreign independent country like Ukraine and have no consequences to deal with. Now the crazy bastard wanted to invade half the world to make someone pay for the reactions to the Crimea situation. He scratched his forehead, thinking hard of new ways to calm the psychotic rages of his boss, if today was going to be one of those days.
“Dobroye utro, gospodin ministr.” The door to the Kremlin was being held open for him by a young and enthusiastic Kremlin guard.
“Good morning,” he responded as he walked through the door.
He walked the familiar corridors and cringed a little when he was told the president would see him right away. It was serious this time.
“Come right in, Dimitrov,” President Abramovich invited him in with urgency. “You have to tell me how we get rid of these bastards and their stupid sanctions. They’re insulting us every day. They’re spitting in our faces, and we do nothing about it. Why?”
The bastards were the leaders of the Western world, who had united in support for Ukraine and had imposed numerous sanctions on Russia following the annexation of Crimea. Those sanctions had not ceased and were causing Abramovich immense irritation.
Dimitrov chose his words carefully before speaking. Abramovich was famous for throwing his opponents, or anyone else for that matter, in jail with or without cause. That’s why Dimitrov wasn’t about to tell him that there was little he believed could be done combatively.
“Gospodin president, there are several things we could do. We could respond with sanctions in return and prepare a strong statement advising them not to meddle in Russia’s internal policy. We could—”
“Are you the minister of fucking industries?” Abramovich interrupted brutally. “From you I expect military action, not economic sanctions. What’s our military response to this insult?”
“Gospodin president, we cannot attack the whole world at the same time,” he spoke hesitantly.
“Don’t come in here and tell me what we cannot do. We can do many things. We have tanks and planes and guns. We have satellites, and we have soldiers. We have Mother Russia to defend!” Abramovich ended his statement by slamming his fist down.
Mother Russia was not under attack. Mother Russia had attacked another country, but Dimitrov was not going to insist on that point of contention. On occasions, his passion for logical reasoning and for stating the truthful facts had caused him serious trouble. But he was learning.
“Who would you like us to start with?”
“The Americans! Who do they think they are, telling me what I can and cannot do in my own house, with my own people? They think me impotent, and they laugh at me. Yet they’re sanctimonious, arrogant, and entirely screwed up. That son-of-a-bitch Mason tells me that I have no right to Crimea, any more than Cuba has a right to Florida. Ha!” He stood and started pacing the floor, his anger building and his self-control vanished. “Crimea is about the Russian people coming home to Mother Russia. It’s our land, it always has been, and always will be.”
“Did you receive another call from President Mason?” Dimitrov asked, as calmly as he could.
“Yes, yes, what have I been telling you? Are you even listening to me? What are you going to do about it?”
“The sanctions are hurting the West more than us—”
“The hell with the sanctions! They threaten me, and I threaten them back ten times worse! We’ve done that! Give me military action!” He stopped to catch his breath and let out a long sigh. “I miss the days of the great KGB. Those men knew how to get the job done, any job! I never had to tell them twice. If people needed to be killed, they would be killed. Or removed. Or whatever was needed. With honor and love for the motherland.”
Abramovich’s career had started in the KGB, where he had risen through the ranks with a speed fueled by his unlimited ambition, monumental hubris, and willingness to sacrifice anything and anyone to reach his goal. Or for no reason at all. Before he had turned forty, he was feared more than he was respected, but in the ranks of the KGB that had worked quite well in his favor. During Gorbatchev’s time in the Kremlin, Abramovich had risen to be the youngest KGB general in the history of the feared State Security Committee. He had also grown to be deeply
disgusted by Gorbatchev’s obvious pro-West policy, and by his famous transparency and openness. Gorbatchev’s damned glasnost and perestroika had led, ultimately, to the fall of the USSR, to the destruction, the devastation of Mother Russia. History was never going to forgive him, and neither was Abramovich.
Abramovich had sworn to himself he would right this wrong one day and restore the greatness of Russia. Now the Kremlin was finally his, and no effort was spared to restore that greatness, the magnificent power of the nation that, not so long ago, had ruled over, or influenced half the civilized world. His battle had started there, in Crimea, where the strategic port of Sevastopol held the key to naval access to the Black Sea, and through the Mediterranean, to the Atlantic Ocean. This was too great a strategic advantage to back down from because of some measly economic sanctions or some borders that shouldn’t have existed in the first place.
Russia’s big business was on his side, supporting him with unlimited funds in return for privileges and the unofficial right to pilfer the land, speculate, and exploit the Russian work force. Moscow was now one of the world’s leading cities in terms of luxury cars seen on the streets, while the majority of the people starved, froze in shanties, and wore rags, regretting the good old days of communism. That’s what capitalism and the damn glasnost had done to Russia. Robbed her of her pride, values, and power.
“The Muslims put America on its knees from a goddamn cave, and we have armies!”
“The answer is not our armies,” Mikhail Dimitrov said. “Armies anyone can see from their satellites. We wouldn’t be stealth in our approaches, and we’d have terrible losses for minimal gains. We’d be humiliated again.” He stopped talking, watching carefully for Abramovich’s reaction. He seemed deep in thought, looking out the window at the gray winter sky.
“You miss the old KGB? Well, so do I,” Dimitrov continued. “I miss the rigor, the procedures, the cleanliness, the discipline, and the resourcefulness. What if we brought it back?”
Abramovich turned and faced him, intrigued.
“What do you mean, bring back the KGB? We have the FSB; we have the SVR,” Abramovich asked, referring to the two agencies created from the remains of the old KGB when it had ceased its existence, also in the ill-fated year 1991. FSB was the Secret Police Agency, or Federal Security Service, with main duties covering counterintelligence, counterterrorism, and overall security within the country’s borders. SVR was the post-1991 spy agency, named now the Foreign Intelligence Service.
“And everyone knows we have them, so we’re cats wearing bells. We’ll never catch any mice. Impotent and naked.” Dimitrov resented his powerlessness just as much as Abramovich did. Although a moderate politician and not prone to unnecessary, excessive violence, he had wondered many times whether he was doing his country any favors by being a moderate and allowing Russia to be toyed with by the Western powers. He took a deep breath and continued. “Let’s bring the KGB back, but do it right. No one will know. Reactivate networks, place people, re-establish protocols. Then strike.”
Abramovich turned to look at him, not moving from the window, as if to see if Dimitrov was serious. Dimitrov decided to let Abramovich in on his secret agenda; although he hated bringing him in the loop too early when things were still uncertain.
“I have already started rebuilding the old KGB, unseen and unknown. One of its best former assets is now executing his first post-glasnost mission, reporting strictly to me. Our common friend, Vitya, is working to get things started out there in the field, with America as his first target.”
Abramovich walked toward him so determinedly, so forcefully, he almost flinched. He grabbed Dimitrov in a bear hug, patting him on the back.
“Mishka, Mishka, that’s why I love you,” Abramovich said, while Dimitrov struggled to breathe in his endless bear hug. “You will make us great again, yes? Let’s drink to that!”
Abramovich filled two cut crystal glasses with vodka, readily available on the coffee table. A fresh bottle of Stolichnaya was always kept on ice and waiting to be served. He handed a glass to Dimitrov and cheered. “Ura! Na zdorovie!”
“Ura! Na zdorovie! To our future!”
They drank enthusiastically, downing the generous shots in one gulp each. They had a plan.
...Chapter 19: Memento Two
...Tuesday, January 5, 10:03AM EST (UTC-5:00 hours)
...DCBI Headquarters, Sixth Floor Conference Room
...Washington, DC
Robert sat at the conference room table, head in his hands, sadly contemplating the announcement he was going to make. Jimmy had been a close friend for so many years. Beyond the sense of loss he felt, he was also blaming himself for not calling 911 when Jimmy had been so visibly unwell at the meeting. He hadn’t even offered to drive him home. Why? He had become so engulfed in his own guilt and fears that he had ceased being human. There was no excuse. He had stopped being the leader of his team, and had become the corrupt, threatened, and manipulated puppet of very dangerous men. Just a pawn in a treacherous game he did not understand. He only knew they meant business, whoever they were. His wife’s life was in their hands. He had to deliver his end of the deal today.
“I’m guessing Jimmy called in sick, huh?” Brad interrupted Robert’s pensiveness.
Robert did not answer. Ellen and Eddie were already in their seats. They were ready to start. An eerie feeling of déjà vu froze the blood in his veins.
“I have sad news for you,” he commenced his announcement in a trembling, hesitant voice. Three pairs of concerned eyes from around the table looked straight at him, and they all widened with concern. “Jimmy died yesterday on his way home.”
“Oh, my God.” Ellen sobbed.
“What?” Eddie asked. “How did it happen? Car crash?”
Brad stood silently, not uttering a single word, sad eyes and a deep frown indicating his reaction to the news.
“No,” Robert said. “He stopped to gas his car on Benning and had a heart attack right there at the pump.”
“And no one was there?” Ellen asked in a tearful, outraged voice. “No one could help?”
“It was very fast, they said. There wasn’t any time. The heart attack was massive, causing extensive damage to the wall of his heart. He was gone in seconds.”
Silence fell around the table, thick and filled with sadness.
“We should have called 911,” Eddie said after a minute or so, voicing everyone’s thoughts. “We should have done something.”
Everyone nodded. They all felt it. Silence fell again.
“Yes, you’re right, Eddie,” Robert answered. “I thought of that too. I can’t find an explanation, other than we didn’t expect it to be so serious. Jimmy was visibly upset yesterday, but he had been upset before. He was always very passionate in his beliefs.”
“Not like yesterday, though. Yesterday was different,” Eddie insisted.
“You might be right, Eddie, but there isn’t anything much we can do about that now, other than learn a sad lesson about caring more about one another, about paying closer attention,” Robert said.
“How do you suggest we proceed?” Brad asked, bringing them abruptly back to the work agenda. “I don’t want to be insensitive, but we do have a deadline at noon today.”
“Yes,” Robert confirmed, “we do. Resuming where we left off yesterday, then.” He looked through some notes in his portfolio, getting his thoughts in order. “We decided yesterday manufacturing was going to Taiwan, right?”
They nodded all around, Ellen sniffling and wiping the tears from her eyes.
“Yesterday we got stuck on software. We were dealing with the dilemma between deciding based on data and on our tested-and-true points system, and the ethicality of offshoring a project of such strategic importance to our democratic values, and the subsequent PR risk.” Robert summarized where they had left off the day before. “Any new thoughts about that?”
“Did you get a chance to see Campbell?” Brad asked.
�
��Yes, I did, and he supports our tested decision-making system without any hesitation. He agrees we shouldn’t change methodologies under such pressure, and he says he’d be fine handling any PR flack coming our way.”
“In that case, the decision is simple,” Brad said. “None of us here today opposed the traditional vendor selection process with respect to this contract, so I guess we’re ready to award it?”
Robert’s thoughts raced. None of us here today opposed...None of us here today opposed...He kept repeating Brad’s words in his mind, over and over, wondering why he felt sick hearing those words. Then he realized why, and his heart skipped a few beats, blood draining from his veins. His face turned pale, and he grabbed the edge of the table to steady himself in the wave of the dizziness that had gotten a hold of him. Goosebumps prickled his skin; his heart pounded against his chest with a deafening sound.
All those opposing the selection of ERamSys as a vendor for the e-vote contract were now dead.
“Boss?” Eddie startled him. “Are you OK?”
Robert struggled to regain control over his racing thoughts and his pounding heart.
“Umm...yes. You were saying?”
“We’re awarding the software deal to ERamSys from New Delhi, for $179 million. Any objections?”
“No, let’s proceed.” He did not feel the relief he had expected to feel reaching approval for this decision. He was petrified. If Laura and Jimmy’s deaths were more than just coincidental accidents, what were the implications of that fact?
“Vendor engagement?”
“We will have our own team on-site for the entire contract duration. With Jimmy gone, we need a strong quality leader to take this over, and no names come to mind. I think this is our main priority from an engagement perspective,” Eddie responded.