by Leslie Wolfe
“Bob, we encountered issues with the installation, and I filed the documentation with you two weeks ago. You knew about that . . . we discussed it.”
McLeod leaned back in his chair.
“I am tired, you know, tired of how I can’t get the message through to you. Not now, not ever. All I want you to do is own your issues, so we can work with them and make you and your team better professionals.”
“But, Bob—”
“You have filed the paperwork. I heard you the first time. You’ve covered your ass with paper. Do you think that’s what I care about? Do you think that’s what you should care about? We have a client who’s not able to deploy his vessel on time because of us, and we have a contract with the Navy that specifies penalties for all delays.”
“Bob, listen, please. The readiness assessment for the Lloyd was altogether wrong. The weapons control system was incompatible with this installation. I filed the findings, the change order, and the amended schedule with you and the client immediately after we discovered the discrepancy. It’s really not my fault. What was I supposed to do?”
“I’m gonna tell you again, although I can’t really figure out why I keep explaining. Quentin, you’re a smart engineer, talented, bright, yet you decide to oppose the company’s direction and mine with every opportunity. Your mind is hermetically closed, watertight even. Every piece of feedback I share, you take personally and decide to fight the change instead of embracing it. How am I supposed to work with you if you won’t accept any feedback? If you won’t make the tiniest effort to change, and if you consider your judgment to be above everyone else’s? This is a collaborative environment, we work as a team, and we care about our clients’ deliverables, not about the paper trail.”
Quentin felt the blood boil in his veins and made a supreme effort of will to not punch the idiot. Wrapping his stupidity in corporate lingo, McLeod was too much of a coward to ever stand up to someone and say he was wrong. That was, of course, if that someone was a higher up or a client. With him, and others on McLeod’s team, he showed no restraint, demeaning the value of their work with every opportunity he caught. Small steps, Quentin encouraged himself, small steps.
“Bob, please tell me how you would have wanted this situation handled. What would you have done if you found the weapons controller onboard the Lloyd to be incompatible with the new weapons system?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve done this, but fine. I would have explored the possibility of installing middleware instead of replacing the entire controller. I would have presented the client with alternatives. One was the alternative you took, a new weapons controller, very expensive and a hefty delay. I would have added the middleware alternative, much cheaper, minimum delay, and a recommendation to schedule the controller replacement at a later date.”
“You do realize the middleware option would have sent the Lloyd out to sea with an unreliable weapons configuration, right?”
“You’re missing the point, again. The point is to present the client with options and recommendations, and make it their decision, not yours.”
“But the client is not technically qualified to make this decision, we are!”
“Yet it’s their vessel and their money!”
Both men had stood up from their chairs, their postures matching their escalated frustration with each other. A few moments of loaded silence ensued, each of them throwing angry glares at the other.
McLeod broke eye contact and sat back down.
“I’m done explaining, Quentin. If you don’t see the value in what I just said, there’s no point. Not now, not ever. You’re dismissed.”
Dumbfounded at finding himself thrown out of his boss’s office like a misbehaving five year old, Quentin left the room, summoning whatever shred of dignity he could find. The moment he reached the privacy of his own office and slammed the door shut, he clenched his fists and started pacing the office angrily, mumbling curses at every step.
“Motherfucking asshole, can’t believe the nerve on that guy. Who the fuck does he think he is?”
He felt the blood rise to his head, the pounding of his own heartbeats deafening his ears and clouding his vision. Recognizing the signs of a high blood pressure attack, he tried to calm himself down, while reaching for his pills.
“The fucking idiot’s gonna give me a stroke, while he’s gonna live like all bastards do, until he’s a hundred years old.” He settled down at his desk and took his throbbing head in his hands. “God, I need a way out of this . . . can’t take another day!”
The thought of leaving infused a little hope in his weary mind, then that hope faded away. “Who am I kidding?” he mumbled, “where the fuck would I go?”
It hurt his ego badly to find himself so vulnerable, so defeated. He was better than that.
Quentin had been born in rural Virginia and started his early life as an isolated, lonely kid. Other kids rejected him, although he wanted to engage and play with them, to belong to their group. Soon he had learned to reject them too and be comfortable in his loneliness. Aloneness, he would call it, the state of being alone but without any of the negative connotations of loneliness, of missing the presence of others.
Naturally, he hated his first seven or eight years of school, years that forced the solitary boy to be involved in activities all day long. He deeply missed his aloneness and was bored beyond his wildest dreams. That was the perfect recipe for trouble, and little Quentin got into more than his share of that. Whatever school bully had the poor inspiration to pick on him would be punished well beyond the size of the offense. Quentin’s defense was always valid in the fact that he never started those fights. Yet he finished them each time, angrily, drawing blood mercilessly, making sure everyone got the message and left him alone.
He spent his alone time reading, absorbing a variety of books at an incredible pace. A school advisor who had the opportunity to notice Quentin’s behavior conducted a few tests, and then advised his parents that he didn’t belong there. She recommended that they move Quentin to a school for the gifted and enroll him in an accelerated study program, one that would challenge the young boy’s well-endowed brain. His parents did that, despite the fact that they had to uproot their comfortable rural life and move to the city, get new jobs, and adapt to an entirely different lifestyle. They struggled, but Quentin flourished.
He loved his new school and finished one-and-a-half years ahead of schedule. Then he had his choice of colleges and soon held a master of science degree in electrical engineering, with honors.
College life hadn’t changed his demeanor all that much though. He remained isolated, focused on his work, and a bit awkward around people. He understood many things quite well. Complex mathematical models, complicated technology, futuristic concepts were easy for him to grasp; people, not so much. Finding himself aware of his limitations, he continued to study and explore science rather than relationships.
His physical proximity to the plethora of military contractors in the area offered the new graduate a career path in weapons systems. He embraced it happily and soon held several unpublished patents that bore a numeric code instead of an intelligible title.
He’d been relatively happy in his career, as happy as someone like him could be if forced to be around people for eight hours a day. He’d made a name for himself in the industry, and his achievements were numerous and well recognized. Well, that had been true for the best part of his career, until the arrogant, political, and idiotic Bob McLeod had joined the organization as technical director and Quentin’s boss.
The man had no vision and not much technical ability either, despite MIT degrees and solid credentials. Although he scored above average, he wasn’t nearly as intelligent as Quentin was, but had the talent to be political and gain advantage despite his technical limitations. In Quentin’s opinion, it wasn’t the paper that made the man; it was the work, the ideas, the solutions. But that was just Quentin’s point of view; the rest of the world believed
McLeod was better, because of his highly skilled political acumen.
There was instant and sizeable incompatibility between the two men, who didn’t see eye to eye on anything of any importance. Quentin’s relatively satisfying career had turned to crap overnight, forcing him to consider new avenues.
But where would he go? He was forty-seven years old and not at all eager to start fresh somewhere else, having to prove himself again after having given Walcott twelve years of his life, the peak of his career.
He felt trapped, a victim, and deeply hated that feeling. The independent, resilient, and creative Quentin couldn’t settle for being some idiot’s bitch for a living; the thought only brought anger to his heart and the need for more blood pressure medication. It was putting his life at risk. He had to do something about it.
...15
...Tuesday, March 22, 10:14AM Local Time (UTC+3:00 hours)
...The Kremlin
...Moscow, Russia
Myatlev saw the familiar structure appear against the gloomy sky after the driver had turned left off Tverskaya Street and onto Mokhovaia. The Kremlin. The name brought yet another shiver to Myatlev’s spine.
“We’re here,” he said. “Are we ready?”
“Da, Vitaliy Kirillovich, we’re ready,” Ivan answered promptly, checking his holstered weapon.
Myatlev checked his new watch again, just to make sure it was still there. The Breitling had a beacon function, an emergency feature he could activate if things were to go badly during his meeting with President Abramovich.
Everything was set. Ivan looked confident and ready. The three ex-Spetsnaz mercenaries, armed to the teeth and keeping their finger on the MP5 triggers, looked apt and fearless. The two Mercedes G-Wagens following closely behind them held four more ex-Spetsnaz each, all ready to storm into the Kremlin and rescue Myatlev, if that beacon went active.
The Bentley drove through the Kremlin wall portal and pulled in front of the presidential quarters entrance, greeted by two guards. Myatlev was expected. The limo’s heavily tinted windows hid Myatlev’s personal escort really well, and Ivan took additional precautions when he opened the door for his boss. Instead of holding the door open while stepping aside to make room for Myatlev to climb out of the Bentley, he stood right between the open car door and the guards, blocking their line of sight to the mercenaries inside the limo. It was unusual, but no one seemed to notice.
Myatlev approached the Kremlin entrance walking calmly, projecting the confidence and power expected for someone of his status. He didn’t feel that confident, but there was no turning back. Soon enough he would know to which side his luck had turned. Wherever President Abramovich was involved, that was always hard to guess.
“Dobroye utro, Gospodin Myatlev,” the Kremlin guards greeted him.
He waved his hand and nodded slightly, passing them by on his way in. A uniformed aide escorted him directly to Abramovich’s office, where he was allowed to enter immediately.
“Vitya,” Abramovich greeted him cheerfully, “so good to finally see you!”
Abramovich approached him with his arms wide open and offered a strong hug followed by the three traditional welcome kisses on the cheeks.
“Petya, good to see you too! You look better than ever. You have to tell me what you do to stay so young,” Myatlev offered.
“Ahh . . . just this,” Abramovich responded, pouring vodka in two glasses and handing one to Myatlev. “Drink with me. Vashe zdorovye!”
“Vashe zdorovye! Ura!”
They downed their vodkas in one gulp, and Abramovich refilled their glasses.
“You took long enough to come see me, Vitya. It made me wonder if you still value our friendship,” Abramovich said bluntly.
Myatlev swallowed hard, his right hand touching the Breitling instinctively.
“I am very sorry, Piotr Ivanovich, work got the best of me. You blink, and a month’s gone by. Business has been challenging lately. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. I remain now and always your loyal friend; count on me!” Myatlev raised his glass in an unspoken toast, and Abramovich met him halfway. They clinked their glasses loudly, gulped the second shot, then slammed the empty glasses on the table with a satisfied laugh.
“Ha!” Abramovich said, “I hope I can count on you, Vitya, because I want you to be my new defense minister. What do you say?”
Myatlev’s mind went into high gear. He’d thought of every possible scenario and had prepared for all, except this. He needed to buy himself some time. He put his right hand over his heart and said, “What an honor, Piotr Ivanovich, what an honor! But why choose me? I have failed you.”
“Next time you won’t fail,” Abramovich said. “Your plan had greatness, a strategic ability I need in my new defense minister. So you failed once, you learned from it, you won’t fail next time, da?”
“I appreciate your vote of confidence, Piotr Ivanovich, and I promise you I will make you proud. You have my utmost commitment to your cause, our cause.”
“Great, that’s what I wanted to hear. I need you to take us where we need to be, I need you to show us how we become great again, how we put the West in its place and make the bastards sorry they ever disrespected us the way they did.”
Myatlev listened quietly, encouraging Abramovich with supporting nods.
“My predecessors were weak,” Abramovich continued, “tame dogs licking the West’s hand and showing no pride, no spine, no guts. Lame men have stood in this office, bringing shame to it, and humiliation to Mother Russia. No wonder the West thinks it can kick us around as if we’re tail-wagging bitches. How disgraceful . . . They thought they could leash us? It’s time we take our greatness back!”
“Ura!” Myatlev responded with a shout of victory, gulping down his third shot and hoping he’d be able to stay sober enough to survive this conversation. Abramovich was a resilient, long-haul drinker.
“We need change, my friend, at the hands of a feral businessman like you,” Abramovich continued. “You are a man who can’t tolerate to lose and who’d do anything to win. A man who has the balls to win this war.”
What war? Myatlev thought. Russia wasn’t at war with any country as far as he knew. Unless Abramovich was thinking of the war he was planning to start, against his lifelong enemy, the West, the United States first of all.
“Look at the state of our Armies,” Abramovich continued. “The same old weapons, the same old people, the despicable result of decades of impotence and dereliction.”
“You want to focus on research, build new technologies?” Myatlev prompted. “Or do you agree the time has passed and it’s too late to do that now?”
“It is too late,” Abramovich agreed. “What do you say we do?”
Myatlev paced a little, pensively, weighing his options before answering.
“How’s Dimitrov? Is he better?”
“Yes, he’s recovered almost completely,” Abramovich answered, frowning at the change in topic.
“I tried to call him a couple of times, there was no answer. That got me worried.”
“He’s at his home at the Caspian Sea, resting. Why do you ask?”
“He was a great defense minister for you, Petya.”
Abramovich nodded, a hint of regret clouding his eyes.
“He’d make a great defense minister for you again,” Myatlev continued. “Just think about it. It would be the three of us together again, just like old times.”
“So you’re saying no to my offer?”
“I’m saying you wouldn’t be using me for what I’m good at, Petya. I’m no good stuck in political meetings all day long. I am good in executing stealth strategies, at making people do things for us, at throwing money and power behind whatever you want done. But the true strategist is Dimitrov; it was always him. I am a business strategist, yes, but you need a military strategist, and that’s Dimitrov. He’s got balls, he’s got brains, he’s got ambition like no one else in your government, and he’s cunning, devious.
He’s perfect.”
Abramovich rubbed his hands together, thinking.
“I always liked Dimitrov, you know that. But I personally announced his resignation to the entire world, just a few months ago.”
“And since when do you give a fuck about the world, Petya?”
Abramovich turned toward Myatlev angrily, but before he could speak, a smile took over his face.
“Fuck them! Yeah! Let’s drink to that! You solved my problem, Petya!”
Abramovich poured another round, larger than the first few.
“Remember that bringing the old KGB back as the covert Division Seven was his idea, right?”
“Yes, and that was a great idea. A secret service hidden inside a secret service, who would have thought of that?”
“And with Dimitrov leading it, we’ll acquire everything we need to be ready, ahead of everyone else. To Dimitrov’s comeback!” Myatlev answered and drank his vodka.
“To his comeback!” Abramovich cheered.
“This brings back memories,” Myatlev started, slurring a little. “Do you remember that time when we went hiking in the mountains, the three of us, and ran out of booze money?”
“When?”
“Ahh . . . we were still in school, at Dzerzhinsky, remember?”
“Yeah, I do. I don’t remember what we did though.”
“We drank too much one night, and we didn’t have any money left. We were poor back then; those were bad times. But Dimitrov thought of something. He went into this pub, flashed his KGB ID, and told the pub owner that he had information that enemies of the people were congregating at his pub. Then he came out of there with a serene smile on his face, followed by that pub owner carrying a case of vodka.”
“I remember now,” Abramovich said, laughing hard, tears flowing on his red cheeks.
“The poor fuck even brought it to the car, shitting his pants while at it. Oh my God . . . “
They both laughed at relived memories for a little while longer, then Myatlev resumed a more serious tone of voice.