Read Online Once Upon a Time in Russia by Ben Mezrich - Free Book Online Page B

something like this could happen to such a man so beloved—it was truly unthinkable. The day after the murder, walking through the streets of Moscow on his way to Berezovsky’s office, Litvinenko had passed groups of people dressed in black, huddled in deep and sorrowful discussion. Pictures in the newspaper had shown throngs of shocked and sobbing fans of the journalist lining the barricades in front of Listyev’s apartment building, where the crime had taken place. President Yeltsin himself had declared a day of mourning, and all the television stations had gone dark. ORT had replaced its regular programming with a single photo of the anchorman, captioned by the simple statement Vlad Listyev has been killed .
    The press conference Yeltsin had called had been much less sedate. Yeltsin himself had made an appearance, and had opened the event with a fiery, podium-pounding statement, taking full responsibility for an act that seemed to mark a true change in the barbarism that had taken over the streets of the new Russia: “I bow my head, as a man who has not done enough to fight banditry, corruption, bribery, and crime.”
    Litvinenko had seen his fair share of atrocities—murders, bombings, mutilations—but this was clearly a watershed.
    One didn’t need to be an FSB agent to see that Vlad’s death was a professional assassination and not a robbery gone bad. Listyev had been shot twice from behind, once in the arm and once in the back of the head. His assailants had not relieved him of more than $1,500 in American currency—and the million-plus rubles—that he’d been carrying in his overcoat.
    Litvinenko had no idea who had murdered the most famous man in Russia. He was not involved in the investigation, and he only knew what he had read in the newspaper—that the journalist had recently been put in charge of ORT by Berezovsky and his business partners, that he was determined to root out corruption in the television business. That information alone told Litvinenko there would be a long list of potential suspects. He had no doubt that the tense and somber moment he and his boss were having was being replayed everywhere, in kitchens, dining rooms, and living rooms all across the country. A single murder, and it felt like the ground had shifted.
    Even so, Litvinenko was not mentally prepared when the door to Berezovsky’s office was suddenly flung inward, and two policemen stepped inside, pushing their way past a pair of the Oligarch’s bodyguards. Both men were wearing uniforms from the local Moscow directorate, and both had holstered sidearms. The lead officer washeavyset, his second thin and tall, and both were entirely focused on the businessman behind the desk. If they even noticed Litvinenko’s presence, they didn’t acknowledge him.
    â€œBoris Berezovsky,” shouted the lead officer. “Please stand up. We have orders to bring you in for questioning, on the matter of the murder of Vlad Listyev.”
    Litvinenko felt his stomach knot. He had no idea who had sent these men to Berezovsky’s office, or how they had worked their way through the Logovaz Club without being stopped by the phalanx of bodyguards inside. Nor did he know anything about the ongoing investigation into the anchorman’s assassination—whether there were any real suspects, whether any arrests had already been made.
    Litvinenko did know that the two policemen in front of him were cogs, not levers. Their uniforms meant they had come for Berezovsky at somebody else’s order. If they left this office with Berezovsky in tow, there was a good chance Litvinenko was going to be out of a job.
    He didn’t have time to think; in a split-second decision, he took a step out from behind the desk, squaring his shoulders as he faced the two officers. The men shifted their attention to him from Berezovsky, their faces puzzled. They had no reason to recognize him. Although he had