if he had to. This meeting with Mikhail Nevsky, the current president of the Russian Federation, was like that: extremely dangerous but something he had to do. Cherkshan would meet the man, but he wished he had a pocketknife.
His personal weapons and his pocketknife had been taken by Nevsky’s personal security detachment. They were good men. Cherkshan had served alongside many of them.
Meeting with the president—alone—was mystifying. No one Cherkshan knew was aware of the meeting, and it had been kept in utmost secrecy. If there was one thing Cherkshan had learned over the years, it was that secrets were very dangerous things, able to cut anyone they touched.
***
A few minutes later, Cherkshan reached the room where he had been told he would find the president. Through the open doorway, the general saw Nevsky gazing through one of the bulletproof windows out over the Moskva River to the south. The morning sun glittered on the water as boats passed under the Borodinsky Bridge.
That bridge represented the spirit of change to Cherkshan. As a boy, he had traveled on it with his father and sometimes floated under it because his father worked as a tugboat operator and occasionally took his son along with him while at work. But Cherkshan only got to go if his schoolwork was exemplary, which had been difficult because book knowledge didn’t come easily to him. Not like knowing the military life. However, the same honor and courage his father had taught him had served Cherkshan in good stead in the Russian army, then in the FSB.
As a young man, Cherkshan had traveled the bridge, proposed to Katrina on it, and scattered his father’s ashes across the Moskva River. Then Cherkshan had joined the Russian military to help provide for his mother and two younger sisters.
In 2001, the bridge was torn down and replaced with a larger version, and Cherkshan’s memories of his father and his childhood were no longer as firmly anchored as they had been. From his office, Cherkshan had sometimes watched the construction, and he’d hated the necessity of it. Not enough things in the world remained the same.
Even Russia had changed. Her people, and not just the younger generation, had embraced the ways of the West. Cherkshan did not agree with the leanings in his country, and the unrest further bothered him because Russia might one day tear herself apart.
But Mikhail Nevsky held the promise of turning Russia back into the great country it had once been. The president had worked hard to purge the Mafiya and black market dealers from the city as well as the country. Nevsky had worked even harder to shut down the oligarchs , the Russian businessmen who trafficked in smuggled goods, going after the heads of business and charging them with tax evasion and other crimes. Nevsky had locked some of them up, and he had sent others scurrying away.
The previous administration had protected such men, and unrepentant capitalism guided by unfettered greed sucked the lifeblood from Mother Russia. Nevsky had led a team of FSB soldiers into one office building, tearing through the new “privacy” laws those men tried to import from the West to protect them.
The Russian people seemed divided on the subject. Some wanted the new protections, but others—those who realized their country was being given away by the bushel and they would have no futures to give to their children—were happy and embraced Nevsky’s tough love of the country and its people.
Cherkshan believed in what Nevsky was doing and in how he was doing it. He just wasn’t certain why the president would send for him or what the coming discussion could possibly be about. He wondered if Anna had done something again, and Cherkshan’s heart went cold. His daughter was a grown woman and no longer under his immediate care and protection. He told himself that Anna had done nothing, that his friends would have told him if she had. He made himself breathe.
After a moment, the
His personal weapons and his pocketknife had been taken by Nevsky’s personal security detachment. They were good men. Cherkshan had served alongside many of them.
Meeting with the president—alone—was mystifying. No one Cherkshan knew was aware of the meeting, and it had been kept in utmost secrecy. If there was one thing Cherkshan had learned over the years, it was that secrets were very dangerous things, able to cut anyone they touched.
***
A few minutes later, Cherkshan reached the room where he had been told he would find the president. Through the open doorway, the general saw Nevsky gazing through one of the bulletproof windows out over the Moskva River to the south. The morning sun glittered on the water as boats passed under the Borodinsky Bridge.
That bridge represented the spirit of change to Cherkshan. As a boy, he had traveled on it with his father and sometimes floated under it because his father worked as a tugboat operator and occasionally took his son along with him while at work. But Cherkshan only got to go if his schoolwork was exemplary, which had been difficult because book knowledge didn’t come easily to him. Not like knowing the military life. However, the same honor and courage his father had taught him had served Cherkshan in good stead in the Russian army, then in the FSB.
As a young man, Cherkshan had traveled the bridge, proposed to Katrina on it, and scattered his father’s ashes across the Moskva River. Then Cherkshan had joined the Russian military to help provide for his mother and two younger sisters.
In 2001, the bridge was torn down and replaced with a larger version, and Cherkshan’s memories of his father and his childhood were no longer as firmly anchored as they had been. From his office, Cherkshan had sometimes watched the construction, and he’d hated the necessity of it. Not enough things in the world remained the same.
Even Russia had changed. Her people, and not just the younger generation, had embraced the ways of the West. Cherkshan did not agree with the leanings in his country, and the unrest further bothered him because Russia might one day tear herself apart.
But Mikhail Nevsky held the promise of turning Russia back into the great country it had once been. The president had worked hard to purge the Mafiya and black market dealers from the city as well as the country. Nevsky had worked even harder to shut down the oligarchs , the Russian businessmen who trafficked in smuggled goods, going after the heads of business and charging them with tax evasion and other crimes. Nevsky had locked some of them up, and he had sent others scurrying away.
The previous administration had protected such men, and unrepentant capitalism guided by unfettered greed sucked the lifeblood from Mother Russia. Nevsky had led a team of FSB soldiers into one office building, tearing through the new “privacy” laws those men tried to import from the West to protect them.
The Russian people seemed divided on the subject. Some wanted the new protections, but others—those who realized their country was being given away by the bushel and they would have no futures to give to their children—were happy and embraced Nevsky’s tough love of the country and its people.
Cherkshan believed in what Nevsky was doing and in how he was doing it. He just wasn’t certain why the president would send for him or what the coming discussion could possibly be about. He wondered if Anna had done something again, and Cherkshan’s heart went cold. His daughter was a grown woman and no longer under his immediate care and protection. He told himself that Anna had done nothing, that his friends would have told him if she had. He made himself breathe.
After a moment, the
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