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Authors: Charles Brokaw
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general knocked on the open door.
***
Nevsky turned to face Cherkshan. The Russian president wore his suit well, but it was not an expensive outfit. It was plain and gray, a common suit that fit him well only because he was in shape. He stood a little taller than six feet, and had dirty brown hair that fell over his high forehead. His hazel eyes were so dark they were almost black. In his late forties, he had creases at the corners of his eyes and a pinched mouth.
He rarely smiled. Some of the Western reporters had mentioned the fact that they wouldn’t have wanted to play poker with Nevsky because the Russian president could not be read. His thoughts and intentions and actions were only revealed when he chose to reveal them.
“Good morning, General Cherkshan.”
Cherkshan bowed slightly. “Good morning, Mr. President.”
“Please come in.”
The room was a small reading room. Volumes of Russian law and history filled shelves on two walls. A small table, not a desk, occupied the center of the room. There were two chairs. The third wall held a large monitor and various pieces of electronic equipment.
“You may leave your hat on the table.” Nevsky pointed. “And your jacket as well. I’d like for you to be comfortable.”
Reluctantly, Cherkshan removed his jacket and left it with his hat on the table.
“Would you like some tea?” Nevsky stood at another table that held a tea service that included a ceramic and silver samovar. The hot water container looked rustic and well used.
The smell of the strong brew tickled Cherkshan’s nostrils as he sat. “If it is no trouble.”
“No trouble at all, and I would hate to drink alone.”
“Then of course.”
Nevsky poured tea from the pot atop the samovar into two cups and brought them to the table where Cherkshan sat. The liquid in the half-full cup was dark as coal and had a smoky aroma that had gone missing in new Russia as well.
Cherkshan’s grandmother had made black tea like that, flavored it with oolong as a delicacy and kept the pot brewing all day so it became thick and strong.
Nevsky gazed at the tea with satisfaction. “I like my tea potent.”
“As do I.”
“Good.” Nevsky returned to the table and brought back a carafe of hot water. He finished filling his cup with the water, then added milk and sugar.
Cherkshan did the same. When he picked up the cup, he blew on the tea and sipped the nearly scalding liquid. Then he folded his hands, placed them on the table, and waited.
“I am very familiar with your work, General. You are a punctual man, and you see a job through to the bitterest end.”
Cherkshan didn’t say anything.
“I understand that you had to kill your mentor fourteen years ago.”
The floor seemed like it had opened up and drank Cherkshan down. He was in freefall, looking for something to grab on to. No one had known what he’d done to Viktor Kudrin fourteen years ago. He made himself continue breathing.
***
Viktor Kudrin had been Cherkshan’s mentor in the FSB. The intelligence service had taken him from the Russian army when he was twenty-nine and made him an agent. In that position, under Kudrin, Cherkshan had hunted Chechen terrorists with grim efficiency. He had also gone after black marketeers.
It was the latter operations that ultimately led to Kudrin’s downfall. Too much money had been in play, and Kudrin had embraced the West’s penchant for gambling. On his vacations, he would travel to the satellite countries that had turned their backs on Russia. There, he would gamble and womanize.
Cherkshan had seen the hounds getting close, although he hadn’t known what Kudrin was doing. Cherkshan had stalked the stalkers and ambushed one of them, ultimately getting the truth of the investigation without revealing himself.
Even then, even knowing what the agency suspected, Cherkshan hadn’t wanted to believe. Then, three weeks later, Cherkshan caught his mentor taking a bribe from a British opium
***
Nevsky turned to face Cherkshan. The Russian president wore his suit well, but it was not an expensive outfit. It was plain and gray, a common suit that fit him well only because he was in shape. He stood a little taller than six feet, and had dirty brown hair that fell over his high forehead. His hazel eyes were so dark they were almost black. In his late forties, he had creases at the corners of his eyes and a pinched mouth.
He rarely smiled. Some of the Western reporters had mentioned the fact that they wouldn’t have wanted to play poker with Nevsky because the Russian president could not be read. His thoughts and intentions and actions were only revealed when he chose to reveal them.
“Good morning, General Cherkshan.”
Cherkshan bowed slightly. “Good morning, Mr. President.”
“Please come in.”
The room was a small reading room. Volumes of Russian law and history filled shelves on two walls. A small table, not a desk, occupied the center of the room. There were two chairs. The third wall held a large monitor and various pieces of electronic equipment.
“You may leave your hat on the table.” Nevsky pointed. “And your jacket as well. I’d like for you to be comfortable.”
Reluctantly, Cherkshan removed his jacket and left it with his hat on the table.
“Would you like some tea?” Nevsky stood at another table that held a tea service that included a ceramic and silver samovar. The hot water container looked rustic and well used.
The smell of the strong brew tickled Cherkshan’s nostrils as he sat. “If it is no trouble.”
“No trouble at all, and I would hate to drink alone.”
“Then of course.”
Nevsky poured tea from the pot atop the samovar into two cups and brought them to the table where Cherkshan sat. The liquid in the half-full cup was dark as coal and had a smoky aroma that had gone missing in new Russia as well.
Cherkshan’s grandmother had made black tea like that, flavored it with oolong as a delicacy and kept the pot brewing all day so it became thick and strong.
Nevsky gazed at the tea with satisfaction. “I like my tea potent.”
“As do I.”
“Good.” Nevsky returned to the table and brought back a carafe of hot water. He finished filling his cup with the water, then added milk and sugar.
Cherkshan did the same. When he picked up the cup, he blew on the tea and sipped the nearly scalding liquid. Then he folded his hands, placed them on the table, and waited.
“I am very familiar with your work, General. You are a punctual man, and you see a job through to the bitterest end.”
Cherkshan didn’t say anything.
“I understand that you had to kill your mentor fourteen years ago.”
The floor seemed like it had opened up and drank Cherkshan down. He was in freefall, looking for something to grab on to. No one had known what he’d done to Viktor Kudrin fourteen years ago. He made himself continue breathing.
***
Viktor Kudrin had been Cherkshan’s mentor in the FSB. The intelligence service had taken him from the Russian army when he was twenty-nine and made him an agent. In that position, under Kudrin, Cherkshan had hunted Chechen terrorists with grim efficiency. He had also gone after black marketeers.
It was the latter operations that ultimately led to Kudrin’s downfall. Too much money had been in play, and Kudrin had embraced the West’s penchant for gambling. On his vacations, he would travel to the satellite countries that had turned their backs on Russia. There, he would gamble and womanize.
Cherkshan had seen the hounds getting close, although he hadn’t known what Kudrin was doing. Cherkshan had stalked the stalkers and ambushed one of them, ultimately getting the truth of the investigation without revealing himself.
Even then, even knowing what the agency suspected, Cherkshan hadn’t wanted to believe. Then, three weeks later, Cherkshan caught his mentor taking a bribe from a British opium
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