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We Present The First Instalment Of Crème de la Krémlin. A Parody On Life Behind The Kremlin Walls

January 24, 2009

We Present The First Instalment Of Crème de la Krémlin. A Parody On Life Behind The Kremlin WallsHi there, everyone! This is you editor speaking.

Despots and tyrants and chancers, who came to power in the past, were usually terrified most of all of ridicule. Yes, ridicule, because it was and still is the most effective weapon against tyranny. The moment the leader is perceived as ridiculous he has no chance to survive.

One of the reasons why the Soviet Empire crashed was because the people, who were living under communist rule, finally came to the conclusion that their regime was not only incompetent and evil in its nature but that it was ridiculous. In the 1970s and 1980s some of the best jokes going around were about the incompetence of the Soviet leaders, Mikhail Gorbachev included, by the way. And the Soviet Communist Party leadership as a whole was perceived by many people as a bunch of dimwits and bullshitters.

But now times have changed in Russia. Humour and satire especially have been in effect banished and replaced by some meaningless and toothless comedy. The jokes have become bland and unfunny. It is as if, having brought down communism, the Russian people have lost all desire to mock their leaders. Just when their leaders deserve to be mocked more than ever before.

The last couple of years of President Boris Yeltsin’s rule basically represented one long absurd comedy. There were characters inhabiting the Kremlin, who were absolutely outrageous. At times it appeared that the whole place was run by lunatics, who were obsessed with enriching themselves. And yet, you would have hardly heard any good jokes about that bunch of con-artists who were running the show.

Russians were too busy making money, having been finally told that the free market was no longer an illegal thing. Open your own shops, restaurants, tourist agencies, they were told by their rulers. Run your small family businesses the way you like, turn your private cars into cabs, become farmers and even sex workers. There would be no more limits on private enterprise.

And while the people were busy, setting up their own companies, the big boys were making serious money by buying state-owned assets for a fraction of their value, with the full consent of the Kremlin. And they managed to amass such wealth in such a short period of time that they simply lost all sense of reality and decided that they would run Russia forever. But they still remembered how the communists ended up ousted, by being mocked and ridiculed. So they simply bought up all the media, all the big book publishers, the film industry, the theatres and the cinemas and saw to it that no one could make fun of them and their friends in the Kremlin.

And this was at the time when a grey former KGB agent, Vladimir Putin, was installed in power by the clique, which was running Russia from behind Yeltsin’s back. The screws were quickly tightened, including banishing the last remaining signs of any proper humour and satire. In fact, you may say that the first victim of Putin’s rise to power in 1999 was humour.

Since then everything that looked absolutely ridiculous and pathetic was presented as innovative and bold and even patriotic. The huge Kremlin machine, oiled by the so-called oligarchs, the billionaire robber-barons, imposed a state of collective idiocy on Russia, with the West playing along.

Western banks were making billions in Russia under Putin and they were not keen on seeing him leave. They overplayed their hand, of course, because Putin was only capable of undermining democracy and bringing Russia’s economy to its knees. There was no other way the situation could have developed, with the former KGB taking charge. And now the Russian people and the West are paying a heavy the price for it.

But this is no time for crying. So we, at StiringTroubleInternationally, have decided to start reviving the fine old Russian tradition of having a laugh at the expense of the leadership. We present today the first instalment of our parody on the life behind the Kremlin walls called Crème de la Krémlin.

We hope you will enjoy it. As a book we expect to bring it out in May. Weather permitting, that is. Political weather, we mean.

Best wishes,

Alexander Nekrassov

Crème de la Krémlin
(A fictional account of life behind the Kremlin walls)

Chapter One: Morning of a President.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together for the President of the Russian Federation! Yeehaaa!!!’

The people in the vast hall of the United Nation’s General Assembly rise and start applauding, ecstatically. Heads of states and governments, public figures, international statesmen, captains of industry, supermodels, sports personalities and A-B-C-D list celebrities – all nod, smile and cheer loudly, some wipping the white powder from under their noses.

There is so much genuine adoration in the air that, as the popular Russian saying goes, you can hang an axe on it.

And then the music starts to play and a low, husky voice sings: ‘I am saaaiiiling, I am saaaiiiling…’

It is Rod Stewart, performing a song from his old album, Atlantic Crossing. The Russian President asked for that particular track to be played when his name was announced. He always liked that song. It reminded him of when he first wanted to join the KGB but, to his great disappointment, was told that he was too young. He was a hopeless romantic then and only hopeless romantics would have thought of joining the Committee for State Security of the Soviet Union at the tender age of 15.

How was he to know that he had to be 18 to join? They did not exactly announce it on the radio, did they?

But it is all in the past now, he is thinking, as he rises from his seat, his aides wishing him luck. Now he is the President of the Russian Federation. The biggest country in the whole wide world. Not like Belgium, which could disappear tomorrow and no one would even notice.

As he slowly walks to the podium, with Rod Stewart singing, the President glances, discreetly, around him, catching out groups of delegates and guests and people, who should not have been allowed inside the UN building at all, their faces beaming.

‘We love you, Mr Russia!’ reads a sign, held by a group of African diplomats, moving in rhythm to the silent beat of the imaginary drums that has nothing to do with Rod Stewart’s song.

Good lads, those Africans, the President thinks. Proud people, resourceful, always ready to extend a hand of friendship to Russia. And they sure know how to entertain their guests with all that dancing and singing and… And more dancing and singing …

His gaze moves on, as he walks, registering more adoration.

‘Long live Russia, biggest friend of all Asian countries!’ he reads another sign, held by a group of Asian diplomats, dressed in their respective national costumes.

How I love to visit Asian countries, the President thinks. What hospitality, what food and what presents! The presents are the best in Asia. Very expensive, not like in stingy Europe where they always give some rubbish to foreign dignitaries, like books and silly paintings which nobody needs anyway. And, come to think of it, where the hell are the Europeans with their praise for me?

He then notices a large sign held by several people.

‘Dear Mr Russian President! The European Union salutes you!’ the sign says. ‘You bring us warmth and sunshine.’

The President nods, approvingly, but ever so slightly, so that no one would notice.

Oh how much fun he got out of cutting off the gas supplies to Europe that year. And the year before. How they all laughed in the Kremlin when all those Europeans were left with no heat.

What fun it would be to do the same thing next winter, the President thinks. To show them who is in charge in Europe. One phone call from me, one nod, and all these Europeans would be freezing their butts off.

But his gaze is already fixed on another sign, held by a group of Chinese diplomats, all dressed in dark official suits, white shirts and formal ties. ‘You lead the way, Mr Russia!’ the sign says. ‘China, your younger brother, will always follow you.’

Ah, China, the President muses. Russia’s younger brother. Or is it Russia’s younger sister? It could be a sister, a loving and devoted ‘Sis’. Always makes sense to be friends with China, the he thinks. No point in pissing Beijing off. Better to nudge the Chinese towards some other country which they may attack in the future. India would be a great adversary for them. Just great. Big country, many people, a lot of cities to conquer.

His thoughts drift away from China as he searches, ever so discreetly, the vast hall with his gaze for more signs of adoration.

‘America bows to Russian superiority and excellence!’ is written on a sign held by an ex-President of the United States, who is demonstrating his trademark silly grin. He is accompanied by several blondes in tight T-shirts and mini-skirts. They are all registered as US diplomats, although the official American delegation sits in another part of the hall.

Yes, America, the President is thinking. A friend we like to hate, a big bully, who needs a good smacking, from time to time. Well, he taught them a lesson recently. Promised to send a manned flight to the sun in ten years’ time, while those at NASA were still deciding when they would fly to Mars.

He was not really planning to send anyone to the sun. He was no idiot. It was too far from Earth. But he still managed to impress the entireworld.

And then the President’s face lights up. He catches a glimpse of his Motherland in the hall. They are his compatriots, ordinary Russians, who were smuggled into the UN building by paying bribes. And they are rejoicing.

‘We want you to stay President forever!!!’ screams the sign, in Russian, held by a man in a T-shirt with the words, ‘I am a diplomat from the Russian UN Mission.’

The President shakes his head. It’s probably just a bit too much, he thinks, looking at the sign. The three exclamation marks are a bit tacky.

As he continues to walk to the podium, he wonders, but ever so slightly, how come it is taking him so long to reach the podium. But, on the other hand, he thinks, he should not complain that it is taking him so long. He is looking good, he feels comfortable with himself, he is calm and composed. What is there not to like in him for the people in the hall?

He is holding a black leather folder – crocodile skin, dyed to make it look like cheap leather – containing his speech, in his right hand, and keeps his left hand deep, deep down in his trouser pocket.

It is a new style of walking he is developing, so as not to wave his left hand too much. He has a bit of a problem with waving his left hand when he walks, in his trade-mark pimp-roll swagger. And though no one ever tells him to quit waiving his left hand when he walks, and no one ever implies that he looks odd when he does that, he instinctively feels that, as a hugely respected international statesman, and leader of the biggest country in the world he needs a slicker, smoother, more business like walk.

Ding-dingaling-ding-dingaling-ding-dignaling-ding, he hums to himself, as he is walking.

He knows that the whole world is watching him at that moment. His press-secretary, whom he calls Thunderboy, tells him, through a tiny ear piece, that nearly 5 billion people are watching the live coverage from the UN. ‘That’s nine zeroes after the digit “5″, Mr President,’ Thunderboy whispers into his year.

The President knows that it is true, because Thunderboy never lies to him. If he says that the whole world is watching to him, it must be true. And besides, who in his right mind would want to miss the President of Russia outlining the main 226 principles of Moscow’s dynamic foreign policy and revealing a 300 point plan of measures intended to save the world from global warming, military conflicts, spread of disease and overpopulation?

The President is especially proud of Russia’s track record in preventing a population boom. The Russian populace is steadily decreasing, year after year, easing the burden on education, national health and social security. In about twenty years time Russia will shed a tenth of its population at least. And it was all down to him, the President, and to his wise policies.

His speech is intended to last about 10 hours, with no intermissions, but he is assured by the UN Secretary General himself that the delegates will not mind staying in the hall for that long.

‘Dear Miss President, ve delegates don’t mindings vat you speaks for lung,’ the Secretary General informed him beforehand, in his rather broken English, that only his closest aides – his wife, his two mistresses, his five sons and his six daughters – could understand. ‘Zey knowing that you having plenty of saying. And, no worries, we havings five mobile pissers in hall. No anyones goings out.’

Of course the President knows that they will listen to him for as long as it takes! He is not going to come up with some meaningless drivel, like many other world leaders do. He is not some Tony Blair, the biggest bullshitter on the circuit. No way! He is the President of Russia and he always says important things. And that is why all TV channels and all radio stations in Russia always broadcast his speeches in full. several times a day. And that is why time is of no essence for the UN delegates. They want to hear his every word.

The only thing that he wants to know is this: how to get his hands on one of the ‘mobile pissers’ that the UN Secretary General was telling him about. He would love to have one of those pissers to give as a present to somebody whom he respects a lot. Who is like a father to him. And a mother. A pisser would be such a great present for Him.

But it can wait, the President reckons. For now I have more important things to attend to. The whole world is holding its breath, waiting to hear me.

A slightly silly idea comes to his mind. I would love to do a moonwalk, the President thinks. No one is expecting me to do that. No one thinks that I’m capable of imitating the one and only, the great Michael Jackson, that outstanding black and white singer. They have no idea that I have all of his albums and all of his videos hidden in my garden shed.

What a lovely gurgly voice, what presence on stage!

A Short time ago the President awarded Jackson the title of the People’s Artist of Russia, without making it public and telling Jackson himself. To avoid any bad publicity. He often gave titles to singers he liked, without telling them about it. It was his own private ‘hall of fame’ and he accepted the titles on behalf of the recipients, at a secret award ceremony in the Kremlin, and afterwards kept the documents and the medals in his safe.

There were big names in his hall of fame – Paul McCartney, Bono, Chris Rea, the Pointer Sisters, Steppenwolf, the Carpenters, Kylie Minogue, Kid Rock. He had met some of them. When McCartney came over to Russia to perform on the Red Square he showed him and his wife around the Kremlin, for 14 hours, and then they had tea and cakes and he asked the former Beatle was it his own hair that he was wearing or was it a wig? And McCartney laughed heartily but gave no reply, and the President thought that it must have been a wig. And then they smoked some weed.

Ah, what memories!

At last the President reaches the podium. He imagines how the people in the hall see him – calm, composed, handsome, statesman like. The suit he is wearing fits him perfectly. The heavily padded shoulders in his jacket, along with the triple-based special lining underneath, make him appear strong and masculine, and the carefully tailored trousers create an impression that he has legs of a football player.

The shoes he wears are three sizes bigger than his normal size, but after putting them on he stuffs them with toilet paper and eventually they fit him perfectly.

His hands always look a bit small, considering his overall powerful physique, but he cunningly hides them in the sleeves of his jacket, which are left slightly longer on his request by his tailor, who is kept in the Kremlin dungeon under constant guard so that he does not spill any of the secrets of how he makes those gorgeous suits for the President.

There is one thing, though, that he never tampers with or alters – his long, thick, silky-smooth blond hair that he just lets flow. No one knows that he models his hairstyle on Michael Bolton, the famous American singer, whose albums he keeps in his bedroom and listens to at night, when he is in a romantic mood. Bolton has short hair now, but in the old days – oh what a sight his hair was when he sang on stage in all those videos!

That day the President lets his luxurious hair simply run down to his shoulders and occasionally, only occasionally, it flows when one of the doors into the main hall is opened and a gust of wind sneaks in. He is proud of his hair and sometimes, when he meets some head of state for talks, who is bald or wears a comb-over, he teases him by running his hand through his thick hair, or rolling it around his finger, and giving his guests a cheeky look as if saying, I bet you’re jealous of my hair. You can look for as long as you want, but no touching or stroking. It is part of me and it’s all mine, mine.

He knows that as long as he has his long silky hair he is comfortable with himself…

The President gets his speech out of his folder and puts it in front of him. He then looks up at the people in the hall, who are still applauding him. He knows that he is going to make history, that his name is going to be carved in stone and his statues erected in all the major capitals and, more importantly, outside the headquarters of his beloved United Nations.

Ah, the UN, he thinks, the centre of the world, the place where great decisions are debated year after year. The blue helmets, the humanitarian programmes, the saving of the children, the shopping on Fifth Avenue, the Christmas sales…

The President has a dream that one day the UN headquarters will be transferred to St Petersburg, the city where he eventually recruited himself into the KGB. And once the UN moves there, the whole world will be looking at St Petersburg with envy, and wishing that it could become the capital of the universe…

The applause continues. He stands on the podium, nodding occasionally and waiting patiently. The international community should never be restrained from demonstrating its admiration, he thinks. Let all these people bask in my glory for a while. Let them…

Suddenly a deafening noise comes from outside the hall.

What is it, he thinks, slightly worried. But only slightly. What can it be?

‘Wakie, wakie!’ a loud voice came from out of nowhere. ‘Time to get up, Mr President, sir!’

The President opened his eyes. For a second or two he could not figure out where he was. And then the sad realisation, like a needle, pricked him somewhere inside his head. It was just a dream! His triumphant appearance in the UN was only a dream. How sad, how very, very sad. Just when he was about to announce the bold measures that could have saved the world he was so brutally distracted from it.

The President’s thin lips tightened. He felt betrayed and cheated. He felt like a molested child, like an abused pet, like a KGB informer, who never got a thank you from his masters for all the people he had betrayed.

A short, plump man with an upturned potato shaped nose and dark hair parted in the middle stood beside the President’s bed, smiling hideously. He was dressed in the uniform of a Cossack but without the usual tall sheepskin hat.

‘Good morning, Mr President, sir,’ the short man said, voice trembling with admiration. ‘Time to get up, sir, and get yourself ready for attending to the urgent matters of the state, in your cool and collected manner.’

The President pretended not to hear him. It was such a beautiful dream and it was cut short at the most important moment. He swallowed a lump that developed in his throat from all that overwhelming sympathy that he felt for himself. And then the anger started growing in him. His small fists tightened under the blanket.

They will all pay dearly for interfering with my dreams, he was thinking, buttocks clenched tight. They are denying me sleep to weaken me and then catch me off guard. Fools, I see through their tricks.

The short plump man the Cossack uniform shuddered. He now realised that his beloved President must have had a very good dream in which he probably had a full head of hair, quite possibly luxuriously thick, long hair that flowed in the wind. He told him so many times that in his dreams he always had wonderful hair and that it could have been a sign that his hair was starting to grow again.

‘I’m sorry, Mr President, sir, to break it to you in such a way, sir,’ the plump man mumbled, ‘but I’m afraid it’s 8 o’clock, sir, and it’s time to get up.’

The President turned his small head and eyed the plump man with suspicion for a moment. But so silly was his appearance in a Cossack uniform and so frightened was the look in his eyes that the President decided not to throw a tantrum in front of his personal adjutant, Gavrila, as he had done the day before. And the day before that.

He rose up on his bed.

‘Give me a mirror,’ he ordered. ‘And make it snappy.’

Gavrila dashed to the dressing table and took the small mirror. He then ran back to the bed and handed it to the President, who peered into it for several moments in silence. He had a thin, uninspiring face, closely set eyes of uncertain colour – he called it milky grey himself – a weak chin and a thin nose. And he had practically no hair left on his head; just bits at the sides and a very unimpressive comb-over on top.

To most people this would not have constituted a handsome face. It would have actually produce quite a depressing sight. But the President liked what he saw. Yes, he liked his appearance. He would have preferred a ‘fuller head of hair’, of course, but being a pragmatic man he taught himself to be content with what he had.

He actually prided himself on not developing a silly obsession with his thinning hair, like so many men did. What was the point of using all those expensive creams and lotions and hair supplements that did not work anyway? And how silly some of those baldies looked when they put on those toupees and wigs. Anyone could see that it was not their own hair. Being bald for a man was nothing to be ashamed of, he always thought. It was part of life. It was a sign that a man had lived an active, fulfilling life, and had lost his hair along the way.

Oh no, he was not in the least obsessed with his hair, he thought. Although, sometimes, on very rare occasions, he would get just a little bit upset with Mother Nature for being so unfair to him and not providing him with thick shiny looking hair. Life could have been so much different if he had had a full head of hair. He often imagined himself having lots of hair streaming down to his shoulders and his aides and advisors coming down to his country residence in the morning to watch him comb it.

He played out the scene in his mind so many times. He sometimes thought that it actually did happen to him.

It would always start with him talking to Gavrila.

‘How many people have signed up today to watch me comb my hair?’ he would ask Gavrila.

‘All of your aides and advisers, Mr President, sir, and ten members of the cabinet,’ Gavrila would report. ‘Them pesky ministers, sir, are complaining that you only allow ten of them for the morning viewing of your combing that wonderful hair of yours. They says it’s unfair to them, sir. They says that there are twenty-four cabinet posts and that they have to fight with each other for the chance to see you comb your lovely hair, sir.’

The President would smile, but ever so slightly.

‘Sure they do,’ he would say, stroking his hair, lovingly. ‘Who wouldn’t want to see such hair combed.’

And then the aides and ministers would crowd into his bedroom and watch adoringly as he stood in front of the mirror in his blue red and white – the colours of the Russian flag – silk robe and slowly combed his hair.

‘Oh, what magnificent hair the President has’, he would hear someone whispering admiringly. And the way he combs it says so much about his character, his inner strength, his overpowering intellect. What a man and what hair!

But on some days he would imagine telling Gavrila that he did not feel like combing his hair in front of anyone. ‘Call it a whim,’ he would say, ‘but this morning I want to be alone.’

And Gavrila would nod and say, ‘I understand, Mr President, sir. You want to spend quality time with yourself.’

The President would smile, faintly, and say, with a wink, ‘Not strictly speaking on my own, Gavrila. Don’t forget, there’s always my hair with me.’

And Gavrila would roar with laughter and say, ‘That’s very witty, sir. Very witty! I need to remember that, sir! I need to write this down, sir! You’re not going to be alone, you’re going to be with your hair.’

But that was all in his dreams. In reality he had no practical use for a comb. He usually spit into his hand – he had a good thick spit, strongly resembling semen – and pass it over his thin hairs on top which would usually be enough to hold them in place for long periods of time.

Once Gavrila ran out to alert the First Lady that her husband was awake, the President slipped out of his bed and assumed a body builder’s pose in front of the large mirror on the wall. He liked what he saw. He was wearing only his ‘patriotic’ boxer shorts with a Russian flag imprinted on the crotch, so there was a lot of naked flesh exposed for him to admire. He saw what he perceived to be a well-built body, muscles bulging, well, sort of bulging, firm straight legs, a bit on the thin side, but still very firm and very straight, waxed to perfection. And the chest was there too, also waxed, with not a single hair in sight. It was a great chest, well developed around the solar plexus, bit of six-packish, with bosoms looking good, not too feminine and yet with a certain roundness and firmness in them, nipples semi-alert. And there was no sign of a belly. Well, just a bit of a belly, but nothing to be ashamed of for a man of his age. And the bellybutton was discreet, not sticking out or anything.

He turned around and looked over his shoulder. The buttocks were definitely there under his boxer shorts, two firm buttocks, clenched together tightly. He was proud of his buttocks, of both of them actually. They made him feel confident when he clenched them tightly. He would often sit across from some visiting dignitary, some head of state, and keep his buttocks clenched, sometimes for ten minutes in a row, testing his resolve. He had of lot of resolve in him. Resolve could have easily been his middle name.

The next moment the President felt a strong urge to take off his boxer shorts and bask in his own full nakedness for a while in front of the mirror. But then he heard his wife’s footsteps and slipped into a white robe with a black two-headed eagle embroidered on the back. There was no point in getting his woman all excited by his naked flesh, he reckoned. Besides, he was not a ‘morning man’ anyway. He was a five-times-a-night-man, just like Tony Blair, that former friend of his, who had turned against him and let all that scum from Russia settle in Britain. The only difference was that, unlike Blair, he was a hand-held-five-times-a-night-man, but did it really matter? It was the strength of character that counted, the durability, the consistency.

‘Any man can have sex with his wife,’ he whispered to himself. ‘But try having sex with yourself, every night, and loving it. Especially when there were no new pornographic DVDs available or good juicy new erotic magazines.’

It was then that the First Lady walked into the bedroom. She was wearing a long pink silk robe with embroidered green peacocks on it. She was short, plump and had thick rosy calves. Her face was round and bland and her blond hair was arranged into something which she called a ‘Princess Di haircut’.

‘What is it, darling? Whom were you talking to just now?’ the First Lady said in a worshipping tone. ‘Whom was my baby talking to? What was my big brave baby saying?’

The President winced.

‘Don’t call me “baby”, Zoya,’ he said. ‘You know I don’t like it when you call me “baby”. I’m the President of Russia, you know. I have my finger on the nuclear button. I take tough decisions every day. Every day, you hear? And it takes a strong man to take tough decisions every day and keep his finger on the button.’

The First Lady looked at him, adoringly.

‘Of course it takes a strong man, dear, of course it does,’ she said. ‘Just the other day I was talking to some friends of mine and I was saying to them: “My baby is so strong, so strong, that I sometimes wonder whether he’s not made of steel.”‘

The President’s rodent-like face turned serious and he struck a pose.

‘You know Zoya,’ he said, emotions gurgling in his throat, ‘I sometimes feel that myself, that steely feeling in me. I bet comrade Stalin felt the same. And Catherine the Great’

A worried look appeared for a brief moment on the face of the First Lady, but it disappeared just as quickly. She knew about her husband’s obsession with Joseph Stalin and Empress Catherine the Great. He had even told her that on several occasions he had seen the ghosts of Stalin and Catherine the Great walking down the Kremlin corridors. It is not a good idea to harp on the subject, she reckoned.

‘Well, dear, no past leaders can really compete with you, can they?’ the First Lady said. ‘Look how the people love you. They absolutely adore you.’

The President smiled, contently.

‘Yes, yes, I know they love me,’ he said. ‘Everybody tells me that they want me to stay as leader forever, even presidents of other countries. And they should know, they observe our great big nation from afar and when you’re looking at something from afar you see the whole thing much better.’

He fell silent for a moment, with a slightly silly grin frozen on his lips.

‘Itchy anus,’ he suddenly muttered, losing the grin.

‘What is it you said, darling?’ his wife asked him, looking rather startled.

‘Itchy anus – that’s how I decided to call a covert operation I’m launching soon. In memory of that problem I had a couple of years ago, remember?’

‘Yes, I do, darling,’ the First Lady says, sounding confused. ‘But is it a good idea to give such a… such an exotic name to a secret government project? What will people think?’

The President looked at her, disappointment spreading over his thin small face.

‘You don’t understand,’ he said in a loud whisper. ‘The code-name gives you an idea of what the operation is all about. It’s about finding out who is plotting against me. Don’t you see – itchy anus, irritation, scratch-scratch, sleepless nights, smelly hands, loss of appetite, constipation. Don’t you see the connection?’

The First Lady forced a smile out of herself and a nod of the head.

‘Now that you mention it, dear, I can see the connection perfectly well,’ she said. ‘Yes, yes, there is a definite connection here. Brilliant name, brilliant.’

The President smiled.

‘See, it just takes a bit of an effort and you start seeing things in the right light,’ he said. ‘When I worked in the intelligence we would always came up with original sounding names for our covert operations. “Three buttocks”, ‘Bellybutton fluff”, “Cobra’s teeth”, “Sucker’s delight”. These were all codenames for top secret projects, codenames which revealed to the ones in the know what they were all about. Yes, those were the days when men were men and boys were girls.’

The First Lady nodded in agreement, having absolutely no idea what her husband was on about.

What could a codename ‘Three buttocks’ stand for? she wondered. Or ‘Bellybutton fluff’? It all sounded very confusing.

And while she was preoccupied with these thoughts a mischievous glint appeared in the President’s eyes.

I bet she doesn’t expect me to dash out of the room all of a sudden, he thought. I bet it’s the last thing she’d expect me to do. Here we are, talking to each other, the President of Russia and the First Lady. And then when she least expects it I make a dash for it, in the middle of a sentence.

The President was known for his love of springing surprises on people. He would get a kick out of seeing their bewildered faces as he came up with all sorts of unexpected stunts and gimmicks. He even replaced his Prime Ministers a couple of times with people whom no one had ever heard of before, just to surprise everyone. He had also made a habit of making absolutely meaningless statements, from time to time, to get everyone confused while he himself would be quietly gloating and rubbing his hands at the thought that no one could have expected him to say that.

But the most amazing thing was that eventually his aides and advisors and cabinet ministers would find a perfectly reasonable explanation for what he had said and why he had said it and everyone would start praising him for his great wisdom. And then, just as everyone had calmed down a bit, he would come up with another meaningless statement and the whole process of ‘I bet they didn’t expect that’ would do a full circle.

This time the urge to surprise his wife was overpowering. A shudder of excitement ran through his body and he felt all goosepimply.

‘Well, darling,’ he said, stretching his hands and yawning, ‘I guess I’ll stay here in the bedroom for a while and look through some very important government papers. And meanwhile you can…’

And then he dashed past his wife out of the room and ran down the stairs, giggling.

No way she could have expected me to do that, he was thinking triumphantly. There she was, waiting for me to finish my sentence, and instead – whooosh! Off I went like a rocket.

‘Is everything alright, Father?’ the servant enquired. ‘Maybe you need some water, or a bite of food to eat?’

The priest groaned and opened his bloodshot eyes.

‘It’s the fasting,’ he said, creakily. ‘It gives me dizzy spells from time to time and terrible headaches. I’ve rubbed the brandy on my temples, but it still needs to start working. Bring me some caviar – about half a kilo, not more – and some bread, but no butter. I don’t consume butter when I’m fasting. Before I meet the President I need to eat something.’

The servant ran off to the kitchen, marveling at father Timofei’s willpower and his devotion to God. When he brought the caviar in a large crystal bowel and several pieces of bread to the study he was even more amazed to find that father Timofei appeared to have rubbed the rest of the brandy from the bottle on into his temples and was fast asleep on the sofa.

The servant left the tray with the caviar on the coffee table and walked out of the study on tiptoe, closing the door behind him noiselessly. What a man,’ he thought. What devotion to religion. No wonder the President spends so much time with him talking about important things.

It has to be said here for the purposes of clarification that the President did not really believe in God. At least not in the sense in which it is usually understood. He did have a vague idea of the plot of the Bible and accepted, in general, the explanation that the world was far too complicated and diverse to have been created out of nothing. But deep, deep in his heart he still believed that life on earth has been ‘planted’ by aliens who had arrived thousands of years ago and brought with them all the necessary components to launch mankind. And although he did go to church, from time to time, knew how to cross himself and had icons hanging on the walls in his living quarters in the Kremlin and in his presidential plane and in his presidential yacht, he never prayed in front of them and did not really know how to pray. All his so-called confessions to Father Timofei amounted to a long list of complaints about most of the people around him not understanding him and not treasuring him properly. He also told Father Timofei at every confession that in order to fulfill his vision he needed much more time than the two presidential terms that he was entitled to by Constitution. He would usually ask the priest whether he had any definite proof that there was life after death and whether he would qualify to go to Heaven outright or would he need to do some favours to the church to get his sins forgiven.

That morning Father Timofei came to see the President on one important matter. He had had a talk with some of his fellow clergymen and they had come to a conclusion that as the President was a deeply spiritual and religious man he could basically go around the Constitution which was just a worldly piece of paper and stay on in power for as long as he wished. The conclusion was that God would not mind if the President continued doing the excellent job he was doing and come up with some cunning plan to extend his term in office.

Meanwhile the President and the First Lady were waiting for their bollocks to arrive.

‘I’ve been thinking about what General Baranov told me,’ the President said, chewing on a piece of black rye bread. ‘I’ll probably agree to add two more armour-plated jeeps to my official motorcade. It will only cost ten million or something close to it but you can never be too careful. Those terrorists are now everywhere, you know. Just itching to cause mayhem and destruction. And what could be more damaging to Russia than losing me, the President. It would have disastrous consequences for the whole nation, the whole world in fact.’

The First Lady nodded.

‘You are so right, darling,’ she says. ‘You must be protected at all times. Your life is too precious. How many cars do you have now in your motorcade?’

The President rolled his eyes, obviously trying to count the number of vehicles in his head. His thin lips were tightly shut and his whole face betrayed a serious effort to concentrate. Finally he smiled, obviously coming up with the figure.

‘It’s fifteen vehicles at the moment,’ he said, looking, semi-proudly and semi-worryingly at the same time, at his wife, ‘including my own armour-plated limousine. So you may say that it has only fourteen vehicles. Pathetic! For a presidential motorcade to have fourteen vehicles is just not enough!’

The First Lady shook her head in utter disbelief. She seemed shocked, appalled, bewildered and hurt – all at once. Her dear husband, the President of Russia, loved and worshiped by millions of people, was being treated like some common leader of a banana republic, forced to have only fifteen, no, even fourteen vehicles in his motorcade.

‘Fourteen vehicles?’ she said in loud, hissing whisper. ‘Only fourteen vehicles? In a presidential motorcade? That is obscene, that is absolutely unacceptable! What is General Baranov thinking of? Next thing he’ll advise you to drive to the Kremlin yourself. I’m shocked. Honestly, I’m deeply, deeply shocked.’

‘Yes, yes, you’re right dear,’ the President said, biting his lower lip. ‘And I’ll tell you more: with fourteen vehicles there is no chance of having a proper formation on the road to protect me against evil people. I sometimes think when I’m being driven to the Kremlin that I’m just a moving target for any lunatic to have a shot at me. I sometimes feel so vulnerable in that thinly armoured limousine of mine, dear, so vulnerable and so lonely and so misunderstood…’

‘Yes, yes, darling,’ the First Lady said, ‘I know that feeling. I get it when I’m not wearing any make up. I also feel so vulnerable then, so unprotected…’

She got so emotional that her face turned red. There was even a hint of a tear in her left eye.

The President gave her a strange look, but said nothing. She does look a bit on the ugly side when she has no make up on, he thought. The years have not been kind to her, not kind at all. And all that prickly stubble under her nose. But at least she understands me, and that is more important than looks. Yes, more important than looks.

‘Yes,’ the President said, ‘I think I’ll add five armoured jeeps to my motorcade. With four armed bodyguards in each.’

There was a faint knock on the door and then two waiters brought in the steaming lamb’s bollocks with mash and lashings of gravy on silver trays. There were two tiny Russian flags stuck into the bollocks that were intended to show that the food had been tested for possible poisons or the presence of any strange objects.

The President and the First Lady tucked into their bollocks. No words were exchanged for a while. There was only one interruption: one of the waiters came in to report that Father Timofei felt slightly unwell due to extended fasting and asked for permission to stay undisturbed in the study till the President came back from the Kremlin later in the day.

The President shook his tiny head.

‘Tut, tut, tut,’ he said, concern in his voice. ‘Father Timofei needs to look after himself. He can’t go on torturing himself like that. He needs to eat something.’

He then told the waiter to look after the priest and bring him anything he asked for.

Once they had finished their breakfast, the President dashed upstairs to get dressed and the First Lady went to her quarters. The excitement in the residence was growing by the second. It was time to get ready for the planning of the journey to the Kremlin.

There were so many things to discuss, so many details to work out. For everyone around the President knew that every journey to the Kremlin from his country residence was fraught with so many dangers – with the terrorists at large and Western intelligence services running amok in Moscow – that careful planning was needed on a daily basis. And how they all cheered and jumped with joy when they heard that the President ‘had made it’ to his place of work and how they would rejoice when he returned to his residence safely in the evening. In fact, according to the newspapers, a lot of people in the country breathed a collective sigh of relief every time they heard would her that their beloved leader was safe and sound.

Chapter 2: Journey to the Kremlin.

As usual, the head of the Federal Security Service, Ivan ‘dead face’ Vodkin, was the first official to meet the President after he had dressed.

They held their meeting in a room adjacent to the study where Father Timofei was fast asleep, having rubbed some more brandy on into his temples and eaten all the caviar he had been brought. This other room was used as a second study, as Father Timofei would often rest in the main one.

‘Before we discuss the details of today’s journey to the Kremlin, Mr President,’ Vodkin said, shaking with visible excitement, ‘I need to tell you something of the greatest importance.’

The President was stunned, although he tried not to show it. He was not used to discussing anything before the details of his journey to work were submitted to him for his approval. He was also slightly alarmed by the FSB Director shaking and smiling so broadly that he ran a danger of his lips snapping at any moment. The man had a hideous face and it was not really wise of him to stretch his lips to that extent. Especially as Vodkin’s eyes were not really involved in all his facial excitement, remaining, rather dead. Back in the good old Soviet days no one in the KGB ever smiled at work, no one! You could walk through the corridors of Lubyanka for hours and you would not see a single smiling face, not even a hint of a smile or a grin. The faces of people would be static, except for an occasional frown here and there, all to do with some serious thinking process going on.

Should I call my bodyguards, the President thought, and order them to take Ivan to the cellar to cool him down from a hose? It’ll do him a world of good, this cooling down. Or maybe I should order his mock execution in the firing range downstairs. Put him in front of a firing squad and start counting – one… two… And then let him go. Does wonders for the nervous system I hear.

But then the President decided that it might be something really serious for his faithful Ivan ‘dead face’ Vodkin to break all the rules in the book. So he gave him a nod and a wink, in a KGB style, which meant: I get your drift. You’ve got something very important to tell me. Shoot, but only verbally of course.

Having received a nod and a wink, Vodkin grinned and rubbed his hands.

‘We have finally worked out how to penetrate the British intelligence,’ he said. ‘It is going to be the biggest operation of its kind. We will have our people working for them on every level.’

The President’s blondish unimpressive brows rose up and stayed up. His eyes widened and his mouth opened and stayed open. His buttocks were clenched tight, very tight. He was ready to absorb the information.

Vodkin produced an expression of pure undistilled loyalty on his face.

‘It has come to our attention, Mr President,’ he said in a hushed voice, ‘that the British intelligence is at the moment running a recruitment campaign in the press, advertising different positions in its network.’

The President relaxed his facial features and his buttocks, signalling to Vodkin with a slight nod to stop. He studied the FSB Director’s face for a moment. What the hell was he talking about, he wondered. He must have been drinking yesterday. Yes, probably drank a bottle of vodka, secretly in his office, and lost it completely. No wonder his name is V-O-D-K-I-N.

‘Are you telling me, Ivan,’ the President said finally, looking doubtfully at the FSB Director, ‘that the British intelligence is advertising jobs in our newspapers? Have they all gone mad over there, eating all those mad cows of theirs?’

The President made a note in his head. That was a very good description he had came up with on the spur of the moment – mad cows and Englishmen. That is what happens when you monitor the news and incorporate it into your daily conversations , he thought, smiling contently and forgetting for a moment about the presence in the room of the FSB Director. He even started to imagine that he had long, silky hair and ran his fingers through it – in an imaginary way, of course.

Vodkin stood there patiently, without uttering a word. He could see that the President was lost deep in thought. He guesses that it might have something to do with him imagining having long silky hair and stroking it gently. He would be a very handsome man, Vodkin thought, if he had had long thick hair. Not to say that he was not good looking without the hair. Quite stunningly handsome, as a matter of fact.

But with hair, well, he would look like an Indian movie star.

And then he noticed that the glassy, dreamy gaze in the President’s eyes cleared up and he spoke.

‘No, no, no, Mr. President,’ Vodkin said, convincingly. ‘I’m sorry for sounding confusing. Silly me. What I meant was that the British intelligence was placing ads in the British newspapers. They are offering all sorts of jobs: secretaries, clerks, translators, waiters, chefs, cleaners – the lot.’

The President produced a wry smile, which was intended to show that he had already guessed what it was all about.

Vodkin’s face turned from its usual pale to a slightly greyish complexion, which meant that he was overly excited.

‘We have decided to launch a covert operation ,’ he said, trembling, ‘and infiltrate the British intelligence on all levels. Our sleepers in London will be activated on our instructions and will apply for the jobs of cleaners and waiters and secretaries. Once they settle in there, we will know everything that London is doing or is planning to do.’

The President kept the knowledgeable smile going. There was no mirror to look at but he imagined himself ‘from the outside’ and it looked good.

*

‘What sort of jobs would our people be applying for?’ the President said, licking his thin lips and trying to sound businesslike and composed, while feeling the excitement of a conspirator building up in him, in a tingly sort of way. It was just like in the old days when he was working for the KGB and took part in planning sessions that included plotting covert operations against the enemies of the then Soviet Union.
Vodkin produced a gurgle that he personally always considered to be a giggle. He could see that the President was interested. This was his, Vodkin’s, big moment.

‘Well, Mr. President, sir,’ he said, smiling foxily, ‘I have thought long and hard about it. I asked myself: what would our enemies in Great Britain expect us to do? And I asked myself this over and over and over and over again. And then I asked myself some more of the same thing: what would our enemies expect of us? Over and over and over. Day and night, night and day I was thinking…’

The fixed smile slowly slipped off the President’s thin lips. He x-rayed the FSB Director with his eyes.

‘Yes, Vodkin, I hear you,’ he said. ‘I get the idea that you have thought long and hard about it. But do get to the point, man. And I hope that you aren’t going to sing the KGB song to me before revealing the plan. We are alone here and there is no need to get all emotional.’

Vodkin nodded. He was actually planning to perform the opening verse of the KGB’s ‘plotting song’. They always used to sing it in the agency when they came up with some devious plan. The ritual also involved a bit of dancing and laughing in a sinister way. But as the President was not in the mood this time the FSB Director dropped the idea.

‘As I was saying, Mr President,’ he continued, ‘our enemies obviously expect us to apply for the jobs of field operatives, translators and handlers of secret documents. But I have seen through their plans. I am not going to fall into their trap. I decided that we will tell our people to apply as waiters in their canteens, cleaners, plumbers, electricians – the sort of jobs no one would ever expect us to be interested in. Their agents would talk to each other about their secret operations in the canteen and in the toilet and our people would listen and remember every word. And our cleaners will collect all the rubbish and go through their wastepaper baskets and find out what they are up to. It will be perfect. We will know everything about their plans. It is such a great idea that I am simply bursting with desire to sing the KGB plotting song.’

The President waved his hand, demonstrating to Vodkin that he did not want to hear the song on this occasion. He was thinking. The plan sounded perfect. It will be an opportunity to deliver a fatal blow to the very heart of the British intelligence that was plotting against him from the moment he moved into the Kremlin. But two things were bothering him now: first, why didn’t Vodkin follow the procedure and let him, the President, the Commander-in-Chief of the armed forces and the honorary head of all intelligence services come up with this plan in the first place. He could have informed him about the ads in the British newspapers and then let him come up with this brilliant plan.

I would have come up with it the moment I saw the advert, he thought. I have a brilliant mind; everybody in the Kremlin says so. Sharp, finely shaped and inquisitive mind, and I would have seen the opportunity to infiltrate the British secret service at once. And everyone would have been so proud of me.

The President smiled, faintly, imagining how everyone in the Kremlin would have congratulated him with coming up with such a brilliant idea. And he saw himself accepting these accolades and saying, ‘Oh it was nothing. Just using the grey matter a bit, you know…’

But then the vision disappeared. He was once again faced with the bleak reality of Vodkin’s inconsiderate behavior.

And then he thought that the FSB Director had made another blunder: he did not come up with a codename for the operation. Codenames were very important. Crucial to any plot. And yet, Vodkin had completely forgotten it. It was not a good sign. The head of the FSB made two crucial errors of judgment. Like some young informant and not an FSB Director.

The President then decided that he would have to come up with some devilish plan – yes, ‘devilish’ was the right word for is – and make it look as if he not Vodkin came up with the idea of infiltrating the British intelligence in the first place. But for now there were more pressing matters of state – planning his journey to the Kremlin that day.

‘We will talk about it later,’ the President said. ‘In the secret basement in the Kremlin. Where no one will be able to overhear us.’

Vodkin nodded energetically. He understood how the President felt. It was wise to be cautious. The British spies were everywhere. They could have sent in a fly with a tiny microphone stuck up its tiny arse. Or planted a rock outside the building with a powerful eavesdropping device inside.

‘Yes, President, sir, I understand’, Vodkin said in a whisper. ‘We will talk about it later in the basement. Where no one will hear us. Not a single soul. Not a peep not a squeak will reach them. We will…’

The President raised his hand. Enough was enough. It was time to talk about the traveling arrangements for that day

It has to be said, one more time, as we have already mentioned it somewhere above, that the President treated his trips to work very seriously indeed. Since the day that he was pronounced as the acting President of Russia by his Predecessor, he had worked out one important thing – if he did not get to the Kremlin safely he would not be able to return home in the evening. And that would mean that he would stop being President. It was as simple as that.

Not to mention that in Russia the strength of any leader was mostly judged by the way he arranged his travel. Russian people expected their leaders to have a large motorcade, with a lot of security provided.

That was why the President’s every journey from home to work and back was planned meticulously and was executed like a battle plan. And of course the pomp and ceremony element was very important, for the President was not some ordinary person going to work. He was the leader of the nation, the father of the people, the chosen one. Millions adored and worshipped him and they wanted him to look grand and important. They wanted him to be protected from the few mad fanatics who hated and despised him.

The President himself treated the planning of his journeys to the Kremlin and back home like religious rituals. At those times he really felt what it meant to be the Commander-in-Chief when it was up to him and him alone to decide how to get to the Kremlin safely and then sneak back home in the evening. He felt that his personal safety was paramount. It was more important than anything else in the world, even world peace.

The big secret was that the President was absolutely terrified of assassins. He believed that they were everywhere. His people would often tell him how they had managed to uncover a plot to assassinate him. They had never actually caught anyone but it did not matter. It always somehow transpired that the assassins managed to escape. But it was clear as daylight that they were out there, plotting against him. And he had to be extra careful to avoid them.

And there was another secret paranoia that the President experienced regularly. It was caused by the fact that he had not been properly elected. He had been appointed by his Predecessor as a reward for his loyalty and then swooped into power in an election that did not really have an element of election in it. It sort of happened one day, with the Election Commission reporting that 60 per cent of the people had voted for him. No one really knew where this figure of 60 per cent had come from. It was a good round figure and it made sure that he did not have to take part in a second round of the election. But he never knew where it came from. He heard that his Predecessor had decided that 60 per cent would be just about right for an unknown politician to get elected. 80 per cent would have been too much. But 60 felt more realistic.

The President twice rejected the idea of becoming President when he was first summoned to the Kremlin, in secret, by his Predecessor, his two sons and Biggie, a small bald man with spidery hands. At the time the country was run by these four people and they decided on everything. So when they proposed to him, out of the blue, that he should become the next head of state he became very frightened. He even thought that it might have been a test of his loyalty and that the moment he agreed he would be arrested and sent to the Lubyanka prison. He often had nightmares about the Lubyanka. He saw himself being led from the Kremlin under guard and all the people were pointing at him and shouting: ‘Traitor, traitor, this man’s a traitor!’

But he agreed, eventually, and it all worked out just like they planned it. The only problem was that since then the President was always concerned for his safety, especially at times when he was travelling. He remembered from history that many great leaders were assassinated while they were going somewhere. That was why he had a big motorcade, even when he visited neighbouring houses where some of his friends and confidants lived. You can could never be too safe, he always thought.

Vodkin meanwhile was standing to attention, waiting for that nod to begin his report.

The nod finally followed.

‘Dear Mr President,’ Vodkin said, patriotism glimmering in his small eyes, ‘I would like to submit to you the details of your journey to the Kremlin as proposed by the chief of your security and approved by me, in principal, pending your consent, this morning at exactly 8.37.’

Vodkin put a leather folder with the Russian two-headed eagle containing the details of the journey in front of the President. He then froze again, standing to attention.

The President frowned as he opened the folder. He felt the importance of the occasion. The future of the whole Russian political process was at stake. One mistake, one wrong move, and the whole country could be thrown into turmoil.

He started to read the itinerary.

‘Front doors open at 9.30,’ it said. ‘The President and his bodyguards walk out of the premises at exactly 9.32. They reach the limousine at 9.33. The President comradely waves to his household staff and is being photographed for posterity before getting into the limousine at 9.35. The vehicle starts moving at 9.36. The gates open at 9.37 and the limousine drives out and joins the official motorcade consisting of 14 vehicles manned by 56 armed bodyguards. The formation for the day: two vehicles driving 50 metres in front of the limousine, followed by three vehicles moving 25 metres in front of the limousine. Four vehicles follow the limousine, staying, 10 metres behind, and the last remaining four vehicles close up the formation following the limousine 50 metres behind.

The motorcade arrives at the Kremlin at exactly 10.20. All traffic is halted along the route an hour before the motorcade commences its journey.

The President gets out of the limousine at 10.21. The aides and advisors greet him at the entrance. Photographs are taken for posterity. Traditional bread and salt is offered and the President tastes the bread. “How are you feeling today, Mr President?” the question is asked by senior aide Vadim Bregvadze. The President smiles faintly and replies without consulting his notes, lightheartedly, “I am in tip top shape, in tip-top shape, thank you for asking.”

The President walks into the building at 10.23.

The Presidents commences his working day at 10.30.

The journey home from the Kremlin is to be submitted by 17.00.’

The President winced. He remembered his conversation with his wife and the expression of horror on her face when she heard that he still travelled to the Kremlin with only fourteen support vehicles. How did she put it? ‘Fourteen lousy vehicles.’ Yes, she understood the situation better than all those people, he thought. She could be a good head of security. She had worked with people a lot when she was a waitress for ten years in that fine restaurant in St Petersburg where they first met. She looked gorgeous in that waitress’s uniform…

The President licked his thin lips, lustily, but then his face darkened and his lips tightened. It was time to introduce the new additional security to the travel arrangements. He frowned, hoping that ‘from outside’ he would appear as a man both concerned and irritated at the same time.

He looked up at Vodkin who was standing to attention.

‘At ease,’ he commanded in a grave voice and Vodkin immediately realised that his beloved President was not happy with something.

Blast those bastards at the presidential protection service! Vodkin thought. How many times have I told them to make the text more flowery, to put in things like ‘statuesque’, ‘warm smiles’, ‘members of staff elated’. But no, they resort to the dry language of bureaucracy, the idiots!

The President spoke.

‘How would you feel, Vodkin, if you started moving about without adequate protection?’ he asked, sternly. ‘How about cutting down on your security and limiting the number of your bodyguards to five instead of the current ten? Would you feel comfortable with that? Would you feel safe?

General Vodkin – for he had the rank of an FSB General – blinked several times. He never felt safe anywhere. Even when he went to his confession to Father Timofei. He had caused so many problems for so many people that he always felt as if he were walking into a sniper’s sight. He always thought that ten bodyguards for a man of his importance was way too few. And suddenly he was faced with the terrible scenario of having even fewer bodyguards.

But he also knew that he had not to show to his beloved leader that he was afraid.

‘While I would not feel comfortable, Mr President,’ Vodkin said, ‘I would still remember that you risk your life daily and have less protection than you need. If I had my way I would have increased your level of protection dramatically.’

The President’s facial features softened. He liked the reply he had heard. It was the reply of an honest man who had devoted all his life to the KGB. Which was the same as devoting your life to Motherland Russia.

‘I am glad, General,’ the President said, ‘that you feel so strongly about my security, or rather lack of it. Other people have also been telling me recently that they are worried that I do not have enough protection, especially when I travel. Do you know what they call my security arrangements? They called them lousy.’

General Vodkin shook his head. It was obvious from the grave expression on his face that he most definitely agreed that ‘lousy’ was the right word.

Vodkin searched for an answer on the President’s face. What does he want me to suggest? he was thinking nervously. To fly him by helicopter? To keep him at the Kremlin at all times?

But the President’s face displayed no answers. None at all.

Vodkin decided to play for time and maybe get a hint from the boss about his own ideas on the subject.

‘Mr. President,’ he said, ‘I will be frank with you, sir. You know me, I never lie to you. I always tell you the truth, even if it’s an uncomfortable truth…’

He paused and glanced at the President who seemed to be listening attentively.

‘I have never been comfortable with the level of your security, sir,’ Vodkin continued. ‘From the first days I remember thinking to myself: Mr President’s level of protection is not adequate. That’s what I was thinking, sir.’

The President nodded in agreement, but ever so slightly.

‘So what do you suggest, General?’ he said. ‘What in your opinion should be done to increase my protection?’

General Vodkin was desperately thinking of what to say. If it was his decision alone he would have suggested drastic measures, like digging a tunnel from the country house to the Kremlin and using is to drive the President to work. Or assigning crack paratroopers to guard the whole route with orders to shoot on sight anyone who dared approach the road or even moved. But he was not the main decision maker, so he had to come up with some clever answer.

What is it he remembered from his days as KGB station chief in Cuba? Fidel Castro managed to survive all those assassination attempts on his life; twice a day sometimes. How was he protected? Ah, yes, he had friends among the Colombian drug cartels who looked after him. But in our case we can’t ask them to help. It would be a bit, a bit embarrassing. But what else? What else?

And then it hit him. Of course, how could he have been so blind to the obvious!

General Vodkin smiled, triumphantly.

‘I suggest Mr President, sir, that we find you a double who would act as a distraction and be used as a decoy. Our enemies would think that it is you who is being driven in the limousine to work whereas you would be travelling in a different motorcade.’

General Vodkin at that moment felt as if he had relieved himself after a long period of abstaining from visiting the toilet. It was a great feeling.

The President sat in thoughtful silence for a good minute or two. He was very impressed by what he had just heard. He initially thought of just adding more cars to his motorcade but his FSB Director was demonstrating a creative approach. It was a brilliant idea. The opportunities were endless. He could be at two places at the same time! He could be, supposedly, chairing a Security Council meeting in the Kremlin, but in reality at that very same time taking judo lessons, or fishing, or doing God knows what else.

But as it so often happened to him a feeling of bitterness began quickly building up in him. He was once again annoyed that he himself had not come up with such an idea. It was his job, as the leader of Russia, to come up with novel ideas; his and his alone. Why would some stupid FSB Director take the credit for it? It just did not look right.

He looked at Vodkin with disgust. When will he learn? When will this stupid peasant, who had a nickname ‘dead face’, finally realise that he could not just spring a new idea on him? When will they all understand the intricacies of political life and learn to show respect to the legally elected head of state? In Soviet times it was never tolerated, this sort of insubordination. People lost their jobs for that, were sent to the gulag, put in front of firing squads. And it was good for morale and no one stuck his neck out. They knew their place!

Now the President was really angry. His thin colourless lips were shut tight. His tiny fists were clenched, along with his buttocks.

General Vodkin swallowed several times. He imagined himself being sacked from his job and sent to Chechnya to chase all those bandits there. He was trying hard to figure out what it was that had upset the President so much. Was it that he found the idea of having a double repellant? Or was it that he thought that it smacked of opportunism? That there could be no one even close to resembling him physically?

Meanwhile the President had regained his composure. He knew what to say.

‘To be honest with you, Vodkin, I have been toying with this idea for quite a while myself. Just this morning I said to my dear wife, I said: I am still toying with the idea of having a double. And she smiled and said to me: darling, they won’t be able to find your double. You are unique. And I said to her: It is possible, with makeup and a bit of cosmetic surgery…’

At that moment General Vodkin figured out what the problem was. He should have made it look as if the President had come up with the idea himself. The fool, the bloody fool. How could I have forgotten the golden rule of a chekist – never ever outshine your superiors? Always try to look a fool compared to them, always be a second fiddle in their orchestra. And to think that I also came up with that stupid plan to infiltrate the British intelligence.

It was time to save the situation.

‘I only mentioned the double, Mr President, sir, because I had remembered you talking about it,’ Vodkin said. ‘I just thought I’d remind you and maybe you can give it another thought.’

The President nodded. That was the right way to go on about it. The KGB way.

‘Yes,’ the President said, ‘now that you’ve brought this sensitive subject up, I think we should look into this matter seriously. And the first question I would put to you is this: where are we going to find somebody who looks exactly like me? And not just looks like me, but talks like me and walks like me.’

General Vodkin was wearing his thinking cap again. What the hell am I supposed to say now? That we go out and find a man who looks exactly like him? But he has just said that his wife calls him unique. What the hell do I say now?

He decided to go for broke.

‘We pick someone with your impressive physique and put him under a surgeon’s knife,’ General Vodkin said. ‘Once his face is altered he can become your double. And then our enemies will never be able to guess who is who.’

The President nodded, accepting the explanation. Vodkin’s ploy worked. He was jubilant. It was now time to save himself from that other blunder about British intelligence.

‘Mr President, sir,’ Vodkin said, his voice slightly trembling, ‘you always make me think about new ways of running our intelligence service. Just like with that plan to infiltrate the Brutish intelligence. You probably do not remember, sir, but you once said to me that if ever there were an advertisement for MI5 or MI6 staff we could infiltrate them. And I remember it, sir, I do. And when I finally saw that ad in the Guardian I thought: Mr President must be a psychic. How could he have foreseen such things?’

At that moment Vodkin’s career was saved. The President even wanted to hug him, ever so slightly, but he decided that it would not look good under the circumstances. So he just nodded, approvingly.
‘One more thing General,’ he said casually. ‘From tomorrow add four more jeeps to my motorcade. It’s getting pretty hot out there, you know. Always makes sense to be on the safe side.’

And he signed his travel itinerary for the day.

General Vodkin nearly ran out of the room. He was happy. He was proud of his country and of its leader. And of himself.

(This is the last instalment of Crème de la Krémlin. The whole book will be available to purchase from StirringTroubleInternationally in May 2008. Look out for details soon.)

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