We Present The Fifth Instalment of Crème de la Krémlin

February 19, 2009

Today we present the fifth and final instalment of Crème de la Krémlin, our hilarious parody of life behind the Kremlin walls. You can read the four previous instalments if you go to the right of the home page and click on the splash image of the Kremlin.
*

‘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 2009. Look out for details soon.)

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