mark-up.
From this he went on to buying companies. He understood accounts instinctively and loved the challenge of ripping through a balance sheet, diagnosing faults and then taking on the cold-blooded risks necessary to win in thebare-knuckle capitalism of the Yeltsin era. From humble beginnings his business empire gradually expanded from automotive parts, to mines, to food preparation, and then into more glamorous sectors like media.
However, at times of inner crisis, like now, he had to turn back to literature to steady himself. He needed books as his touchstone.
He pulled the greatest book ever written out of the Louis Vuitton briefcase at his feet: Life and Fate . His battered copy had been heavily annotated.
He turned to the section where Sokolov and Madyarov were arguing about the true nature of what freedom meant in Russia. Sokolov was in full flood: ‘Chekhov is the bearer of the greatest banner that has been raised in the thousand years of Russian history—the banner of a true, human, Russian democracy, of Russian freedom, of the dignity of the Russian man.’
The bearer of the banner of the dignity of the Russian man! That was what he was! That was what Russkaya dusha was all about!
He could see himself with a grand banner unfurled over his head expressing his love for the people of Russia. The great image stuck in his head, revivifying him.
He sat in his luxurious executive jet with the book in front of him, holding it and staring out of the window, lost in renewed dreams of glory as he swept on to meet President Krymov.
Chapter Nine
Sergey was ushered quietly into Krymov’s office in the Kremlin.
Even though it was Saturday evening, the President was still hard at work. Being unable to let go was all part of his instability.
He followed the classic dictator-kitsch style of having a huge office with his desk set at the far end of it to intimidate anyone who had to take the long walk towards him.
Although, to be fair, this desk did have history. His particular office lay on the top floor of the Senate House, a triangular building around a central courtyard, along the eastern wall of the Kremlin, with Lenin’s Mausoleum in Red Square just over the great outer wall to the east of it.
It had been the office of the Russian head of state since 1918 so the other occupants had included Lenin, Stalin, Khrushchev, Brezhnev, Andropov, Chernyenko, Gorbachev, Yeltsin, Putin and Medvedev.
Now Krymov sat at his huge desk with a green-shaded lamp illuminating the wall of paperwork that he liked to hide behind. It was ten o’clock at night and he was hunched over the desk, pen in one hand, signing documents. He looked up and glowered at Sergey like an angry pig.
Sergey walked nonchalantly across the deep pile carpettowards him, wearing his crumpled suit and tie, his hair askew and his diamond earring glinting in the low lights.
Krymov wagged his finger at him threateningly.
‘Shaposhnikov, what’s this I hear about you meeting up with a man called Devereux in London?’
Sergey froze halfway across the carpet.
‘You said he was a geologist you were flying out to Krasnokamensk but Gorsky has checked him out and tells me he is a well-known British mercenary. What’s going on?’ he barked. ‘If you don’t want to smell, then don’t touch shit!’
Behind him stood Major Batyuk, the head of Echelon 25, Krymov’s élite bodyguard unit. A tall, balding man with a hardened face, wearing a tight-fitting uniform, he had had his right ear sliced off years ago in a fight and the angry little stump of red cartilage stuck out of the side of his head, giving him a weird, lopsided look.
The major clenched his fists at his side, knowing that this was going to be another of those sessions when some poor subordinate was dragged into the office and shredded. Krymov would probe them to start off with; they would then be terrified, which encouraged him to bully them more so the whole thing would end with the President
From this he went on to buying companies. He understood accounts instinctively and loved the challenge of ripping through a balance sheet, diagnosing faults and then taking on the cold-blooded risks necessary to win in thebare-knuckle capitalism of the Yeltsin era. From humble beginnings his business empire gradually expanded from automotive parts, to mines, to food preparation, and then into more glamorous sectors like media.
However, at times of inner crisis, like now, he had to turn back to literature to steady himself. He needed books as his touchstone.
He pulled the greatest book ever written out of the Louis Vuitton briefcase at his feet: Life and Fate . His battered copy had been heavily annotated.
He turned to the section where Sokolov and Madyarov were arguing about the true nature of what freedom meant in Russia. Sokolov was in full flood: ‘Chekhov is the bearer of the greatest banner that has been raised in the thousand years of Russian history—the banner of a true, human, Russian democracy, of Russian freedom, of the dignity of the Russian man.’
The bearer of the banner of the dignity of the Russian man! That was what he was! That was what Russkaya dusha was all about!
He could see himself with a grand banner unfurled over his head expressing his love for the people of Russia. The great image stuck in his head, revivifying him.
He sat in his luxurious executive jet with the book in front of him, holding it and staring out of the window, lost in renewed dreams of glory as he swept on to meet President Krymov.
Chapter Nine
Sergey was ushered quietly into Krymov’s office in the Kremlin.
Even though it was Saturday evening, the President was still hard at work. Being unable to let go was all part of his instability.
He followed the classic dictator-kitsch style of having a huge office with his desk set at the far end of it to intimidate anyone who had to take the long walk towards him.
Although, to be fair, this desk did have history. His particular office lay on the top floor of the Senate House, a triangular building around a central courtyard, along the eastern wall of the Kremlin, with Lenin’s Mausoleum in Red Square just over the great outer wall to the east of it.
It had been the office of the Russian head of state since 1918 so the other occupants had included Lenin, Stalin, Khrushchev, Brezhnev, Andropov, Chernyenko, Gorbachev, Yeltsin, Putin and Medvedev.
Now Krymov sat at his huge desk with a green-shaded lamp illuminating the wall of paperwork that he liked to hide behind. It was ten o’clock at night and he was hunched over the desk, pen in one hand, signing documents. He looked up and glowered at Sergey like an angry pig.
Sergey walked nonchalantly across the deep pile carpettowards him, wearing his crumpled suit and tie, his hair askew and his diamond earring glinting in the low lights.
Krymov wagged his finger at him threateningly.
‘Shaposhnikov, what’s this I hear about you meeting up with a man called Devereux in London?’
Sergey froze halfway across the carpet.
‘You said he was a geologist you were flying out to Krasnokamensk but Gorsky has checked him out and tells me he is a well-known British mercenary. What’s going on?’ he barked. ‘If you don’t want to smell, then don’t touch shit!’
Behind him stood Major Batyuk, the head of Echelon 25, Krymov’s élite bodyguard unit. A tall, balding man with a hardened face, wearing a tight-fitting uniform, he had had his right ear sliced off years ago in a fight and the angry little stump of red cartilage stuck out of the side of his head, giving him a weird, lopsided look.
The major clenched his fists at his side, knowing that this was going to be another of those sessions when some poor subordinate was dragged into the office and shredded. Krymov would probe them to start off with; they would then be terrified, which encouraged him to bully them more so the whole thing would end with the President
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