Lebed, on Chubaisâs behalf, had made a number of appearances over the airwaves alreadyâspeaking directly to the cameras: âIt appears that somebody is trying to disrupt the elections. Any attempt at mutiny will be put down mercilessly.â
Intense words . Berezovskyâs cheeks had heated up as he had watched the general speak, and he had been able to see from Badriâs expression that the situation was reaching an end.
Berezovsky had only heard one side of the phone calls between Tatiana and her father, but he was certain that, as of tomorrow morning, Korzhakov would be finished. More than that, he believed that Yeltsin was going to fire three of his previously most powerful confidants: Korzhakov, with whom he had shared vodka, climbed onto tanks, and run a country; Mikhail Barsukov, current head of the FSB, who had presumably allowed these arrests to happen and was a big supporter of Korzhakovâs; and Oleg Soskovets, the deputy prime minister, a former Red Director from the steel industry, as right-wing as they came.
It would be enormously painful for the president, but it would send a clear pro-democracy message. Yeltsin wasnât going to take the election by force; he was going to take it by vote. The loss of Korzhakov would hurt Yeltsin deeply, but it might very well ensure his victory.
With Korzhakov gone, Berezovsky and his Oligarchs would find themselves in an even stronger position. Berezovksyâs role in the Family would become more integral, and he would be closer to Yeltsin than ever. He might even be involved in the search for someone to fill the vacuum at the head of the FSB. Yeltsin would be looking for someone exceedingly loyal, a true yes-man, a cog who knew when to turn, when to stay still.
But that was something for tomorrow, and the days after that. For the moment, Berezovsky could clear his mind of such things, and allow himself to relax. Badri lit another cigar.
The Georgian was right.
It was time to celebrate.
PART TWO
Two bears canât live in one cave.
âOLD RUSSIAN PROVERB
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
----
December 1997,
FSB Headquarters, Lubyanka Square
I N RETROSPECT, ALEXANDER LITVINENKO realized, he should have known that something out of the ordinary was about to happen the minute he entered the stark, cement-walled office on the third floor of the mammoth building. Nine fifteen a.m., and the briefing was already in full swing. Three other agents were gathered in the room, two of them seated on institutional-style metal folding chairs, a third leaning against the far wall next to a heavy wooden bookshelf, overflowing with legal texts, police procedure manuals, and unmarked suspect files. At the front of the room, seated at the heavy wooden desk by the only window, in unusually good humorâhis departmental superior. The man was laughing heartily, at the tail end of a joke that Litvinenko had no intention of asking him to repeat.
After the fact, Litvinenko might have guessed that his normally finely tuned awareness of the world around him had been dulled by a surprisingly long period of normalityâif such a word could ever have been appropriate in the life of a secret service agent. Yet, in the eighteenmonths since the election that had secured his patron Berezovskyâs position for the foreseeable future, Litvinenkoâs world had slid into a pleasant rhythm; days spent working for the FSB on numerous investigations involving the gangsters who continued to battle it out on the streets of Moscow, and early evenings often spent meeting with Berezovsky at the Logovaz Club to discuss matters that made Litvinenko feel he was a part of an elite world of wealth and power.
Certainly, Berezovskyâs stock was riding high. Berezovsky had been appointed the deputy secretary of national security, perhaps as a reward for the election that he had massaged toward victory, and he had suddenly found himself involved in the conflict between the Russian
Intense words . Berezovskyâs cheeks had heated up as he had watched the general speak, and he had been able to see from Badriâs expression that the situation was reaching an end.
Berezovsky had only heard one side of the phone calls between Tatiana and her father, but he was certain that, as of tomorrow morning, Korzhakov would be finished. More than that, he believed that Yeltsin was going to fire three of his previously most powerful confidants: Korzhakov, with whom he had shared vodka, climbed onto tanks, and run a country; Mikhail Barsukov, current head of the FSB, who had presumably allowed these arrests to happen and was a big supporter of Korzhakovâs; and Oleg Soskovets, the deputy prime minister, a former Red Director from the steel industry, as right-wing as they came.
It would be enormously painful for the president, but it would send a clear pro-democracy message. Yeltsin wasnât going to take the election by force; he was going to take it by vote. The loss of Korzhakov would hurt Yeltsin deeply, but it might very well ensure his victory.
With Korzhakov gone, Berezovsky and his Oligarchs would find themselves in an even stronger position. Berezovksyâs role in the Family would become more integral, and he would be closer to Yeltsin than ever. He might even be involved in the search for someone to fill the vacuum at the head of the FSB. Yeltsin would be looking for someone exceedingly loyal, a true yes-man, a cog who knew when to turn, when to stay still.
But that was something for tomorrow, and the days after that. For the moment, Berezovsky could clear his mind of such things, and allow himself to relax. Badri lit another cigar.
The Georgian was right.
It was time to celebrate.
PART TWO
Two bears canât live in one cave.
âOLD RUSSIAN PROVERB
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
----
December 1997,
FSB Headquarters, Lubyanka Square
I N RETROSPECT, ALEXANDER LITVINENKO realized, he should have known that something out of the ordinary was about to happen the minute he entered the stark, cement-walled office on the third floor of the mammoth building. Nine fifteen a.m., and the briefing was already in full swing. Three other agents were gathered in the room, two of them seated on institutional-style metal folding chairs, a third leaning against the far wall next to a heavy wooden bookshelf, overflowing with legal texts, police procedure manuals, and unmarked suspect files. At the front of the room, seated at the heavy wooden desk by the only window, in unusually good humorâhis departmental superior. The man was laughing heartily, at the tail end of a joke that Litvinenko had no intention of asking him to repeat.
After the fact, Litvinenko might have guessed that his normally finely tuned awareness of the world around him had been dulled by a surprisingly long period of normalityâif such a word could ever have been appropriate in the life of a secret service agent. Yet, in the eighteenmonths since the election that had secured his patron Berezovskyâs position for the foreseeable future, Litvinenkoâs world had slid into a pleasant rhythm; days spent working for the FSB on numerous investigations involving the gangsters who continued to battle it out on the streets of Moscow, and early evenings often spent meeting with Berezovsky at the Logovaz Club to discuss matters that made Litvinenko feel he was a part of an elite world of wealth and power.
Certainly, Berezovskyâs stock was riding high. Berezovsky had been appointed the deputy secretary of national security, perhaps as a reward for the election that he had massaged toward victory, and he had suddenly found himself involved in the conflict between the Russian
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