Sohlberg and the White Death by Jens Amundsen

disrespectful use of her boss’s first name. “And you are? . . .”
    “Ivan . . . Ivan Navalny.”
    “Please wait to be called inside.”
    Navalny examined the expensive but bland artwork on the wall. He did not look forward to dealing with a ruthless back-stabbing power-grabber.
    “This way please,” said a slightly less pretentious male assistant.
    Navalny followed the armed and smartly uniformed aide. Vague feelings of inadequacy washed over Navalny. His cheap civilian suit felt grossly inadequate. He wondered if he should start wearing his uniform and carrying his official gun.
     
    ~ ~ ~
     
    Col. Timur Samirovich Valiulin sat behind a massive burl ash desk in an imposing corner office. The man was a sharp well-dressed werewolf. He had a thick and trimmed black beard that hid all facial expressions. Valiulin wore a solid helmet of black hair on his head and a sleek wardrobe that reeked of Ermenegildo Zegna. The hirsute colonel pointed at a chair and said:
    “Have a seat. . . . So we meet again.”
    “It was bound to happen. What’s this meeting about?”
    “I need to know something.”
    Navalny said nothing. He was going to make it difficult for the newest enforcer of Russian tyranny and corruption.
    “How loyal are you?” said Valiulin.
    “As loyal as you are.”
    “That’s an interesting answer. Very interesting.”
    Navalny crossed his legs. “Colonel . . . why do you find it interesting? . . . I’m sure that there are plenty of loyal citizens beyond these walls.”
    The colonel’s obsidian eyes sparkled. “Speaking of loyalty . . . I read the file on your grandfather. He lost his job as a senior customs inspector . . . and never found work after that.”
    “Yes,” said Navalny. “His crime was that he refused to take bribes at Moscow’s Sheremetyevo International Airport from communist government officials who came back to Mother Russia . . . loaded with illegal contraband from evil capitalist countries.”
    “Your grandmother then had to maintain the family. Correct?”
    Navalny remembered his grandmother. Nana walked with a pained sideways shuffle thanks to the arthritis that ravaged her hips and knees. After her husband got axed and blacklisted she had to work like a dog to provide for her family as a registered nurse for decades. “Colonel . . . I’m glad you have enough time to read old K.G.B. files on my grandparents. Is there anything else you want to talk about?”
    “Of course I do. . . . I imagine that you’ve had plenty of time over the decades to reflect on what happens to people with a holier-than-thou complex like your grandfather.”
    “I have better things to do than taking some mindless trip down memory lane.”
    “Actually,” said Col. Valiulin, “I think that reflection is a good thing in a man. Introspection teaches a man to learn from his mistakes. Don’t you think?”
    “I’m not big on reflection or introspection. I’m big on action .”
    “Do you think that your father took the right action?”
    “I don’t think about the past.”
    “It would do you good. You would at least remember that your father also lost his job at the university when he spoke up for Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn.”
    “What’s done is done. Anything else on your mind?”
    “There’s always something else in my mind.”
    “Let’s hope so. . . . What is this all about?”
    “I know that you keep some operations off the books from the higher-ups. You don’t report everything that your department is doing . . . or you only report a little.”
    “What?”
    “Do play coy with me.” Valiulin’s wolf eyes flashed in steely angry. “I know this from my days working down there with you at The Old Lady.”
    “Colonel. . . . Does this mean that you did the same thing in your anti-extremism unit? . . . Or does your E-Center have off-book operations going on right now?”
    “We’re not here to discuss me. We’re here to discuss your operations.”
    “What would you like to