know?”
“Everything.”
“How many hours do you have?”
Valiulin broke into a dazzling white smile that was not friendly. “I understand that you have been monitoring the activities of our intelligence services.”
“Your understanding and sources are both wrong.”
“One of your men was spotted last afternoon . . . he was driving an unmarked car on Volgogradsky Prospekt. He had someone under surveillance at the Mercedes Benz dealer. Your man then followed his target to a warehouse on Ostapovsky.”
Navalny kept his poker face intact.
Was my man careless or were Valiulin’s men lucky?
Either way it wasn’t good for Navalny or his department. His man was supposed to be following Col. Pyotr Petrovich Zubkov, a corrupt colonel in the FSB—the successor agency to the KGB. The Federal Security Service was riddled with crooked agents who profited from activities that ranged from protecting organized crime to participating in it. A few agents had already been caught selling state secrets to the highest bidder. Navalny suspected Zubkov to be in that treasonous category.
“I,” said Navalny, “will have to look into that.”
“Are you telling me that you have nothing to do with that operation?”
“I have a lot going on. I’ll find out who was there and get back to you.”
“You better. Or else. . . .”
“Is that a threat?”
“It’s a reminder that you are legally obligated to cooperate with me and my department.”
“Tell me something,” said Navalny as he stood up.
“What do you want to know?”
“Since when did truth—honesty—and integrity become a form of extremism?”
“My friend. Don’t be naive. Or stupid. Truth . . . honesty . . . and integrity have their limits.”
“Do they?”
“Anything and everything . . . even truth and honesty can be taken to extremes . . . the same goes for integrity.”
~ ~ ~
The gloomy Brezhnev-era apartment building swallowed up Navalny into its proletarian grayness. And yet he looked forward to dinner with his family. He would soon be greeted by appetizing smells from the kitchen and the chatter of his wife and two sons. He opened the door. The apartment was, however, utterly empty. His eyes immediately fell on the blinking red light of their outdated phone message machine.
Navalny pressed the PLAY key.
“Listen carefully and follow orders. We have your wife and sons. . . .”
~ ~ ~
A real man does what he needs to do and not what he wants to do.
Ivan Navalny understood that the Moscow City Police and the Russian government would later denounce him. Relatives and in-laws and so-called friends would disown him and curse his name. For sure he would be stripped of his rank as a Police Lieutenant Colonel. His 20-year career would end in disgrace at the GUVD-Moscow. He also knew that a long prison sentence waited for him if paid or unpaid killers didn’t catch him first.
So what?
A real man does what he needs to do . . . not what he wants to do . . . not what he feels like doing.
The same goes for a real woman.
Navalny remembered what his grandfather and father often told him:
“A real man does what he needs to do because no one else will ever do as good a job as you yourself can and will do. Ivan . . . you and your family will never really thrive or be independent if you’re waiting on someone else’s handout or some government agency’s magical program to solve your problems.
“Let someone else do what you need to do and they will fail you. They will disappoint you. And if you’re lucky . . . very lucky . . . they won’t turn on you or otherwise harm you or try to control you.”
A real man does what he needs to do. That’s why Ivan Navalny ankle-holstered his father’s 8-round Makarov semi-automatic pistol while he gazed lovingly at a recent picture of his wife and sons. He preferred his father’s reliable army-issued Makarov from 1978 to the modern 17-round MP-443 Grach that the Moscow police had issued
“Everything.”
“How many hours do you have?”
Valiulin broke into a dazzling white smile that was not friendly. “I understand that you have been monitoring the activities of our intelligence services.”
“Your understanding and sources are both wrong.”
“One of your men was spotted last afternoon . . . he was driving an unmarked car on Volgogradsky Prospekt. He had someone under surveillance at the Mercedes Benz dealer. Your man then followed his target to a warehouse on Ostapovsky.”
Navalny kept his poker face intact.
Was my man careless or were Valiulin’s men lucky?
Either way it wasn’t good for Navalny or his department. His man was supposed to be following Col. Pyotr Petrovich Zubkov, a corrupt colonel in the FSB—the successor agency to the KGB. The Federal Security Service was riddled with crooked agents who profited from activities that ranged from protecting organized crime to participating in it. A few agents had already been caught selling state secrets to the highest bidder. Navalny suspected Zubkov to be in that treasonous category.
“I,” said Navalny, “will have to look into that.”
“Are you telling me that you have nothing to do with that operation?”
“I have a lot going on. I’ll find out who was there and get back to you.”
“You better. Or else. . . .”
“Is that a threat?”
“It’s a reminder that you are legally obligated to cooperate with me and my department.”
“Tell me something,” said Navalny as he stood up.
“What do you want to know?”
“Since when did truth—honesty—and integrity become a form of extremism?”
“My friend. Don’t be naive. Or stupid. Truth . . . honesty . . . and integrity have their limits.”
“Do they?”
“Anything and everything . . . even truth and honesty can be taken to extremes . . . the same goes for integrity.”
~ ~ ~
The gloomy Brezhnev-era apartment building swallowed up Navalny into its proletarian grayness. And yet he looked forward to dinner with his family. He would soon be greeted by appetizing smells from the kitchen and the chatter of his wife and two sons. He opened the door. The apartment was, however, utterly empty. His eyes immediately fell on the blinking red light of their outdated phone message machine.
Navalny pressed the PLAY key.
“Listen carefully and follow orders. We have your wife and sons. . . .”
~ ~ ~
A real man does what he needs to do and not what he wants to do.
Ivan Navalny understood that the Moscow City Police and the Russian government would later denounce him. Relatives and in-laws and so-called friends would disown him and curse his name. For sure he would be stripped of his rank as a Police Lieutenant Colonel. His 20-year career would end in disgrace at the GUVD-Moscow. He also knew that a long prison sentence waited for him if paid or unpaid killers didn’t catch him first.
So what?
A real man does what he needs to do . . . not what he wants to do . . . not what he feels like doing.
The same goes for a real woman.
Navalny remembered what his grandfather and father often told him:
“A real man does what he needs to do because no one else will ever do as good a job as you yourself can and will do. Ivan . . . you and your family will never really thrive or be independent if you’re waiting on someone else’s handout or some government agency’s magical program to solve your problems.
“Let someone else do what you need to do and they will fail you. They will disappoint you. And if you’re lucky . . . very lucky . . . they won’t turn on you or otherwise harm you or try to control you.”
A real man does what he needs to do. That’s why Ivan Navalny ankle-holstered his father’s 8-round Makarov semi-automatic pistol while he gazed lovingly at a recent picture of his wife and sons. He preferred his father’s reliable army-issued Makarov from 1978 to the modern 17-round MP-443 Grach that the Moscow police had issued
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