him. The Grach went into his shoulder holster.
He picked up a silver-framed picture that he had taken of his family on last year’s vacation in the Black Sea. Navalny fondly remembered the visit to his aging parents in Krasnodar. He had splurged and taken his parents along for a two-week stay at a beach-side resort in Sochi. He had always taken care of his family and that reminded him of one thing.
The difference between a man and a boy is that a real man does what needs to be done and not what he feels like doing. Ditto for a real woman.
At that very minute he had one feeling : the compelling urge to grab his trusty AK-47M assault rifle from his Army days and then barge into the Russian Federation’s Ministry of Interior Affairs—the dreaded MVD—at 16 Zhitnaya Street through one of the many secret entrances that he knew about. He would easily find Col. Timur Samirovich Valiulin and his boss and the boss of that boss. The last one being the MVD Lieutenant General who masterminded the ugly and bloody mess that he now needed to clean up. Navalny made plans—down to the last detail—on how he will empty out the Kalashnikov on all those fine gentlemen and anyone who might try to stop him.
Of course he will have no problem entering the Ministry and dispatching those men. He can and will walk into their offices any time. After all he is the Chief of the Fourth Division of the Moscow City Police Operational Search Department. Or he will find them at home. He can and he will find them. He is the top man in charge of surveillance at the Moscow City Police.
Ivan Navalny ignored his immediate feelings and he delayed his murderous gratification. He first had to do what needed to be done. Before Lt. Col. Navalny left on his mission he played the voice message one more time:
“Listen carefully and follow orders. We have your wife and sons. You won’t see them alive if you don’t do exactly as I say. . . .”
He took one final look around his apartment and knew with absolute certainty that this would be the last time that he would ever set foot in his home. Ivan Navalny embarked on his mission on the remote chance that his family was still alive.
I will never have a normal life after I’m done with this mess.
He grabbed the envelope that contained his life insurance and he walked out of his home for the last time.
Chapter 8/Åtte
ST. PETERSBURG, RUSSIA: WEDNESDAY
JULY 13, OR THREE MONTHS AND 1 DAY
AFTER THE DAY
The canals and architectural jewels of St. Petersburg entitle the city to claim that it’s the Venice of Russia. But the grandeur of the city was a distant rumor in the abandoned and rusting 1950s tractor factory that Stalin had once hailed as “a socialist marvel for the centuries”. The pervasive smell of urine and feces almost overcame the acrid stench of a versicolor brew of toxic chemical spills that covered the floor.
The stomach-churning aroma reminded the ever-so-cynical Ivan Navalny that he would make a fortune if he came up with a women’s perfume and a men’s cologne called New Russia . He would sell out if he could somehow capture and bottle the stench that permeated the factory and Russia. He wondered if Saks Fifth Avenue and a couple of other elegant stores in New York and London and Paris and Monaco would carry the New Russia fragrance that apparently got lost whenever corrupt Russian tycoons bought super-luxury homes outside of Russia at prices that ranged from $ 30 to $ 300 million U.S. dollars.
Could $ 30 million be the benchmark when ill-gotten gains from rotten sources start smelling like roses and Chanel No. 5?
“You are late,” said Pyotr Petrovich Zubkov. The hulking man’s tiny blue eyes almost sank into oblivion under his bulging Neanderthal brow.
“I’m late?” said Navalny. “I didn’t know I was punching a time clock . . . or in charge of my train’s schedule.”
The dour colonel with the FSB looked at his watch one more time to drive
He picked up a silver-framed picture that he had taken of his family on last year’s vacation in the Black Sea. Navalny fondly remembered the visit to his aging parents in Krasnodar. He had splurged and taken his parents along for a two-week stay at a beach-side resort in Sochi. He had always taken care of his family and that reminded him of one thing.
The difference between a man and a boy is that a real man does what needs to be done and not what he feels like doing. Ditto for a real woman.
At that very minute he had one feeling : the compelling urge to grab his trusty AK-47M assault rifle from his Army days and then barge into the Russian Federation’s Ministry of Interior Affairs—the dreaded MVD—at 16 Zhitnaya Street through one of the many secret entrances that he knew about. He would easily find Col. Timur Samirovich Valiulin and his boss and the boss of that boss. The last one being the MVD Lieutenant General who masterminded the ugly and bloody mess that he now needed to clean up. Navalny made plans—down to the last detail—on how he will empty out the Kalashnikov on all those fine gentlemen and anyone who might try to stop him.
Of course he will have no problem entering the Ministry and dispatching those men. He can and will walk into their offices any time. After all he is the Chief of the Fourth Division of the Moscow City Police Operational Search Department. Or he will find them at home. He can and he will find them. He is the top man in charge of surveillance at the Moscow City Police.
Ivan Navalny ignored his immediate feelings and he delayed his murderous gratification. He first had to do what needed to be done. Before Lt. Col. Navalny left on his mission he played the voice message one more time:
“Listen carefully and follow orders. We have your wife and sons. You won’t see them alive if you don’t do exactly as I say. . . .”
He took one final look around his apartment and knew with absolute certainty that this would be the last time that he would ever set foot in his home. Ivan Navalny embarked on his mission on the remote chance that his family was still alive.
I will never have a normal life after I’m done with this mess.
He grabbed the envelope that contained his life insurance and he walked out of his home for the last time.
Chapter 8/Åtte
ST. PETERSBURG, RUSSIA: WEDNESDAY
JULY 13, OR THREE MONTHS AND 1 DAY
AFTER THE DAY
The canals and architectural jewels of St. Petersburg entitle the city to claim that it’s the Venice of Russia. But the grandeur of the city was a distant rumor in the abandoned and rusting 1950s tractor factory that Stalin had once hailed as “a socialist marvel for the centuries”. The pervasive smell of urine and feces almost overcame the acrid stench of a versicolor brew of toxic chemical spills that covered the floor.
The stomach-churning aroma reminded the ever-so-cynical Ivan Navalny that he would make a fortune if he came up with a women’s perfume and a men’s cologne called New Russia . He would sell out if he could somehow capture and bottle the stench that permeated the factory and Russia. He wondered if Saks Fifth Avenue and a couple of other elegant stores in New York and London and Paris and Monaco would carry the New Russia fragrance that apparently got lost whenever corrupt Russian tycoons bought super-luxury homes outside of Russia at prices that ranged from $ 30 to $ 300 million U.S. dollars.
Could $ 30 million be the benchmark when ill-gotten gains from rotten sources start smelling like roses and Chanel No. 5?
“You are late,” said Pyotr Petrovich Zubkov. The hulking man’s tiny blue eyes almost sank into oblivion under his bulging Neanderthal brow.
“I’m late?” said Navalny. “I didn’t know I was punching a time clock . . . or in charge of my train’s schedule.”
The dour colonel with the FSB looked at his watch one more time to drive
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