General Popovich hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. He swiped the tip of a wooden match across the matchbox. Sparks flew and a small flame grew. He brought the match to the cigar he was biting. After a few puffs, he shook the match and tossed it—and the matchbox—onto his desk. He put his feet up, his combat boots landing on the desk near a coffee cup. The surface of the black liquid inside vibrated. Thick smoke from the cigar hung in the air above his head.
General Popovich was fifty-seven years old. His gray hair had receded to the top of his head. A thick, gray mustache covered his upper lip. Above the lip was a large and bulbous nose, heavily pockmarked. His dark eyes were deeply set. Bushy eyebrows hung over them, almost coming together to form one brow. He was of average height, but he had gained much weight in the last ten years. His neck spilled over the collar of his uniform, while the buttons strained to keep the lapels together.
General Popovich was the head of the Premier’s security team. Prior to accepting the job, he had been a high-ranking member of the KGB, Russia’s intelligence agency, until its breakup in 1991. He continued to serve in the intelligence arena as an FSB agent, until his departure five years ago. Two years ago, the Premier had asked him to come out of retirement and lead the Premier’s security team.
The General was a hardliner. He longed for the old days, when Russia was a superpower. His country had been feared and respected by other nations. Its citizens had been proud and could hold their heads high.
Russia had become weak, however. Western culture had invaded its borders, bringing with it decadence and decay. Young people wanted freedom, chanting in the streets, protesting against the government. Using technology, they took to the Internet to broadcast their message to others like them. What those fools did not understand was that freedom was not free. Freedom came at the cost of security. But, those immature idealists thought they could have both. Popovich needed to change their way of thinking before beautiful Mother Russia was lost forever.
General Popovich took the cigar from his mouth and tapped it on the lip of the ashtray. He returned the cigar to his mouth, clasped his thick, pudgy fingers together and put his hands behind his head. Plans had been set in motion that would bring about the change his country required. The Russian people were already living in a state of fear, teetering on the brink of surrender. Popovich’s next move would show his fellow citizens that no one was safe from terror. The only thing that would save them was to give the government more power and more control. In this way, Russia would become great again.