‘Do explain to me how we now fill our coffers. Seizing power is an expensive business, even more so when the aim is to do it peacefully,’ said Andrej Nitchenko in the manner of a maths teacher who has lost his patience with the class.
He had, in the morning, received news of the events in Afghanistan and had immediately thrown a tantrum that left little doubt: failure was not a concept he accepted. The drug operation was to have funded his final push for power. And now the whole thing is suspended indefinitely because of some incompetent fools! He grabbed the bottle of vodka from the table and poured himself a hefty drink, downing it in one. The hell of war had made him too fond of this stuff. Large quantities tended to fuel his rage, he reminded himself; political opponents even went as far as calling him capricious. He suppressed the urge to pour another glass.
Sergey Pustynikov switched on an overhead projector at the end of the conference table, and a map of Afghanistan faded in on the facing wall as a suited assistant dimmed the lights.
‘Our operation, or should I say “fundraising”, started in a country you and I have come to love and hate,’ he started, but paused, as if he was searching for words.64
‘We’ve teamed up with professionals, and have even bribed Russian military commanders in the country. All to secure unconditional success. This operation simply couldn’t fail; that was what our friends guaranteed,’ he finally continued.
Sergey Pustynikov had always made sure that the failures of others were punished so that they did not reflect poorly on him. And often in a way that eliminated the chance of bringing him into hot water again.
‘One of them paid the ultimate price for his incompetence, and I’ve demanded that the survivors present us with an alternative plan. One I shall personally see will not fail.’
Sergey Pustynikov was usually a man of few words. He would later regret that on this day, he had not been so.