MOSCOW,
AUGUST 15, 4:15 P.M. MSK
Piotr Egorshin had arrived fifteen minutes before his appointment with Aleksandr Stetchkin. One of Stetchkin’s aides led him to an immense room at the south end of the Senate Building in the Kremlin.
Egorshin was relieved. Not only had the meeting been pushed back to a more civilized hour, but what he had believed was to be a private meeting with his new boss in the latter’s office—a prospect that would have frightened nearly any sentient being within the borders of Russia—appeared instead to be a gathering of nearly everyone in a command position in Russian cyberwarfare.
Egorshin could see his reflection in the highly polished floors and the countless gold-framed mirrors that hung along the walls between the floor-to-ceiling windows bordered by thick velvet drapes. Eight enormous chandeliers hung from the twenty-foot ceilings, adorned with frescoes of Russian military victories and gold-leaf borders.
Approximately fifty chairs ringed the room, each occupied by an officer, every single one of whom sat bolt upright, including Egorshin, who was seated along the middle of the left wall as one entered the room through massive double doors made of carved wood. At the end of the room opposite the doors sat a single large chair, almost resembling a throne, thought Egorshin. No doubt reserved for Stetchkin.
The room’s occupants sat silently for several minutes. At precisely four thirty P.M., the double doors opened and Stetchkin appeared, tall—nearly six foot six—and very lean. His eyes were blue-gray and the stubble of hair that covered his skull silver. His face, Egorshin thought, looked naked without a monocle. His gait was long, fluid, and unhurried, a man used to having others wait for him and on him. An aide followed two steps behind and to his left side.
Stetchkin sat in the chair at the head of the room and gazed back at the entrance, which remained open. The room was nearly silent for several minutes, the faint tapping of footsteps slowly approaching in the distance echoing in the room. Egorshin’s eyes flitted about, noting that none of the others present dared look at Stetchkin. Most looked straight ahead, a few others downward, and one or two glanced toward the doorway.
The approaching footfalls gradually grew louder. Egorshin marveled that someone would have the temerity to approach so slowly while the tyrant waited. For a moment Egorshin wondered whether it might be President Mikhailov himself who would be making his entrance.
Seconds later, Egorshin was startled to see his former boss, Ivan Uganov, enter the room. Judging by the faint gasp, others in the room also had heard the rumors of Uganov’s supposed banishment to Black Dolphin for questioning Stetchkin’s intelligence.
Yet there he was, staring uncowed at the tyrant Stetchkin. Uganov entered the room, his pace more casual than even Stetchkin’s. Though not nearly as tall as Stetchkin, he was much heavier. A smaller man followed close behind. A confrontation was about to occur. Two gunfighters from a scene in an old American Western.
Uganov’s steps were painfully slow, ponderous, and a bit unsteady. Egorshin thought he might be inebriated, not an unexpected condition for a man about to lock horns with the tyrant.
But as Uganov continued his steady approach, his pace seemed more of a shuffle than a confident stride. And as he passed, Egorshin observed that his former boss’s eyes weren’t vengeful or even purposeful, but glazed and vacant. His facial muscles were slack and his complexion chalky. Two fresh red scars dashed his temples. The body was ambulatory, but there was no animating intelligence within.
The small man Egorshin had presumed was Uganov’s aide guided him to the front of the room only a few feet from Stetchkin. The tyrant glared at the husk of a man contemptuously for several seconds and then waved for the smaller man to turn Uganov around to face the assembly.
Silence enveloped the room. Everyone present stared at the general with emotions ranging from pity to terror. Then the small man turned Uganov back to Stetchkin, who sat ramrod straight in his chair, a cruel sneer covering his face.
“Who’s the idiot now?” Stetchkin bellowed.
There was not a person present who did not absorb the message. Stetchkin was invincible. Stetchkin was supreme. And Stetchkin would suffer no apostasies.
And Piotr Egorshin knew that from that moment forward fear would govern every aspect of his life.