MOSCOW,
AUGUST 16, 6:12 A.M. MSK
The walls of the waiting room to Stetchkin’s suite of offices were covered with paintings depicting Napoléon’s retreat from Moscow. Blood, agony, cold, snow. A metaphor, Egorshin thought, for the fate awaiting those who’ve incurred Stetchkin’s wrath.
Immediately after the phone call informing him to report to Stetchkin, Egorshin had placed several calls to his uncle. There was no answer and there was no voice mail function. He wanted to impress upon his uncle the urgency of contacting the president’s chief of staff immediately. Make sure the tyrant Stetchkin didn’t do anything insane.
The event was only sixty-six hours away. He should be at his station making calculations, verifying previous calculations. It was inconceivable that a man in Stetchkin’s position would compromise its success by taking some rash action out of personal pique.
Almost inconceivable. The image of Uganov, moving past him with eyes vacant, rendered all manner of horror conceivable. Evil. That was how Egorshin’s uncle had described Stetchkin. An active malevolence.
An aide to Stetchkin sat rigidly at a large, neat desk adjacent to the wooden double doors leading to Stetchkin’s office. He had pale skin, gray eyes, and bloodless lips resembling those of a cadaver. The eyes were pitiless, like the eyes of the man behind the doors. Eyes, Egorshin imagined, that had seen countless individuals walk through those doors and walk out minutes later, their lives shattered, bodies soon to be broken.
Egorshin keyed his uncle’s number one last time, but before the cell could make the connection, the intercom on the aide’s desk came to life. It was Stetchkin’s voice, quiet and calm.
“Send him in.”
The aide simply rose from his desk without a word and gestured toward the door. Egorshin stood and walked slowly, pausing to glance at the aide, who flicked his eyes toward the door, signaling him to enter.
Egorshin turned the brass handle and opened the door into an anteroom containing a French provincial couch and chairs. A credenza to the left held an assortment of handguns and knives and a grenade, which Egorshin guessed to be souvenirs from the Afghan war. A credenza on the right held a glass case the size of a bread box in which lay an assortment of campaign ribbons and medals. The wall separating the anteroom from the office was made entirely of glass, an archway in the middle serving as the entrance to Stetchkin’s office.
Egorshin stepped through the archway and scanned the room. It was large, neat, but otherwise unremarkable and, in fact, somewhat utilitarian. A desk, two chairs, a conference table, more chairs, and a bookshelf. Stetchkin was nowhere in sight.
Moments later, a door on the right side of the room opened and the tyrant emerged from a bathroom. He strode to his desk, the pace as slow as when he had walked down the aisle in the Kremlin. He pressed a button that activated a speakerphone.
“Have my car ready in ten minutes.”
He disconnected, turned, and gazed out the window behind the desk for several seconds, his hands clasped behind his back. Then he turned and looked at Egorshin for the first time.
“Sit.”
Egorshin proceeded to the chair opposite the desk and sat on the edge of the seat. Stetchkin remained standing, staring at the young colonel for several seconds in silence. Egorshin could hear the ticking of an unseen clock somewhere behind him.
“You have defied me twice, Egorshin. Your defiance perplexes me, particularly since it is evident that you are a coward.”
“Mr. Stetchkin, I did not defy—”
“Did I tell you to speak?” Stetchkin asked calmly, in almost a whisper.
“No, I just—”
“Then do not speak unless I give you permission to speak,” the tyrant said softly.
Stetchkin walked from behind the desk to Egorshin’s immediate right and stood directly over him. Egorshin continued to look at the space just vacated by Stetchkin, awaiting permission to look elsewhere. Stetchkin didn’t speak for several uncomfortable seconds.
“I made it quite clear to you that if I needed your services for Zaslon Unit, I expected you to provide them. I was under the impression you understood me perfectly. You did not ask me to repeat myself. You did not ask for clarification. It was a simple instruction that anyone could process.”
Stetchkin put his left hand on Egorshin’s right shoulder, sending a charge through him. Stetchkin bent and spoke into Egorshin’s ear.
“Tell me, Colonel, did I say that when Zaslon needs your services you should delegate the requested services to someone else?”
Egorshin sat mute, awaiting permission to answer.
“Speak,” Stetchkin said.
“You did not.”
“That is my recollection, also.”
Stetchkin straightened and walked slowly back behind the desk. He tapped the surface with his index finger.
“Did Zaslon Unit contact you? Speak.”
“Yes.”
Stetchkin walked back around the desk and stood next to Egorshin again. Egorshin continued to stare forward.
“Did Zaslon Unit request a service? Speak.”
“They did.”
Stetchkin paced slowly back behind his desk and resumed tapping the surface with his index finger.
“Did Zaslon Unit request someone besides you to perform the service? Speak.”
“They did not request anyone specifically.”
“That answer is not responsive to the question I asked, Colonel. Did they request someone else perform the service? Speak.”
“They did not.”
Stetchkin’s tapping became progressively slower. He tapped for a full thirty seconds without uttering a word. The only other sound in the room was the ticking of the clock.
The tapping stopped. Egorshin’s heart raced.
“So,” Stetchkin said in a whisper Egorshin strained to hear, “you understood that you were to provide services to Zaslon Unit upon request. Such request was made of you. It was made of no one else. You did not provide such service.” Stetchkin paused, then paced back to Egorshin’s side and once again placed his left hand on Egorshin’s right shoulder and bent to speak into his ear. “How, then, is that not defiance? Speak.”
“It was a misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding, you say.”
Egorshin did not respond.
“A misunderstanding,” Stetchkin repeated, pacing contemplatively toward his desk and then back to Egorshin. “That puzzles me. This was a simple matter. A very simple matter. I instructed that you provide services to Zaslon Unit; I instructed no one else to provide such services; yet you did not provide the requested services. You are alleged to be brilliant. You have studied at Harvard and Oxford. Clearly, such a simple matter was easily understood by you. You could not have possibly misunderstood my instructions, so the misunderstanding must have been on my part.” Stetchkin stopped pacing somewhere behind Egorshin. “Are you saying, therefore, that I am stupid?”
“Respectfully, I do not—”
Stetchkin slapped the back of Egorshin’s head sharply. “Quiet,” the tyrant whispered. “I did not direct you to speak. Or have I misunderstood our arrangement?”
Egorshin sat still, bewildered. What was this madman doing? Why was he tormenting him like this? They barely knew each other. Before now, they’d had hardly more than a couple of minutes of conversation. Why had he singled Egorshin out? What could possibly have sparked his wrath?
The voice came from behind. “Speak.”
“Respectfully, I misunderstood your initial instructions to mean that I should effectuate Zaslon Unit’s request for services. I sought to do so with the most efficient allocation of resources. Accordingly, I delegated the duty to the person within my unit charged with performing such services directly.”
“Here is my dilemma, Colonel,” Stetchkin said from somewhere behind Egorshin. “You have already defied me once. You have conceded that I gave you and no one else the instruction to accommodate Zaslon Unit. You are very bright. You do not misunderstand small things. All of that militates against this being a misunderstanding. Rather, it supports the conclusion that you intentionally disregarded my instructions out of spite. Or perhaps you thought such instruction was beneath you.” Stetchkin’s voice seemed to proceed farther behind Egorshin. “Either way,” he continued, “it was another act of defiance.”
The tyrant’s voice seemed to be coming from several feet behind Egorshin, who dared not turn around for confirmation. There was a brief sound of metal against wood. Then, for several seconds, just the ticking of the clock. When Stetchkin spoke again, his voice was louder—to project from wherever he was standing. Egorshin calculated it was the archway.
“Your behavior was not mere insubordination. I gave you a clear and unequivocal instruction, which you did not simply ignore, but which you expressly disobeyed only a short time after receiving it. It was a rebuke. A slap in the face. It was defiance.”
Egorshin heard the unmistakable sound of the slide on a semiautomatic pistol being pulled back to chamber a round. The Makarov from the credenza.
Multiple thoughts ran together in Egorshin’s mind like a high-speed pileup, too many to sort out. This was lunacy. It could not be. He’d done nothing to deserve this.
Egorshin felt a vague sensation of pressure on the back of his head, anticipating the explosion of his head caused by a 9×18mm round slamming into his cranium at 1,370 feet per second, tumbling through his brain before bursting from his forehead. He became nauseous and closed his eyes, considering the sad possibility that the bile currently in his mouth would be the last thing he’d ever taste.
“Defiance is an interesting matter,” Stetchkin said, his voice drawing nearer. “It lies on a continuum of acts. Some noble, some dishonorable. Toward the dishonorable end of the scale lies disloyalty, treachery, treason. Treason, of course, is punishable by death. Do you believe your defiance was an act of treason, Egorshin?” A pause. “Speak.”
“No.”
“It might relieve you to know that I agree with you,” Stetchkin concurred. “It was not an act of treason. Although I note that your answer conceded your defiance. Therefore, you still remain in jeopardy, for there are acts of defiance below the level of treason that may still merit death. The question is whether your latest act of defiance qualifies. Do you think it qualifies?” Stetchkin pressed the muzzle of the Makarov against the base of Egorshin’s skull. “Speak.”
The noise that came from Egorshin’s mouth was thin and raspy. It only vaguely sounded like “no.”
“Tell me why your defiance does not merit death. Speak.”
“Because, respectfully, it was not a conscious act of defiance. It was not intentional. It was not disrespectful.” Egorshin swallowed. “Respectfully, it was not an act of defiance.”
“So, it was an inadvertent act that could be perceived as defiance?”
Egorshin remained silent and motionless.
“Speak,” Stetchkin commanded with a whisper and a poke of the Makarov.
“Yes.”
“Plausible. Do you know why I consider your response plausible? Speak.”
“Because I am being truthful.”
“No. I give no credence whatsoever to your veracity. Under the circumstances, I believe you would lie about your mother’s chasteness if you thought it would benefit you. No, I believe you were not defiant because you are too much of a coward to defy me. Do you know why I am certain you are a coward? Speak.”
“No.”
“Because you believe in nothing. Other than yourself and your own brilliance and superiority, of course. Since you are aware, however, of your true frailty and mortality, you are frightened. You have nothing beyond your own wretched self to provide ballast. You are empty. No true purpose. Without purpose there can be no courage. That is why you are such a coward, Egorshin. There is nothing inside.” A pause. “You may speak if you wish.”
Egorshin didn’t know what to say. He remained silent for several moments, then: “Respectfully, I am not a coward.”
Stetchkin snorted. “You are a sniveling, mewling coward. You would confess secrets to an enemy. You would retreat against an onslaught. You would beg for mercy. You would not die for a person or a cause. You are weak and worthless.” Stetchkin walked slowly back behind his desk. “Do you wish to speak? Speak.”
“Yes.”
“Speak.”
“I am not a coward. I am a true Russian. I have never failed, nor will I in the future. Respectfully, you are wrong.”
“A true Russian,” Stetchkin spat derisively. “Very nice. Are you finished? Speak.”
“Yes.”
“Then we are done here,” the tyrant said, startling Egorshin. “Remember everything I have said. You will not get another opportunity to disappoint me. Do you have anything else you wish to tell me? Speak.”
Egorshin rose to be dismissed. “I am not a coward,” he said firmly.
Stetchkin looked Egorshin up and down in disgust. “Go home and change, Colonel. It appears you have soiled yourself.”