MOSCOW,
AUGUST 17, 9:20 P.M. MSK
The segment would go very well, she thought. Things were lining up nicely.
Tatiana Palinieva had finished preparations with her production team for a report on the recent massive increase in natural gas production by the Russian energy giant, Gazprom. The increase had significant ramifications, including a projected fifteen to eighteen percent decline in the price of natural gas sold to Europe. That decline assured European dependence on Russian natural gas for the foreseeable future, a major strategic coup for Mikhailov.
Now all Tatiana wanted to do was relax with a cup of tea and tell Piotr about the upcoming piece, yet another step on the seemingly endless ladder of her success. Only last month she’d received a sizable increase in her salary, including a bonus that, standing alone, constituted a year’s rent on her unit in one of the most exclusive apartment buildings in Moscow. Her modeling income had been substantial, but early in her former career she began saving and making plans for when age would reduce her demand. Although in her late thirties, ancient by fashion industry standards, Tatiana was still youthful-looking enough to continue modeling, but she was shrewd enough to have made an early transition to television news, which was only somewhat less ruthless when it came to cosmetic considerations.
The apartment building was opulent, quiet, and stately. She saw her neighbors so rarely that it seemed as if she was one of only a handful of residents. On the rare occasions she shared an elevator with another occupant, they’d exchange only a brief, polite greeting. No one ever made a fuss about her celebrity status. It was a relief, although she found herself occasionally wishing someone did treat her like a star. But that was all right. Once she stepped out on the street, passersby would stare, point, and wave. Some would commend her for a particular story or recommend a topic for another.
Every person in the city recognized her face. Every woman envied her beauty and admired her attire. Most men didn’t dare approach her, concluding they had no chance. Only the occasional oligarch or high government official would make a play.
She and Piotr had been together nearly two years. He was neither an oligarch nor a high governmental official, but it was clear he was a rocket headed to the stars. Piotr’s looks were, at best, slightly above average. In fact, their public appearances together presented a visual contrast somewhat akin to Grace Kelly and Prince Rainier; not staggering, but notable.
Tatiana’s income was far greater than Piotr’s, but it was clear it was only a matter of time before that would change, and probably dramatically. Piotr had all the right contacts in all the right circles, not because of shrewd networking, but because he was valuable, almost indispensable. He was uncommonly smart and a tireless worker. He could figure things out. He could get things done.
Tatiana had started out liking Piotr. He was interesting, a polymath who could discuss a variety of topics. And not merely in a superficial or pedantic way, but with depth and a sly sense of humor. He was considerate and sported a charm that was a cross between old-world courtliness and new-world irreverence.
Tatiana grew to love Piotr—only the second man in her life after her father. She was sure he would ask her to marry him and was a bit impressed, if not mystified, that he hadn’t already. Most past boyfriends had proposed marriage within months, if not weeks. Piotr, however, had more confidence.
He was working on something of some magnitude. That was plain. It consumed most of his time, as well as attention that would otherwise be directed at her. But whatever it was, it appeared to be drawing to a conclusion. And after that he would propose.
It was the manner and venue of the proposal that occupied her mind when the doors of the elevator opened silently on the eighth floor. She considered a number of possibilities, but Piotr was so creative and unpredictable that she suspected the proposal would be different from anything she could envision.
But as she placed her card key next to the electronic pad of the door to her apartment, it came to her and she smiled. Piotr wouldn’t propose to her. She wouldn’t give him the chance. She would propose to him. Here. Right now. Why not?
She also was creative and occasionally unpredictable. It would be a wonderful surprise. The perfect way to celebrate the completion of Piotr’s project and the success of her program. She knew she’d remember forever the look of surprise that would cover his face.
And Tatiana was right. When she opened the door and entered the foyer, she saw Piotr sitting on a lounge chair directly in front of her, staring at the ceiling. He had a look of surprise on his face. And a bullet hole in his forehead.