Thursday, 6:02 a.m.; near the border between Russia and Ukraine
General Popovich, fifty-seven-years-old, his hair gray and receding to the top of his head, lay awake in bed. He checked the time on his cell phone for the sixth time in the last five minutes. He stroked the thick mustache covering his upper lip before inserting a thumb into the nostril of his large bulbous, heavily pockmarked nose. Removing the thumb, he flicked his fingers and slid his hand under his head, fingers intertwining. On his back and covered by a sheet, his large, rounded belly mimicked a camel’s hump.
General Popovich had been the head of the Premier’s security team. Prior to accepting the job, he was 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. Three years later, the Premier had asked him to come out of retirement and lead the Russian leader’s security team. After a failed attempt to kill the Premier, Popovich had been forced to flee Moscow.
The General was a hardliner, who longed for the days when Russia had been a superpower. His country had been feared and respected by other nations. Russian citizens had been proud and could hold their heads high. Now, Russia had become weak. Western culture had invaded its borders, bringing decadence and decay with it. Biding his time, Popovich had waited for the right time to strike back and regain control of his beloved Mother Russia.
Checking the cell phone again, he thought about the man whom he had sent to infiltrate the Premier’s security detail. He should have called by now. He was getting concerned that something may have gone wrong. He dismissed the thought. Nothing went wrong. The assassin was to wait until the Premier went to bed, sneak into his room and kill him and his wife. Getting out and back to Moscow was going to be the difficult part, but Popovich did not care about that. As long as his friend, Yuri, was dead, that was all that mattered. With the Premier out of the way, Popovich could begin the second phase of his plan to take control of Russia. Popovich’s body jostled when the woman lying next to him rolled over, taking the bed sheet with her, pulling it halfway off his body. He had been so focused on the call that he had forgotten about her.
Picking up a small sum of rubles from a nearby table, he drove his elbow into the woman’s back before pushing her to the edge of the bed, barking out orders in his native language. Having been asleep, the woman nearly fell to the floor, scrambling to keep her balance. Popovich crumpled the bills and threw them at her. She tried to catch them, but the money landed on the floor. As the woman bent over to retrieve her payment, he yanked the bed sheet from her hands, leaving her naked. He gestured toward the door before tucking his hands under his head again.
The attractive young woman in her early twenties had dark wavy hair, matted to her head. She was short, but had a nice figure. Doing the best she could to cover herself, she scampered to the door, glad to be leaving this man. Never again, she thought. Groggy from being awakened from a sound sleep, she forgot to grab her clothing. She turned around. Popovich bellowed, while thrusting a finger at the door. Having already struck her numerous times during intercourse, she abandoned the clothes and left the bedroom.
Popovich watched her leave. She was good, but not that good. Staring at the ceiling, he thought about the multitude of fine women he could have had were he back in Moscow. In this wretched part of the country, however, he was forced to make due with whomever his men were able to get from the streets. He had placed numerous calls to a Madame, who ran an upscale prostitution service near the border. She had not returned any of his calls over the past week. He assumed it was due to his somewhat rough treatment of the last one she had sent. Rolling to his side and reaching for his phone, he said, “Ona byla khorosho platyat – She was paid well.” Popovich shook his head. What is keeping him from calling? He made sure the volume was all the way up before closing his eyes to get a little more sleep.