"That sounds very nice, Comrade President." This was Sergey Semyonovich Sobyanin, the president's chief of staff.
"Yes, indeed it does, Sergey. Thank you very much."
"Dah. Dah, " the men of the cabinet were saying.
"In fact it sounds so good, " the president continued, "that I'll drink to that." That brought cackles and laughter from the cabinet members present.
"Sergey!" the president said through laughter.
"Yes, sir."
"Have the waiter bring rounds of vodka for everyone. We shall celebrate my upcoming summit with President Butrin, and more importantly, my soon-to-be-awarded Nobel Prize for Peace."
More nods of approval. A round of cheering from the members of the cabinet. Then, four uniformed waiters marched into the president's office with silver trays full of glasses, ice, vodka, caviar, cheese, and crackers.
They drank and toasted and laughed and cackled about the Nobel Prize.
After a few minutes of gaiety, Evtimov checked his watch. "Gentlemen, it has been a productive meeting, but we must get to work. You are all excused, except Sergey Semyonovich." He nodded at his chief of staff. "I need a few words with you."
"Of course, Comrade President."
The ministers filed out of the president's office, and when they did, only the president, the chief of staff, and three members of the president's personal security detail remained.
The president nodded at one of his bodyguards to close the door.
"Sit back down, Sergey Semyonovich."
The chief of staff complied.
"Tell me, Sergey, what do you think of our defense minister?"
Sergey Semyonovich hesitated. "What do you mean, Comrade President?"
"You and he are longtime friends, as I understand it?"
"For years, we drank vodka, hunted deer in the forest, and went to banya together."
"And now, Sergey, where do your loyalties lie?"
The chief of staff spoke without hesitation. "My allegiance is with you, Vitaly Sergeivich. You are my president, and you are my friend. I have no other allegiances."
"Then I can trust you, even in matters concerning the defense minister?"
"Totally."
"Then tell me. What do you think of the defense minister's… stability?"
"I have my concerns."
"Is this true?"
"Yes, sir."
"How so?"
"I thought the reference to General Order 46 was, under these circumstances, wholly inappropriate."
"Hmm." The president studied the face of his chief of staff. "And what of the circumstances surrounding the shooting down of our planes?"
"I am suspicious of Popkov's accounting."
"Why do you say this?"
"First, it is unlikely that the Americans would fire into our airspace. Possible? Yes. Likely? No. It is also unlikely that our pilot would float by the wind from Russian territory to Georgian territory. Both these events are possible, of course. But with two unlikely events in the same story, combined with the fact that Giorgy Alexeevich feels that you are blaming him for the loss of plutonium…"
"Do you feel he should remain as defense minister?"
"That is your call alone, Comrade President."
"You did not answer my question, Sergey Semyonovich. Do you feel he should remain as defense minister?"
The chief of staff looked down at the floor, then looked back up at the president. "I believe that Giorgy Alexeevich has become unstable. That makes him dangerous, especially since he is in command of the most powerful army in the world."
"No, I am in command of the most powerful army in the world."
"Of course you are, Comrade President. But should Giorgy Alex-eevich become more deranged, how can we be assured that he will remember who is in charge? Unless they know that he is contradicting your orders, our generals will obey him." A pause. "What if he ordered execution of General Order 46?"
Sergey Semyonovich's point was well-taken. "Are you willing to help me take care of the problem?"
The chief of staff shot the president a suspicious look. "Take care of the problem, sir?"
"Again I ask you, Sergey Semyonovich, are you willing to help me take care of the problem?"
Their eyes locked. "Yes, my president, I will take care of the problem."
The Alexander Popovich The Black Sea
The next day
Masha stood in the passageway leading out to the main deck of the ship. She looked around to see if anyone was watching. No one was in sight. She had decided to move the knife from her thigh to her back, thinking that repositioning it would give her quicker access when she needed it. But the sharp knife had slipped down a bit down her back, and she needed to position it higher under her bra strap.
She would need to use the knife soon, she had resolved. She did not know when, or how.
But soon.
Donning her sunglasses, she stepped out into the bright afternoon sun on the main deck of Alexander Popovich.
She glanced toward the center of the deck, where the Captain Bat-sakov's loyal sidekick, Aleksey Anatolyvich, had erected a net across the deck. The orphans were patting a ball back and forth across the net with their hands. They laughed and cackled as they played.
Aleksey seemed good with children. She prayed that she would not have to hurt him, and that somehow, he would become her ally.
"Dima, come over here!"
The skinny little boy with the bug-eyed glasses bounded across the deck with a wide grin on his face. The brisk sea breeze blew through his blonde hair, disheveling it as he wrapped his arms around her. She held onto him for a bit longer than usual.
"Are you having fun, Dima?"
"Dah! Aleksey teach us how to play volleyball on ship!"
"Yes, I see that!"
She glanced at the children again. Aleksey's eyes caught hers, and he threw her a big wave. She waved back. He turned back to the other eleven. Good.
"I have heard of this game, volleyball. They play it in America."
"You play volleyball, Masha?"
"No, I have never played."
"You want to learn?"
"No, not right now."
"Why not, Masha?" Those long-lashed, pleading eyes melted her. These eyes would melt an iceberg in the Arctic Sea. What was she to tell the boy? That she could not play because if she walked out into the middle of the deck she might become a target for someone with a sniper rifle?
"I cannot play because right now we need to put more lotion on your back so you do not burn, that is why."
"Aw, Masha. Again?"
"Yes, Dima. Again. Turn around."
The boy complied.
She squirted the white sunblock into her hands, then rubbed his rough, leathery shoulders. The boy recoiled from the coolness of the lotion. Her hands moved from his shoulders down to the awful skin grafting that covered his entire back.
The skin, or what was left of it, was twisted and contorted and scarred hideously from the scalding water that was poured on him. To her fingers, his skin in the center of his back felt like a miniature mountain range.
She thanked God that he felt no pain from it anymore. She also thanked God that Dima was oblivious to it all, even though strangers who saw his back for the first time often grimaced.
"Okay, Dima, that's good. Go back out and play now."
"You come too, Masha?" He tugged at her hand and flashed those puppy dog eyes again.
"Maybe next time, Dima." She shooed him back out to the center of the deck and prayed that there would be a next time. Masha considered her predicament. There was no real possibility for escape. She couldn't swim to safety. They were planning to kill her, and if they did, what would become of the children? The question now was whether she should kill first or wait to be killed.