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“I tried to call him a couple of times, there was no answer. That got me worried.”

“He’s at his home at the Caspian Sea, resting. Why do you ask?”

“He was a great defense minister for you, Petya.”

Abramovich nodded, a hint of regret clouding his eyes.

“He’d make a great defense minister for you again,” Myatlev continued. “Just think about it. It would be the three of us together again, just like old times.”

“So you’re saying no to my offer?”

“I’m saying you wouldn’t be using me for what I’m good at, Petya. I’m no good stuck in political meetings all day long. I am good in executing stealth strategies, at making people do things for us, at throwing money and power behind whatever you want done. But the true strategist is Dimitrov; it was always him. I am a business strategist, yes, but you need a military strategist, and that’s Dimitrov. He’s got balls, he’s got brains, he’s got ambition like no one else in your government, and he’s cunning, devious. He’s perfect.”

Abramovich rubbed his hands together, thinking.

“I always liked Dimitrov, you know that. But I personally announced his resignation to the entire world, just a few months ago.”

“And since when do you give a fuck about the world, Petya?”

Abramovich turned toward Myatlev angrily, but before he could speak, a smile took over his face.

“Fuck them! Yeah! Let’s drink to that! You solved my problem, Petya!”

Abramovich poured another round, larger than the first few.

“Remember that bringing the old KGB back as the covert Division Seven was his idea, right?”

“Yes, and that was a great idea. A secret service hidden inside a secret service, who would have thought of that?”

“And with Dimitrov leading it, we’ll acquire everything we need to be ready, ahead of everyone else. To Dimitrov’s comeback!” Myatlev answered and drank his vodka.

“To his comeback!” Abramovich cheered.

“This brings back memories,” Myatlev started, slurring a little. “Do you remember that time when we went hiking in the mountains, the three of us, and ran out of booze money?”

“When?”

“Ahh… we were still in school, at Dzerzhinsky, remember?”

“Yeah, I do. I don’t remember what we did though.”

“We drank too much one night, and we didn’t have any money left. We were poor back then; those were bad times. But Dimitrov thought of something. He went into this pub, flashed his KGB ID, and told the pub owner that he had information that enemies of the people were congregating at his pub. Then he came out of there with a serene smile on his face, followed by that pub owner carrying a case of vodka.”

“I remember now,” Abramovich said, laughing hard, tears flowing on his red cheeks.

“The poor fuck even brought it to the car, shitting his pants while at it. Oh my God… “

They both laughed at relived memories for a little while longer, then Myatlev resumed a more serious tone of voice.

“We are where we are today because of Dimitrov, Petya. He’s got that genius strategist mind. He’s what you need to win this war.”

“Do you think he’ll accept? He had a heart attack right here, in this office.”

“I’m sure he will, Petya. He won’t be able to resist the thought of the three of us working together again.”

…16

…Tuesday, March 22, 8:31PM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
…Vernon Blackburn’s Residence
…Chesapeake, Virginia

Vernon took another bite, absent-mindedly playing with his food. His wife was sharing some work story at the dinner table, but he couldn’t focus, couldn’t follow what she was saying. His mind wandered a lot lately, escaping reality.

Two weeks had passed since he had met Michelle at his favorite bar, the 1700 Somewhere. He’d regretted the encounter immediately; that type of affair got people, careers, and marriages destroyed. Yet he’d gone back twice looking for her. No one had seen her since. Then he started avoiding the one bar where he felt like home, or even better. And that hurt. It felt like he’d lost his best friend somehow. A ridiculous thought, but that’s how he felt.

“Really?” His wife stood abruptly, pushing the chair back and slamming down her fork. “Have you been hearing anything I’ve said? Do I even matter to you anymore?”

“Madi,” he pleaded in a pacifying tone, “I’m sorry, baby, I’m just tired, that’s all. My mind wanders when I’m tired.”

“So how exactly am I supposed to reach you? Book a fucking appointment during business hours?”

She sometimes got irrationally angry, her bottled-up frustrations clouding her judgment and making her see everything in darker colors than they really were. Her eyes were throwing menacing glares, and her beautiful face reflected her internal anguish. Vernon braced himself for a long argument. Their fights were usually long and painful exercises in diplomacy and self-control. But he loved his wife. Deep down he desperately wanted to make her happy, yet he was doing stupid things like that Michelle encounter.

“Baby, you can talk to me now, I promise I’ll pay attention.” He pushed his plate away and focused on her. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“You’re what’s on my mind, Vern. You. You bring your work home a lot, and not in a good way. You’re down all the time, depressed, sour. Living with you is like driving through this endless dark tunnel. I want to feel alive. Is that too much to ask?”

“No… It’s just that I’m stressed out with work, baby, I can’t shake it off.”

“Well, you better figure out a way, Vern. You have a permanent frown on your forehead. I don’t even exist anymore; you don’t even see me. You come home stinking of some bar or another, and you don’t even make eye contact with me.”

“Oh, come on, can’t be that bad,” he attempted, aware that he was starting to get angry too.

“Can’t be that bad, huh? When’s the last time we went out? Did you even notice it’s been months? What’s happening to you, to us? We deserve to have some fun, to live a little.”

“It’s just the work, baby, nothing more, I swear.”

“Go easy with the swearing. Don’t think I don’t smell the stink of bar whores on you. I let it slide a couple of times, thinking it’s a phase and you’ll come out of it, but I don’t know anymore. I don’t know you anymore.”

He felt a wave of anger rise, triggered by guilt and shame. She didn’t deserve this… Yet he was pushed to the limit, backed against the wall.

“So I’m to blame for trying to make a living? Is that what you’re saying?” He stood and started to pace the room. My work is not that easy. It’s stressing me out. What am I supposed to do?

“Leave your work in the goddamn office, that’s what I do. I work, too, but I don’t get drunk every other day to forget about it.”

“Madi, you don’t get it. You don’t get how hard what I do is. It’s not your fault, but I can’t… I can’t extricate myself. I keep replaying things in my mind. Conversations, arguments, theories.”

“Well, you better try. You better figure it out. You’re a PhD for crying out loud. You’re smart, think of something. If I can come home with a smile on my face every day, give you a hug, treat you like you exist and live here, why can’t you? Do you think I’m not stressed out? Do you think my boss isn’t an asshole? Do you think I have it super easy at work? Everybody’s got crap going on in their lives, but some people are smart and decide to leave the crap at work. It’s a decision you need to make; it’s that simple.”

He stood by the window, looking outside at the faint city lights in the moonless night. That’s what they were, faint flickering lights in an endless pitch black night. What made it worse was that she was right.