Authors: Tim Tigner
“Good morning, General”
“Good morning, General”
“Good morning, General”
Vasily tried to meet everyone’s eye, if only for a second, as he walked through the corridor at SibStroy. The newspaper had recently compared his glance to the green flash you sometimes see when the sun sets over the ocean. He thought that was a bit much, but it sounded good to him.
Other politicians could shake as many hands as he, but he alone could recruit votes with his gaze.
Vasily
was ostensibly at SibStroy for a dress inspection, but his actual intention was just the opposite. Vasily had come to SibStroy to be inspected.
He had been spending a lot of time there lately, a fact that was not lost on the workforce. They were proud that General Karpov, a man who had dozens of factories under his purview, chose to spend so much of his precious time with them. It must be personal, they reasoned, since all they made were bricks.
If they only knew
.
SibStroy had been making bricks for decades. They had gone through a few
minor product line modifications over the years, adding designs with slightly better insulative properties or a different look, but they had never witnessed a transformation—until six months ago. That was when the Head of the Industrial Security Directorate began coming around. Vasily brought them a very different recipe—one that used a large proportion of sand and created honey-colored bricks that shimmered in the sun—and he taught them a new style of cooking.
The workers could not care less what SibStroy’s bricks looked like, so long as they were paid to make a lot of them.
The new recipe was trickier than the others, and his quality control parameters were exceptionally tight, but once they put in the time it took to work the kinks out, Vasily rewarded them with a second shift. From midnight until eight a.m., seven days a week, SibStroy made
Karpov bricks
.
This increased productivity probably seemed odd, especially to
those who learned from the railway workers that the Karpov bricks were not going to building sites, but rather to an enormous stockpile one town down the line. But the paychecks kept coming, so what did they care? After a few months of this, however, everyone understood that something big was on the horizon. It was in the air. Vasily was there today so that when he finally revealed his secret, there would be no doubt that they had him to thank.
“Good morning, General”
“Good morning, General”
At other factories, it would be most unusual for people to be working on a Sunday. At Karpov factories, however, it was the rule. Everybody still got two days off each week, just not all at the same time. This was one of
Vasily’s many efficiency improvements. Like his other changes, Vasily’s modified workweek encountered resistance at first. Once the benefits of the superior productivity kicked in, however, that resistance converted to enthusiasm. The State got its quotas, the people got the surplus, and Vasily got the credit.
Vasily
often used shaking-things-up as a manipulative technique. He knew that change stirred up strong emotion, and that emotion, once generated, was easy to sculpt. Therefore, he routinely riled up a whirlwind of strong emotions around himself and his projects. The formula was simple: generate passion, associate it with his name, and then ensure that the results were positive. It was a masters’ gambit, and thus far, he had made it work every time.
Throughout Siberia, General Karpov
now enjoyed the popularity of a sports superstar and the admiration of a religious figurehead in a world of believers. They said he was competent, creative, and caring. Stories like the green flash didn’t hurt either. People needed their heroes.
“Good morning, General”
“Good morning, General”
Vasily
picked up a freshly cast brick, a Karpov brick, and felt himself begin to glow. He held the future of the world in the palm of his hand. For now, however, he was the only person at SibStroy who knew it. Unlike Irkutsk Motorworks and RuTek, where sophisticated product lines forced him to bring management into the Knyaz loop, here at SibStroy ignorance remained his asset.
That was about to change.
Soon the whole world would know that you simply needed to connect Karpov’s bricks with Karpov’s mortar to transform your building into a power plant. Be that as it may, the electrifying secret would remain grounded until he was ready to flip the switch. To figure out that Karpov bricks were solar cells and Karpov mortar a conduit, you would need to see the other half of the puzzle.
That other half was located six hundred kilometers away at a factory in
Krasnoyarsk called RuTek. There, one line over from MicroComp’s latest microchip, a group of skilled workers was cranking out
Karpov Controls
. Karpov Controls were the power-management and storage systems that would harness and direct the energy his photovoltaic bricks collected.
Yes, the pieces were all in place
…
The photovoltaic brick was
Vasily’s favorite project, which was why he had given his name to it. He liked it for its elegance and its simplicity. The active ingredient in the photovoltaic formula was silicon: sand. That was the genius of the PhotoZ invention. Once you knew about it, it seemed blindingly obvious. Anyone who had ever walked barefoot across a hot beach could grasp this concept, could get a feel for the power he would harness. Bill Gates might control computing power, but Vasily Karpov would control the power of the sun. He held the cheapest, cleanest, most revolutionary power source on Earth, right there in the palm of his hand.
Screw Dubai, to hell with Texas; Russia would be the new Baron on this ball of dust
.
“Good morning, General”
“Good morning, General”
Vasily
completed the inspection of the brick plant and moved across the street to the asphalt production site. As mind-boggling an opportunity as the Karpov bricks presented, he could hardly believe that there could be more. Yet there it was—right next door. Just as homes and offices would collect their power from Karpov Bricks, so cities and towns could harvest the sun with Karpov Roads.
For all it represented,
the solar asphalt wasn’t much to look at. Nor could you hold it like a brick in the palm of your hand. But the zeros would be there, and no less than ten.
Money was but a means to an end for
Vasily. It didn’t interest him, so his thoughts began to wander to what did. Soon “Good morning, General” would be replaced with “Good morning, Mr. President.” Then the real change would begin.
When he launched the new SibStroy, RuTek and Irkutsk Motorworks, the conglomerate
Vasily had quietly privatized under the Knyaz AG umbrella would provide him with two of the key elements of a strategy that would guarantee him residence at the Kremlin. The first and most obvious of those was the financing necessary to run an unbeatable campaign, both in the public view and behind closed doors.
The second result of those launches, and arguably the more important of the two, was the
creation of an extensive support base. The workers and families at Vasily’s factories, and the citizens and associates of the three major cities they resided in, would form the core of his base. They would seed a swell of grass-roots popular support that would blaze across the country. In no time, everybody in Russia would know that people who worked for Karpov lived better and felt better about themselves. At the end of the day, that was all anybody required of a politician. All he needed now was a dead president, and Victor was about to create one.
The Russian constitution called for the election of a new President within six months of an incumbent’s death. When Gorbachev died
next month chaos would break out: the Prime Minister was not popular. Presidential wanabees would come out of the woodwork and a nasty battle would ensue, further dividing the country and adding to the mayhem. After a month or three of that, after the people and the reporters tired of the speculation and the mud slinging, Vasily Karpov would launch his product lines on the market, and spring onto the world stage. By the time the elections rolled around a few months later, he would be the very symbol of Russia’s future, a living legend, a favorite prince virtually forced to be king. If the people got their way.
Vasily
had analyzed all his competitors’ possible moves and attacks with the mind of a chess grandmaster. He had every counter covered. Sure, there were secrets in his past, lots of them, but nothing that he could not deny or deflect until the election was over. It didn’t matter if they came out after that. Once he restored Russian pride and prosperity, all would be forgiven and forgotten.
With the Supreme Court in the bag,
the only thing with the potential to derail Vasily now was the assassination itself. Framing the Americans was the perfect solution. Like his bricks, it was simple, elegant, and easy to understand. That was why it was so maddening that he didn’t have Alex Ferris yet. Where was Yarik?! It had been a week.
Maddening though it might be, since there was nothing he could do to make Yarik and Ferris appear faster,
Vasily turned his attention to the issues he could influence. With all the ups and downs surrounding Yarik’s disappearance, he had dropped the courtship ball. In fact, he had gone from the brink of making a marriage proposal, to inadvertently suspending all contact with Anna. Vasily knew this was a serious break from courting norms, but Yarik’s brush with death really had rattled him, and he figured that as a woman, Anna would understand.
There was nothing wrong with a man showing his sensitive side on occasion. Who knows,
Vasily thought, perhaps his negligence was working to his favor as a male version of hard-to-get. In any case, it was now time to recommence his courting.
Vasily
looked at his watch. It was eleven-thirty already. In an hour he would have lunch in the SibStroy employee cafeteria and then make a motivational speech for dessert and have a coffee with the employees of the month. He would be out of there by three and back in Academic City by four.
As he pondered his next move,
Vasily found himself feeling romantically inspired. Perhaps he should just drop in on Anna. He wouldn’t even need to change. She had not seen him in full dress uniform except on TV. His thick stack of medals and gilded General’s trim always impressed women. Yes, it was time to show Anna his spontaneous side.
He would not pursue the marriage proposal at this point; too much time had passed since their last date for that kind of move to fly. But he could pick up a beautiful bouquet, fetch a bottle of French champagne and a jar of fresh beluga from his apartment, and then show up at Anna’s apartment unannounced. Spontaneity could not help but improve his image. It would add depth and boyish charm to what some women might consider too militant a persona. Yes, it was a wonderful idea. He could just picture the star-struck look on her stunning face …
Foreign Minister Sugurov was worried, and that wasn’t like him. Worrying was wasted energy. Better to spend your time fixing a problem than
fretting over it, he always said. And there was the rub. For the first time in his life, Sugurov was at a loss for how to fix a problem.
It had been one week since he had heard from Andrey, one week since his Chief of Staff had gone into Chulin Air Base to pry Alex from Yarik’s clutches, and one week since an airplane had exploded. That was all Sugurov knew for certain.
Everything else was just conjecture.
It was possible that the escape had gone awry and the plane had blown up with everyone aboard, but Sugurov didn’t think that was likely. Andrey was too good.
He was also the most likely cause of the explosion. Sugurov clung to the assumption that Andrey and Alex either never got on the plane, or had jumped off before it exploded. This optimistic hypothesis gained credence when Sugurov got word that Yarik had survived but was missing in action. More than a week had gone by, however, and there was still no word from Andrey. Sugurov’s optimism was waning.
It was time to take action, and unfortunately, that action would have to involve
other agencies. Sugurov composed his thoughts and then got his assistant on the intercom. “Natasha, I need to make two calls…”
When Alex awoke, Anna was just lying there looking at him from her bed. She seemed to have something on her mind. He raised his eyebrows in query.
“You really haven’t told me anything about your family, Alex. All I know is that they all died tragically. Were you close?”
“To my mother.”
“But not your father…?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry, Alex, I don’t mean to pry.”
“It’s okay. Probably do me good to talk about it.” He rolled onto his back to stare at the ceiling while he spoke. “My father never took much interest in Frank or me. We just seemed to be the obligatory two kids he needed standing next to his beautiful wife in the family photo at the bank.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That’s a good sign. Nobody should. My father was all work. He was a banker, like his father. Climbed the ladder all the way to Managing Director before … before he died.”
“Did he love your mother?”
“I’d like to think he did, at least at first. They met when he was on a banking internship in Geneva the summer before he graduated from Wharton. Anyhow, mom got pregnant and they got engaged. When dad graduated he moved to Geneva and they got married. Frank and I were born a few months later.” Alex paused, looking for the right way to proceed. “As my mother explained it; babies are tough, twins are tougher. It was too much for dad, so first he dove into work. Then he dove into other women.”
“Sounds tragic, but not that unusual. How did your mother react?”
“Not the way you would expect. That was always a mystery to me.” Alex rolled to face Anna and propped himself up on one elbow. “Can we talk about something else? You mentioned a surprise earlier…”
Anna’s sad eyes regained their sparkle. “Why don’t you go take a long shower? I’ll tell you when you’re done.”
Alex exited the bathroom thirty minutes later to learn
that the surprise was dinner at her mother’s apartment. Now he understood why she’d been suddenly curious about his family. The true surprise, however, was not the message but the messenger. Anna greeted him wearing a low-cut red dress and high heels. The outfit was obviously designed for warmer days, but the fashion police were lax in Siberia, and Alex certainly didn’t mind a bit. In addition to the new outfit, Anna had applied makeup and done her hair. She was a natural beauty without any enhancement, so the woman before him now was positively spellbinding. Helen of Troy had nothing on Anna of Torsk.
Sitting across from Anna at dinner,
Alex found it hard not to stare at the swell of her breasts, so he did his best to keep his eyes on mom. Mrs. Zaitseva was a handsome woman in her mid- to late-fifties. Other than her amber eyes, her appearance did not resemble Anna’s much. Yet she was attractive in her own way. Mrs. Z was slim of figure and full of energy, and there was something about her that put you instantly at ease. Alex appreciated it, because for some reason he had been fidgety walking over.
They enjoyed
a pleasant evening with a warm and relaxed family feel. By the time dinner was over, Alex knew as much about Anna as anyone else in his life. For some reason the conversation between them just flowed, as though nature was trying to create a balance of knowledge. The only standard topic they did not discuss, the one conspicuously absent from all their other conversations to date, was relationships. Mrs. Z also managed to ignore the itchy elephant in the corner.
Alex appreciated their discretion. He was single, but for a reason. Nobody ever left it at that, though. You couldn’t just
say “I’m not fit to be a husband” and switch to the weather. Everyone had to know why, so they could convince you that you were wrong. It was as if they wanted you to join their religion. So eventually he would have to tell them the story. He hated telling the story. People always smiled reassuringly, and nodded with understanding, but they never really understood. To be perfectly honest, neither did he.
“Are you bringing Alex to church?”
Mrs. Z asked Anna while pouring tea from her samovar.
“I don’t think he would find that particularly interesting, Mother, and we don’t want him to be seen.”
Alex surprised himself by saying, “Actually, I would like to go.”
Mrs. Z gave him an approving nod and said, “We’ll say that you’re Anna’s cousin from Vilnius.”
Anna looked back and forth between him and her mother with a bemused smile on her face. Alex was pleased to have Mother as a coconspirator. Because his looks and accent weren’t pure Russian, saying that he was from Vilnius, the capital of the distant Soviet Republic of Lithuania, would work just fine. Making him a relative would further diffuse the speculation that would undoubtedly arise in their small village if Anna suddenly produced a foreign suitor.
Two points for mom
.
As the th
ree walked slowly through virgin snow, Anna explained, “It’s not a regular church service. It’s a memorial service that has evolved into something of a community social event. We have it every Sunday night at eight o’clock. You remember I told you about Kostya being killed along with twenty-four other villagers from a radiation leak?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Well, you can imagine what a shock such a loss is to a small village like Torsk. Everyone lost a relative or friend, and even five years later we still haven’t let go.”
Alex knew about loss, but he did not want to turn the discussion in that direction, so he just reached out to hold Anna’s hand. They walked on in silence.
They arrived thirty minutes early for the service, as planned. Anna wanted to show off their beautiful church. “It was built nearly six hundred years ago,” she explained while tying on a scarf to cover her head, “back when the annual Torsk fur fair was a major regional event.”
European dates always amazed Alex. To think, this building was three times
older than his country. It really put things into humbling perspective. His curiosity aroused, Alex pulled harder than necessary on the massive door. It sprang outward with surprising ease and brought the scent of burning beeswax to their noses.
“It’s
perfectly balanced,” Anna said with a knowing smile.
The nave of the church was a semicircular dome. At the front was an assortment of ornate gilded icons behind a hand-carved pulpit. For a town of this size, it was magnificent.
Although the first to arrive, they walked around quietly while Anna pointed and explained this and that in whispered voice. It was as though the church itself was not to be disturbed. Nevertheless, as they approached the pulpit, Anna said, “It’s okay to go up, we’re all family here in Torsk.”
Alex mounted the pulpit and found
himself looking at an enormous ancient Bible. After an approving nod from Anna he flipped delicately through a few pages of the beautiful book. The printing was done mechanically, but the illuminations were delicately wrought by hand. It must be worth a fortune, he thought, but not to anybody within a thousand miles of here.
“Alex,” Anna whispered.
He looked up but she wasn’t there.
“Alex.”
Where was she? Had she slipped behind an icon? Into a secret antechamber? Through a trapdoor? He looked around with bemused curiosity. Then he heard her laugh. A moment later he saw her approaching from the rear of the church, wearing a big smile.
“What was that?”
“Did you like it? It’s because of the dome.” Anna gestured upward with her head. “The nobleman who built the church set it up so the peasants could sit quietly in the chapel off the back of the nave and listen to the service out of sight of the gentry. Some say he did it so the peasants wouldn’t feel ashamed of their common clothes. Others think he just didn’t want to have to look at them. Now we’re all peasants so it doesn’t really matter.” She gave a carefree shrug and reached for his hand. “Actually, the chapel is kind of cozy, come have a look. It’s where we hold the memorial services.”
Alex walked to the back of the church and ducked through a narrow arched tunnel into a
n ancient windowless room with a low domed brick ceiling. “You were whispering from here?”
“That’s right.”
“Amazing,” he said, thinking of the church, the girl, and the dress.
About thirty people filtered in over the next ten minutes as Alex admired the
enduring architecture. Then, promptly at eight, Father Nikoli came through the entryway clad in an antique gold and silver robe. He walked slowly, ceremoniously to the front where he stood between two enormous candles. Once in place he spread his arms wide to gather the crowd’s attention and then slowly brought his palms back together to focus it. After a thick moment of silence he invited them all to bow their heads in silent prayer for the souls of their lost sons.
Alex found it
an amazing experience, standing there in the ancient candle-lit chamber, praying in silence with a score of Russian villagers. As the priest circled them in silence, waving the smoking sensor, Alex felt as though the tiny tunnel had transported him back through the ages to the days of parchment and apostles. He knew he was standing among God’s people, and felt he finally understood what was meant by “the meek shall inherit the Earth.” It was a feeling he would never forget.
Ten mystical minutes later the priest began speaking a language that Alex did not understand interspersed with words that he did. Regardless of the language,
Nikoli’s rich baritone voice seemed to pour out of the rocks and into Alex’s soul. He began to understand how some cults attracted more than just the feeble minded. He mouthed along as they recited a collective prayer and then Father Nikoli concluded the service by reading the names of the twenty-five victims, including Anna’s brother Konstantine Anatolievitch Zaitsev.
Anna turned to Alex. She seemed about to speak but stopped to look at his face instead. Alex realized it must be fraught with emotion. Her eyes lit up and she leaned close to whisper in his ear. “We can go now. Mother will stay here chatting with her friends, perhaps for hours. Then they’ll walk her home.”
Alex thanked Mrs. Zaitseva for a lovely meal and a touching evening, and left the church with Anna on his arm—a Russian norm among friends. Her apartment was a good kilometer away, but the sky was clear, the air was dry, and they were warmly dressed in wool
dublyonkas
, so it was a pleasure despite the hour. He enjoyed walking with Anna, although they didn’t speak much. She was obviously lost in thought and he did not want to disturb her.
“You’re leaving tomorrow, aren’t you Alex,” Anna asked, as they hung up their coats and she locked the door behind them.
“Or the day after,” he said softly.
She gave him a long sad look
and then he saw the sparkle he had grown so fond of. Then she reached back to unzip her dress and let it drop to the floor. “Let’s agree on the day after.”
For the second time that night, Alex found himself having a religious experience. Anna l
ooked as divine as any form that had ever graced his eyes, and the sight of her nearly naked body was enough to turn his throat dry. He stood motionless for a moment, stunned and silent as he drank her in with his eyes.
While moonlight streamed through the curtains to illuminate her heavenly body, Anna glided over and placed her hands lovingly around his neck. Her touch was warm and gentle, and it convinced Alex that despite the fantastic nature of what was happening, this was not a dream.
Hours later, after their lovemaking had washed away the agony and anguish of horrors past, he drifted into a deep, restful sleep to the words, “I love you.”