DRAUMRS - Dreamweavers - Book Two

9 - Only the Brave

Obviously, there had been a security gap and there had been an attempted murder. As no-one in Moscow could explain it or hope to pin immediate blame on a visible culprit—terrorist or otherwise, a FSB decision to hide all evidence of the incident was supported by each of the handful of people who had actually responded that morning. Anyone who might have thought that the actual story might make good Internet fodder was suitably advised of the poor life choice that would be. As far as the world must know, the President was slightly injured while engaging in some friendly martial arts sparing. He would be recuperating out of public view for a while.

Under a cloak of secrecy, Boris Pulisin was spirited off to a private hospital, where he was operated on, stitched, scanned, medicated and bandaged-up. It would take some days for his severely damaged state to heal to the point of credible alignment with the story that had been spun out. Security was now multi-layered and airtight.

When Boris's scrambled brain came back to some order of coherent thought a day or two later, he was told the martial arts practice story and asked if he remembered anything. An apologetic sparring partner was actually brought into the room to ask for forgiveness for the accidental strike, or two. Boris had started to mumble a strange story of a bear several times, but realized that no-one was buying it and that some were observing him very closely, perhaps wondering if the President had permanently lost it. He now added that he had only dreamed about a bear, after already being injured.

"Yes, your opponent is about the size of a bear," his aide commiserated. "In future, we hope that you will pick on someone more your own size." A nervous laugh was met with a slight node from the bandaged President, who was now also starting to believe that the sparing story actually made more sense and that his memories were just the stuff of clouded recall.

"Please, Mr. President, get some rest now." The aide was backing his way out of the room, pushing the 'bear' of an opponent along with him. "Please try to get some sleep, as tomorrow we must try to get back to business.

Yes, back to business. Boris let his eyes close and drifted off to his first medication-free sleep, not quite sure if he wanted to or not.

Cherry was sitting at the plain steel and veneer meeting table in the unadorned small conference room of Boris's Black Sea dacha, preparing to sip a dark tea that he had poured from an ornate pot now sitting on an inlaid serving tray in the center of the table. There was also a bottle of expensive cognac on the tray and several tiny glasses waiting for possible toasts to the proprietor's improving health. Even though it was just tea at this point, Cherry nodded to Boris and said a polite 'Nostrovia' before he drank. Boris's waking health definitely needed the wish.

Cherry frowned at the scuffed table and plain walls of the room. Mismatched chairs and a worn carpet completed the downscale theme. Cherry was often perplexed by powerful peoples' lame attempts to avoid ostentatious displays of wealth, when everyone already knew that they were worth billions. However, for the old communists, dressed-down accommodations seemed to suit some inner need to appear to buy into the silly idea of equality for the proletariat.

Unfortunately, being afraid to show your success sometimes led others to believe that you might be weak or vulnerable; far better to have them think that you are invincible. Cherry planned to make Russia's coming predominance, and the rewards for the few who would lead it there, very obvious to the rest of the country and the world.

"Again, my friend, apologies for the violence of the Kamchatka." Cherry briefly looked down at his boots in deference and opened his hand to Boris.

"But, then it was your dream, and the bear is only dangerous if out of control." He now looked up and smiled, "You will never underestimate it again, I'm sure."