SEPTEMBER 4, 2019
MOSCOW, RUSSIA
KHAMOVNIKI DISTRICT
THE PASHKOV HOUSE
The famed Pashkov House was always a sight to behold, even for Matvei Federov, who had spent much of his adult life living in Moscow. The man stopped at the base of the stone steps leading to the front portico and gazed solemnly upward at the front facade of the mansion.
His eyes wandered over the tall stone columns that loomed above. Most of the windows glowed with warm light, and Matvei took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, careful to steady his nerves.
Tonight was crucial. Everything depended on him, and on the men waiting inside. Matvei thrusted his hands into his jacket pockets and began ascending the stairs. He could feel the eyes of the security guards upon him.
The pair of guards nodded their greetings, and one stepped aside to let him through the front doors.
Matvei voiced his thanks, but slowed to a stop. "One of you have a smoke?"
Both guards shook their heads. Matvei noticed the glance that one shot to the other.
"Mm." Matvei looked at one of the guards, then the other. "Do I really have to do this every time?"
Neither guard answered.
"Fine." Federov cleared his throat. "I'm in the market for a rare book. Perhaps you could help."
The taller guard shrugged. "Ask one of the librarians inside. We're just security."
Federov rolled his eyes. "I'm looking for Krylov's Fables - the 1855 edition."
"Ah." The taller guard reached into his coat pocket and produced a pack of cigarettes. He took one for himself and handed one to Federov before offering a light. "In that case, follow me."
Rather than lead Federov through the front entrance, the guard gestured for him to follow as they strolled along a path outside the mansion, leaving the other security guard at the front doors.
"Honestly," Federov groaned, "you know me by now. Stop making me do the stupid password/test thing."
"Rules are rules, sir."
"It's tiresome and redundant."
The guard stopped abruptly and turned to face Matvei. "Mr. Krishkin would disagree, sir - I believe it would be best for you to remember this."
Federov cocked his head, not averting his eyes from the other man's gaze. "And I would suggest you remember who you are speaking to. I am going to meet with Mr. Krishkin behind closed doors. You are not." He stepped closer to the guard. "Let us continue on before things get worse for you."
Both men stared each other down for a long moment. Wind rustled the leaves of the trees outside the mansion, and the guard seemed to finally grasp the weight behind Federov's words. He turned away and grunted his acceptance, and the pair resumed their trek around the mansion perimeter.
They crossed a beautiful courtyard and rounded the corner to the rear of the mansion beneath an overhanging portico on the second floor, stepping through shadows cast by tall stone columns and proud trees.
Instead of ascending the rear outdoor staircase to the ornate back porch, they passed it and stole into a narrow staircase leading down into a shadowy basement entrance, completely hidden from the view of any passersby or would-be intruders.
A dying lightbulb above a wrought-iron door flickered on and off, revealing another guard stationed outside. This man wore a leather jacket and jeans instead of the security staff uniform the other guards wore. He straightened when Federov and his escort neared. "Matvei."
"Boris." Federov offered a brisk nod. "How are things?"
"Would be better with vodka," the man remarked, stepping aside and opening the door for Federov. "Mr. Krishkin and the others are waiting for you."
* * *
A minute later, Federov was seated at a large table in a dimly lit basement cellar with four other men. He peered through the cigarette smoke clouding the air at the faces around the table, partly covered by hard shadows. It always reminded him of a backroom poker game in an American mafia movie.
Boris had followed Federov in and quietly shut the door behind them both before assuming his post inside. He opened his jacket, revealing a dual-shoulder holster rig and two nickel-plated handguns, folded his arms, and leaned against the wall casually.
The man at the head of the table - the mysterious Mr. Krishkin - straightened his suit and leaned forward. His face was creased with frown lines, and his steely eyes were fearless and unforgiving.
"Thank you for coming on such short notice," Krishkin said. He leaned forward and clasped his hands together. "The day draws near. I want to thank you all for offering your services, and the work you've done to get us this far. Russia will thank you." He looked to Boris. "Boris, bring the drinks, please."
The bodyguard nodded and slipped into a side door that led to the large staffing kitchen. A moment later he returned, followed by a beautiful young woman balancing a tray of glasses and two bottles of vodka on ice. She set the tray down and expertly filled each glass in one sweeping motion, drawing eager glances from the men at the table.
Krishkin waited for the woman to finish. When she had served everyone their glass and exited the room, he continued. "Comrades," he declared solemnly, raising his glass, "a week from now, President Vikhrov intends to meet with the Americans and Chinese in Washington, D.C. Our president tells our people he is working towards a brighter future. He tells them that we must change with the times - he is calling it "compromise." This is simply not true."
The other men nodded their agreement, exchanging glances with one another in silent camaraderie.
"It is not compromise." Krishkin swept his gaze over the others. "President Vikhrov is bowing to the west. He weakens our country with each passing month. I have vowed, as you all have, to not let this happen."
The man sitting next to Federov, a bald man known simply as Antonov, slapped the table excitedly with his open palm. "Damn right," he chimed. "Russia bows to no one - especially not any fucking Americans."
Krishkin smiled. "Precisely. Let us drink to the future." He raised his glass high. "To Mother Russia."
The other men echoed his toast and downed their shots of vodka.
Nobody noticed that Federov did not drink.
A round of cheers erupted from the table, and Krishkin held up his hands to quiet his companions.
"If all goes well, President Vikhrov will not live to see that meeting. We shall remove him from this world, and be done with him." Krishkin's face hardened. "Prime Minister Chernyev will fill the vacancy, and our plans will become a reality."
The men cheered again.
Krishkin grinned, looking sinister in the dim light. "With our comrade Chernyev at the helm, Russia will enter a new era. This will be—"
Loud beeping sounded throughout the room. Federov watched realization cross his companions' faces as they all scooped their phones out of their pockets.
He saw their eyes go wide upon reading their screens. Krishkin and the others were in such shock that they didn't even notice Federov standing and carefully pushing his chair in.
"No," Antonov gasped. "It cannot be."
Krishkin was shaking his head in stunned silence. "Prime Minister Chernyev found...." he drew a sharp breath and exhaled deeply. "Found dead. Cause of death unknown."
At that moment, Antonov lurched in his seat and began gagging. His comrades looked on in shock before they, one by one, followed suit and began vomiting blood and retching violently.
Krishkin sank to his knees with a thud, clutching his throat, and looked to Federov desperately.
Matvei Federov knelt in front of the terrorist leader. "Poison," he whispered. "You all thought yourselves so smart, and the oldest trick in the book brings you down."
"Federov... you... son of a—"
Federov just smiled. "Do not worry, Mr. Krishkin - President Vikhrov will meet his end. Just... not the way you envisioned." He stood and turned his back on the man, not even bothering to watch Krishkin choke on his last breaths.
Boris the bodyguard was still standing at the door with a forlorn smile. "That was easier than it should have been."
"Indeed, comrade." Federov straightened the collar of his jacket and cast a glance at the dead bodies on the floor. "Three of them were on Interpol's Most Wanted list. Now look at them."
"Shall I get rid of the girl, Matvei?"
"I suppose so. Shame - she is quite pretty. Make it quick and clean."
Boris nodded and stole into the side door to the kitchen once again, leaving Federov on his own with the corpses.
Federov shook his head. "Rest in peace, you who aimed too low," he whispered. He turned and exited the basement of Pashkov House, knowing that the security guards he had met at the front entrance were already dead.
The Washington D.C. meeting needed to happen. Federov's mission was far more ambitious than Krishkin's had been. It would be best to slay three dragons in one swing of the sword, and with the leaders of Russia, the United States, and China all in one location, this was an opportunity that could not be missed.