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“But it used to be ninety,” Utkin responded. “The sheep remain docile until they get too hungry, Grisha. If the disparities between the ruling class and the peasants gets too large, there will be a backlash. Look at our own history. The Bolsheviks butchered the aristocracy and we ended up with more than a half century of communism. Now we have this—”

“I’m here to assure you that the president is regaining control.”

Utkin didn’t bother to hide his skepticism. “All these strikes that are happening would have never gotten off the ground five years ago, Grisha. No one would have dared. And the murder of Krupin’s leftist opponent last month shows desperation. I assume that was your handiwork?”

In fact, it wasn’t. The assassination had been a simple matter. Nothing that demanded his talents.

“The world is watching, Grisha, and we’re starting to look like some sub-Saharan backwater.”

Azarov didn’t disagree, but it wasn’t his place to make judgments on Krupin’s governance. Only to follow his orders.

“There have been some issues, but they’ll soon be resolved, sir. The president is quite confident.”

Utkin actually laughed. “That’s why you were sent here? To repeat the same bland assurances? Wonderful! Please tell me how Krupin plans to protect my interests. I’m rapt with attention.”

“I don’t know the details,” Azarov admitted.

In fact, he didn’t know anything at all about Krupin’s plan. Or even if there really was one.

“Ever the unquestioning servant, eh, Grisha?” The skepticism on Utkin’s face gave way to a benevolent smile. “Maybe you should come work for me. It would have to be better than this.”

“The president is convinced that you’ll be pleased with the results of his program.”

Utkin’s smile faded. “And yet he sends you. Why? If he’s so confident in his economic policy, why not just call me to discuss it? Why the clumsy attempt to intimidate me?”

“Again, that’s not my purpose.”

Not surprisingly, Utkin was unconvinced. “Krupin’s quietly amassing men and materiel on the Latvian border, Grisha. Can we expect another military excursion that will do nothing but drain our resources and court a confrontation with the Americans? Is that his plan?”

Azarov wo

ndered the same thing. Many Russians felt that the breakaway states had been stolen from them during the Soviet collapse. Flexing this kind of military muscle—the only kind of muscle Russia still had—spoke deeply to their nationalism.

“People are starting to look clear-eyed at the condition of their lives, Grisha. Flag waving and military spectacles aren’t going to keep them compliant for much longer. Is this how Russia is to end? With one man’s desperation to maintain power at all costs?”

The hypocrisy of the oligarchs became tiresome quickly. Like Krupin, all Utkin cared about was his own power. In the same position, he would act no differently. It was time to put an end to this meeting and go home. Azarov liked being in Russia less and less as the years wore on. There was a darkness in his country that penetrated deeper into him each time he crossed its border.

“Can I tell the president that he can count on your support, sir?”

Utkin didn’t answer and Azarov kept his eyes locked on the man, though he was really focused on his peripheral vision. The former soldier to his left had an open jacket and his arms crossed against his chest, keeping a hand close to his shoulder holster. With no windows, or even framed photographs, there were no reflections Azarov could use to assess the situation behind him. He could only assume the remaining two men were similarly alert.

“Tell Krupin that he’ll get my support when he shows results. Until then, I will protect my own interests. Just like he does.”

Utkin picked up the only document on the desk and began pretending to read. The meeting was over.

Azarov gave a submissive nod and turned, starting for the door. His tactical position was immediately improved. There was now only one man behind him and the glass wall, while frosted, was reflective enough to display his vague outline.

Neither the man behind nor the one waiting at his one o’clock had their weapons out. The man ahead and to his left had a silenced AR-15 hanging across his chest. An intimidating and impressive weapon, but one that would be hard to bring to bear quickly. His pistol was in a holster on his hip, held in place with a Velcro strap that would slow its retrieval.

Azarov couldn’t blame them for their carelessness. This wasn’t a battlefield and they had their unarmed opponent outnumbered three to one. In such situations, it was difficult not to become overconfident.

The man on the left moved across his path in order to open the door and Azarov casually kicked the back of his foot, knocking it sideway behind his other leg. He stumbled, instinctively tightening his hands around the assault rifle instead of throwing them out to break his fall toward the wall. When his head came even with the long crack in the glass, Azarov grabbed him by the belt and shoved him violently forward. The hope was that the glass would shatter and his head would penetrate, but the material wasn’t sufficiently compromised. Instead of bleeding from a fatal neck wound, he landed facedown, dazed from the blow to the skull.

Azarov spun and dropped, landing back-to-back on top of the man, pinning his weapon beneath him. In the brief moment it took him to free the guard’s holstered pistol, Azarov analyzed the tactical situation.

The man now on his left had a pistol out and his finger was already tensing on the trigger. Based on the barrel’s position, though, the first round would go well above Azarov’s head and the recoil would create a brief delay before a more accurate shot could be fired. Mikhail Zhestakov was facedown on the floor with his hands protecting the back of his head, as expected. Utkin was clawing clumsily at a drawer which undoubtedly contained a weapon that he had never used to do anything more demanding than execute a bound prisoner.

The soldier at the back of the room, though, was another matter. He was swinging his weapon smoothly in Azarov’s direction. There was no fear or panic in his eyes, only calculation. In another tenth of a second he would fire and he would hit what he was aiming at.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com
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