The Grand Ballroom of the Hilton was a colossal space, lighted by chandeliers and triple-gilded lanterns in recessed circular alcoves high on the walls. A crowd of a thousand people filled row upon row of chairs lined up almost to the back of the room. Loggia levels on either side had been reserved for press; television cameras on tripods bristled and television lights bathed the raised stage, framed with a royal purple velour border and leg curtains. A solitary lecturn and microphone stood center stage. Blokhin wanted to sit in the front row to listen to Repina’s presentation, but Dominika refused, preferring instead an aisle seat halfway back, near the exit doors. Blokhin argued that closer was better until Dominika sat down where she wanted, and refused to budge.
“The seats up close will be in sight of those cameras. You wish to be on the evening news?” Blokhin did not respond but sat down next to her.
The ballroom was abuzz and raucous. Different groups of supporters waved signs printed with FREEDOM FOR RUSSIA, and PUTIN MURDERER, and OUT OF FREE UKRAINE. A number of other placards were printed in Cyrillic. Blokhin nudged Dominika to look at one of these that said HANG PUTIN BY THE NECK. Blokhin’s face had taken on a sleepy-eyed languor that, had she known the Spetsnaz sergeant better, would have telegraphed his building rage.
An official came onto the stage, spoke about donating funds to Daria Repina’s Free Russia Movement, then began a lengthy introduction, which was briefly interrupted by a knot of young students waving little Russian flags and chanting “Repina,
A brief scuffle between agitators and supporters broke out, chairs were overturned, and hotel security bustled the pro-Russia hotheads out of the ballroom. As their departing chants died away, the lights dimmed, a spot focused on the podium, and Daria Repina walked onstage to thunderous applause. She was tall and gaunt, with short brown hair in a tight pixie cut that fell in bangs to one side of her face. Her face was severe, lined by the strain of opposing, campaigning against, and exposing the crimes and corruption of the Putin regime for close to a decade. She had begun her jihad against Vladimir Vladimirovich as a little-known journalist, and was muzzled, shoved, and fined by the police for her misdemeanors. The world began noticing when Repina began touring Europe and the United Kingdom, raising awareness during impassioned rallies—the famous speech at Royal Albert Hall in London marked a turning point—and the Free Russia Movement was born. After two months in the United States, serious money started pouring in, and Repina became the face of dissident Russia.
Coy interviewers frequently asked her if she feared for her life. After all, Daria had been preceded by prominent journalists, disloyal government officials, and opposition party luminaries, all of whom were now gone: Nemtsov, Berezovsky, Politkovskaya, Khlebnikov, Litvinenko, Estemirova, Lesin. Shot, poisoned, or fed Polonium-210, they all had been eliminated as threats to the president’s sole priority as head of state: to preserve his kleptocracy. Daria would invariably reply that Putin’s time was running out, because what he feared most—Russian citizens demonstrating in Red Square—was an inevitability. The eyes of the world were on her now;
Repina started speaking. Her mannish voice was electric, her passion and energy flowed into the ruby-red halo that shone about her head and shoulders, proclaiming passion, courage, and her love for the
