In vast contrast, his host’s snow-white hair and brows were more characteristic of a man in his seventies.
In decent shape himself, Mikhail Kharkov had firm legs and shoulders, though his bulging waistline was a by-product of too much time spent behind his desk and, of course, his wife’s excellent cooking. Out of uniform, as he was, in gray slacks, white shirt, and a black cardigan sweater, the Admiral of the Fleet of the Soviet Union looked like a typical retiree. Yet this was as far as the likeness went. For this was no gentle grandfather, but a cold, calculating bureaucrat who had survived both Stalin’s purges and the Great Patriotic War, and had since fought his way to prominence, until today he was one of the most powerful individuals on the entire globe. Yet to totally consolidate his hard-earned position, he still needed the support of the two of the individuals who awaited him inside the adjoining den.
With Ivan Zarusk at his side, Mikhail, led them into the dacha’s central room. Here under a lofty cathedral ceiling was a collection of comfortable furniture, set around the den’s dominant feature, a massive, flagstone fireplace. Gathered around the roaring fire were three seated individuals. At their host’s entrance, two of these figures alertly stood. Both were dressed in identical black suits, white shirts, and red ties.
First to step forward and offer his handshake was Minister of the Interior Dmitri Tichvin, who sported a shiny bald scalp and wore an ever-present pair of wire-rimmed glasses over his bulbous nose.
“Good afternoon, Admiral,” he said politely.
“We were just getting the history of your wonderful dacha from your wife, and I must admit I’m quite jealous.
You have a very special place here. Comrade Kharkov.”
“Why, thank you for saying so,” returned Mikhail as he reached out to accept the cool hand of the figure who stood behind the Minister of the Interior.
Clearly the shortest individual in the room, Yuri Kasimov seemed out of place amongst the tall, big-shouldered men who surrounded him. Of slight build, with longish black hair and a pasty-skinned, pockmark-scarred face, the beady-eyed professional bureaucrat nervously cleared his throat before expressing himself.
“Hello, Admiral. Thank you for the kind invitation.”
“Not at all” replied Mikhail Kharkov.
“In fact, all of you deserve my gratitude for taking time out from your busy schedules. You honor me with your presence.
The past twenty-four-hour period has been a most demanding one. This is a sad moment for the Motherland. Alexander Suratov was well known and was liked by each of us in this room. His tragic loss will be greatly mourned for many years to come. Yet before we return to the helm of power, to chart our country’s future course, there’s something extremely important I need to share with every one of you.
Before I do so, however, I insist that you join me in some refreshments.”
Taking this as her cue, Anna Kharkov rose from the fireside chair she had been occupying. A pert, buxom woman, who wore her advanced years well, Anna played the role of the perfect hostess, as she addressed them.
“I know it’s not much, but please eat and drink to your heart’s content, and don’t hesitate to ask for seconds.”
Looking up toward the hallway, she clapped her hands twice and firmly commanded.
“Tanya, you may serve now!”
This was all that was needed to be said to bring forth a pink-uniformed maid. Her long, straight, black hair and dark, almond-shaped eyes betrayed her heritage as local Yakhut as she shyly pushed a large silver serving cart into the room’s center. Attractively displayed on the top tray were a wide variety of delicacies, including smoked salmon from the nearby Lena, Kamchatka crab meat, sliced tongue, herring, and a mound of glistening black caviar. A basket of assorted breads accompanied this selection.
Anna Kharkov took a second to make certain that all was in order. Only when she was completely satisfied did she take the young maid by the hand and lead her out of the room.
Alone now with only his guests, Mikhail was quick to fulfill his duties as host.
“Though these are black, confusing days for the Motherland, life still goes on.
Come, let’s refresh ourselves. And then there will be plenty of time to discuss the serious matter that brings us together.”
Bending down to reach the cart’s bottom shelf, he picked up a sterling silver tea server, and placed it on the nearby coffee table, where four porcelain cups and matching saucers sat. Then, from the serving cart he removed a heavy, cut-crystal decanter, that was filled with a deep, amber-colored liquid.
“Comrades, please let me pour each of you some tea. And to further take the chill off, I’ll be including a taste of excellent Ukrainian cognac in your cups.
Meanwhile, don’t be shy. Grab a plate and help ourselves to some food.”
