Deep Black

57

Alexsandr Kurakin studied his suit in the full-length mirror, examining the way his cuffs fell, adjusting and readjusting his tie. Then he leaned forward, making sure that his thick hair was precisely in place. If he was vain about anything connected to his appearance, it was his hair, still admirably thick at fifty-eight. He found a few errant strands and worked them into place with his fingers.

As a young man, Kurakin had been fairly handsome. Now he was perhaps “more distinguished than pretty”—to use the words of an Italian magazine that had profiled him recently — but he could still cut a charismatic figure on television.

He would prove so once again this evening. By then, this suit would be stained, most likely with blood. His hair would be disheveled. But everything would be accomplished.

Not everything, not nearly. The Americans would be angry about losing their spy satellites, even though Perovskaya and his aborted coup would be blamed. Kurakin would face reprisals, even after persuading the American president that it was Perovskaya’s plan all along. There would be a storm, certainly; the only question was how severe.

The Russian congress — well, they would rage furiously, but they were already impotent, and in assuming martial law he would depose them anyway. The military would fall behind him, following the initial confusion. The units that had been moved on Perovskaya’s authority would, unfortunately, suffer some consequences — but then, their leaders were not particularly loyal to begin with, which was why he had chosen them. Another storm, but only a brief one.

And then, the deluge. But under his control. Martial law would sweep away the obstacles. First, the rebels in the south would be dealt with. The Chinese would stand aside or be punished severely. They would see this and probably not even have to be threatened.

He needed a military victory to seal his position, and so defeating the rebels — or at least plausibly claiming to — was critical. And then, quickly, perhaps even simultaneously, the next step. The forces that had made Russia a chaotic asylum for thieves, gangsters, and lunatics would be crushed without mercy. The criminals would be dealt with summarily. Russian society would be restored.

After that? Democracy? Too far in the future to tell.

He had hopes. He was still an optimist at heart, an old believer.

Kurakin stepped back from the mirror. There was a knock on the door — his bodyguards. It was time.