Moscow Machination

Petrova begged to differ. Ninety percent of Russian settlements and cities were bang on the Trans-Siberian Railway. Which essentially made Russia into a very, very long country… not unlike Chile, a libertarian darling bent over by Pinocchio. Or perhaps, more like Canada, whose populations, ever afraid of grizzlies had never ventured 10 miles beyond the 49^th parallel. The Canadian fear of the grizzlies was so epic, that a few years ago they had rounded up a bunch of grizzlies and shipped them down to Memphis.

Some blamed it on communist infrastructure. While the Trans-Siberian had been about sustenance, the Baikal-Amur Magistrale over the Tundra, had been all about foresight and growth and trade.

Yet, something had gone wrong.

After the fall of the Union, some Western analysts and ‘think tanks’ had even suggested to split up Russia into three or four ‘manageable chunks’. Obviously Muscovy would become a basecamp of sorts, to ravage the wild east, while the rest of Russia disintegrated to become the apocalyptic New Africa.

But despite the self-denials and an army of Soviet apologists, something had gone wrong. Something had terribly, terribly gone wrong with Russia. Anna Petrova tossed and turned in her bed.

* * *

At half past one, the President heard a muffled noise… a grating. She sprang up and sat on the massive Catherine the Great’s bed. She wasn’t sure if she had imagined the noise.

Eleven seconds later she heard the noise again. But the grating didn’t come from the main door. It seemed to come from the fireplace. The Federal Protective Service, tasked with her security had assured her that the fireplace was decorative. The chimney had been sealed and the fireplace hadn’t been used since the days of Khrushchev.

Anna Petrova, the first ever female President of Russia contemplated the situation nervously. She didn’t want to alert her guards just yet. Being a member of the female form, the guards had assumed her to be soft and often treated her with kid gloves. For some reason they were also under the impression that she was afraid of the dark. Sure, she had had a couple of nightmares involving Iron Felix and Yezhov, but who could blame her… some real dark shit had gone down in the Kremlin’s five hundred year existence.

Plus a good majority of the Kremlin’s previous tenants hadn’t vacated by choice. Even when they did, they had ended up on the Kremlin’s Wall Necropolis.

President Petrova tried to breathe deeply. Six deep breaths usually did it. One. Two. Three. She forgot about the breathing.

Plus there had been zero nightmares or ‘incidents’ since the departure of her cats.

Crrrank. Fuck there it was again. Anna Petrova contemplated making a dash for the main door. The door was almost 30 feet away. The ambient Moscow lights, and the lamps from the Kremlin grounds presented reasonable visibility. Or maybe she could just pick up the phone…

“Good evening Ms. President.”

“Who’s that?”

A light came on near the fireplace. A short rotund, man in a long white coat climbed out of the fireplace.

“Good evening Ms. President. Sorry to disturb you at this hour.”

He looked old but well kept. Non-threatening.

The unsure President asked, “Are you part of my security detail?”

“Madam, my name is Otto Fuchs and… I am the Messenger.”

* * *

Anna Petrova woke up with a start. What a freaky dream. Even the fine Afghani kush on during her ‘aid’ trips to Ashgabat had never made her hallucinate about old men crawling out of fireplaces. Even that Iron Felix-Yezhov nightmare had depicted them as young sexy revolutionaries. This psycho Santa was a first.

She opened her eyes and found herself in a Lazyboy facing the fireplace. On a nearby Lazyboy sat the rotund dude of her dreams. Seemed like he was sampling her beer collection.

“Oh God! I’m still in that dream… oh no. Who the hell are you? The guards never appear in the dreams…” Anna whimpered softly.

Ms. President, or shall I say Anna… you are back. You fainted and fell. I moved you to these fine chairs. Here have a Corona. Corona, almost as good as Bavarian.”

“What?”

“Just have a beer Madam. Trust me I am not the enemy. I am just a Messenger.”

“A Messenger? Ok whats the message?”

“The Weapon is ready.”

“The Weapon is ready? What weapon?”

“Sorry. That’s all I can say.”

“Wait … are you that scientist from Izhevsk that defected to France? Didn’t you…?”

“Oh. No. Like I said I’m just the Messenger.”

“Wait a minute… you said your name was Otto? Are you German?”

“Yes.”

“Oh god. The nightmare hasn’t ended… can I have another Corona?”

“As you wish, Madam.”

After chugging the Corona, President Petrova tried again… the only way to come out of the dream was to indulge it, “Ok whats the purpose of this weapon? Wait why are we employing German scientists? This isn’t 1945 anymore… Which facility do you belong to? Who’s your Minister?”