THE NOISY CHATTER ON NIKOLSKAYA, the pedestrian street connecting the Red Square and Lubyanka, falls mute against the thick windows of the royal suite at St. Regis Hotel. The Christmas lights however shine, almost blindingly – so, with a heave, he pulls the royal curtains shut.
The man values his privacy.
The Russians like vodka, but he favours the heartiness of whiskey. At the bar, he pours himself a healthy dose of Macallan from the crystal decanter. Then, with a sigh of content, he drops into the velvet upholstered armchair, the ice cheerily tinkling in his glass.
What a day, he thinks. What a day indeed. He is pleased with himself. We finally made it! Rarely – and especially in his world – can a man even hope for such absolute success. The campaign he run had been long and hard – expensive also! And it certainly hadn’t gone without road bumps. But we made it! He was proud of himself and of his team.
He takes a sip. The rich, amber liquid trickles down his throat. That wonderful, warm, fuzzy feeling.
Reflecting on his sensation of pride, he applauds the power the new policies will bring to the people – finally! He thinks about his competitior and pats himself on the back, commending his own endurance. Most of all, he congratulates himself for remaining one of the few considered incorruptible over the course of his extensive political career. But he made it.
Reaching into his back-pocket, he takes out a worn, crumpled picture. He gazes upon his wife and two daughters through the distant daze of his drink. In this moment, life couldn’t be more perfect.
There is a knock at the door. He downs his drink, stands up from the armchair and strides to the entrance. He opens.
“Ahh… Katerina!” he exclaims, smiling at the beautiful, long-legged goddess standing framed in the doorway. “Please – come in. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again.”
She kisses him on the lips, her heels click-clacking as she steps in.
He shuts the door behind her.
THE END
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