A Phone-call From Putin
Flash Fiction
Pavel Pavlovich Bovrogodin had no choice. He always acknowledged that he owed his billions to Vladimir Vladimirovic. A low level FSB man, but who like James Bond had not just a licence to kill, but a duty to execute the president’s enemies. He had been rewarded with the aluminium franchise in Sayonogorsk, and he had made a resounding success of it. Within three years he had accumulated three billion dollars.
The first sign of friction between the two men was sparked off when Vladimir Vladimirovich ordered him to sign over 33% of his interest to Leonid Kachanov, allegedly the brother of Valentina with whom he had fathered his latest child. Bovrogodin knew that this was the first of the inevitable demands to follow. From that day he began planning his exit.
When in a BBC program with Steven Sackur, he referred to the “Russian invasion” of Ukraine, and suggested that Vladimir Vladimirovich had lost the plot, it was clear that he had no plans to return to Moscow. He had secretly bought a secluded mansion in Ashridge forest, The Cherry Orchard, and spent twenty millions turning it into a fortress, with its security entirely electronically controlled.
Putin had sworn that he will never have a good night’s sleep until “Pavel Pavlovich was solved”. He meant to send the man he had turned into the 113th richest oligarch to perish in the minus 50’s of Sibirske. And the ex-FSB man had sworn that he would destroy Vladimir Vladimirovich or die attempting it.
Coming out of his heated swimming pool, Pavel Pavlovich heard his phone ring. Great timing, he thought. But this was no happenstance. His interlocutor had been watching his every movement on a monitor in his Kremlin office.
‘I wanted you to enjoy your last swim, Pavel Pavlovich,’ the voice he immediately recognised purred softly.
‘Vladimir Vladimirovich! Yes, as you know, I am swimming in luxury, a million miles away from your thugs.’
‘As I said, that was the last time. I am turning your Cherry Orchard into a frozen gulag. It is a step by step descent into hell. As we speak, your heating system is being wrecked. So no more warm dips.’
‘Vladimir Vladimirovich, you’re not God_’
‘Pavel Pavlovich, I don’t need to be God make good my promise to you. When you have the best hackers working on Sandworm, you can control the world. As we speak, your trusted steward Giuseppe has received instructions from you to board the Aeroflot 552 to Moscow, and he is going to disappear into the Moscow mist.’
‘But Vlad_’
‘Worse, your food delivery network has been cancelled. You will have to eat your larder. Three weeks? What will you do after? Your heating system is kaput. You are completely alone in your gilded cage. No telephone access, no contact with the outside world. Your Glocks, your Kalashnikovs, your Colts will stay mute. You can spend hours looking at your Piccassos, your Matisses. Your gates cannot function manually, your walls are inaccessible. You are trapped. In a prison of your own making. You’d give your three billions to swap for a place in a Sibirske gulag. You will starve and freeze to death. Alone, friendless. In your next life remember never to cross your old friend Vlad.
