The fact the opposing side battled as hard as they could against most of Volodin’s team — even taking their frustration out for having to play the role of whipping boys by body-checking some of the big-name players — made the game look legitimate in some respects, but it also drew a stark contrast with the play reserved for Valeri Volodin. When the Russian president was on the puck, he was only lightly grazed by a shoulder here and there.
Consequently, Valeri Volodin scored four goals, and no one else scored more than one.
Limonov had not managed to get into position to take a single shot.
When the match was over, Limonov was literally doubled over in pain. He had to ask one of the other players what the final score was, because it was too much effort to look up at the scoreboard.
He staggered back to the locker room, well behind the other players, and just as he sat down on a bench at his locker and began removing his gear, Volodin appeared in front of him and punched a fist into Limonov’s shoulder. It hurt like hell, but Limonov thought this was a good sign. The president was treating him like a childhood chum.
“You played better than I thought you would, Andrei Ivanovich.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Of course, I had expected you to be horrible, so you didn’t have to do much to exceed my expectations.”
Limonov nodded. “You were excellent, Mr. President. Your third goal was a thing of majesty.”
Volodin’s half-smile disappeared. “And what of the others?”
Limonov hesitated, but then said, “Number two was very good, also. Number one should have been called back after the illegal check Pavel Yurievich placed on their defender to take the puck in the first place. I hope you don’t mind my saying that, or the fact that your fourth goal was handed to you. Dmitry Petrovich sent you a back pass that rightfully should have been his shot. He had an open goal, yet he passed to you.”
Other than a hint of nervous laughter, there was no sound in the locker room for several seconds. Finally, Volodin said, “A detailed accounting of tonight’s ledger. Spoken like a true accountant.”
Only when Volodin smiled at his joke did the other men in the room recognize it as a joke, at which point they themselves broke into uproarious laughter.
Volodin put his hand on Andrei Limonov’s shoulder again. “I want you to come and see me. Tonight.”
He turned and walked off without waiting for a response.
Limonov wanted an ice bath more than a visit to the Kremlin, since the pain in his side and in his legs and in his lungs was at the forefront of his mind now, but he knew there was no way out of such an invitation. He had no idea what the president wanted from him, but Volodin was already out the door to the locker room, and he would not have dared ask, anyway.
“Don’t worry, Andrei Ivanovich,” a forty-year-old ex — Dynamo right back named Pavel said. “If Volodin wanted something bad to happen to you, it wouldn’t happen at the Kremlin.” He smiled. “It would just happen.”
The other men chuckled, but Limonov could see on their faces that they were all worried for him.
Limonov pulled himself up into a standing position by using the door of the locker, and then he headed for the showers.
19
It took an hour for Limonov to move from a bench in a locker room at Luzhniki Small Sports Arena to a red velvet gold-framed baroque chair in a sitting room overlooking the Kremlin’s Tainitsky Gardens. He was washed and his blond hair combed in a part and he wore his suit and tie, but his rib cage was seized with pain and he was covered with black-and-gray bruises. He sat here drinking a glass of tea, but he wished he were home with something stronger and a few painkillers. The pair of beautiful and impossibly tall attendants who had given him the tea probably could have found him something for his pain, and they stood just feet away now, on either side of the door to the main hallway, but Limonov sat there with his mouth shut and pretended he was fine.
Volodin had orchestrated tonight’s meeting to show his virility and physical prowess. It wouldn’t do for Limonov, more than a quarter-century younger than his president, to show any weakness at all.
Outside a window on his right he could see Volodin’s Mi-8 helicopter, its rotors slowly spooling up, and this gave Limonov the impression that, just after their meeting, the president would be heading home to his private residence in Novo-Ogaryovo just west of the city.
It was well after two a.m., so Limonov thought it was a safe bet his was the last meeting of the day, but he’d read stories about how the president would sometimes work straight through the night and then work a full twelve hours the next day.
Volodin charged into the room without even looking up at the women on either side of the door. He sat down, then finally raised his eyes in Limonov’s direction. “Why doesn’t the FSB like you?”
Limonov almost pissed himself. The pain in his ribs disappeared as the muscles in his back cinched even tighter. “I… well, I don’t know. I didn’t know there was a problem. I certainly have done nothing that would—”
He stopped talking when Volodin raised his hand.
“No, no, nothing like that. You just aren’t on their list of most trusted financiers.”
Limonov’s bladder was safe, for now. He let out a little sigh of relief, but he realized Volodin had intentionally rattled him. He recovered and said, “Oh. Yes. As I am sure you know, I worked for Gazprom, Rosneft, and several other state-controlled companies. Many of my colleagues also did work setting up FSB and SVR shells around the world. My colleagues, from what I understand, floated my name to the FSB, mentioning I had created a robust international business network that could have been useful to them. FSB asked me to arrange the international finances for some of their corporate entities and move it through my existing system. I looked over the terms and didn’t think they were in my best interests. Nothing dramatic, just no money in it.”
Volodin took tea from one of the tall young ladies. “Many would say that gaining favor from the State Security services would be all the reward one would need.”
Limonov just replied, “No one told me these matters were important to Mother Russia. It just looked like bad business for my firm. I stay busy enough.” He shrugged. “I am happy to serve this nation if I am called to do so, Mr. President.”
“I heard about your financial network.” Volodin nodded. “It’s very clever.”
“Thank you.”
“Small potatoes. But clever nonetheless.”
Limonov said nothing.
Volodin smiled now. Held eye contact with Limonov for several seconds. The younger man fought the desire to speak, sensing Volodin was testing his patience. Finally, the president said, “I need you to do something for me. Large potatoes. It will be good for Russia, but it will also be good business, I assure you.”
“Of course.”
“This matter is of utmost secrecy.”
Limonov almost said “Of course” again, but he caught himself, said, “Konechno,” which was more like “Sure,” and a little familiar under the circumstances.
“I have a number of personal assets throughout the world, as well as a few accounts.”
A few accounts? Limonov thought. It had been rumored that Volodin had been one of the richest men in the world before the worldwide plummet of energy prices. Limonov had heard enough gossip around Moscow’s financial circles for him to assume the president still possessed assets somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty billion U.S. dollars. Most of that, Limonov knew, was in shares of state-owned companies, but a fair chunk of it would be in offshore accounts.
With a poker face Limonov said, “Yes, sir. I am friendly with men here at the Kremlin. Your financial advisers. Obviously, they haven’t told me details, they are good men, but these are men who do not trifle with small change.”