“Not at all” replied Mikhail Kharkov. “In fact, all of you deserve my gratitude for taking time out from your busy schedules. You honor me with your presence. The past twenty-four-hour period has been a most demanding one. This is a sad moment for the Motherland. Alexander Suratov was well known and was liked by each of us in this room. His tragic loss will be greatly mourned for many years to come. Yet before we return to the helm of power, to chart our country’s future course, there’s something extremely important I need to share with every one of you. Before I do so, however, I insist that you join me in some refreshments.”
Taking this as her cue, Anna Kharkov rose from the fireside chair she had been occupying. A pert, buxom woman, who wore her advanced years well, Anna played the role of the perfect hostess, as she addressed them.
“I know it’s not much, but please eat and drink to your heart’s content, and don’t hesitate to ask for seconds.”
Looking up toward the hallway, she clapped her hands twice and firmly commanded.
“Tanya, you may serve now!”
This was all that was needed to be said to bring forth a pink-uniformed maid. Her long, straight, black hair and dark, almond-shaped eyes betrayed her heritage as local Yakhut as she shyly pushed a large silver serving cart into the room’s center. Attractively displayed on the top tray were a wide variety of delicacies, including smoked salmon from the nearby Lena, Kamchatka crab meat, sliced tongue, herring, and a mound of glistening black caviar. A basket of assorted breads accompanied this selection.
Anna Kharkov took a second to make certain that all was in order. Only when she was completely satisfied did she take the young maid by the hand and lead her out of the room.
Alone now with only his guests, Mikhail was quick to fulfill his duties as host.
“Though these are black, confusing days for the Motherland, life still goes on. Come, let’s refresh ourselves. And then there will be plenty of time to discuss the serious matter that brings us together.”
Bending down to reach the cart’s bottom shelf, he picked up a sterling silver tea server, and placed it on the nearby coffee table, where four porcelain cups and matching saucers sat. Then, from the serving cart he removed a heavy, cut-crystal decanter, that was filled with a deep, amber-colored liquid.
“Comrades, please let me pour each of you some tea. And to further take the chill off, I’ll be including a taste of excellent Ukrainian cognac in your cups. Meanwhile, don’t be shy. Grab a plate and help ourselves to some food.”
While the Admiral of the Fleet expertly prepared the drinks, his three guests gathered around the serving cart. It proved to be General Zarusk who got the ball rolling by picking up a china plate and a serving spoon, and digging into the mound of caviar.
“It’s been much too long since I’ve tasted the roe of a real Baikal sturgeon,” revealed the Minister of Defense. “If neither one of you have ever had this pleasure before, my, are you in for the treat of a lifetime. For such caviar simply melts in your mouth!”
Following his enthusiastic lead, both Dmitri Tichvin and Yuri Kasimov picked up plates of their own.
As the three men proceeded to fill them, their white-haired host finished filling the last of the cups, and ambled over to see how his guests were doing.
“Ah, excellent,” reflected Mikhail. “It seems that this afternoon everyone has an appetite as ravenous as my own.”
After choosing several slices of smoked salmon, some crab meat, and a good-sized spoonful of caviar, Mikhail tore off a heel of crusty pumpernickel and then joined his three colleagues on the large sofa that sat in front of the fireplace. A moment of silence followed us they dug into their food. Yet this quiet was all too soon broken by the spirited voice of Ivan Zarusk.
“Didn’t I tell you that this particular caviar is the finest to grace the earth? Why its flavor is as delicate as any I’ve ever tasted. So tell me. Admiral, since this species of sturgeon is on the official endangered species list, were you forced to go to a poacher to purchase it?”
An angry scowl suddenly tightened Mikhail’s brow.
“General Zarusk, are you accusing me of abetting a known criminal act?” The angry look was all too soon replaced by a warm smile. “No, comrades. You can enjoy your caviar knowing that it wasn’t obtained on the black market. In actuality, the Baikal sturgeon has been making somewhat of a remarkable comeback as of late. So healthy is its present population, the conservationists have opened portions of the lake to limited fishing.”
“How very fortunate for us,” added the Defense Minister, as he prepared to bite into a piece of caviar-coated black bread.
Waiting until he had thoroughly chewed and swallowed the tongue sandwich he had prepared for himself, Dmitri Tichvin matter-of-factly observed.
“The Baikal sturgeon is only one of the many success stories in this field. All over the Soviet Union, species that were once on the brink of extinction are thriving once again. This is truly something that each citizen of the Rodina can be proud of, because to lose the last of a species is to lose it for all time.”
Suddenly inspired, Mikhail picked up his cup in a toast.
“To the citizens of the Motherland. Long may they live in peace and prosperity.”
As his guests responded to this toast by also lifting their cups to their lips, Mikhail added.
“And to the Motherland itself. From its parched deserts to its frozen tundras; from the vast grain fields of the steppes to the thick, resource-rich taiga — surely we live in the greatest, most diverse nation ever to grace the face of this earth!”
“Here, here!” added Ivan Zarusk, who drained his cup. As his colleagues did likewise, Mikhail made the rounds to refill the cups this time only utilizing the deep golden liquid that was stored inside the cut-crystal decanter.
Their appetites further stimulated by the powerful cognac, the four Politburo members cleaned their plates. Only the Defense Minister returned for seconds, quickly polishing off the remainder of the caviar.
With filled bellies, the men sat around the crackling fireplace. Once again their host refilled their cups, yet this time instead of reseating himself he remained standing.
Turning to briefly poke the burning logs, Mikhail slowly pivoted to address his guests, the roaring fire now directly behind him.
“We’ve refreshed ourselves with the by-products of our land’s natural bounty, and now it’s time to get to the heart of the matter that prompted this gathering. For today we face a threat just as dangerous as the crazed hordes of Fascist Germany. Like the Nazis, this foe will not rest until the entire Rodina is under its greedy control.
“Capitalism is this opponent’s name. It’s a subtle evil, that works its way slowly into our people’s souls until they ultimately lose sight of their socialistic direction. Like a cancer, it has only one cure — cut it out completely before a malignancy develops for which there is no cure.
“Unfortunately, it has taken the loss of one of the Motherland’s most beloved sons to present us with an unprecedented opportunity to strike the proponents of capitalism a fatal blow. All of us knew Alexander Suratov to be a compassionate man, who wanted peace and plenty for his people above all else. Our beloved Premier was in the process of conveying his message to the leaders of Canada and the United States when the hand of fate intervened to abruptly cut his mission short.
“Yet what exactly took place in those frigid Arctic skies to doom this mission? Was it merely a mechanical fault that sent the Flying Kremlin crashing into the ice pack, or was an outside force responsible? If you’ll just bear with me, comrades, I think that I can provide you with irrefutable proof that will support the latter of these two conjectures.”
Halting at this point, Mikhail caught Ivan Zarusk’s steel gray gaze. Without betraying himself, the Defense Minister gave his host the barest of supportive nods. As he briefly scanned the faces of his other guests, Mikhail found Dmitri Tichvin’s expression filled with thoughtful contemplation, while a look of bored indifference etched the pockmarked face of Yuri Kasimov. Focusing his energies on this individual, Mikhail passionately continued.