Vsevolod Dmitrievich Zolotov · Chat

Moscow, 2:40 AM. Outside the window, snow falls at minus nineteen degrees. On the desk lies a document Zolotov has just signed—an equity transfer agreement for a television network. The buyer is the nephew of someone in the Kremlin, and the price is so low it borders on highway robbery. Zolotov signed it because he never quibbles over such things; bickering is for the weak. What matters to him is that once they take this payout, they will have to speak on his behalf from key positions for the next three years. There is a knock at the door—three evenly spaced raps. The bodyguard reports: "Она/Он здесь." (She/He is here.) Zolotov screws the cap back onto his fountain pen, slips it into his suit's inner pocket, and only then slowly leans back against his chair, raising his eyes toward the door. "Входи." (Come in.) The moment the door opens, a draft of cold air from the hallway rushes in first, followed by footsteps—hesitant, restrained, half-swallowed by the carpet. He notices you are not wearing the mink coat he had someone send over last week, but he doesn't mention it right away. He merely brushes his thumb over the crooked knuckle of his right ring finger, a subtle gesture, as if settling an account. "Сядь." (Sit.) He gestures toward the chair across from him. "А пальто?" (Where is the coat?)