Dragon Raja 3; Chapter 31: New Testament (1)

Dragon Raja 3

January 1992, Moscow.

Just a month ago, the great Soviet Union dissolved. It was once the dragon of the East, but when it finally fell, people realized it had long been weakened. Proud Muscovites suddenly found themselves without anything to be proud of. The food rationing system was abolished, the ruble was devaluing at a terrifying rate; what used to be enough to buy a Volga car could now barely buy a loaf of rye bread. Overnight, they were plunged into destitution. The streets were blanketed in snow, empty and devoid of pedestrians, cars rusting away in the alleys. Portraits of Soviet leaders still hung on the walls, but they were torn to pieces.

On a desolate morning, a thin shadow walked alone through the streets, the hem of his coat sweeping the snow. A retired soldier sat on the frozen Moscow River, fishing while drinking cheap vodka.

“Excuse me, can you tell me how to get to the college of Sciences Library?” someone asked from behind.

The old soldier turned his head; a tall boy stood on the ice. He was clearly Asian, around thirteen or fourteen years old, wearing a thin black wool coat, a well-made cashmere scarf, and spotless black leather shoes—expensive attire that could only be bought with U.S. dollars on the black market. The soldier eyed the boy enviously.

Without a word from the soldier, the boy knowingly handed over a bottle of aged vodka. This was valuable currency in Moscow, and as a gift for asking directions, it was too generous.

“You’ve asked the right person. After retiring, I worked as a gatekeeper at the college of Sciences. Just keep heading south along the road, pass the Petrovsky Theatre, and you’ll see an intersection—turn right and you’re there.” The old soldier couldn’t wait to open the good bottle of liquor.

“Then, may I ask, is there a Professor Evgenii Chicherin at the library?” the boy asked again.

“Chicherin? Ha! What professor, he’s just a librarian! That guy’s a nobody, they took away his professorship.” The old soldier sneered, “You’re looking for him?”

“I have a message for him from a friend,” the boy said as he turned to leave.

“For the great Soviet Union!” The old soldier raised the bottle and called out toward Red Square.

“All great eras must come to an end,” the boy raised his collar against the wind, watching the falling snowflakes in the sky, “just as all kings must die.”

“Woman! Woman!” A drunken man shouted inside the college of Sciences Library, “Where did you put my booze?”

This used to be a place where the top Soviet scientists would discuss academic matters, but now it was deserted like a forsaken wife. The navy-blue wool carpet was stained with water, bookshelves had toppled over, and valuable academic works were scattered everywhere. In the fireplace burned precious research documents, but the room was still below freezing.

“Evgenii, you useless man! You might as well drink yourself to death!” a woman’s angry voice came from the washroom. “I regret marrying a loser like you!”

The washroom door was kicked open, and a woman, somewhat past her prime, strode out, glaring fiercely at the drunk man. The couple was an odd pair—the man was half-bald with a protruding beer belly, his nose as red as a lightbulb from years of heavy drinking. The wife, on the other hand, was still slender, with long platinum-blonde hair, and had a charming look about her. She wore stiletto dancing shoes and a low-cut gown, looking formidable.

“Look at your face in the mirror—like a dog! Other husbands are out finding ways to earn money, buying food on the black market, or at least getting some coal to keep warm! And what about you? All you do is drink and shout! Who do you think you are? You’re no longer a professor! You’re just a librarian, and your monthly salary isn’t even enough for me to buy a pair of stockings!” The woman relentlessly hit him where it hurt, raising her leg and slapping her expensive imported stockings. The man turned red with anger. “Who gave you those stockings? Are you going out dancing again? I told you not to dance! Those men are just taking advantage of you!”

“Shut up! My friends are all gentlemen! They don’t drink excessively; they treat women with respect and give small gifts at dances!” The woman sneered coldly. “Evgenii, you drunk! I’ve had enough! I want a divorce! Even the cigarettes you smoke are from my boyfriends! You useless man!”

The man raised his fist in rage.

“You dare hit me? If you hit me, I’ll go file for divorce right now!” The woman pushed her pretty face forward. “Come on!”

The man was dumbstruck and stood there, bewildered. After a moment, he slumped down into a chair, defeated. “Back then, you were just a country girl… I brought you to Moscow… showed you high society…”

“How dare you say that?” The woman screamed. “You only got your professorship by offering our daughter to the state!”

“Don’t mention that title!” The man hugged his bald head in despair. “They deceived me! They thought I wasn’t worthy of being a professor; they only wanted my daughter. If Renata were still here… if she were still here, maybe she could help us.”

The man lifted his head, drunken eyes filled with desire. He staggered over to his wife, caressing her mature, alluring body. “Darling, why don’t we have another child? We’re not getting any younger; we need another child to replace Renata.”

A soft cough startled the man, reminding him that they were still in the library, not their bedroom.

The boy pushed open the library door, holding a standard-issue KGB brown briefcase, his long black coat dusted with snowflakes. He coughed into his fist, eyes lowered, seeming a bit embarrassed for having accidentally intruded on a private conversation.

“Are you Evgenii Chicherin?” He walked over to the desk and sat down, placing the briefcase beside him, his questioning stance like that of an experienced KGB officer.

“That’s me. And you are?” The man looked confused.

“Too young looking, right?” The boy waved his ID. “I’m the officer responsible for closing ‘Project Delta,’ from the KGB.”

“The KGB?” The man looked uneasy. He had once been drinking buddies with a few low-ranking KGB officers and recognized the credentials. The ID showed that the boy was officially twenty years old and from the KGB’s Administration Bureau, which was the core management agency of the organization. The KGB was a complex entity, difficult for outsiders to fully grasp, but this boy, who looked about thirteen or fourteen, indeed had an air of authority unique to KGB officers.