July 15th 2024 - The aftermath
The mummy of Vladimir Ilijch Lenin was brought back to the mausoleum in the Red Square. All major acolytes of Vladimir Putin’s were waiting in the queue in an orderly fashion, reminding how people were standing outside grocery stores in the time of the cold war. They were not waiting for free potatoes or oranges, but they had to renew their homage to the Leader of the Red Revolution. Vladimir Putin, whose power had never been put in discussion for more than twenty years, had recently ordered to restore the monument and revive the symbolism of the Soviet Propaganda. The Russian czar had taken place beside the body of the master of his grandfather and observed at short distance the behaviour of the participants.
Once the manuscript just under the cover of Heidi’s book ahd been destroyed, the Body of the bolshevik Revolution collapsed on the ground and Putin could reassure himself that nobody else would have been able to cope with him. It had been quite easy to get rid of the former business consultant and the whole fight looked like a brief judo demonstration organised in front of the cameras. Vladimir Putin did not even want that the man in grey called the bodyguards. Nobody should know that an assassination attempt had come so close to succeeding. The mysterious bureaucrat was for this reason soon eliminated, victim of a whimsical car accident on his way back to Moscow. He was actually the only victim, since after all Lenin’s mummy had not been killed. Just put to sleep once again, after a few years of freedom.
The life of the former business consultant was spared, since Putin did not want to create a big fuss around a western sommelier of the Hotel Metropol suddenly disappeared after a trip in the countryside. His entourage still had to justify the absence of such a gifted chef de cuisine. The young lady had been scared enough to assume she would have never mentioned her experience. It would have after all been difficult for her to explain how an old edition of Heidi had allowed her to befriend LEnin and get so close to the Russian President. Even the police of the Democratic Kanton Zurich would have forced her to spend some time in a psychiatric hospital.
Beside Vladimir Putin, the young Briton was patiently waiting for the show to end. His cold blood and decision to not intervene, had been appreciated by the former KGB Colonel. The latter found the choice of the art dealer at the same time wise and witty. Despite his strong will to replicate the heroism of the Red Hand, the boy from Belfast thus exploited the chance to seal an advantageous agreement and come back to the business. He was now an art advisor of Putin’s, in charge of some delicate operations between museums, auction houses, galleries and the presidential private collection. A trade in a zone as grey as much as the suit of the bureaucrat mysteriously disappeared. The art dealer was certain that his new role was solid and reantable for the years to come.
