Boris and The Moral Imperative

“All the available evidence therefore points to Russian responsibility for the atrocity, ” said Johnson, referring to the bombing of the UN aid convoy on September 20 that resulted in the deaths of 20 people, and the destruction of 18 trucks, which he had previously called a “war crime.”

“There is no commensurate horror, it seems to me, amongst some of those anti-war protest groups,” said Johnson.

The Kremlin stood as it had always done in Moscow.

Like Disneyland, its evil twin across the ideological divide in the United States,  the imposing towers, medieval structures and eye-watering ticket prices remain a monument to imperial power down through the centuries and tourism's deep pockets. But unlike Walt's fabled dream scape  parts of the Kremlin still serve a useful purpose.

Residing in the Grand Palace, among its labyrinthine corridors of oak paneling, and endless opulent rooms, away from the $50 public tour, a wealth of young bureaucrats sit busying themselves behind desks stacked incongruously with modern 21st Century equipment. These people are the technocrats who help run modern Russia: Phishing experts, hackers, I.T. surveillance gurus, data base administrators, porn site hosts... 

And sitting at the heart of this great edifice of state, like the spider at the center of some giant Cyrillic web sits a single man: Vladimir Putin: The heir to Ivan the Terrible, Rasputin, Stalin, Leventy Beria and Rosa Klebb. A man so powerful that political opponents would rather kill themselves in mysterious circumstances than have to deal with him face-to-face across a stacked poker table.

Wednesday October 23rd had started like any other day for the President of all the Russias...

He had woken to a light breakfast of pop-tarts and frozen vodka - pop tarts being the one decadent western indulgence he allowed himself apart from a swiss numbered bank account.

In the gym he had beaten 3 bodyguards to a pulp armed only with a wooden 'mashie-niblick' - a Scottish weapon he favoured because it passed through airport metal detectors without embarrassing explanations...

He was just settling down to read the day's Newspapers, pen poised above his notebook to add any names he came across that might need a visit from 'some Chechen terrorists' if they were saying unkind things about him in print, when a commotion started outside his closed office door.

He could hear Smersh the head of his praetorian guard growl a warning at some unseen interloper.

'The boss is busying censoring the press. Make an appointment...'

'It's urgent I need to see him now...!' he heard Polypin, one of his closest advisors squeal back.

'He's compiling a hit list. You know he doesn't like to be disturbed...'

'It's urgent...Can't wait that long...'

Putin was intrigued. He knew the intercom to the outside office wasn't working since they had sent his last secretary to Siberia. He picked up a 'Pirates of the Caribbean'  paperweight he had been given on his last US exchange visit and hurled it at the door to get Smersh's attention.

It had the desired effect. The door opened a crack and Smersh's head appeared through the gap just in time to meet the on-coming trajectory of a 1/1000th plastic scale model of the White House inscribed with the legend 'No Nukes are Good Nukes Love Barack & Michelle', that caught him full on the forehead.

The faithful retainer was unconscious before he hit the floor. Putin put down the gold-brick inscribed 'Thanks for the support' Donald T, he was going to use as a third missile and yelled at his unseen assistant.

'Ass in here now Polypin!'

Stepping gingerly over the recumbent form blocking the doorway, Nevskoe Imperial Polypin nervously approached his boss. Bringing bad news to the President of all the Russia's was always a sporting and unpredictable enterprise.

Polypin hadn't had time to change into his formal 'officer of tourism' uniform and was still wearing his addidas 2017 Chelsea shell suit and gold lame pumps, a present from a recent cultural exchange trip to China.

The President looked suspiciously at Polypin's new clothes and particularly the large Chelsea FC logo emblazoned on the crotch.

"Roman's given you the latest training kit I see...' he said tightly, picking up his pen and hovering it over the open 'hit list'.

Whether his name or Roman Abramovich's was going into the book Polypin couldn't tell, but he moved hastily to reassure his unstable leader.

'No boss. I got these direct from the factory on the Beijing trip. Roman hasn't even seen them yet...'

'You get a set for me?' The pen still hovered.

'Of course boss. They're in your in-tray. You'll get them as soon as the bomb squad has checked out today's mail.

The president curled his lip and put down his pen. Polypin breathed out.

'Why are you interrupting my mid-morning re-education program?'

Polypin steeled himself for the coming storm.

'I have...some...news...'

'Not good news, I take it!' In one swift movement, Putin grabbed the Mashie-Niblick from behind his chair and brought it crashing down across the desk, scattering Russian dolls painted like Chelsea footballers everywhere...

Polypin flinched and considered making a run for the door. He reluctantly looked up into the President's dead eyes and unloaded his dreadful cargo...

'Yesterday... In the British Parliament.... Boris... Johnson...was...' Polypin closed his eyes. If the boss was going to lash out he didn't want to see it coming, '...talking about us in a... mean... way...'

There was an awful silence, but Polypin somehow couldn't open his eyes...

'What exactly did he say?' The President's words were calm, measured, cold, sibilant. This was a worse reaction than Polypin had dared to imagine. He would rather have a plastic Whitehouse in the temple than a cold calculating anger any day.

Polypin nervously opened both eyes and pulled out a tear-stained piece of paper with his notes on them. 

'He said... And I'm just quoting boss...' Polypin swallowed hard and concentrated on his notes, ignoring the rising fury in front of him as he read out loud.

'He said we're a pariah nation for bombing the aid convey in Syria." 

In his cold anger, the President picked up one of the largest balsa wood Russian doll figures still lying forlornly on his desk and crushed it in one powerful motion.

'Bourjemoi!' he screamed and hurled the balsa wood scrap at the convenient target of his prone guard.

'Bojo says we're the bad guys in Syria! Us! We're the one's trying to sort this mess out! And what's this about bombing aid conveys! What the F..."

Angrily Putin picked up the big red phone that had been on every Russian President's desk since the first takeaway restaurants had opened in Moscow. There were 2 clicks and then a bored voice answered, 'What?'

'Pullthepin get in here now!' Putin screamed.

'Who is this...?'

'You have to ask?'

Pullthepin realised his error immediately but still tried to stall...

'Cant it wait Leader? I'm sitting on 2 pair and there's another Jack in the discards...'

'Now Pullthepin!' The presidents anger reached new heights as he slammed the phone down.

There was an uncomfortable silence between the two men in the office as they waited. Within a couple of minutes they could hear the squeak of cheap plastic soles on parquet flooring and the large squat figure of General Gogol Pullthepin, the most senior man in the Russian Army appeared in the doorway and tripped unceremoniously over the still prone body of the unconscious Smersh.

"What happened to him?" Asked the General, picking himself up.

"The Whitehouse got him...'

The General stared in horror at the downed bodyguard and straightened his uniform.

'No sh*t. He took one for you?' he breathed at the President, shocked at how close his meal ticket may have just come to death.

'No he took one FROM me...' Pullthepin looked around at the debris from his boss' rage and nodded his understanding.

"What's up Mein Fureher?' he asked trying to move things along...

"I'll tell you what's up, according to the British Government - our Air Force bombed the sh*t out of an aid convoy outside Aleppo. Is that right?"

Pullthe pin nodded. "That would be that flying asshole Yevgeny - you know the dick who calls himself the Red Baron. After the Snoopy cartoon"

Why?

"I don't know - too much exposure to decadent Western culture I guess..."

"No, you fat Commisar, why did he shoot up an aid convey in front of the World's press?"

He only needed 3 confirmed Landrovers to make Wing Commander..."

Do we count vehicles covered in red crosses?

No leader. But it could have been a cover for arms shipments. We've done it in the Crimea. How do you think we got that plutonium out of the Caucasus' in time for your birthday?

"I did wonder why the spetnaz were dressed as nurses... I thought it was a nice touch..." The supreme boss forced himself to refocus on the present.

"This is really f*cked up.... We can't afford a censure from the British parliament - think what it would do to my credit rating at Harrods food hall...."

"No more hand made Arctic Roles?"

"That's just the tip of the iceberg - next thing you know they will really start investigating all those dissident murders in London...."

There was a brief pause while they all laughed politely at the boss's joke.

Outside the first snowflake of winter fell slowly to the Moscow ground. Soon the whole City would be covered in a thick blanket of irony that none of the men in the room would be able to see...