Free Once Upon a Time in Russia by Ben Mezrich

taken part in a number of investigations into terrorist-related incidents in the city, his position with the FSB did not place him in direct contact with the local police very often. But his demeanor certainly communicated to the two policemen that he wasn’t intimidated by their uniforms.
    â€œI believe there’s been a mistake.”
    The lead officer turned back to Berezovsky, a hand resting on his holstered automatic.
    â€œBoris Berezovsky,” he repeated. “We have orders to take you in.”
    Litvinenko could see the red splotches rising in Berezovsky’s cheeks. If Litvinenko didn’t do something quickly, this was going to escalate.
    â€œIf you have a warrant for Mr. Berezovsky’s arrest, please hand it over.”
    The officer looked back at Litvinenko, whose fingers tightened against his weapon. Litvinenko was now certain: there was no warrant, there were no arrest orders. The Moscow Police was a fiefdom, and it was no secret that Gusinsky, Berezovsky’s main rival, was in league with the chief of police. Perhaps this moment was payback for Faces in the Snow. Gusinsky’s roof hadn’t been able to protect him then, but now he was using Listyev’s tragic murder to strike back.
    Litvinenko made another decision—and slowly unhooked the clasps of his holster, partially drawing his gun, his fingers loose against the grip.
    â€œYou have no right to take this man anywhere.”
    The two policemen stared at him in shock. The air in the room became tight as a coiled snake.
    Then the lead officer’s hand seemed to loosen against his own holster.
    â€œWho are you?”
    â€œMy name is Alexander Litvinenko. I’m an FSB officer, and I am one hundred percent certain that Mr. Berezovsky was not involved in this tragic murder.”
    With his other hand, Litvinenko retrieved his official papers from his shirt pocket and offered them to the policemen. He kept his gun loose, as the lead officer inspected the documents.
    â€œWe have our orders,” the second officer tried again, lamely.
    â€œYes, we all have our orders,” Litvinenko responded. “Mr. Berezovskyis an innocent man under the protection of the FSB. If you would like to take it up with my superiors, feel free to make an appointment.”
    Another moment passed in silence—and then the two police officers turned and walked out of the room. It wasn’t until their footsteps had receded that Litvinenko felt his chest relax and noticed the rivulets of sweat running down the back of his neck. FSB, Moscow Police, Oligarchs, Politicians: in a moment like the one that had just transpired, none of the labels really mattered. What mattered was that a gun, even partially drawn, always trumped a gun in a holster.
    Berezovsky whistled low, and then came up out of his seat. He beckoned Litvinenko over—and then embraced him in a warm hug.
    Then he reached for the phone on his desk.
    â€œTo accuse me of this tragedy, it is unthinkable.”
    He looked at Litvinenko as he dialed the Kremlin.
    â€œYou have shown me something today I will not forget.”
    Litvinenko’s fingers shook as he resecured his gun.
    Before tonight, he had a job. Now he had a krysha.

CHAPTER TEN
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    January 1996,
    Logovaz Club
    M ARINA GONCHAROVA HAD ALWAYS considered herself an extremely practical woman. It was perhaps the main reason she had become an accountant in the first place; there was something wonderfully reassuring about numbers corralled into equations, and systems that functioned along logical and mathematical frameworks. That didn’t mean she had an aversion to creative thinking; being an accountant in modern Russia necessitated a certain amount of creativity . But nothing in her half decade as one of Roman Abramovich’s most trusted number crunchers could have prepared her for the utterly surreal moment that was now unfolding in front of her.
    Which was probably why she quickly decided to