Only Abel, the second son of Adam and Eve, did not turn over in his grave as they spoke.
I was assigned to guard the train to Birobidzhan together with Evkurov. I was drinking tea in the dining car when “Ivan” sat down and said: “Your mustache is coming loose.” I touched the spot where a mustache would be, if the real Zhirinovsky wore one. Then he asked about the African American. I answered: “Lasted a week?” Only two people knew that detail.
“Both of you did well,” I praised the future rector. At the next station we changed to the Moscow-bound train, locked ourselves in a luxury sleeper compartment, and discussed organizing an American-Israeli intelligence school near Moscow. You may go no further; you don’t have clearance.
I was leafing through a file stained with tea and suggested: “What if we send them all to the Jewish Autonomous Oblast? The bears are closer than the journalists there. The Jews all left for Israel anyway, plenty of room.”
This is the end of the sixth book, but not the end of the story. Investigator Petrovich is conducting a private investigation of His Imperial Majesty himself and dreams of getting into the secret school. John and the Zhirinovsky double are already discussing how to set it up near Moscow. And ahead lies a word that changes everything: Kyiv.
Read the complete story in “The Secret of Putin’s Palace.” This page contains only a short excerpt; the book has the rest.
Read the full book