Washington, first week of March 1994: Things were not going well. With word out that Shvets’ book was about to be released, the press was expected to engage in one of its usual feeding frenzies, and I knew I had to take preemptive action; I couldn’t let my Russian contacts find out about my involvement from a news release. So I went to see Natalya at the Embassy. She was expecting to hear about the conference in Malta; what she heard instead appeared to send her into shock.

Natalya Semenikhina was an exceptional woman: smart, efficient, attractive, with a natural charm and warmth that made her perfect for her position in the Cultural Section of the Embassy. And she had been extremely helpful to me in working toward the creation of my U.S. training program and establishment of a business school in Moscow. I genuinely liked and respected her, and had enjoyed working with her. And now I had to try to salvage our relationship — and all of my hard work and dreams — without betraying the two people to whom I owed a professional responsibility . . . whether they deserved it or not.

She and I sat facing one another over tea in one of the Embassy’s formal meeting rooms, talking first about Malta, the people I had met there, the business opportunities, etc. Then I said I had something else to discuss with her . . . something quite serious. And as I related the story of my meeting the year before with Aksilenko in Moscow, his revelation as to his friend’s tell-all book, their subsequent “relocation” to the United States, and the imminent publication of the book, her face paled and her expression turned to one of total horror. Although I stressed the strictly commercial nature of my relationship with them, I could see clearly that she knew exactly who they were and what was at stake. And, for the first time in all the months I had known her, she was speechless.

Finally composing herself, she said that this was completely outside her purview, and that she would have to discuss it with someone else. At that point, I’m not sure she even knew whom to go to, but she did know she couldn’t deal with it alone. She said she would call me to set up another meeting, and I left the Embassy with a sinking feeling that my work in Russia was about to come to an end. My one hope might be to cut short my working relationship with Aksilenko and Shvets, and perhaps even to forfeit my financial interest in the book. I would have to give that some thought while I waited to hear from her, but I wasn’t optimistic — you can’t unring a bell.

She called the very next day and asked me to come to the Embassy on the day after that. Her voice left no doubt that she was under serious stress. As concerned as I was for my own situation, I also felt regret that it had become necessary for her to be involved — she had had nothing to do with any of it.

The next morning I arrived at the Embassy to be greeted by a very somber Natalya. There was no tea service in the meeting room that day — a bad sign from the normally hospitable Russians. Her speech was hesitant, and had obviously been carefully rehearsed. All of the public rooms in the Embassy were assumed to be bugged, probably even wired with cameras; so I was sure she was being careful to say everything she’d been instructed to say, and nothing more. I, on the other hand, had no idea of what to expect. For me, this was going to be like amateur night at the Improv.

Natalya told me she would normally have arranged for me to meet with a Mr. Lysenko — the name was unfamiliar to me — but that he had returned to Moscow just a few days earlier. So she had talked with someone else in his department, and that person had suggested that I should prepare and submit to them — now check this out — a written statement detailing the history of my relationship with Aksilenko and Shvets, from beginning to end, leaving nothing out: everything I knew about them, everything they had ever told me, everything about the contents of the book, my business arrangement with them, and where they were and what they were doing now. Then, and only then, could my own situation be reevaluated and given careful consideration.

Momentary silence . . . deep breath . . . then . . .

Okay, so I didn’t actually laugh. But oh, how I wanted to! Did they really believe for one moment that I would even consider delivering to the government of any country — let alone an adversarial one — any information that could conceivably be used against American interests? Did they think I was personally low enough to sell out another human being (or two)? Or that I was stupid enough not to realize that anything I might give them would go directly to the Russian Foreign Ministry as well as KGB Headquarters, and could potentially reach all the way to the Kremlin itself? And did they also believe I was weak enough or greedy enough to simply break down and submit to their transparent attempt at coercion?

Actually . . . yes, I suppose that is what they thought. Well, then . . . they clearly had no idea of what kind of person they were dealing with!

Of course, I kept all those thoughts to myself, and somehow managed to remain calm. I briefly considered keeping them hanging for a couple of days by telling Natalya I’d think it over and get back to her. But no . . . there was nothing to think over, and I wanted them to know that. So what I did say was that — for better or worse — Aksilenko and Shvets were my clients in a publishing venture, and that it would be professionally unethical and personally reprehensible (my exact words) for me to betray them in the manner her people were suggesting. Bottom line: a flat-out “Nyet!”

As I spoke, Natalya almost seemed physically to deflate. She had failed, and she looked worried, even frightened. Then she stood up, whispered something that sounded vaguely apologetic . . . and I was politely shown the door.

*. *. *

Walking down 16th Street away from the Embassy, I knew that I, too, had failed in my efforts to guide some of Russia’s middle class into the approaching 21st Century. But they would manage without me and my business school; the Russian people always did, somehow. In a different sense, though, I knew I had succeeded. I had stood my ground, refused to be intimidated, and had managed to preserve my principles of honor and decency. I was, in human terms, the clear winner.

When I reported all of this to Eric later that day, he told me that the man I was supposed to have met — Aleksandr Lysenko — was well known to the FBI: he had been the rezident, or chief of station, at the Russian Embassy for several months. In other words, the top KGB agent in Washington. He had been expelled from the U.S. just days earlier for his role in running the CIA turncoat Aldrich Ames. The fact that I was intended to have met with a person of Lysenko’s rank clearly indicated how seriously the Russians were treating this whole situation. On the one hand, I was obviously relieved that a meeting with him had been averted; but on the other hand, I thought it might have been an interesting experience . . . in a rather perverse way. But that’s one more thing I’ll never know.

Aldrich Ames and Aleksandr Lysenko — two men I didn’t know, and had never even heard of before they made the news just a few days earlier — had somehow, indirectly, invaded my life and changed it forever. Unbelievable!

*. *. *

In April of 1994, Shvets’ book, Washington Station, was finally released.

On April 9th, an article by John Markoff and David Johnston appeared in the New York Times about the book, about Yuri Shvets himself, and about my role — not entirely accurately presented — in having brought Shvets and his colleague, Valentin Aksilenko, to the United States the previous year. But the article didn’t stop there. It went on to suggest a possible connection between the arrival of the two men in the U.S. for ten days in April-May of 1993 and the opening of the FBI’s official case against Aldrich Ames on May 12th, just one week after their departure on May 5th.

And as I read that article, a comic-strip lightbulb lit up over my head. It all began to make sense, in a totally convoluted, nonsensical way. All of the attention from the FBI at home and the KGB and Militia in Moscow; the “watchers” and “Good Samaritans” repeatedly showing up during my travels; the ease with which the two former KGB spies had gotten back into the U.S. — it hadn’t been my imagination at all.

No . . . I was just a person who had been in the right place at the wrong time — not really involved, but ultimately the one who had been used to tie the various strings together. Metaphorically speaking, I had become a pawn in someone else’s political chess game, and now, at the end of that game . . . well, now I was simply collateral damage.

You just can’t make this stuff up!

*. *. *

There’s more — lots more — that I really don’t need to go into here. But there is an interesting footnote. Because of the brouhaha surrounding Aldrich Ames’ arrest and eventual conviction and sentencing on charges of espionage, Yuri Shvets’ book could not have hit the stands at a worse time. It was totally overshadowed by the bigger story. The first — and only — printing was smaller than originally planned, and didn’t do well. It was withdrawn from the bookstore shelves before most of the world even knew it was there. Other than my small percentage of their advance payment, my only royalty check arrived in the mail a full five years later, in June of 1999, in the amount of . . . drumroll, please. . . seventy-seven cents ($0.77). As I stood by the wall of mailboxes in the lobby of my apartment building and opened the unexpected envelope from Brockman, Inc., I burst out laughing — so hard, and so loudly, that several passing neighbors thought I’d lost my marbles. I managed to choke out “I’m okay,” and continued laughing all the way to the elevator, up to the third floor, and down the long hallway to my apartment.

I still have that check, and it still tickles me to look at it.

*. *. *

So how does it all end? Am I going to leave you hanging after dragging you around Europe with me for half a year, wondering why I’ve bothered writing all of this stuff? No . . . of course I wouldn’t do that to my loyal readers. So, see you next time for the grand finale.

Brendochka
5/29/23 (re-posted 12/18/23)

February 25, 1994: Homeward bound once more, and happily not on Aeroflot this time. But because my original booking had been through Rome, returning the same way turned out to be the least expensive route, even though there was no connecting flight and it meant an overnight stay in Rome. I had reserved a room at a small hotel near the airport and arrived around 11:00 p.m., well after the hotel’s dining room had shut down for the night. But one of the benefits of a boutique hotel is the personal attention they are able to pay to their guests, and this one was no exception. The concierge found a person still in the kitchen who was able to prepare some of the food that hadn’t been served at dinner, and delivered my light meal to me personally. It was delicious, and with a glass of Chianti to wash it down, I was able to sleep like a baby.

I awoke early the next morning — Saturday the 26th — in order to catch the hotel’s shuttle bus to the airport. As I was dressing, I again tuned in to CNN, this time to learn that there had been yet another shooting incident in Hebron, a Palestinian city in the West Bank of Israel. Would they never stop?!! I wondered. It was an ongoing tragedy; but as an American who lived geographically far removed from the problems of the Middle East, and this being years before acts of foreign terrorism reached our shores, I never thought of the effect it might have here in Italy. That is, until I got to the airport . . .

The lines in the terminal appeared endless. They snaked around the inside of the building to every airline counter, including mine. The police and military presences were heavy and heavily armed, many accompanied by their canine partners. This was Europe, where they had suffered their fair share of terrorist attacks; and I had forgotten that when things heated up in the Middle East, the response here was immediate . . . and impressive. So I found my line and waited as the security officer worked her way toward me.

When she finally reached me, she began by asking the usual questions: “What was the purpose of your visit to Rome, and how long were you here?”

Answer: “Overnight, just transiting.”

Logical next question: “Transiting from where to where?”

Oh-oh. My answer — “Moscow to Washington” — was clearly going to set off some alarms. And did it ever! Her next questions concerned the purpose of my visit to Moscow, where I had stayed and for how long, whether my luggage had ever been out of my sight, whether anyone else might have had access to it . . . And when I answered truthfully that I had stayed in an apartment and that yes, others had been alone with my bags for a while, she very apologetically said she would have to perform a search of my luggage. I responded that it was no problem, as long as I didn’t miss my flight, which she assured me would not happen.

And I said a silent prayer of thanks that I had had the good sense not to take Shvets’ $3,000, and even more so his son’s passport, from his mother. This was exactly the sort of thing I had been afraid of, although I certainly could not have known there would be an overnight Middle East problem. But there are many possible reasons for a baggage search — even a simple random check — and it was almost as though Mama Shvets had been hoping for that when she loudly insisted that I could hide the passport under my clothing. The things I thought about her and her precious son in those moments do not bear repeating, but I’m sure they’re not difficult to imagine.

In any event, the search was quick and respectful. Security officers are trained to read people’s reactions and body language, and I suppose she could sense that I wasn’t hiding anything. When she finished, she even took me up to the head of the line to be checked in, as a sort of apology for the inconvenience. The plane was boarded on time, and off we went.

I had a seat mate this time: an American woman, 40-ish, well-dressed, professional-appearing — someone I thought I might enjoy chatting with. But she was as silent as the American man on last summer’s Aeroflot flight. My usual get-acquainted questions — was this your first visit to Italy? business or vacation? what line of work are you in? — met with non-responsive, monosyllabic answers. She clearly did not feel like talking. I didn’t want to be intrusive, so I resigned myself to a long, quiet flight ahead and settled in with the book I had brought, thinking she might be more willing to talk a bit later. She wasn’t. We landed at Dulles on time, and she walked away without a word. So much for the friendly skies.

The next day, all hell broke loose.

First, there was Yuri Shvets to deal with. He was anxious to receive whatever his mother had sent back for him. The FedEx envelope with the passport was already en route (and actually arrived a couple of days later); but when he saw that I had brought only a letter and no money, and that most of his gifts for her had not made it into my luggage in the first place, he was livid . . . which was nothing compared to what I was feeling. I told him in minute detail of his mother’s performance and how irresponsibly, and even recklessly, she had behaved. His excuse was, again, that she was just a “simple Russian woman,” to which I replied, “Bull shit! She’s the mother of a KGB Major. Don’t tell me she doesn’t know how to behave in public.” I also let him know what had happened at the Rome airport. The conversation deteriorated from there, and I stopped just short of accusing him of trying to set me up — only because I had no proof. And because I was alone in my apartment with a very angry man. He finally took the bag and the letter and left, slamming the door behind him. I never saw or spoke to him again.

I called Eric on Monday to let him know I was safely back, and we made plans to get together in a day or so. In the meantime, I had caught up on the national and local news, which turned out to be full of the story of the CIA agent who had been caught spying for the KGB: Aldrich Ames, the man I had first heard of on CNN in Moscow. Folks there had shrugged it off as just another remnant of the Cold War; but here at home it was a big deal. Still, it had nothing to do with me.

Well, at least not directly, it didn’t. But as I read the details of his arrest, and the FBI’s actions in the days leading up to it, I realized that the coincidence in timing between that activity and my pending travel to Moscow was more than a little interesting. It was reported that Ames had been part of a CIA team scheduled for an official visit to Moscow, due to leave Washington on February 22nd — the very middle of the time I was also to be in Moscow — and that his arrest had been set for the 21st in order to forestall his leaving the country. But again I wondered: so what? I hadn’t even known the man existed.

And I had my own problems. Shvets’ book was soon to be released, and John Brockman was talking about pre-release publicity. My name was tied to both Shvets and Aksilenko, and I knew it was time to do damage control with Natalya at the Russian Embassy. This was not going to be pleasant . . .

Brendochka
5/25/23 (re-posted 12/17/23)

Putin’s annual press conference in a nutshell: The “special military operation” in Ukraine will continue until we have attained our goals; the prisoner swap will take place when our demands are met; and the appropriate government officials will fix the price of eggs “in the near future.” How enlightening! How hopeful for the coming year!

What a load of crap!

For anyone who follows the news from Russia, there is nothing new here. The commander-in-chief of Russia’s seemingly inexhaustible troops continues to exude complete confidence in his country’s ultimate victory — despite refusing to acknowledge that he’s talking about an actual “war.” And with the passage of time, as Western support for Ukraine sadly diminishes, his confidence grows. He now says that there is no need for a second mobilization of reserve troops, due to “a steady influx of volunteers.” [AP News, Dec. 14, 2023.] Well, maybe . . . we shall see. In the meantime, Ukraine’s future hangs by a thread.

*. *. *

Putin was also asked by a New York Times reporter about the possibility of a prisoner swap for Americans Evan Gershkovich (a Wall Street Journal reporter) and Paul Whelan (a U.S. Marine veteran), both being held on trumped-up charges of spying. His answer: “We want to reach an agreement, and these agreements must be mutually acceptable and must suit both parties.” Stating that talks with the U.S. have been ongoing, he added: “It is not simple, I will not go into details now, but in general, it seems to me that we speak a language that is understandable to each other. I hope we will find a solution. But, I repeat, the American side must hear us and make an appropriate decision, one that suits the Russian side.”

Once again, Vladimir Putin is both the irresistible force and the immovable object . . . the rock and the hard place. He holds the prisoners; he knows how badly we want them back; and he is calling the shots. John Kirby, the White House national security spokesperson, said that discussions were ongoing, but that “There was . . . [a serious proposal] put forward and they rebuffed it.”

Surprise, surprise, surprise!

And in the meantime, the futures of Evan Gershkovich and Paul Whelan also remain hanging by a thread.

*. *. *

Finally, after the usual bluff and bluster, came the entertainment feature of this year’s program: the questions from ordinary Russian citizens. One of the stars of today’s show was a pensioner, an elderly lady named Irina Akopova who is shown seated at her kitchen table, speaking to Putin by video link (obviously pre-arranged). She complains that prices for eggs, chicken breasts and wings have skyrocketed. “Vladimir Vladimirovich, take pity on pensioners! We don’t get millions in our pensions. Sort this out – we have no one to turn to. I’m very grateful to you, I’m counting on you to help.” [Reuters, Dec. 14, 2023.]

And the response of dear Vladimir Vladimirovich? Simply: “I apologize for this, but this is a failure of the government’s work . . . I promise that the situation will be corrected in the near future.”

Wow! How sympathetic! How heartfelt! How helpful!

Or in the words — or word — of my beloved grandmother: “Oy!”

But greater satisfaction was given to a group of young boys in the Russian-annexed territory of Crimea, who complained about the rundown state of their sports hall. A response from TV anchor Pavel Zarubin (who was apparently participating in the program) indicated that volunteers from that territory had called in and promised to renovate their arena. Terrific! Poor Mrs. Akopova can’t afford eggs, but we can fix a sports venue immediately. You know, that actually makes sense, in a perverse way — the first issue involves a nationwide increase in prices as high as 40%, whereas the second merely calls for some local “volunteers” with hammers and nails (and a big trash truck).

*. *. *

So how does this people-to-person marathon come about each year? It obviously is not a spontaneous exchange. To begin with, Putin speaks . . . and speaks . . . and speaks. On and on he drones, ad infinitum. I counted 209 paragraphs (even grouping together some of the shortest ones) from the transcript offered on the Kremlin’s own website. No, I did not read the whole thing; my tolerance for bullshit is not that great.

For those on the scene who managed to stay awake to that point, there followed the question-and-answer session. The journalists this year were hand-picked and carefully screened. And as for the citizen call-ins, I have no idea how they were chosen from the many applicants; but from the two examples above, I am quite certain that any attempt at improvisation would have been cut off by “technical difficulties.” The questions, though sincere, were pre-selected and carefully worded, and the answers obviously scripted. All very efficient.

But the desired effect has been obtained: the benevolent master has shown his concern for his serfs. All is well throughout the land.

That should hold them for another year.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
12/15/23

Not in Russia, anyway. If you’re an oligarch with a direct line to the Kremlin, your privileged lifestyle is in imminent danger of being snatched away. Your wealth may — may — be safe, but your political and personal influence . . . not so much.

The history of the Russian “oligarchs” is fairly well-known. Back in the 1990s, following the collapse of the Soviet Union and the introduction of Mikhail Gorbachev’s policy of perestroika (restructuring), a slew of state industries were privatized and put up for grabs by anyone with the money, the smarts, and the right connections to claim as their own at a tiny fraction of their actual value. And those formerly failing industries were modernized and upgraded, and began to thrive. Fortunes were made in banking, manufacturing, oil production, communications, and so on. And the people who made those fortunes became the cadre of oligarchs who, along with their wealth, gained a certain political influence with Gorbachev, and later with Boris Yeltsin . . . and into the 21st Century, with Vladimir Putin.

Except that Putin’s tolerance was limited. In July of 2000, he summoned 21 of Russia’s top oligarchs and business leaders and advised them that he wouldn’t reverse the privatization of their assets . . . provided they pledged their loyalty to him and agreed not to meddle in politics. He has been quoted as follows:

“I want to draw your attention to the fact that you built this state yourself, to a great degree through the political or semi-political structures under your control. So there is no point in blaming the reflection in the mirror. So let us get down to the point and be open and do what is necessary to do to make our relationship in this field civilized and transparent.”

Needless to say, they got the message, and things seemed to have been running fairly smoothly ever since. They had access, they had input, they had a measure of influence . . . and they had their money.

But . . . Yes, always that damned Russian “but” . . .

But time passed, as time does, and along came February of 2022, when Putin decided to pursue his “special military operation” . . . Oh, hell, let’s call it what it is: his invasion of Ukraine. A few hours after sending in the first of his troops, he held a meeting in the Kremlin with top industrialists and business leaders, and told them flat out that he had had no choice but to invade. Their input had not been required.

And thus the dynamic of the Kremlin-oligarch relationship shifted dramatically. They realized the war would have an unwelcome effect on their fortunes, but they had to accept it. They knew who wielded absolute power. For the most part, they have again kept quiet and adjusted to the new reality. A few, of course, listened to their consciences, spoke up, and fled the country, notably banking and brewing executive Oleg Tinkov, who called the war’s supporters “morons,” left Russia, and renounced his citizenship. But most were not that courageous.

*. *. *

One of the effects of Putin’s war against Ukraine has been the flight from Russia of many of the largest foreign companies — McDonald’s, 3M, CITI, Lego, and a thousand or so more — leaving behind the physical foundations for the establishment of new Russian companies. And the Russian government has taken on the task of reallocating those abandoned assets.

One would think that the most-favored oligarchs would be the natural recipients of this largesse; but alas, that does not appear to be the case. While Putin is said to value loyalty above all else, that loyalty runs in one direction — to him, not from him. And he has seen an opportunity to expand this program of reallocation. As reported by Jim Heintz of Associated Press, Dec. 6, 2023:

“But . . . analysts suggest that loyalty had not been enough for Putin and that he wants to create a new cadre of hugely wealthy figures who are beholden to him by distributing the assets that the state has seized from foreign companies exiting Russia and through invalidating the privatizations from the 1990s. [Emphasis is mine.]

”Analyst Nikolai Petrov of Britain’s Royal Institute of International Affairs wrote that Russia is engaged in deprivatization ‘intended to redistribute wealth to a new generation of less-powerful individuals and shore up the president’s own position.’

”A new group of quasi-owner state oligarchs is being created, with wealth and control redistributed from the ‘old nobles’ to the new, he said.”

More significant — and more frightening — than his treatment of his current group of loyal sycophants is Putin’s undisguised intention to “deprivatize” and redistribute what has for some thirty years been privately-held and privately-run industrial and commercial property. Just like that! A snap of the fingers, and the state once again owns everything. Welcome home, Messrs. Lenin and Stalin and all the rest up to and including Konstantin Chernenko. Everything will soon be just as you left it.

*. *. *

I have no great love for the oligarchs; for the most part, they got their starts through questionable, even purely illegal, means. But they did then manage to build something out of nothing, and — much like the American “robber barons” of the late 19th and early 20th Centuries — contributed tremendously to the industrial and economic growth of their country. And so my hope for them is that they survive this royal screwing, get the hell out of Dodge, and use whatever assets they’ve managed to hide in foreign lands to start fresh. Preferably legally, this time.

As for Vladimir Putin . . . you, sir, have once again proven yourself the Grand Poobah of Nastiness. But name-calling doesn’t faze you; sanctions don’t stop you; even the condemnation of the entire free world rolls off of you like water off a shark. How does one deal with a ruthless, pathologically narcissistic individual who is absolutely convinced of his own infallibility and immortality? Quite simply, one doesn’t.

One just leaves that to the Fates to handle.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
12/14/23

Seriously, what new hell has he been thrown into now? Because he’s missing from Melekhovo penal colony, where he has been imprisoned since being found guilty of “founding and funding an extremist organization” — charges that he unequivocally denies.

His associate, Kira Yarmysh, said on Monday that there had been no news of him for six days, and that he had been absent from several recent court appearances, which he has in the past attended by video link. Prison authorities blamed the absences on technical problems at the colony. She further said that lawyers waiting for news outside Melekhovo, 235 km (145 miles) east of Moscow, and another nearby colony, had been told that he was not registered in either place. [Robert Greenall, BBC News, Dec. 11, 2023.]

Alexei Navalny has been a thorn in Vladimir Putin’s side for many years now. A staunch political reformer, he has gained a huge following throughout Russia, and has proven himself to be a viable competitor to Putin. For this reason alone, he had to be silenced. But he survived an attempt on his life when he was poisoned with the Russian nerve agent Novichok in August of 2020. Because of the worldwide publicity, he was permitted to seek treatment in Germany, where the poisonous substance was identified, and where he was brought back to reasonably good health.

And then he made the decision that would change the rest of his life: he returned to his homeland, where he was arrested immediately upon arrival at Moscow’s Sheremetyevo Airport. He has been in one prison or another ever since. But where is he now? And why has this happened at this particular time?

Well, think about it. On Friday, December 8th, Vladimir Putin officially announced that he will be running for his fifth term as President of the Russian Federation — not a surprise, but an official announcement that had inexplicably been postponed and kept secret for many weeks. And no sooner was that announcement made than Alexei Navalny disappeared from sight.

According to Navalny’s aide, Leonid Volkov, this was “0% coincidence and 100% direct manual political control from the Kremlin. It’s not a secret for Putin who his main opponent is in these ‘elections.’ and he wants to make it so that Navalny’s voice is not heard. So each one of us must become the voice of Navalny.” [Robert Greenall, BBC News, Dec. 11, 2023.]

Intelligent, personable, courageous, attractive, honest, sincere . . . all of these qualities have made Navalny the one Russian opposition leader who has been able to gather the large numbers of people throughout Russia needed to form a viable opposition. Over more than a decade he has drawn tens of millions of online viewers to his video investigations into corruption in the Russian government. He is, to state it mildly, a serious threat to the Putin regime.

And as such, he must be dealt with. His health has been failing in recent months. Will he now suddenly “decline” and die “while receiving the best medical care” in a prison hospital? Or will that be too extreme even for Putin, in light of Navalny’s great popularity? Could that even be the spark that might finally light the tinder of an already nascent people’s revolution? Might it be best just to keep him locked away, out of reach of even his legal team, in a maximum-security penal colony, perhaps in far Eastern Siberia? It’s a decision that can only be made by Vladimir Putin himself; and I would imagine it’s keeping him awake at night.

*. *. *

This is, as they say, a breaking and continuing story. Be assured that I will be following it closely . . . meanwhile sending my hopes and prayers to Alexei Navalny, his family, and his legion of friends and supporters for a best-case outcome.

UPDATE: Today (December 12th), U.S. National Security spokesman John Kirby commented on the disappearance of Alexei Navalny as follows: “He should never have been jailed in the first place, and we’re going to work with our embassy in Moscow to see how much more we can find out.” [CNN’s 5 Things, Dec. 12, 2023.]

Presidential spokesman (and chief propagandist) Dmitry Peskov has claimed that the Kremlin does not know where Navalny is currently being held, and that they have no intention of looking into the matter. He called U.S. expressions of concern over Navalny’s disappearance “unacceptable.” He told reporters:

“Here we are talking about one prisoner who, according to the law, was found guilty and is serving his sentence, and here we consider any intervention by anyone, including the United States of America, unacceptable and impossible.” [Patrick Reevell, ABC News, Dec. 12, 2023.]

I don’t know how much good it will do — considering the obduracy and total lack of transparency of the Russian government — but I am pleased to know that at least we are trying, and that Alexei Navalny is not being forgotten. He is not a U.S. citizen; but his opposition to the increasingly totalitarian nature of Vladimir Putin’s regime is of vital importance to the Russian people and to the entire free world. We must not fail Navalny or any of the other political prisoners being held unjustly in Russian penal colonies.

I ask myself: How many human rights violations can one country be allowed to get away with? And the number just keeps growing.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
12/13/23

“They” say that if you treat a cold, it will go away in just seven days; but if you don’t treat it, it will hang around for a full week. Or vice-versa. That’s about as clever as the groundhog mystique — we know it’s exactly six weeks from February 2nd to the first day of spring (March 21st) whether that cute but not-very-bright little marmot sees his shadow or not.

But in either case — to treat or not to treat — “they” (whoever the hell “they” are) are full of it. I am now on day ten, with no sign of this current plague ever going anywhere. I’ve kept sort of a diary of the past ten days, simply because I haven’t had the energy or the desire to do anything other than sit here in my comfy chair with my iPad on my lap. And of course, being the compulsive sharer that I am, it was inevitable that I would share it with you.

No, no! Don’t run away! It’s really rather interesting, and may perhaps serve to prepare you for the winter cold you’ll probably have before Punxsutawney Phil shows up again.

Day One – Saturday: Oh-oh! Woke up this morning with a scratchy, burning throat. Never a good sign. Feeling a little off, but not terrible. Maybe I just slept with my mouth open. Christmas tree going up today, something nice to distract me.

Day Two – Sunday: Damn! Throat feels worse, and there’s a definite post-nasal drip making an appearance. Time for the Mary Poppins treatment, slightly modified: a spoonful of honey, instead of sugar. It really helps the scratchiness, and it tastes yummy. Let’s see . . . ooh, orange blossom. No wonder. A cup of tea would be good too, and some extra Vitamin C.

Day Three – Monday: Crap! Feeling really rotten now. Woke up coughing up a lung from the g**damned drip. Hope it’s not the flu. [Pause to take temperature.] Nope — a nice cool 97.9, so that’s good. Should get dressed, but I’d rather just hang out in my jammies today. Not going anywhere anyway. Called the dentist about my 4:00 p.m. appointment, and they told me not to come — understandable, but the lady sounded like I was Typhoid Mary or something. Rescheduled for next Monday; should be fine by then.

Day Four – Tuesday: Oohhhhhhh! I can’t breathe through my nose anymore. Where are my saline nose drops? Did have somebody pick up some DayQuil, which helps a little but the label says I can’t overdo it without risking damage to my liver from the Acetaminophen, or whatever it is. Why is the treatment always more dangerous than the condition? Crap!

Day Five – Wednesday: Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! I really need to get out of these jammies and get washed — it’s . . . what? Three days now? Okay, as soon as I can get up. First, let’s see what’s on TV. [Pause] Not much. Maybe I’ll just check Facebook. [Long pause] Oops . . . fell asleep there. If DayQuil does that to me, can you imagine what NyQuil would do?

Day Six – Thursday: Feeling better in clean jammies, but had a coughing fit today and think I pulled something on my left side. It hurts to cough and to move certain ways. Not as bad as the time I tore cartilage in my rib cage, though, so no worries. Just one more thing to deal with. Think I’ll get some soup now . . . Hey, I never noticed that before. Is it something crawling on the carpet, or am I seeing spots? . . . Oh, okay — it’s a piece of outside dirt the dog brought in. Can’t bend down without falling over — get it later. First night of Chanukah tonight; remember to light the menorah.

Day Seven – Friday: Still coughing, still dripping (post-nasally). Working on second bottle of DayQuil; bye-bye, liver. Also about to finish second big box of Kleenex. All that stuff is so freakin’ expensive! Still no fever, so that’s some good news anyway; glad I had my flu shot last month. Just noticed how much dust there is on the ceiling fan. Well, that’s something to do when I can stand up again; or get someone else to do it. Yeah, that’s a better idea. Or just don’t look up at the ceiling. Time for more soup now.

Day Eight – Saturday: F*ck! F*ck! F*ck! Saturday again. I told you they lied about that seven-day cold thing. Still choking on phlegm, hacking up gobs of the stuff, blowing yellow crap through my nostrils, and peeing every 20 minutes from all the liquids I keep chugging. My nose looks like freakin’ Rudolph from all the blowing. Not a f*cking pretty picture, but who gives a shit at this point? I guess I’ll be missing the neighborhood party tonight; and I even bought an ugly Christmas sweater for it. But who wants Typhoid Mary at their party, right? And I sure don’t want to be the one everybody blames when anybody in the neighborhood gets sick between now and Easter. Crap!

Day Nine – Sunday: Same as every other day. Seriously hooked on honey now. I wonder how many calories it has . . . don’t really care. Running out of curse words in English, too lazy to look them up in other languages. Cancelled dental appointment tomorrow too. Don’t care about that anymore either. F*ck it!

Day Ten – Monday: Slept till almost 2:00 p.m. Still feel like crap, still a lot of nose-blowing, but just a little less coughing. Maybe there’s actually a light at the end of this G*d-awful tunnel? Fifth night of Hanukkah (however you choose to spell it). We’ll see what tomorrow brings.

No time to think about that now, though . . . got to pee again.

Thanks for listening,

Brendochka
12/12/23

There’s always been a certain risk involved in flying. But there’s risk involved in crossing the street, or stepping into the bathtub. All in all, flying has long been one of the safest means of travel. Hasn’t it?

Well, that all depends on a number of factors. What’s the make and model of the plane? What airports are you leaving from and heading to? What airline is operating the flight? And, probably most importantly . . . what did your horoscope say this morning? Because, as we all know, there are no guarantees in life.

Though there are some ways we can mitigate the dangers of air travel. And at the top of that list — my list, at least — is: Do not, under any circumstances, go to Russia.

Now I hear you thinking, “Whoa! How stupid does she think I am? Why would I want to go to a place where I could be arrested just for using the wrong words, like ‘war,’ or ‘gay,’ or ‘Putin sucks’”?

Calm down — I know you’re smarter than that. I’m not speaking about the political situation there . . . only the issue of flight safety. Aeroflot, though never the most luxurious of airlines, was at one time one of the safest. Never mind that the seat backs flopped forward when you stood up, or that the overhead racks for carry-on luggage had no doors, or that there was no barrier between smoking and non-smoking so the air was always thick with a blue-gray carcinogenic haze. But the pilots were said to be expert, mostly former military; and the equipment, while old and musty, was assiduously maintained — or at least, that’s what they said. I was never nervous flying on an Aeroflot flight . . . except for the lung cancer thing from the smoke.

But times have changed, and not entirely for the better. Oh, they have more updated planes now. Boeing 777s, for example. Good planes, manufactured by a great company, right? But even a Rolls Royce has to be maintained in order to keep running properly. And from what I’ve read recently, that’s not happening.

On November 30th, 2023, an Aeroflot Boeing-777, flying out of Moscow, made an emergency landing in Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk. The cause of the problem was initially stated to be “chassis issues.” [RIA Novosti.]

The Ministry of Emergency Situations for the Sakhalin Region said the plane had a warning of a drop in pressure in one of the landing gear wheels during the flight. Again, the reports appear to be understating the issues; looking at the photo of the landing gear in question (above, as posted on social media), I count four flat tires, the other two being hidden from view. So, not really a “chassis issue,” and not just one of the landing gear wheels.

Further details concerning the state of Russia’s airline industry have come from a Ukrainian hack of Kremlin records, which revealed that “Russia’s stricken airline industry is ‘on the verge of collapse.’” [Kyiv Post, Dec. 2, 2023.] The report states that several similar incidents have occurred in recent months, including one in August in which passengers on a Red Wings flight were stranded in Yekaterinburg for 24 hours “due to simultaneous ‘technical malfunctions’ on the only two available aircraft.”

In the same month, faults in the weather monitoring system caused a delay in Thailand of a Russian Pegas Fly plane. And in early October, “Aeroflot suffered three technical failures to its planes in a single day.” [Kyiv Post, Dec. 2, 2023.]

The foregoing information was gathered by Ukraine’s Main Intelligence Directorate of the Ministry of Defense (HUR) from “a hack into Russia’s Federal Air Transport Agency “Rosaviatsiya” computer system on which it records all data relating to flight safety records, including reports on ‘emergency events,’” and covered an 18-month period from 2022 and 2023.

“Their analysis of the information obtained led the intelligence staff to one inescapable conclusion — Russia’s civil aviation ‘is on the verge of collapse.’” [Kyiv Post, Dec. 2, 2023.]

Lest you conclude that this is a case of sour grapes on the part of some Ukrainian journalists looking for ways to strike another blow at Russia, be assured that there is further confirmation of the sad condition of Russia’s commercial airlines. A report by Isabel van Brugen and Yevgeny Kuklychev in the December 9, 2023 issue of Newsweek states that recent Western sanctions against Russia have “suffocated” the aviation industry, resulting in a tripling of the number of plane malfunctions in just one year. Under the sanctions imposed following Russia’s invasion of Ukraine in February of 2022, U.S. aircraft manufacturers have stopped delivering spare parts and new planes to Russia, creating the current crisis. According to data gathered by Newsweek, in the short period from September 2023 to December 8, 2023, “Russia saw a total of 60 commercial aviation incidents that involved emergency landings, engine fires and malfunctions, along with other technical issues forcing the planes to abandon their intended routes.”

In addition, Novaya Gazeta Europe reported that, between January and August, 2023, “More than 120 air accidents were recorded in Russia involving civil aircraft used by Russian airlines,” bringing the total number to over 180 in this year alone.

In 2022, 60 such incidents — one-third as many as this year — were recorded; and between 2018 and 2022, an average of “only” 55 accidents were recorded during the same months. [Novaya Gazeta Europe.]

*. *. *

But enough statistics. Suffice it to say, things are bad — really bad — in Russia’s airline industry. I leave it to you and your good judgment to decide on your airline of choice if you find yourself in a position of having to travel to the ancient land of Pushkin, Tolstoy, and Rachmaninoff. (Ah, the good old days!) Unfortunately for people in Russia traveling domestically, there isn’t much choice. To my mind, trains are probably your best option . . . if you can stand the rest rooms.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
12/11/23