But whoever had done the killing, who had been his target? As Chairman of the svr, golovko was not a man to believe in coincidences, and there were not all that many white benz S600s in Moscow, were there? "Comrade Chairman?" It was Anatoliy at the office door. "Yes, Anatoliy ivan'ch?" "Are you well?" "Better than he golovko replied, stepping away from the window. He needed to sit now. He tried to move to his swivel chair without staggering, for his legs were suddenly weak indeed.
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Three motorists had left their vehicles and approached the burning car, perhaps hoping to render assistance. Brave of them, golovko thought, but helpers an entirely useless effort. He could see better now, even at a distance of three hundred meters. The top had bulged. The windshield was gone, and he looked into a smoking hole, which had minutes before been a hugely expensive vehicle, and which had been destroyed by one of the cheapest weapons the red Army had ever mass-produced. Whoever had been inside had been shredded instantly by metal fragments traveling at nearly ten thousand meters per second. Had they even known what had happened? Perhaps the driver had had time intern to look and wonder, but the owner of the car in the back had probably been reading his morning paper, before his life had ended without warning. That was when Golovko's knees went weak. That could have been him suddenly learning if there were an afterlife after all, one of the great mysteries of life, but not one which had occupied his thoughts very often.
His head turned quickly. "Get him inside!" And with that order, the two privates strong-armed Golovko through the double bronze doors, where more security troops were arriving. "This way, comrade Chairman a apple uniformed captain said, taking Sergey nikolay'ch's arm and heading off to the executive elevator. A minute later, he stumbled into his office, his brain only now catching up with what it had seen just three minutes before. Of course, he walked to the window to look down. Moscow police - called militiamen - were racing to the scene, three of them on foot. Then a police car appeared, cutting through the stopped traffic.
The dump truck in front of Golovko's car panic-stopped, and database Anatoliy swerved right, his london eyes narrowed by the noise, but not yet - "Govno!" Now Anatoliy saw what had happened and took action. He kept moving right, accelerating hard and swerving back and forth as his eyes picked holes in the traffic. The majority of the vehicles in sight had stopped, and Golovko's driver sought out the holes and darted through them, arriving at the vehicle entrance to moscow Center in less than a minute. The armed guards there were already moving out into the square, along with the supplementary response force from its shack just inside and out of sight. The commander of the group, a senior lieutenant, saw Golovko's car and recognized it, waved him inside and motioned to two of his men to accompany it to the drop-off point. The arrival time was now the only normal aspect of the young day. Golovko stepped out, and two young soldiers formed up in physical contact with his heavy topcoat. Anatoliy stepped out, too, his pistol in his hand and his coat open, looking back through the gate with suddenly anxious eyes.
Golovko stretched in his seat, barely able to see around the truck in front of his Benz, wishing for the first cup of Sri lankan tea at his desk, in the same room that Beriya had once the distant dump truck. A man had been lying in the back. Now he rose, and he was holding "Anatoliy!" Golovko said sharply, but his driver couldn't see around the truck to his immediate front. It was an rpg, a slender pipe with a bulbous end. The sighting bar was up, and as the distant truck was now stopped, the man came up to one knee and turned, aiming his weapon at the other white benz - the other driver saw it and tried to swerve, but found his way blocked. It hit just short of the windshield. The explosion wasn't the fireball so beloved of Western movies, just a muted flash and gray smoke, but the sound roared across the square, and a wide, flat, jagged hole blew out of the trunk of the car, and that meant that anyone inside the. Then the gasoline ignited, and the car burned, along with a few square meters of asphalt. The mercedes stopped almost at once, its left-side tires shredded and flattened by the explosion.
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The building behind it was the same, however. Once the stately home office of the rossiya insurance company, it had later been known as the lubyanka, a fearsome word even in the fearsome land ruled by iosef Vissarionovich Stalin, with the its basement full of cells and interrogation rooms. Most of those functions had been transferred over the years to lefortovo prison to the east, as the kgb bureaucracy had grown, as all such bureaucracies grow, filling the vast building like an expanding did balloon, as it claimed every room and corner until secretaries and. Golovko supposed that there hadn't been too many ghosts. Well, a new working day beckoned. A staff meeting at 8:45, then the normal routine of briefings and discussions, lunch at 12:15, and with luck he'd be back in the car and on his way back home soon after six, before he had to change for the reception at the French.
He looked forward to the food and wine, if not the conversation. Another car caught his eye. It was a twin to his own, another large mercedes S-class, iceberg white just like his own, complete down to the American-made dark plastic on the windows. It was driving purposefully in the bright morning, as Anatoliy slowed and pulled behind a dump truck, one of the thousand such large ugly vehicles that covered the streets of Moscow like a dominant life-form, this one's load area cluttered with hand tools rather than. There was yet another truck a hundred meters beyond, driving slowly as though its driver was unsure of his route.
A dealer in facts, he'd been able to continue his profession, for his government still needed them. In fact, his authority was broader now than it would have been, because as a man who well knew the surrounding world and some of its more important personalities intimately, he was uniquely suited to advising his president, and so he had a voice. Of them, the third was the trickiest lately, which had rarely been the case before. It was now also the most dangerous. It was an odd thing.
Previously, the mere spoken (more often, shouted) phrase "State security!" would freeze soviet citizens in their stride, for kgb had been the most feared organ of the previous government, with power such as reinhart heydrich's Sicherheitsdienst had only dreamed about, the power to arrest, imprison. But that, too, was a thing of the past. Now kgb was split, and the domestic-security branch was a shadow of its former self, while the svr - formerly the first Chief Directorate - still gathered information, but lacked the immediate strength that had come with being able to enforce the will, if not. But his current duties were still vast, golovko told himself, folding the paper. He was only a kilometer away from dzerzhinskiy square. That, too, was no longer the same. The statue of Iron Feliks was gone. It had always been a chilling sight to those who'd known who the man was whose bronze image had stood alone in the square, but now it, too, was a distant memory.
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It was the American International Herald Tribune, always a good source of news since it was a joint venture of The washington Post and The new York times, which were together two of the most skilled intelligence services in the world, if a little too. He'd joined the intelligence business when the agency had been known as the kgb, summary the committee for State security, still, he thought, the best such government department the world had ever known, even if it had ultimately failed. Had the ussr not fallen in the early 1990s, then his place as Chairman would have put him as a full voting member of the politburo, a man of genuine power in one of the world's two superpowers, a man whose mere gaze could make. It was all an illusion, an odd thing for a man of supposed regard for objective truth to value. That had always been the cruel dichotomy. Kgb had always been on the lookout for hard facts, but then reported those facts to people besotted with a dream, who then bent the truth in the service of that dream. When the truth had finally broken through, the dream resume had suddenly evaporated like a cloud of steam in a high wind, and reality had poured in like the flood following the breakup of an ice-bound river in springtime. And then the politburo, those brilliant men who'd wagered their lives on the dream, had found that their theories had been only the thinnest of reeds, and reality was the swinging scythe, and the eminence bearing that tool didn't deal in salvation. But it was not so for Golovko.
Maybe there were no more nomenklatura in this city, but rank did have its privileges, and he was chairman of the svr. His apartment was also large, on the top floor of a new high-rise building on Kutusovskiy prospekt, a structure relatively new and well-made, down to the german appliances which were a long-standing luxury accorded senior government officials. He didn't drive himself. He had Anatoliy for that, a burly former Spetsnaz special-operations soldier who carried a pistol under his coat and who drove the car with ferocious aggression, while tending it with loving care. The windows were coated with dark plastic, which denied the casual onlooker the sight of the people inside, and the windows were thick, made of polycarbonate and specced to stop anything up to.7-mm bullet, or so the company had told Golovko's purchasing agents. The armor made it nearly a ton heavier than was the norm for an S600 Benz, but the power and the ride didn't seem to suffer from that. It was the uneven streets that would ultimately destroy the car. Road-paving was a skill that his country had not yet mastered, golovko thought as he turned the page in his morning paper.
was the same everywhere, and the changeover from Marxism-Leninism to Chaos-Capitalism hadn't changed matters much - well, maybe things were now a little worse. Moscow, a city of wide streets, was harder to drive in now that nearly anyone could have a car, and the center lane down the wide boulevards was no longer tended by militiamen for the politburo and used by central Committee men who considered. Now it was a left turn lane for anyone with a zil or other private car. In the case of Sergey nikolay'ch Golovko, the car was a white mercedes 600, the big one with the s-class body and twelve cylinders of German power under the hood. There weren't many of them in Moscow, and truly his was an extravagance that ought to have embarrassed him but didn't.
Not that Jack's siblings are any less confused about life. Russell (John Pyper-Ferguson) is a published author and English professor who has left his wife for attractive graduate student Carly (Leah Gibson and Patrick (Tygh Runyan) is a filmmaker whose recent success has only fueled his considerable arrogance, though he can't bear to break off. A night For dying Tigers was an official selection at the 2010 Toronto International Film Festival. Watch it now, cast, critic reviews for, a night for dying Tigers. There are no critic reviews yet for. A night for dying Tigers. Keep checking pdf Rotten Tomatoes for updates! Audience reviews for, a night for dying Tigers.
Short Essay on my memorable journey in my life
Tomatometer, tomatometer Not available. —, tomatometer Not available. —, audience score, average rating: 3/5, user Ratings:. Critic Consensus: no consensus father's yet. A night for dying Tigers, photos, movie info. An unusual family reunion brings out the worst in everyone in this darkly witty comedy-drama from writer and director Terry miles. Ever since the death of his parents, jack (Gil Bellows) has been the unofficial patriarch of his family, and so when he asks his younger siblings to join him for a going away party, they all agree to attend. However, the reason Jack is going away is he's been sentenced to five years in prison after being found guilt of manslaughter, and while his wife melanie (Jennifer beals a successful photographer, loyally stands beside him, the victim was raping Jack's mistress at the time.