Vladimir Rublev yawned and glanced at his alarm clock. It was already past noon, but after the beastly party last night he wasn’t in a hurry to get out of bed. Nobody in the Soviet administration would be at work this early anyway.
About ten minutes later he got up, walked to the sink in the corner of the room and held his head under the faucet. The cold water cleared his foggy, hung-over brains and he grinned. After Marshal Kapralov’s coup the day before, spontaneous celebrations had started and vodka had flowed until early in the morning.
Should the Western Allies stick the quadripartite ruling up their asses, it served them right after harassing their Soviet counterparts for the better part of three years. Their entire presence in Berlin was a ploy to attack Russia and force their dam
