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Time was running out. "I think this is my final question, President Yanayev," Wallace said, resigned. Throughout the entire interview, Yanayev had skillfully steered every topic back to America's darker past. Wallace realized he couldn't continue playing by the rules; he needed a different approach. Flipping through his notes, he paused at a question he had originally crossed out in red.

"Before I ask this question, I want to tell you a story."

Wallace folded the page and glanced at the clock. The interview was nearly over, but everything now hinged on this moment. He had made up his mind: he would not leave without exposing a scandal, a crack in the Soviet leadership's armor.

"In 1985, an incident occurred that shook the world. Twelve Soviet prisoners were sent to the Badaber Camp in Pakistan's Northwest Frontier Province. The CIA and Pakistan's Inter-Services Intelligence were using it as a base to arm the Afghan resistance. The Soviet prisoners were subjected to inhumane treatment. Driven to desperation, they seized the weapons depot and the radio station while the guards were praying on April 26. They attempted to contact the Soviet 34th Air Army in Afghanistan, hoping for rescue. There was no reply. On April 27, Rabbani, leader of the Afghan resistance, accompanied by American and Pakistani advisors, demanded their surrender. The prisoners requested only one thing: to meet the Soviet ambassador. The ambassador refused. Rabbani, growing impatient, ordered an assault. The prisoners resisted and ultimately blew up the depot, choosing to die rather than surrender."

Yanayev's smile faded. Wallace saw the change and seized the moment. "Did you know about this, Mr. President? Did the Soviet government know?"

If Yanayev said no, he'd be lying to the world. If he said yes, he would be admitting the Soviet Union had abandoned its own during the Afghan war. Either answer led to more dangerous questions.

"I knew," Yanayev replied after a long breath, his voice hoarse. He reached for his cup, only to find it still full. Surkov, monitoring the room, noticed the tension spike and motioned to the cameraman to prepare to cut the feed. The cameraman's hands were slick with sweat.

"Then why? Why did they choose death over returning home?"

Wallace's tone was sharp, almost accusatory. He was surprised. The Soviet government had denied these events, yet Yanayev admitted them without hesitation.

Yanayev placed the cup down and answered slowly, heavily. "Because at the time, our official media declared their actions disgraceful. Gorbachev himself announced we were not at war, so there were no prisoners of war. That attitude was deeply irresponsible. Those soldiers were human beings. Even if they weren't war heroes awarded medals like those in the Great Patriotic War, the motherland still had a duty not to forget them."

"When we withdrew from Afghanistan, around 430 men were officially unaccounted for. They were scattered across the battlefield, left behind. No search and rescue efforts were made due to various challenges."

"There was no Veterans Committee in 1991. No nonprofit groups. No one looking for those lost behind desert sands."

"Aren't you afraid of public outrage for saying this?" Wallace asked, genuinely surprised.

He had expected Yanayev to dodge the question, like many Soviet leaders before. But this directness disarmed him. All his tactics to provoke or trap were suddenly ineffective.

"Socialism isn't just about monumental achievements. It's about the fate of the ordinary citizen. If we built the strongest war machine in the world but failed to protect our own, what trust could the people have left in us?"

No national leader had ever spoken like this. Yanayev's honesty won respect. Admitting mistakes often gains more trust than hiding them—though it also invites more criticism.

"Thank you, Wallace. If you hadn't brought this up, perhaps the entire Soviet Union would have forgotten those few who should have returned home. We will form a rescue team. Those still lost in Afghanistan must come back."

He turned toward the camera, smiling. "Whether they can see this or not, I want to say to them, to their mothers, to the motherland: we have not forgotten you."

Silence fell over the studio. Wallace was the first to rise and applaud. Others joined, moved by Yanayev's words.

The interview concluded. Surkov exhaled in relief. The atmosphere had been as tense as a political standoff.

"Seems our president knows how to handle these things after all," Plekhanov said with a smirk, nudging Surkov.

Surkov watched the scene with narrowed eyes. Everyone believed Yanayev had followed the script. In truth, none of what he said had come from Surkov's guidelines.

"He's the most unconventional of them all," Surkov murmured.

"Excellent interview, President Yanayev. Far more compelling than any other leader I've spoken with. If I can help through any diplomatic channels, I will. Humanitarian aid transcends ideology."

"Thank you, my friend Wallace. The Soviet people will not forget what you've done."

The American-crafted image of a brutal Soviet tyrant shattered. In Wallace's mind, Yanayev now stood tall, dignified. He was already preparing a report that would show the world a different kind of Soviet leader.

The article, titled "The Western Scam: Revealing a Real Soviet Leader", ran on the front pages across the Western world, authored by Mike Wallace himself. No one doubted its weight or truth.

In the report, Yanayev was no longer the feared dictator of Western narratives. He appeared compassionate, human. Wallace wrote: "God gave the archangel a sword, knowing not all disputes can be resolved with peace and love."

Yanayev's blunt critiques of American social failings earned admiration. Some even joked that he should stay in Washington and replace Bush.

Not everyone was pleased. Solzhenitsyn, whom Yanayev had dismissed as a Russian monarchist, was publicly ridiculed. Columnist Anthony called him a religious extremist hiding behind the guise of moral conscience. His book release was delayed indefinitely.

While some suffered, Wallace triumphed, winning another Pulitzer. Judges praised his portrait of a Soviet leader with heart and humanity.

Yanayev, unaware of the full impact, called Wallace from Moscow to congratulate him. Wallace was being interviewed on 60 Minutes. When told the call was from Moscow, he asked his assistant to bring the phone into the studio.

"Hey, Mike, my friend, how are you doing these days?" Yanayev greeted in his thick Russian accent.

Wallace motioned for silence, then responded, "Great, my friend. Guess where I am right now?"

"Not your studio, surely?"

Wallace laughed. "Exactly! We're on air. Millions are watching. Say hello."

"Hello, everyone. I'm the Soviet tyrant you all love to criticize. But I don't think I'm cruel. Maybe your government misunderstands Slavic people. Sure, we can wrestle bears and drink vodka like water, but that doesn't mean we don't love peace."

The audience roared with laughter. To them, he was a witty, approachable man, not a menacing statesman.

The director beamed. The ratings would be record-breaking.

"Anyone want to say something to President Yanayev? This might be your only chance to speak to a head of state."

Hands shot up. Wallace picked a thin young man wearing glasses.

"Aside from private matters, I'll answer what I can," Yanayev joked. "What's your name, friend?"

"Kane. Just Kane. President, do you plan to implement a democratic system like ours? Or will the leader always hold absolute power? Are you truly a dictatorship, as our government says?"

Yanayev smiled. "You misunderstand our system. Don't always believe your government. What they say may be true, but not the whole truth. We have the Presidium, an elite ruling body like your own system. Leaders don't decide alone; major issues require collective decision. And from my term forward, the chairman will no longer serve for life. We'll set term limits. A new era is beginning."

The audience applauded again. Yanayev, with a single interview, had become the most talked-about foreign leader in America.