The Poisoned Chalice

Pugo's voice rang like iron in the quiet room, so sharp even Kryuchkov couldn't refute it.

"Comrade Yanaev, we've only just stabilized Georgia," he said, his tone half-concern, half-plea. "The streets are quiet, but the ground beneath us still trembles. Do we really want to provoke Russia now, with another internal war—this time against the pen instead of the gun?"

Kryuchkov gave a rare nod. "He's right. The public may tolerate martial law—but not another crackdown on freedom, especially when it targets the so-called conscience of the nation."

Yanayev listened without interruption. Then he raised a hand, gently, like a conductor calming the orchestra before a new movement.

"You misunderstand me," he said. "I have no intention of throwing these rats in prison—at least not yet. No beatings. No show trials. That's the old Soviet way. What I intend… is to make the public beg us to arrest them."

Pugo narrowed his eyes. Kryuchkov leaned forward slightly. Putin's expression didn't change, but his eyes gleamed with curiosity.

"And how do you plan to do that?" Kryuchkov asked. "What method?"

Yanayev's answer came in a single, loaded word.

"Prohibition."

For a moment, none of the men responded. Then Pugo let out a dry chuckle, not sure if it was sarcasm or shock.

"You mean a ban on alcohol?" Putin asked, squinting as though he hadn't heard correctly. "You want them to propose that?"

"Exactly," Yanayev said. "A petition, signed by public intellectuals, calling for the eradication of vodka, beer, all of it—for the health and moral purity of the nation."

Putin's brow furrowed. "But they would never sign such a thing. These are not fools."

Yanayev smiled. It wasn't warm.

"Of course not. But that's the beauty of it—they won't have to. We will."

There was silence. Then, slowly, the realization sank in.

"We control the press," Yanayev continued. "We control the editorial boards. We control every mimeograph and printing press from Kaliningrad to Vladivostok. If we say these dissidents petitioned for a ban on alcohol, then the people will believe it. Why wouldn't they? The nation already sees these men as aloof, Western-backed elites. Why wouldn't they want to take away the one comfort the average Russian still has?"

He leaned back, almost pleased with himself. "We'll give the article a heroic title. Something like 'In Defense of the Soul of Russia'—or better yet, 'A Call for National Purification.' Dress it up with literary quotes and patriotic phrases. Let the readers want to hate them."

Pugo gave a low whistle and shook his head with amusement. "And when the angry mob comes knocking, begging us to silence these traitors…"

"Exactly," Yanayev replied. "They'll want us to act. When we finally arrest them—for real—we won't be the villains. We'll be the saviors of vodka, of tradition, of the working man."

Putin's voice was low. "They'll try to deny it."

"And who will believe them?" Yanayev asked, raising his brow. "They no longer have newspapers. No airtime. No access to printers. They will shout, but their voices will echo only in empty rooms. No platform. No recourse."

"Poetic," Kryuchkov murmured, tapping the folder in his hand.

"Oh, and don't forget," Yanayev added, "once they're hated, we expose their funding. Link them to Western NGOs, foreign intelligence—anything that reeks of treason. If we find any personal vice—drunkenness, affairs, tax evasion—we publish that too."

Pugo clapped his hands softly, half in awe. "A character assassination with no blood spilled."

Yanayev's eyes gleamed. "Not yet. But later, when the time comes to disappear them—who will care? Who will defend a man the people already hate?"

There was a long pause. The fire snapped in the stove. Outside, the snow thickened, muffling the world in a silent, waiting white.

Yanayev stood, walked to the window, and placed one hand on the frosted pane.

"When they finally see that the freedom and democracy they worshipped were illusions," he said, "when they see the filth beneath the slogans—they will be like pilgrims kneeling at the banks of the Ganges. Starving, diseased, yet still scooping up the water to drink, because they believe it is sacred."

He turned back to the room, his voice soft but hard as ice.

"Let them drink that filth. Let their faith kill them."

Then, with a quiet finality, he added, "Democracy fighters—your deeds will be forgotten, but your stupidity will live forever."

Putin gave a tight nod, already calculating logistics in his mind.

Pugo looked amused. Kryuchkov just looked grim.

And above them all, the silent weight of the Kremlin's old ghosts watched from the high stone walls.