The Grave and the Stage

Unlike Yakovlev—who died in anonymity, betrayed by the very ideals he once bled for—Korotich flourished.

As soon as he arrived in Miami, he was received like a dissident saint. The Western media needed heroes, and Korotich fit the role. Time Magazine ran a cover story: "The Last Truth-Teller of the USSR." His unshaven face and distant, melancholic eyes cast him in the image of a Soviet Hemingway. Audiences wept as he recounted the horrors of centralized power. University halls gave him standing ovations. Liberal circles revered him.

And in carefully rehearsed speeches, he occasionally name-dropped his "dear friend Yakovlev," the one who "died for truth." It was a useful anecdote. A tragic flourish to decorate his legend.

But far from the bright lights of American campuses, Korotich's hands typed something very different.

He wrote, not for the New York Times, but for a quiet desk in Langley's shadow—and beyond that, for Moscow. Everything: homelessness in San Francisco, police violence in Chicago, inequality in Detroit—was fed back to the Soviet Propaganda Department under various pseudonyms.

Korotich became a hero in the West and a weapon in the East.He had played both sides—and won.

Meanwhile, in a snowy corner of a forgotten cemetery, Yakovlev's tomb was silent.

There was no crowd. No speech. No wreath from the Ministry of Culture.

Only one man stood before the gravestone, brushing snow from the inscription. He wore a long coat and a quiet expression.

Surkov.

The master architect of the propaganda that had destroyed Yakovlev's life now stood as his only mourner.

He placed a single bouquet of white flowers at the base of the headstone, then read aloud the epitaph carved into the stone.

"I have done my best. Now I rest in the land I so dearly loved.Tell my motherland that I loved her."

Surkov's breath formed faint clouds in the frigid air.

"Yakovlev," he said quietly, "you were naive. The liberals were never your allies. The moment they became useful to the West—or to Moscow—they pushed idealists like you out. You were too honest to survive the game."

He paused, gazing over the frozen cemetery. Snow weighed the coniferous trees until their branches bowed in surrender.

"In a time when nobility becomes a passport for meanness," he added, "and meanness becomes the epitaph of the noble—then yes, you were already dead before you pulled the trigger."

Surkov lingered a moment longer, then turned and left. The wind swallowed his footsteps. Only the gravestone remained.

Back in the Kremlin, Surkov walked the long, familiar corridor toward the General Secretary's office. He passed officers in uniforms, aides with folders, and at the door, he met Putin, just exiting.

"Comrade Surkov," Putin nodded. "You're just in time."

Putin, overseeing the Ministry of Internal Affairs, had just reported a successful campaign: fishing operations had lured out remaining dissenting intellectuals, and the interrogations had yielded more than expected. One, weeping, had confessed under pressure that he'd never even believed in democracy—he just thought it would give him a better flat.

"Flies, parasites," Putin said bluntly. "Righteous in speeches. Rats in reality."

Surkov entered the office.

"Ah, Comrade Surkov. Sit." Yanaev gestured warmly, handing him a thick file. "I've designed the opening salvo of our next campaign."

Surkov opened it. The title stopped him cold:

"I Am a Soviet Invader"

He frowned. "Isn't that... a bit too provocative?"

Yanaev laughed. "No. It's perfect."

He stood and began to pace.

"They say we are aggressors, enemies of freedom, tyrants. Good. Let's lean into it. Let's redefine it. Yes, we are invaders—but not of land. We invade their lies with truth. We invade hypocrisy with facts. They want to call us monsters? Then let's become monsters that speak plainly."

Surkov closed the file slowly, the weight of it settling in his hands.

"Is this satire?" he asked, uncertain.

"No," Yanaev replied with a smirk. "It's strategy."

He poured tea from a samovar, the steam curling like smoke from a battlefield.

"After all," he said, sipping, "they exported their 'freedom' to us for decades. Isn't it time we export a little reality back to them?"

Surkov stood, nodded, and left without another word. He had work to do.

Out the frostbitten windows, the Kremlin's towers pierced a grey sky.

A new war was coming—not of missiles and tanks, but of cameras, headlines, and manipulated truths. And this time, the Soviets were winning.