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that two hundred million people needed to fall in love with; he wasn’t the one running for president.
    â€œLet me worry about the business,” he said. “You take care of the politics.”
    Before either of these things, Berezovsky thought to himself, there was a goose that needed hunting.

CHAPTER FIVE
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    December 2, 1994, 11:00 a.m.,
    36 Novy Arbat Street, Moscow
    â€œN OW IT’S FOUR. DEFINITELY four. Twenty yards back, the gray Mercedes. Since about six miles ago.”
    Anton Gogol felt his fingers whiten against the steering wheel. He tried to keep his voice steady and professional, but his insides were growing tighter with each passing second. He could tell that his colleague seated next to him in the passenger seat was equally disturbed. Though eight years his senior, the “security specialist” made no effort to hide the trembling of his fingers as he slid a double-barreled shotgun out from beneath his seat and placed it gingerly on his lap.
    Then he nodded toward the rearview mirror.
    â€œAnd the other three? They’ve been with us since the dacha?”
    â€œNearly that long.”
    Ivan Doctorow nodded, then spoke quietly into the transponder in his upper jacket pocket. Anton had no doubt that the bodyguards in the other two cars of their motorcade were already aware of the tailing vehicles. If anything, Anton was the least experiencedamong them, having joined their unit just a year ago—and only three years after he’d finished his training service with the now defunct KGB. Then again, he doubted that any amount of training would have prepared him for the situation that was rapidly developing around them.
    When Anton’s motorcade had left his employer’s country home forty minutes ago, there had been no indication that this would be anything more than a routine trip to the office. A blustery, snowy Friday in December, the sky the same gunmetal hue as the barrels of the shotgun that now sat on his partner’s lap. Anton had made this drive countless times in the past year, sometimes in the lead car, now fifteen yards ahead of him on the multilane highway, sometimes seated in the driver’s seat right in front of his employer—separated from the Oligarch by a deceptively thin sheet of smoked Plexiglas. He usually preferred the trail car, as it involved a relatively simple set of expectations. One eye on the taillights of the bulletproof limousine at the center of the motorcade, the rest of his attention on the rearview mirror and the highway behind them. Even in these turbulent times, a well-armed motorcade was enough to discourage even the most brazen of threats. On top of that, Anton’s employer’s reputation—and the small army he had built himself—had insulated him from the troubles of many of his peers.
    Which made the current situation all the more concerning.
    â€œFSB? Some subset of the local police?” Anton asked.
    Ivan shrugged.
    â€œUnmarked cars, foreign make. The windows are too tinted to see if they are wearing uniforms.”
    â€œHow does he want to handle this?”
    Ivan showed no emotion beyond the slight tremor in his hands as he listened to the piece in his right ear.
    â€œIt’s only another few miles to the office. Middle of the day, major highway at rush hour. Nobody would be foolish enough to try something here.”
    Anton nodded, though he could taste the bile rising in his throat. He wasn’t going to question his more experienced partner, but he certainly read the morning newspapers. His boss hadn’t hired half a platoon of ex-KGB men because he was hoping to fix a parking ticket.
    They continued on in silence, Anton trying to focus on his employer’s limousine. For all he knew, there were sniper rifles now trained at the back of his head. He reminded himself that the rear windshield was bulletproof, and that it was extremely difficult to hit a target from a moving vehicle.