RUBIKON-93, OR TANK COAN OF BORIS Nikolaevich
Boris Nikolaevich woke up because someone was persistently pouring ice water into his right ear. He opened his eyes. The ceiling of the presidential residence in Barvikha, covered with embossed wallpaper imitating old party brocade, slowly rotated clockwise, turning into a funnel. Lefort sat on the edge of the crater in a Malvina denim uniform and winked. “Again...” Boris Nikolaevich exhaled hoarsely, groping for the crystal pottery on the bedside table.