The Assassination of Vladimir Putin

In the Kremlin, within a suite near the presidential office, four writers were discussing how to assassinate Vladimir Putin.

‘The president is guarded twenty-four hours a day’ said Alexander ‘from the moment he wakes to the moment he retires to his bed.’

‘And his guards are the most highly-trained individuals in Russia’ said Fyodor. ‘They are praetorians. They check everything – his food, his clothes, every room he enters, every person he meets.’

‘And yet, surely one of them could be compromised ?’ It was Anna speaking, a tall dark-haired woman whose poetry had been read to great acclaim throughout the land.

‘I doubt it’ said Anton, a playwright. ‘They are loyal, all of them, to the last.’

‘Then it must be opportunistic – a member of the public who attacks him. It would mean certain death, yes, but whoever carries out any assassination attempt would not expect to survive.’

The four fell to silence, mulling over Alexander’s idea. But they knew that even the most dedicated opportunistic assassin would not be able to strike a fateful blow. The person would be eliminated by a cordon of security agents as soon as they made their move.

‘Fyodor’ said Anton ‘your books are concerned with murder, are they not, whereas my stories are more concerned with repressed emotions. Surely you can fashion a successful and plausible plot ?’

Fyodor scratched his long, wiry beard. On arrival each writer had been given several blank pieces of paper as well as a pen to make notes. Fyodor scribbled a few unintelligible lines and said: ‘A true madman is the only person who would be able to do it – a madman whose burning mind is a force of nature…who would be willing to dive to the very depths of the ocean in order to succeed.’ Fyodor stared at his fellow writers, his eyes uncomfortably bloodshot and fiery.

‘Brilliant!’ said Alexander. ‘The assassination attempt will take place on the presidential yacht. The assassin will dive beneath the hull and attach a bomb.’

Anna tapped her pen irritably against the table. ‘The yacht is checked by divers every hour. Let us not forget, dear friends, the president is one of the richest men in the world. Nothing is left to chance.’

At that moment the door opened and two officials entered the room. ‘I’m afraid your time is up’ said the first official. ‘Would you kindly follow me ?’

The four writers were led along a broad, gilded corridor. At the end of the corridor were two imposing wooden doors. Guards were stationed either side. As the group neared the guards pushed the doors open, revealing a large ornate room, the main feature of which was an imposing wooden desk flanked by two enormous Russian flags. At the desk sat the president, Vladimir Putin.

The writers stood in a line before him. ‘Welcome’ he said. ‘I appreciate your time grappling with this project. The task we set you was to explore ways in which I, as president, might be subject of an assassination attempt. You are Russia’s greatest writers, attuned to the most fantastical, diabolical plots. Tell me, what have you come up with ?’

There was an uncomfortable silence. Alexander noticed that several guards had taken up positions in the room and that Fyodor, uncomfortable in this strange situation, kept scratching his beard and neck. Anton, immaculate as always in his three piece suit, seemed to be looking into the far distance, as if he was constructing a story in his head. It was left to Anna to speak:

‘It was a difficult task, Mr President. We covered many scenarios but not one of them was found to be credible. I am afraid that the best we came up with was to attach a bomb to the underside of your yacht.’

Putin’s icy stare settled on the four writers. Alexander shifted uncomfortably as he feared a harsh reprimand – possibly even imprisonment. How he wished he was at home, writing the great dramas that he was known for throughout the world, in which all death, murder and injustice was a fiction.

Putin shuffled a number of papers on his desk and said: ‘Excellent work. I commend you all. If the greatest writers in Russia cannot think up a plausible assassination strategy, then I have nothing to fear. Thank you all, comrades. You are a credit to the motherland. You can go.’

The four writers were ushered out of the presidential suite. Then they were escorted out of the Kremlin and onto Moscow’s cold, sleet-ridden streets. Confused, a little shocked, there was nothing for them to say; Anna caught the tram to her apartment; Anton walked briskly towards the hospital where he worked as a doctor; Fyodor drifted this way and that, most probably searching for the nearest soup kitchen. Only Alexander stood a while gazing at the Kremlin’s beautiful domes. The assassination of Vladimir Putin would take place, of that he was certain. It would take place in the stories and poems and dramas yet to be written. It would be the longest assassination known to humankind. It would last forever.