About the book: year / Two sat after midnight in the Dioscuria restaurant, in a separate office, behind thick burgundy curtains that smelled of tobacco; in the stuffiness of the summer night, saturated with the aromas of spicy foods, wines and wine fumes, they sat at a table with a green lamp, and it was felt that a conspiracy was brewing in the air. Both were of an old military bearing, one was younger, about thirty-two, with a stiff brush of mustache under a thin, gristly nose. He was dressed simply and sloppily, wearing a wrinkled sweatshirt and canvas trousers, with a colorful scarf tied around his dirty neck, making him look like an apache. The other is about fifty years old, tending to be overweight, with short hair, clean shaven, with a poorly bending arm, shot through a civilian hand. A strict striped suit and an expensive hat lying on the table identified him as a managerial specialist. The specialist’s name was Valentin Pavlovich Teterin, the young man’s name was Alexey Petrovich Sechin. Valentin Pavlovich looked at Sechin’s hand, at his dry, bony fingers, disfigured by the teeth of a hyena, and felt irritation growing in him.