It was the year 1952. Ian Fleming sat down and pondered his concerns and skills as a journalist and intelligence officer. So came to life his novel “Casino Royale” that would introduce the world to brilliant Secret Agent 007, James Bond.
Bond is a clever, witty and athletic spy. He relishes impossible missions and living in danger. He has an uncanny skill in breaking locks and unraveling secrets. His skills of deception are unparalleled. He drives cars that are made for him. He chooses his suits carefully, gambles and attracts the ladies. We mustn’t forget his skill with the gun, which never misses its target, and his ruthlessness that would go so far as to kill gang leaders and lovers.
A decade later, Fleming’s hero would captivate viewers on the silver screen. The ordinary citizen is looking for a hero. He sometimes banks on a politician and sometimes on a screen hero, who would defeat his enemies and return home after an adventure that the viewer had wished they could experience themselves. The James Bond movies have raked in massive revenues and his popularity is unrivaled.
On October 7, 1952, a Soviet woman in Leningrad gave birth to a child she named Vladimir. It never occurred to her that she had given birth to a story more riveting than Fleming’s and a hero more dangerous than Agent 007.
The student Vladimir Putin admired James Bond’s skill, courage, masculinity and ability to swim among the sharks. His excitement drove him to the Lubyanka Building in Moscow that housed the notorious KGB. An employee there advised him to go to university and return after he graduated and so he did.
He paces his office. Nothing equals the joy of victory. I am not Joe Biden, whom the media enjoys poking fun at his missteps and gaffes. I am not Donald Trump, who is being pursued by investigators. I am the truth and only investigator. I am not Sunak or Macron or Scholtz to fear the grumbling of the opposition, media headlines, and social media clowns.
No, Russia is not like their countries, and I am not like them. Moreover, to rule means to hold the secret, and the thread that leads to the spirit of the nation. It is from there that trust is derived, not from ballot boxes.
He experiences a sentimental moment. I wish my mother were here so that she could overcome her fatigue. I wish my father were alive today to witness the words he uttered from his sickbed come to life. In the late 1990s, his parents were bedridden at a hospital in St. Petersburg. Putin would hop on a plane every week and fly out from Moscow to visit them. Two months before he became prime in summer 1999, he visited his father, who told his nurses: “Look, my president has arrived.” It was as if he was reading the book of the future that he would be denied seeing.
He will not celebrate the victory. The peak enjoyment lies in relishing the victory alone. He doesn’t need to invite Medvedev and Shoigu. He doesn’t need flattery. He thought about Yevgeny Prigozhin, the Wagner leader. Poor man, he didn’t realize that there could be no room for a tzar under the wings of the tzars. Sorrowfully, he said: “I thought he was smarter than Navalny.”
He grew a little angry. I gave Prigozhin everything Fleming didn’t give Bond: money, weapons, data hackers and a misinformation kitchen. I gave him my trust and the right to recruit prisoners and access mines and precious minerals. I gave him a James Bondian empire, but he was lured by suicide.
Assuming I were to throw a small party, then surely invitations would be limited. I could invite Catherine II because she recaptured Crimea and Peter the Great because he didn’t believe in Russia being confined in borders. Alright, I could invite Jospeh Stalin so he can make sure that Russia has not been made a feast for nations, like orphans offered to the wolves.
I won’t invite anyone. It is enough that history would be present at my office and sit in front of me. He smiles. History will note down his every move and spy on him. History resembles Prigozhin – you give him everything, but he will turn on you. History was an obedient waiter at Stalin’s office, but he later allowed Khrushchev to turn on him. I will advise him not to do the same to me, and he knows I don’t joke around.
The West is naive. Merkel was deluded in believing that gas revenues would domesticate Russia and eliminate its danger. She did not sense the looming major confrontation. Russia doesn’t resemble anything but Russia. It is vast, but it only wakes up when it grows paranoid or feels stifled. It needs a big enemy and imminent danger. Europe sent its invasions and strongmen. The first one was Napoleon, the second was Hitler. This time, the army headed out to discipline the deceitful old continent. On February 24, 2022, the “Ukrainian flood” was launched.
Poor West. This is not a war on Zelenskyy, no matter how holy Ukrainian soil is for Russia. It is a major war against the model that assassinated the Soviet Union and stole its assets. It is a model of decline, the breakup of countries, societies and the family and the promotion of homosexuality. The destruction of this model is essential for Russia’s national security. The battle deserves threats about the constant readiness to resort to nuclear weapons to spread fear in regimes that grew addicted to luxury and stability and gave themselves the right to impose their dying model.
It is fun to run in elections against candidates who support your policies and who compete with the prior knowledge that they will lose. It is fun to learn the results of the elections even before they are held and for you to claim a crushing victory that openly entrusts you to continue the major war against the West.
Two different worlds. Western leaders drop like autumn leaves and Russia grows more attached to its savior and leader. It can only be assured by the strongman, even if he were oppressive. History is not a profession for historians. They are just voice and video recorders. History is written by the victorious.
His imagination is greater than Ian Fleming’s. His blows are better than James Bond’s. In Russia, there is only one chef, called the tzar.
