Chapter 422 The Doll: The Final Battle
At dusk, well, strictly speaking, there is no dusk in Moscow in late June.
The clock was approaching nine o'clock, but the sun still hadn't set. The suburban estate was bathed in warm sunshine; the woodland, which had been bare in April, was now lush and verdant, and the newly laid lawn, like ironed green velvet, stretched along the gentle slope all the way to the ornate iron fence.
The air was filled with the fresh scent of clover from the sun, mixed with the smell of hay from the distant stables, and even the wind carried a lazy warmth—this was Moscow's most luxurious season, with days so long it felt like it could collect all the sunshine of the year.
Beside a wooden platform deep within the manor, Wang Xiao was squatting in front of a newly built fence, holding half a red apple in his hand—specially cut open so that the apple's sweet aroma could be released more easily to entice the little ones.
Inside the enclosure, soft bedding was laid out. Two red pandas huddled in a corner of a rockery, their fluffy tails curled up around their bodies, leaving only their two round, dark eyes peeking out warily at her.
Wang Xiao had raised dogs before, and now she coaxed them like dogs, saying with a soft, gentle voice, "Come here, baby, Mommy has an apple here."
These two red pandas were transported from China a week ago; theoretically speaking, the procedures involved were so complicated they could be piled up like a small mountain.
But it's 1996 now, and many rules have loopholes; if they don't, you can buy your way out with real money.
The two little ones have been here for a week and have begun to adjust to Moscow's June weather.
Now, lured by the sweet aroma of apples, one of the bolder little foodies cautiously peeked out.
Oh my, look at its little ears trembling, its nose twitching, its furry paws scratching at the edge of the hole, its round head peeking out and then retracting—Wang Xiao's heart melted.
"Come here." Her voice had never been so sweet in both her past and present lives. "Baby, Mommy will give you something delicious to eat."
Just as the little foodie couldn't resist the temptation of the food and tentatively reached out her paw towards Wang Xiao, footsteps came from behind.
With a "whoosh," the red pandas recoiled as if pricked by a needle, instantly retreating back into their cave, leaving only their large tails flashing past the entrance to prove that they had indeed just run out.
Wang Xiao was utterly speechless, and turned around to roll his eyes at Ivanov without reservation.
Brother, thank you so much. You really know how to pick your time.
Ivanov ignored her eye roll and leaned down to pull her into his arms from behind.
His chin rested naturally on the top of her soft hair as he took a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scent of jasmine tea and sunshine emanating from her.
It's her scent.
Ivanov was laughing, and Wang Xiao felt the vibration from his chest. His voice came from above her head into her ears, resonating with the vibration in his chest: "If you are the mother, then am I the father?"
“Of course,” Wang Xiao blurted out. “Otherwise, would you like to be the older brother? But it’s fine, because you’re my precious baby.”
Ivanov let out a satisfied sigh, and as he bent down to kiss her, he suddenly remembered: "Sorry, I'm sweating, I must smell terrible."
He appeared calm and composed at the president's villa, but it wasn't until he got into his car that he realized his back was soaked with sweat.
Wang Xiao shook her head, lifted her face, and kissed his chin: "It's okay, it doesn't smell."
It really doesn't smell bad; the air is filled with the dry scent of grass.
Ivanov's tense body relaxed again, and he hugged Wang Xiao from behind, remaining silent for a long time.
The sun gradually softened its intensity, casting long shadows of the two figures until they finally kissed the wooden posts of the fence. The sky transitioned from a fiery golden hue to a soft orange-pink, then sank into a deep blue-purple; a long day in Moscow was finally coming to an end.
Ivanov breathed in the aroma, his gaze sweeping over a furry little paw that tentatively reached for the apple slice on the stone slab again. Then, he hurriedly picked up the apple and hid back in the cave.
He couldn't help but laugh, but then he brought up a heavy topic: "The president's heart condition has flared up again, and he is very weak now."
Wang Xiao simply said "Oh." As someone who knew the exact times of the president's three previous heart attacks and had personally witnessed the entire process of the president being taken to the hospital for emergency treatment, she was well aware that the president's health was extremely poor.
Everyone, everyone who is following the Russian presidential election, especially the Western media, is saying it's a boxing match between adults and children.
The long-established Communist Party of the Russian Federation appeared as inexperienced as a fledgling child on the presidential election stage, its naive tactics no match for the shrewd and experienced Kremlin.
But what they didn't know was that for Wang Xiao, the mastermind behind the operation, the Communist Party of the Russian Federation and the other presidential candidates were no match for her at all.
To put it arrogantly, all of them combined are not enough for her.
Her only real enemy, from beginning to end, was the president's health.
His poor health was like a bomb, and no one knew when it would explode.
Even so, they have come this far and can no longer turn back.
“It’s alright,” she reassured Ivanov. “The doctor can always pull through.”
Ivanov, however, could not hide his concern: "I'm afraid Zyuganov's side will take this opportunity to make trouble. The doctor said the president needs rest, and all his public campaign appearances must be stopped."
With the final election just around the corner in July, the president's sudden silence is a sure sign of trouble.
“The Kremlin is not as good as it used to be,” Ivanov sighed. “When Korzhakov was in power, not even a fly could get out of the Kremlin.”
But now, Korzhakov has long been ousted. Without that barrier, some information is no longer so easy to keep secret.
Wang Xiao remained calm and composed: "It's alright, we'll deal with whatever comes our way."
With the election underway, the Communist Party of the Russian Federation really doesn't have many cards left to play. It's perfectly normal for them to make an issue of the president's health.
She looked up at the sun, which had already sunk behind the mountains, and the sky, which had turned gray, and softly comforted Ivanov: "Go to sleep."
In Moscow, one cannot follow the principle of working at sunrise and resting at sunset; otherwise, there would be few days a year where one can live normally.
Ivanov nodded. If they didn't sleep soon, the sun would rise again.
Wang Xiao asked with concern, "Are you alright on your own? Do you want me to come with you?"
Ivanov blushed, and emphasized with a hint of shyness, "I can do it."
He lowered his head and kissed her, then emphasized again, "I can do it, I'm not afraid anymore, I can protect you."
Wang Xiao kissed his chin: "Mmm, that's great, my Ivan is the best and most amazing."
But she still can't just wash her hands of the matter; the election isn't over yet, so she has to continue doing the media relations work.
The media was in an uproar when the president couldn't attend the originally scheduled event.
He didn't show up in the morning, but the evening papers were already buzzing with speculation: had the president died?
If you understand the final printing process of a newspaper, you'll know just how astonishing the speed is.
Wang Xiao skipped dinner and went straight to the villa at Gorky No. 9.
Dyachenko personally greeted her at the gate. When she saw her, the Kremlin princess relaxed her tense shoulders slightly, revealing a tired yet politely dangerous expression: "Your Majesty, it's so good to see you."
In fact, the situation is not good.
This time, the doctor emphasized it to the father in person: he absolutely cannot attend any more public events.
Even if he doesn't dance, even if he doesn't sing, even if he just speaks loudly, it is a huge challenge to his cardiopulmonary function.
His tired and weak body could not withstand such heavy pressure.
Wang Xiao reached out and hugged Dyachenko, comforting her, "It's okay, we can handle it."
Tyachenko led her to the president's room, and it was then that Wang Xiao noticed a detail: every door in the presidential villa was open, even if someone was inside.
At that moment, the special nature of this villa finally became clear: it housed the head of state of the country.
While he enjoyed being surrounded by doctors, guards, and service personnel, he also lost his freedom.
His body does not belong to him; he has no freedom.
Tyachenko was worried and whispered to Wang Xiao, "There are all sorts of rumors going around. Some people say that Korzhakov is behind this. He wants to prove that the Kremlin can't do without him, otherwise it will be riddled with holes."
In fact, similar accusations against Korzhakov were brought up at the end of April, shortly after he left office, when left-wing newspapers reported that Jewish bankers supported the president's re-election and attempted to form a shadow government.
The oligarchs, who were deeply disgusted by Korzhakov, strongly suspected that the move was Korzhakov's revenge, a desperate act of retaliation.
However, because Wang Xiao responded very quickly, with a series of combined blows, he not only defeated the Communist Party of the Russian Federation but also kicked Jewish bankers, represented by Berezovsky, out of the government; thus, he managed to suppress the rumor.
Now that the presidential crisis has resurfaced, rumors and gossip have naturally followed.
"Really?" Wang Xiao looked surprised and shook his head as he walked. "I believe in Mr. Korzhakov's integrity. He's just old-fashioned and out of touch with the times. I believe his desire for the President's well-being and for Russia's well-being will never change."
Tyachenko gave a wry smile: "I hope so. Oh God, Your Majesty, you are like Ivan, always unwilling to think too badly of people."
Wang Xiao smiled, stood at the door of the president's room, and whispered, "We just have different positions."
She must be crazy to speak ill of Korzhakov outside the president's door.
Don't forget, Korzhakov was personally chosen by the president and is a comrade-in-arms who has fought alongside him for a long time.
If she says that Mrs. Korzako has a bad character, isn't that a direct accusation that the president has poor judgment and can't even find a capable person?
Especially now, with the president's health in jeopardy and causing a public outcry, how could a president mired in crisis not miss the days when Korzhakov besieged the Kremlin?
Distance makes things smell better, and close proximity makes things smell worse. Parting is like death; it makes it easiest to forget the bad things about someone and remember the good things.
The guards reached the door, nodded to them, and Wang Xiao was finally allowed to be brought before the president.
The curtains in the room were drawn back, and sunlight shone on the president lying on the bed.
He looked unwell, with a tired, bluish-gray complexion, loose skin, and eye bags that made him look like Garfield.
Even though the sun generously illuminated this area, he seemed unable to draw any strength from the sunlight.
Anyone who saw him would find it impossible to lie and say that he was not a frail old man, shrouded in gloom and plagued by serious illness.
The sad thing is that these adjectives can be applied to anyone, since no one can expect a 65-year-old to be as strong as an ox.
But this person cannot be the president, as his health condition would directly affect the election results.
If he were to appear in public looking like this now, the election could be over.
The president forced open his swollen eyelids, a single movement that seemed to have exhausted all his strength. He spoke in a voice so soft it was almost a whisper: "Miss Wang, you've come."
He spoke those few words breathlessly, incoherently, and gasping for air.
Wang Xiao's heart sank again; the president's condition was worse than she had anticipated.
Even though Wang Xiao lacked medical knowledge, his intuition told him that this weak patient needed rest. Continuing with the original plan would kill him.
Qiu Baisi arrived five minutes later than Wang Xiao, bringing his speech and filming crew.
In response to this sudden crisis, the campaign team devised a plan for the president to record his speech and then broadcast it to a national audience on television. This would minimize the president's workload and reassure the public that their president was still alive and well.
When Qiu Baisi saw Wang Xiao, he nodded to him, his expression equally solemn.
The president is like a wrecked ship with its bottom ripped out, with seawater constantly pouring into the cabin. Unfortunately, those who have already boarded the ship cannot abandon ship and escape on the boundless sea.
They could only desperately try to splash the seawater back out by hand and with ladles, using any means they could imagine.
This is a life-or-death struggle between man and nature, full of hardship, danger, and utter absurdity.
The president was helped up and his clothes were changed. Staff helped him fix his hair and applied hot towels to his face to make him look more energetic.
Unfortunately, even with the lighting technology already at its best, the president still looked exhausted, and worse, he could no longer speak in complete sentences.
Even if you just read from the script, you can't get it going.
Chubais encouraged him, "It's alright, sir, we can re-edit and polish it using the most advanced digital editing technology."
Good heavens! Even if he closed his eyes and didn't look at the president's face, just hearing a short, fragmented speech, he knew he couldn't fool the ears of the Russian people.
But this was the best solution they could think of.
The attacks by the Communist Party of the Russian Federation were aggressive, and not only left-wing media, but even many centrist forces were full of doubts about the overall physical condition.
No rational Russian would be willing to spend six months making a big fuss only to end up choosing a corpse for the Kremlin.
"No," Wang Xiao shook his head. "That won't work."
If the public opinion crisis hadn't erupted, the president, with his stiff face and breathless speech, might have been able to get away with it.
But now that everyone wants to scrutinize him with a magnifying glass, such crude methods are no longer sufficient.
If he were Zyuganov, he would certainly call for a public televised debate, allowing the entire nation to watch him and the president engage in a heated debate about the country's future policies.
This is normal in Europe and America. When can the US presidential election be complete without televised debates?
Wang Xiao couldn't give him the chance to bring it up, because once he did, the already suspicious public would actively fan the flames, making it impossible for the president to refuse.
When the time comes, the energetic Zyuganov and the president, who is still breathing heavily, will stand together. Voters who aren't blind will know who to choose.
Wang Xiao frowned slightly and emphasized to Qiu Baisi once again, "This won't work. This will only make the situation worse."
Chubais's expression grew increasingly solemn, while the president closed his eyes to rest, hoping to gather his strength again for a second recording.
The first sound was so faint that even the best recording equipment and amplifiers couldn't compensate for its weakness.
“But what else can we do?” Chubais smiled bitterly and whispered, “God, I’m going to hell.”
What he is doing now is deceiving the people, making them mistakenly believe that their president is still in good health.
He couldn't even imagine how angry the people would be once the lie was exposed, or what kind of turmoil the country would descend into.
Wang Xiao shook his head and whispered, "It's okay, everyone will accept it in time."
She also used an analogy, "It's like getting married. Before the wedding, everyone keeps their eyes wide open, afraid of missing any details that might affect their judgment. Once the wedding ceremony is over, and you're already a couple, what can you do? You just turn a blind eye and make do."
In a different context, Chubais would probably be amused by her words. She's quite the character; what strange metaphors she uses!
But at this moment, Chubais couldn't smile, because the president didn't open his eyes for a long time. The doctor beside him had a worried look on his face, as if his career was about to end at any moment.
Chubais had to reassure the doctor, "Don't worry, we can wait a little longer."
However, the doctor had reached his limit and expressed his dissatisfaction in a low voice: "Ladies and gentlemen, please stop. Don't torture him anymore. His lung function needs to recover, and he can't speak loudly to achieve the desired speech effect."
God, please stop!
He missed the days when Mr. Korzhakov was around; at least there was someone who could stop all this.
Chubais looked embarrassed; he would rather stop than do something that went against his principles.
Wang Xiao spoke up, picking up where the doctor left off: "Doctor, if the President doesn't speak and just sits and mouths words, can he hold on?"
The doctor hesitated for a moment, then nodded reluctantly: "But don't let it last too long, half an hour at most. His body needs rest, you know, he needs rest."
He didn't understand what it meant to sit silently and lip-sync.
This isn't the 1920s, the era of Chaplin's Hollywood silent films.
Qiu Baisi was also somewhat puzzled and pressed Wang Xiao for an answer: "What do you mean?"
Wang Xiao didn't answer his question, but instead talked about something unrelated: "You know MTV is a variety channel, and we make variety shows. Sometimes singers aren't in good condition, for example, they have a bad cold, but they've already signed contracts to see a show and can't cancel. In those cases, we'll arrange for the singer to lip-sync."
She explained what lip-syncing means: "It's not the kind of lip-syncing that involves playing pre-released CDs and tapes. That's easy to spot because everyone knows that it's practically impossible to achieve the same effect as a CD live. So we have to re-record before the performance, recording only one line at a time, and then re-edit it so that the singer can lip-sync directly on stage."
Perhaps fearing that Chubais's shock wasn't enough, he dropped another bombshell, casually saying, "This is already the most sincere lip-syncing. There's also the simplest way, which is to have someone else sing in your place, with the singer only showing their face and image."
Chubais was dumbfounded. Could this really be possible?
Wang Xiao nodded: "Of course, there is absolutely no technical problem with that."
Similar techniques have been used for countless years in the history of music performance.
He couldn't accept it at first, but subconsciously he felt that entertainment such as musical performances were not refined pastimes.
How can this be compared to serious politics?
But right now, isn't every aspect of this election a carefully orchestrated performance?
Wang Xiao said softly, "Sir, at this point, we have no other choice."
She nodded to Chubais, strode forward, walked to the president's side, and bowed slightly: "Sir, why don't we get to this point? Let's not just go on TV. You need to appear in public, to be out in the open."
Dyachenko was taken aback and instinctively reached for her arm, forcing a smile: "Hey! Your Majesty, perhaps we can talk."
She knew how stubborn and inflexible her father was.
She was genuinely afraid that he had been persuaded by Wang Xiao to believe that he could actually handle it and would risk participating in public events.
The president had a smile on his face, a genuine smile, like a piece of paper lightly pasted onto his face.
His face was so swollen that it looked almost like his skin and flesh were separated.
But he still expressed his utmost goodwill: "So, Miss Wang, how do you think I should appear in public?"
Wang Xiao smiled at him: "Just like that, I appeared."
Forty-five minutes later, Wang Xiao left the president's villa.
The gift was still from Dyachenko. Her face was grave. "I'm really worried. I'm afraid Lebed will switch sides and support Zyuganov."
His father showed him the utmost sincerity by appointing him as Secretary of the National Security Council and National Security Advisor to the President.
But all of this is contingent on the father being able to win re-election.
If he couldn't do that, it would be perfectly normal for him to turn around and side with Zyuganov.
Everyone wants a powerful ally.
Wang Xiao shook his head and said meaningfully, "No, he is the kind of person who wants to be president. He doesn't need a powerful boss."
How long will it take to survive under Zyuganov?
Ancient emperors only began frantically searching for successors when their health was completely failing.
Given Zyuganov's age and health, he could easily work for another 30 years; he doesn't need a successor.
What is truly needed is a weak and aged president.
Dyachenko fell silent, a bitter feeling welling up inside her.
So, if that's the case, then the father's critical illness is actually a good thing?
Wang Xiao reached out and hugged her again, whispering in her ear, "Darling, there's a truth in public relations: there's no such thing as absolute good or bad in this world. If you use it well, even bad things can turn into good things."
That evening, the Kremlin held a press conference to announce that the president had contracted heatstroke and was therefore absent from today's public events.
Undoubtedly, public opinion has intensified further.
During an interview, Zyuganov bluntly stated, "When did our Russian president become unable to show his face just because of a minor cold? That cold is truly terrifying."
The next day, the media collectively launched an attack. Apart from television news, which did not pursue the matter relentlessly, newspapers and radio, where left-wing forces could still chime in, were all enthusiastically discussing the president's health condition.
Just when the rumors on the streets had escalated from the president's critical illness to his sudden death, and the Kremlin was keeping the news a secret, the president suddenly made an appearance.
He stood on the Kremlin's grand balcony, bathed in the orange-red sunset, waving to Moscow residents and foreign tourists strolling in Red Square.
A cheer immediately erupted in Red Square, as the entourage arranged by the Ministry of the Interior used their hands as megaphones to loudly shout the president's name.
Then the loudspeakers in the Kremlin blared, and the president began his speech: "I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen, for causing you concern. Yes, I have caught a cold, a nasty heatstroke. I sweated after playing tennis and then caught a chill. I was supposed to take a hot bath, but I forgot. When I finished my work and remembered, my nose was already stuffy, and I even had a fever last night."
"The doctor told me, sir, you shouldn't shake hands with people, or you'll spread the cold virus to others."
"I also think I shouldn't have done such a thing, after all, heatstroke is really unpleasant. I don't want to infect other people."
"I never expected such a big misunderstanding to occur. I told the doctor that I had to talk to everyone. Don't worry, I will stay far away from you. At such a distance, your colds shouldn't get into your noses. The binoculars won't become a transmission route either."
A burst of laughter erupted in the square, and those who were carefully observing the president through binoculars couldn't help but laugh along.
The president's front and rear are two completely different worlds.
While the square in front was filled with laughter and chatter, the staff behind were on tenterhooks.
In places unseen by the public, machines are constantly at work, and videotapes have replaced the president's voice, allowing him to deliver powerful speeches simply by lip-syncing.
The other staff members were also doing their jobs. Some were responsible for keeping a close eye on the president's health. If the president couldn't hold on and couldn't even sit up, they would support him immediately.
Then the staff member in charge of monitoring the machine had to quickly switch to the president's apology tape so that he could apologize to the audience. He also said that the heatstroke was really too torturous and he needed to get more sun.
Then wait for the president to recover before continuing the speech.
They've been rehearsing this from 4 a.m. to 7:30 p.m. today, and no one is allowed to make a mistake.
Wang Xiao was also busy, her eyes constantly scanning the surroundings, ready to deal with the crisis as soon as possible.
Very well, the president's face had undergone gua sha to reduce some of the swelling, and he also had blush and makeup applied to cover up his sallow complexion.
His rosy complexion was best explained by his cold and fever; who can have a cold without their face turning red?
The chair provided stable support for the president's body, allowing him to appear to be standing behind the balcony, but in reality, he was sitting.
Thankfully, drones are far from being commonplace these days, and unidentified flying objects are not allowed near the Kremlin, so no one can get aerial photos of the president's true condition.
The Kremlin, connected to the entire Red Square, is a giant stage where everyone stakes the rest of their careers and even their lives, giving their all in their performances.
Ivanov stayed by Wang Xiao's side, ready to deal with any crisis at any time.
He watched the president like a mediocre third-rate actor, only able to lip-sync and rely on a recording, and felt that the world was like a giant Andersen fairy tale—The Emperor's New Clothes.
Everyone knows the truth; everyone is lying.
He sighed softly and whispered to Wang Xiao, "We are all actors, actors who manipulate puppets."
The president's massive, weary body resembled that of a character in the NTV puppet show "The Doll." His every move was manipulated, absurd and pathetic.
The setting sun enveloped him, its almost holy light seeming ironic—a common Soviet-era satire of God, suggesting that there is no God in this world.
Wang Xiao's gaze remained fixed on the president's retreating figure. He shook his head slightly and whispered, "No, only power can manipulate puppets."
Power can make people willingly become alienated, turning them into someone they no longer recognize.
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