Just then, my phone rang. It was Dmitry. “Dima, have you seen what those bastards are writing?!” I couldn’t hold back. “I’ve seen it, Kira, I’ve seen it,” his voice held not a hint of panic. On the contrary, he sounded pleased. “Everything is going even better than I expected.” “Better?” I couldn’t believe my ears. “They’re painting me as a lunatic!” “Excellent!” he exclaimed. “Just magnificent! They’re doing exactly what we were counting on. They’re raising the stakes, creating maximum public outcry. The louder they scream about their innocence and your hysterics, the harder they will fall.”
I fell silent, trying to understand his logic. “What do you mean?” “Kira, right now they look like the victims. Igor Belozerov is the noble patriarch who wanted to help his partner’s family. Vladimir is the poor groom, abandoned at the altar. And you’re the evil shrew. The public loves stories like that. But what happens when that same public learns the truth? When it turns out that the ‘noble patriarch’ is a common corporate raider, and the ‘poor groom’ is a cynical accomplice? The effect will be ten times stronger. Their reputation, which they’re so diligently trying to launder right now, will turn to dust.”
I was starting to understand. “So what do we do?” “We add fuel to the fire,” Dima replied cheerfully. “Remember I told you about a recording of a very interesting conversation? A conversation where Igor Stanislavovich, in very colorful language, discusses with his assistant exactly how they plan to squeeze your father out of his business after the wedding.” My breath caught. “Yes.” “Well, it’s time to leak it. And you know who to? To that very journalist from the ‘Capital Herald’ who wrote the filthiest, most slanderous article about you. Can you imagine his face when he realizes he’s been used, and what kind of exclusive has just fallen into his lap? He’ll tear the Belozorovs to shreds to save his own reputation. Let them trigger the mechanism of their own destruction.”
I smiled. The anger was gone, replaced by a cold thrill. “Dima, you’re a genius.” “I know,” he replied modestly. “Just tell your father not to worry. The show is just beginning.”
A week passed. The media bomb we had planted worked perfectly. The journalist, upon receiving the recording, sank his teeth into the Belozorovs and didn’t let go. The article with the transcript of Igor Stanislavovich’s conversation had the effect of an exploding bomb. The pendulum of public opinion swung back in the other direction with furious speed. Now the Belozorovs were the fraudsters and raiders, and we were the victims who dared to fight back. Their partners started asking uncomfortable questions; things were starting to heat up in their commodities empire.
It was the perfect moment for the final blow. We gathered again in Dmitry’s office: me, my father, and him. On the table in front of him was a laptop, its screen showing an open email client with a drafted message. Attached to the email was a single file—a zipped folder with all the evidence: documents, recordings, witness testimonies. The recipient: The Economic Crimes Division…
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