KOMAROV LEANED FORWARD from the bench in the pine-walled banya and ladled more cold water onto the red-hot coals. There was a hiss as a cloud of steam exploded, followed by a throat-catching surge of heat. The President lay stretched out, face down and naked on the towel-draped bench while Komarov, with only a towel wrapped around his waist, picked up a venik, the fragrant, leafy bundle of birch twigs, and vigorously worked it up and down the President’s back, buttocks and the backs of his legs; the traditional way to boost blood circulation and relieve tension and stress.

“You’re not in bad shape for a sixty-three-year-old, Vladimir Vladimirovich.” Even in the banya the usual formalities applied. “Mind you, given everything that’s going on at the moment, Russia needs to you stay fit and strong to lead the country through this war. I’ll program another game on the tennis court next week—plus a couple of sessions on the judo mat.”

The President grunted, sat up and wrapped his towel around his waist. Despite the elation felt throughout the nation at the dramatic sinking of HMS Queen Elizabeth, it had not been an easy week, largely due to the humiliation of becoming an international laughing stock. Komarov was pleased to see that the banya and birching had improved the President’s mood. He looked at the hour-glass by the door; time for the cold plunge pool.

Thirty minutes later, the President, clad in a white, towel bathrobe, sat in the rest area while his live-in mistress, a thirty-five-year-old, willowy former Olympic gymnastics gold medalist, brought him a glass of kvass, the slightly fizzy, sweet-sour, banya recovery drink made from rye bread and flavored with mint so beloved by Russians. Despite the war in the Baltic states, the declaration of Article 5 by NATO precipitating war with the Alliance, followed by the sinking of the Queen Elizabeth in the Baltic, the President’s weekend routine in his dacha, forty-five minutes from the Kremlin to the west of Moscow, was sacrosanct. He’d left the Kremlin after lunch, spent a vigorous afternoon on the tennis court with Komarov, and was relaxing before enjoying dinner and the night with his mistress.

First, though, it was time for the President’s evening VTC briefing from the National Defense Control Center, the grandiose, recently completed, neo-Stalinist building from which Russia’s war effort was directed. However, in place of Lieutenant General Filatov, who commanded the headquarters and usually gave these briefings, the Tatar features of General Mikhail Gareyev, the Chief of the General Staff, filled the VTC picture. Inset on the right of the screen were the impassive faces of the others in the War Cabinet: the Deputy President, Defense Minister, Foreign Minister and Director of the FSB, all patched in from their various offices in Moscow.

“Where’s that general who looks like an Italian hairdresser?” demanded the President.