The Last Brothel of the USSR

By Jean Michel Mikad

As the Soviet Union crumbles, a disillusioned KGB officer discovers a cryptic manuscript hidden deep in the Kremlin, launching him on a dangerous quest to expose a secret that could rewrite Russian history.

Ivan Kuznetsov knows the Iron Curtain is falling. Amidst the chaos, he stumbles upon whispers of a clandestine brothel that has influenced Russia's most powerful men for generations. Compelled by duty and curiosity, Ivan investigates further at his own peril.

The winding trail leads Ivan to an elegant brothel in the heart of Moscow, harboring relics that trace back through the annals of time. The madam, Ekaterina, recounts tales of deception, espionage, and blackmail that have quietly steered the country’s course for centuries. Her stories reveal how Russia’s fate has often been decided not in the halls of governance but behind these gilded walls.
But Ivan soon discovers the brothel’s secrets come with a deadly price. With time running out and the KGB on his heels, he must choose whether to reveal the truth and risk the life he knows, or let The Last Brothel of the USSR fade into legend.
In this thrilling tale, one man's quest for truth becomes a fight to expose a shadowy power that has manipulated Tsar and Commissar alike, as the future of his nation hangs in the balance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jean Michel Mikad
• Release date: Apr 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9791223034606

Book preview

The Last Brothel of the USSR

Jean Michel MIKAD

Ashford Fletcher Publishers

Copyright © 2021 Jean Michel Mikad

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

I

Chapter 1

Ivan Kuznetsov opened his eyes to the dimness of dawn filtering through thin curtains. Grey light, cold and indifferent, laid bare the starkness of his minimally furnished apartment. The walls, unadorned save for a peeling patch near the ceiling, echoed back the city's awakening hum. His bed, a simple affair with a mattress that had known better days, creaked as he lay there, listening to the distant clatter of an early streetcar.

His expression was weary, carved from the same stone as the city itself. Each morning was a ledger of sleepless debts paid in full by the heaviness behind his eyes. He let out a breath that carried no warmth, watching it dissipate in the chill of his room. Ivan turned his head slightly to glance at the clock—an old mechanical relic that ticked with an insistence he found both comforting and oppressive.

Time to rise.

Movements slow and deliberate, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. The wooden floorboards felt like ice against his bare feet. He stood and stretched, muscles tight from a night spent wrestling with ghosts from years past.

A single chair sat by a table worn smooth by use and time; atop it lay yesterday's newspaper, still folded, untouched by any interest or care. Ivan moved toward it out of habit rather than any real desire to be informed. His hands ran along the edge of the paper before pushing it aside in favor of a plain white mug stained from countless mornings like this one.

He filled the mug with water from a tap that protested with a groan before yielding its flow. Ivan took a sip, cold and sharp against his throat. No coffee this morning—no warmth to feign comfort in his solitary routine.

The window called to him then—a narrow view onto streets that held stories he had long ceased to partake in. He approached it as if drawn by some invisible string tied around his chest. The fabric of the curtain felt rough between his fingers as he pushed it aside just enough to peer through.

Outside, life began its relentless march: people on their way to jobs they clung to or despised; cars honking their impatience into the air already thick with exhaust; pigeons cooing from their perches on ledges and wires—oblivious participants in this urban symphony.

Ivan watched for a moment longer than necessary before letting the curtain fall back into place. There was no longing in him for what lay beyond that glass—only observation and acceptance.

He dressed without ceremony in clothes that carried no distinction: sturdy jeans worn soft at the knees and a shirt that might have been blue once but now hung somewhere between grey and memory.

* * *

Ivan stepped into the kitchen, its narrow confines immediately embracing him with a sense of purpose. The room bore no marks of individuality; each utensil, each piece of crockery had its place, and nothing more. The linoleum floor showed signs of wear, the pattern faded from years of pacing feet. He moved with a practiced efficiency that needed no thought, his hands reaching for the oatmeal in the cupboard, the pot in the drawer beneath the stove.

He filled the pot with water from the tap, its metallic clang echoing slightly as it hit the bottom. The flame caught with a whoosh under the pot, blue and steady. He poured oats into the water without measuring, his eyes not on the task but gazing through the small window above the sink where a slice of sky was visible between the gray outlines of buildings.

The oatmeal cooked with little attention from Ivan. He stirred it once, then twice, before scooping it into a bowl. No sugar or milk graced his breakfast—just oats and water, sustenance without ceremony.

He carried his bowl to the table and sat down. The chair scraped against the floor in protest. Ivan’s spoon broke through the surface of his meal, steam curling up in wisps quickly dissipated by the chill in the room. He ate methodically, each mouthful chewed a precise number of times before swallowing.

His gaze wandered from his oatmeal to stare at nothing in particular. The walls around him held no photographs or paintings—nothing to distract or to comfort. There was just paint over plaster over brick—a barrier against the outside world that seemed almost impenetrable.

The silence settled heavily around him like a thick blanket muffling sound and thought alike. It was not a peaceful quiet but an oppressive one that seemed to press down on him with an invisible weight.

He continued to eat, spoon after spoonful disappearing into his mouth while his mind drifted far from this kitchen and its Spartan contents. His thoughts moved like shadows on water—there and gone again without form or substance.

The last bite of oatmeal vanished between his lips and he placed his spoon down with finality that echoed faintly off barren walls. The bowl was empty like so many mornings before this one.

He rose from his chair, rinsed his dish and spoon under cold water from the tap, dried them both methodically with a threadbare dish towel that had lost its color long ago. He returned them to their respective homes—the bowl stacked neatly atop its fellows, silent sentinels awaiting their next call to duty; the spoon slipped into its slot in the drawer among its kindred cutlery.

Ivan leaned back against the counter for a moment after he finished cleaning up. His eyes closed briefly as if shutting out even this unadorned world could give him respite from whatever thoughts plagued him in such moments alone.

When he opened them again there was no change in expression—no hint of what might have passed through his mind as he stood there amidst silence and solitude. Ivan turned away from kitchen and breakfast remnants alike without a second glance as he prepared himself for whatever lay beyond these walls that contained him but never quite held him captive.

* * *

Ivan stepped into the living room, a space as spartan as the rest of his apartment. The walls, bare but for a single shelf, seemed to echo the emptiness he felt inside. On that shelf lay an assortment of books, their spines cracked and faded from years of use, and among them, a single photograph in a plain wooden frame.

He had walked past it a thousand times, each time averting his gaze. But today, for reasons he couldn't articulate, his eyes locked onto the image. There he was, a younger version of himself clad in uniform beside fellow KGB officers. Mikhail stood next to him, both of them wearing expressions that Ivan could barely remember feeling—pride and purpose.

He reached out with a hand that betrayed no emotion and picked up the photograph. His thumb brushed over the glass as if trying to wipe away the years between then and now. They were all so certain then, so full of conviction about their path.

His gaze lingered on Mikhail's face—a comrade who had once been closer than a brother. Time had weathered their bond just as it had faded the photograph. The man who looked back at Ivan from behind the glass bore little resemblance to the reflection that greeted him each morning.

The corners of Ivan's mouth twitched involuntarily as he studied each face in turn—some gone now, others changed beyond recognition by life's unrelenting march. Their youthful eyes seemed to stare into him, questioning what had become of the world they once sought to protect.

Ivan placed the photo back on the shelf with deliberate care. The act felt like laying down arms after a long-fought battle—one where victory was indistinguishable from defeat. He stood there for a moment longer, his posture rigid against the tide of memories threatening to break through his stoic exterior.

The clock on the wall ticked audibly in the silence—a reminder that time continued its inexorable advance regardless of one's willingness to move with it. Ivan turned away from the shelf and its burdensome contents.

With each step he took away from the photograph and its frozen moment in time, he felt an unspoken resignation settle within him—a silent acknowledgment of paths chosen and those forever closed off. His life had become an exercise in endurance rather than purpose; yet still he endured, one indistinct day after another.

The living room returned to its undisturbed state as Ivan left it behind, carrying forward only what was necessary—the present moment and the resolve to meet whatever it might bring.

* * *

Ivan stood in the hallway, the narrow space between his past and the day ahead. The light from the single bulb above cast a harsh glow on the uniform laid out before him. He reached for it, his fingers brushing over the coarse fabric of the jacket, a relic from a life that seemed both distant and uncomfortably close.

He slipped into the trousers first, the fabric rustling with each movement, an echo of a time when that sound meant something more. The jacket came next, heavy on his shoulders as he slid his arms through the sleeves. Each button fastened with a click that resonated in the stillness of his apartment, a countdown to another day's masquerade.

The medals and insignia adorned the uniform but Ivan attached them without reverence. They clinked lightly against one another, their metallic voices once filled with honor now hollow to his ears. His hands moved with efficiency borne of countless mornings like this one, each motion devoid of hesitation or sentiment.

His belt cinched tight around his waist; the holster added weight to his side. Ivan stood erect out of habit rather than pride. The leather boots were next, polished to a standard that no longer held personal significance. They slipped on easily and he tied them with knots practiced and precise.

He stepped before the mirror, an old piece of glass bordered by peeling paint that told stories of better days. Ivan stared at his reflection—a man familiar yet estranged. The uniform fit as it always had, but now it draped over him like a borrowed identity. The lines on his face were etched deeper by years and burdens; they were maps charting courses he no longer chose to navigate.

His eyes met their counterpart in the mirror—hard, steely blue—unreadable not because they hid emotions but because what once stirred within was now tempered by resignation. Ivan straightened his collar with a flick of his wrist and turned away from his reflection without lingering.

The apartment door loomed before him, its surface scarred by time and use. He grasped the handle firmly—a cold metal handshake between him and the world outside—and pulled it open with finality.

The door closed behind Ivan Kuznetsov with a sound that didn't quite echo in the empty hall. It was just another closure in a long series of endings and beginnings that marked the days of Ivan's life—a life punctuated by routine and defined by survival rather than living.

* * *

The morning greeted Ivan with a bleak sky, the clouds a slate curtain that seemed to press down on the city. He turned the key in his apartment door, the lock clicking with finality, and descended the stairs. Each step was deliberate, echoing through the stairwell with a hollow sound that matched the emptiness he felt.

Outside, the world was indifferent. The grey light washed over drab buildings and listless faces. Ivan moved with purpose but without urgency, joining the flow of people whose eyes were fixed on some distant point or buried in thoughts of their own.

He walked erect, disciplined by years of service that had ingrained in him an unyielding posture. But today, there was a heaviness to his steps—a weight that came not from physical strain but from a burden of disillusionment. Each footfall seemed to sink slightly into the pavement as if the earth itself was reluctant to carry him towards his duty.

His uniform, once a symbol of pride and conviction, now felt like an old skin he could not shed. The medals on his chest caught the feeble light and flashed briefly before dulling again against the fabric. They no longer told stories of valor or dedication; they were relics of a past that seemed as distant as youth.

The streets widened as Ivan neared his destination. Buildings loomed overhead, government edifices that stood cold and imposing against the skyline. He could feel their weight as he passed by—their silent demand for obedience and their indifference to the men who served within them.

The people around him thinned out as he reached an area reserved for those with clearance; those who walked these parts did so with a shared understanding—a recognition of shared burdens and unspoken doubts.

Ivan's gaze did not waver from what lay ahead; he had long since learned to keep his eyes from searching for kinship among those he passed. His mind was clear, focused only on reaching his post where he would perform his duties with meticulous care—a ritual devoid of meaning yet carried out with unwavering precision.

As he approached the building where he would spend yet another day in service to a regime whose ideals had become estranged from his own conscience, Ivan allowed himself no sentimentality. There was work to be done—papers to be signed, orders to be given—and he would do it because it was expected of him.

The heaviness in his steps grew more pronounced as he ascended the steps to the entrance. His hand rested on the cold metal handle of the door before pushing it open without hesitation. The warmth inside offered no comfort—it was merely another reminder of how far removed he was from what once felt like home.

Ivan stepped over the threshold into another day's labor for a cause that no longer resonated within him, each movement an echo of times gone by when such days were filled with purpose rather than mere obligation.

Chapter 2

The frost lay like a white shroud over Moscow's streets, clinging to the cobblestones and glazing the windows of the stoic buildings that lined Ivan Kuznetsov's path. He moved with purpose, his breath visible in the morning air, a ghostly counterpart to his silent march. The coldness of the air seemed to seep through his uniform, yet it was a familiar companion to the chill that had settled in his bones long ago.

Around him, the city buzzed with life. People rushed past, their faces pinched against the cold, their steps hurried as if they could outrun the winter's bite. Street vendors hawked their goods with frost-tipped fingers, and cars slid cautiously along icy roads. But Ivan, he was an island in the stream of humanity—unmoved by its currents, undisturbed by its noise.

His thoughts were far from the chaos around him. Instead, they tunneled inward to a place where anticipation lay coiled like a dormant snake. Today was not an ordinary day; it would bring him face-to-face with Mikhail. Memories of their shared past—a past entangled with ideals and oaths now frayed and worn—flitted through his mind like old film reels.

Ivan passed beneath skeletal trees whose bare branches clawed at an overcast sky. The leafless boughs seemed to mirror his own stripped-down existence, devoid of the lush foliage of earlier years when conviction had been a green canopy above his head. Now all that remained were these stark limbs reaching for a warmth that eluded them.

He approached a bridge that arched over the frozen river below, its surface an unbroken sheet of ice reflecting the gray pallor of dawn. Ivan paused for a moment at its crest and looked down at the river that had once surged with vigor beneath summer suns. It lay motionless now, held captive by winter's unyielding grasp—much like how he felt about his own life.

The moment passed and Ivan continued on his way, crossing into districts where once he walked with pride and purpose in step with comrades whose belief in their cause was as unshakable as bedrock. Now those streets felt foreign underfoot; they were part of a city that had moved on without him.

As he walked, Ivan’s mind kept returning to Mikhail—the friend who had once stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him but whose path had diverged somewhere along the way. What would this meeting bring? A confrontation? Reconciliation? Or simply two old soldiers reflecting on battles long since fought?

Ivan’s boots left crisp impressions on frost-dusted sidewalks as he drew nearer to his destination. He did not hasten his pace nor slow it; time seemed irrelevant when weighed against history's heavy hand on one’s shoulder.

The preordained corner approached where he would meet Mikhail—another intersection in a labyrinthine city where countless lives crossed without intersecting. Yet today it was not anonymity that awaited Ivan but a face from his past—a mirror that might reflect either condemnation or comradeship.

And so Ivan Kuznetsov continued through Moscow’s frosty embrace toward an encounter long in coming, while inside him lay layers of ice yet unthawed by time or regret.

* * *

Ivan pushed open the café door, a bell chiming overhead with the sort of tone that whispered of bygone days. He stepped inside, leaving the bite of the Moscow cold for a room warmed by dim lights and quieter lives. The café, like a pocket of the past, held its ground against the march of time. Its walls were lined with shelves bearing faded books and sepia-toned photographs that seemed to watch over the patrons like silent custodians.

He scanned the room and there, in the corner where shadows played across an old wooden table, sat Mikhail Sokolov. Ivan's breath caught at the sight of him—older, lines etched