Chizuru had already gotten out of the car, standing sideways to block the door on Satsuki's side, her gaze passing over the crowd and landing on a man further back.
That man held a camera and changed his position twice, each time avoiding the angle before the young man rushed out, aiming his lens only at the moment of suppression.
"My Lady," Chizuru said in a low voice, "the person taking pictures is in the back row."
"I see him."
Satsuki did not get out of the car, nor did she let anyone retaliate immediately.
She watched the Soviet guards.
They finally began to step forward to separate the crowd, but their movements were still slow—slow enough for the camera to finish taking pictures, slow enough for the slogans to be shouted, and slow enough for the crowd to confirm they had been seen.
This was not an assassination.
It was 1990, not 1991; the Soviet Union would not go so far as to let a foreign guest be assassinated in front of the Winter Palace.
Assassins would not bring ink, nor would they bring banners, and they certainly would not scout out good camera angles.
This was a humiliation.
An attempt to forcibly bundle the Saionji family, Sobchak, foreign capital, and the betrayal of Leningrad together.
Fujita turned his head.
"My Lady, shall we evacuate?"
Emi was already clutching Satsuki's sleeve, her face pale, but she did not cry out.
Shuichi's hand was still blocking in front of her.
She gently pressed her father's wrist, letting him put it down.
Satsuki looked at the black ink on the car window, and after a while, she said:
"Wait."
Fujita did not ask further.
The inside of the car grew quiet, and the sounds outside became even clearer.
Workers were shouting about their factory, young people were shouting about Russia, and someone in the back row continued to take pictures.
Satsuki even saw an older worker who did not approach the car door, but simply stood at the edge of the crowd, holding a piece of cardboard in his hand.
That person was not there to put on a show.
He was genuinely afraid.
Afraid that even their current life could not be maintained.
Someone was exploiting these people's fear.
Three minutes later, the side door of the Winter Palace opened.
Sobchak appeared on the steps.
He was still wearing that dark gray overcoat, his scarf blown to one side by the wind; he had not even had time to readjust it when he came out.
The few staff members following behind him had noticeably unsteady steps; some walked while turning back to whisper to the building's guards, as if they had not yet had time to make sense of everything that had just happened.
Chubais stood a little further away, not rushing forward.
His gaze swept over the crowd first, then landed on the foreign guest's car stained black with ink, and his eyebrows twitched imperceptibly.
Sobchak's reaction was faster than theirs.
He first looked at the Saionji car, confirming the windows, doors, guard positions, and whether the main car had opened its doors.
In that instant, his expression darkened significantly, but he quickly suppressed it.
The foreign guests had not gotten out of the car.
There were black marks on the car window.
The crowd was still shouting.
These three things were already bad enough.
This group of people was afraid that they would not have bread to eat, yet at the same time, they were driving away the very people who could bring them bread.
A staff member beside him moved a half-step closer, seemingly wanting to say something.
Sobchak did not wait to hear it, simply raising his hand to stop the other person, then pressed his gloves into his palm, as if using this action to suppress his emotions as well.
He could not appear flustered.
If he panicked, the guards would fall into disarray, the crowd would become even more excited, and Saionji would immediately understand that Leningrad could not even control the area in front of the Winter Palace.
But he also could not appear indifferent.
The people sitting in that car were not ordinary tourists.
That was an external channel he had just secured; it represented medical supplies, food supplies, port equipment, bank credit, and the possibility of future cooperation.
If they were frightened and left here, tomorrow the entire Leningrad would know that the Japanese were not unwilling to cooperate; it was just that he, Anatoly Sobchak, could not even guard his own doorstep.
He looked at the crowd.
The guards had already begun to push forward, but their movements were stiff, as if they had finally realized the situation had escalated.
The few workers in the front row were still shouting, but the young people in the back were even more excited, holding up banners and inching toward the motorcade.
A bit further away, someone was holding a camera, the lens not aimed at the loudest shouters, but at the Saionji car and the Japanese guards who were blocking the assailants.
Sobchak's eyes grew cold for a moment.
He did not immediately order the area to be cleared.
A rough dispersal would turn the matter into "Sobchak suppressing workers for the sake of foreign plutocrats."
But if he allowed the crowd to continue surrounding the foreign guests' car, the matter would turn into "Sobchak unable to protect his own guests."
He had to stand in the middle.
Standing too far away would look like he was avoiding the foreign guests.
Standing too close would look like he was compromising with the crowd.
Chubais stood slightly behind the steps, his gaze sweeping through the crowd layer by layer.
In the very front row were the workers.
Their hands were frozen red, holding cardboard, their shouting disjointed; many did not even know where to look.
Further back were those few young people in black overcoats; they shouted the loudest and were the most willing to push forward.
Further back still, a few people never followed the slogans, only looking for angles.
Chubais's gaze lingered on those two cameras for a moment, then he turned his head and whispered a few instructions to the staff member beside him.
That staff member immediately circled to the side, taking two of the building's guards with him to block the angle for the photos being taken in the back row.
Sobchak continued walking forward.
He did not stand on the steps to speak, nor did he hide behind the guards.
He chose to stand between the motorcade and the crowd, very close to the workers—so close that the people in the front row could hear his voice without needing to shout.
The crowd noticed his arrival and turned their heads, one after another, to look at him.
"Comrade Petrov."
He suddenly called out the surname of that old worker in the front row.
The middle-aged man holding the cardboard was stunned, and the few workers beside him also quieted down.
Sobchak looked at him, then glanced at the cardboard he was holding.
"I know you. The assembly workshop of the Northern Shipbuilding System; the petition from your factory last year was delivered to the City Soviet by you leading the people."
Petrov's lips moved, but for a moment, he could not find a response.
The shouting around them died down by half.
Those nationalist youths were still shouting in the back, "Do not sell out Russia," but the workers in the very front row had already begun to hesitate.
Because Sobchak did not treat them as hooligans, nor did he treat them as obstacles to be driven away.
He had called out the name of one of them, which effectively pulled this chaos back from slogans to specific individuals.
"You are worried that the factory will be sold," Sobchak said. "Worried that wages will not be paid, worried that tomorrow someone will tell you that the machines are still there, the workshop is still there, but you are no longer needed."
Petrov's hand holding the cardboard tightened a little.
A young man in the back shouted:
"Then why did you let the Japanese come?"
Sobchak turned his head to look in that direction.
"Because hospitals need medicine, shops need food, ports need equipment, and factories need orders."
The young man still wanted to shout, but was glared at by a worker next to him.
Sobchak did not take the opportunity to raise his voice; instead, his speaking speed slowed down.
"If anyone tells you that someone here today is going to sell out Leningrad, that person is lying."
"No one can sell this city in front of the Winter Palace, and no one can cross you off from the factory on a piece of paper."
A few dissatisfied boos came from the crowd.
He did not stop.
"But if anyone tells you that as long as you close the doors, as long as you do not see foreigners, as long as you keep waiting for Moscow's allocations, the hospitals will have medicine, the shops will have meat, and wages will be paid on time, that is also a lie."
This sentence made the people in the front row completely quiet.
Because they knew it was true.
Sobchak raised his hand, pointing to the side door of the Winter Palace.
"Today is not the place to sign a contract to sell the city. Today we are talking about medicine, food, port warehouses, and city supplies."
"You do not have to believe me, but you should at least ask clearly: who wants you to drive the guests away before you have even heard the answer?"
He did not name anyone.
But this sentence was enough to make several types of people in the crowd glance at each other.
Petrov was still holding that piece of cardboard, but he did not move forward again.
The nationalist youths in the back still wanted to start shouting the slogans again; one of them had just taken a half-step forward when Soviet guards stepped in from the side, separating him from the workers in the front row.
At the same time, the building staff blocked the camera's position, so the lens could no longer capture the complete picture of "the foreign guests' motorcade being surrounded by the crowd."
The young man who had rushed toward the car door was still shouting.
After Fujita's men released him, the Soviet guards immediately took over, taking the person directly under the colonnade on the side.
The young man still wanted to struggle, but once he was away from the camera and the center of the crowd, his shouting was not as effective as it had been just a moment ago.
Sobchak looked at Petrov.
This time, he did not use a speech-like tone.
"Comrades, please stand to the outside of the steps."
"If you have a petition, go and hand it to the people from the City Soviet. This afternoon I will have my office register it."
Petrov stared at him for a while, and finally slowly lowered the cardboard.
After the workers in the front row retreated half a step, the crowd was no longer a wall.
Sobchak turned his head to signal the guards to clear a path.
The area in front of the motorcade finally cleared.
At this moment, Fujita turned his head again.
"My Lady."
Satsuki watched Sobchak.
He did not fully control this city.
But at least in front of the Winter Palace, he did not flee.
"Proceed."