Reborn in Tokyo: From Heiress to Global Tycoon

Chapter 373 Before the Winter Palace

Chizuru had already gotten out of the car and stood to the side of Satsuki's car door, her gaze passing over the crowd and landing on a man further back.

The man, holding a camera, changed positions twice, each time avoiding the angle before the young man rushed out, only focusing the lens on the moment he was suppressed.

"Young Miss," Chizuru said in a low voice, "the person taking the photos is in the back row."

"I saw it."

Satsuki neither got out of the carriage nor ordered anyone to retaliate immediately.

She looked at the Soviet guards.

They finally began to move 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 that they had been seen.

This is not an assassination.

It's 1990 now, not 1991. The Soviet Union wouldn't allow a foreign guest to be assassinated in front of the Winter Palace.

Assassinations don't involve carrying ink, banners, or finding good angles for photos.

This is a humiliation.

An attempt to forcibly bind the Saionji family, Sobchak, foreign capital, and the sale of Leningrad together.

Fujita turned around.

"Young Miss, should we evacuate?"

Amy was already clutching Satsuki's sleeve, her face pale, but she didn't cry out.

Shuichi's hand was still blocking her way. She gently pressed her father's wrist, making him lower it.

Satsuki looked at the black ink on the car window, and after a while said:

"wait."

Fujita did not press the matter further.

The car quieted down, making the sounds outside even clearer.

Workers were shouting slogans about their factory, young people were shouting slogans about Russia, and people in the back row continued to take pictures.

Satsuki even saw an older worker who wasn't near the car door, but just standing at the edge of the crowd, holding up a piece of cardboard.

That person wasn't there to act.

He was genuinely scared.

I'm afraid that even my current life won't be sustainable.

Someone is exploiting these people's fears.

……

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 hadn't even had time to straighten it when he left.

The staff members following behind him were visibly flustered, some of them turning back to whisper to the museum guards as they walked, as if they hadn't yet figured out what had just happened.

Chubais stood a little further away, not in a hurry to go forward. His gaze first swept over the crowd, then fell on the foreign VIP car stained black with ink, and his brow twitched almost imperceptibly.

Sobchak reacted faster than they did.

He first looked at Saionji's car, checking the windows, doors, guard positions, and whether the main vehicle's doors had been opened.

For a moment, his face darkened noticeably, but he quickly suppressed it.

The foreign guests did not get off the bus.

There were black marks on the car window.

The crowd was still shouting.

These three things are bad enough.

This group of people were simultaneously afraid of not having enough bread and trying to drive away anyone who could bring bread.

A staff member next to him took a half step closer, seemingly wanting to say something. Sobchak didn't listen to the end, but simply raised his hand to stop the other person, then pressed his glove into his palm, as if using this action to suppress his emotions as well.

He must not appear flustered.

If he panics, the guards will become chaotic, the crowd will become more excited, and Saionji will immediately realize that Leninger couldn't even control the situation in front of the Winter Palace.

But he also couldn't appear indifferent.

The people in that car weren't ordinary tourists. It was an external channel he had just secured, a channel for medical supplies, food supplies, port equipment, bank credit, and the possibility of future cooperation.

If they are frightened and leave here, tomorrow all of Leningrad will know that the Japanese are not unwilling to cooperate, but that Anatoly Sobchak cannot even defend his own doorstep.

He looked at the crowd.

The guards had begun to advance, but their movements were stiff, as if they had finally realized that things had gotten out of hand.

The workers in the front row were still shouting, but the young people in the back were even more excited, holding up banners and squeezing their way toward the convoy.

Further away, someone was holding a camera, but the lens wasn't pointed at the person shouting the loudest; instead, it was pointed at Saionji's car and the Japanese guards who were trying to stop the ramming man.

Sobchak's eyes turned cold for a moment.

He did not immediately order the area to be cleared.

A brutal dispersal would make it look like "Sobchak is suppressing workers for foreign tycoons."

However, if the crowd is allowed to continue surrounding the foreign guests' vehicle, the situation will become one where "Sobchak is unable to protect his guests."

He had to stand in the middle.

Standing too far away makes it look like you're avoiding foreign guests.

Standing too close to the crowd is like yielding to them.

Chubais stood a little behind the steps, his gaze sweeping through the crowd layer by layer.

The workers were in the front row. Their hands were red from the cold, they held up cardboard, their shouts were not in unison, and many of them didn't even know who to look at.

Further back were a few young men in black coats; they were the loudest and most eager to push forward. Further back, a few people didn't join in the chanting; they were simply looking for angles.

Chubais's gaze lingered on the two cameras for a moment, then he turned to the staff member beside him and whispered a few words.

The staff member immediately moved to the side, accompanied by two museum guards, to block the angle from which the back row could take photos.

Sobchak continued walking forward.

He didn't stand on the steps to speak, nor did he hide behind the guards. He chose to stand between the convoy and the crowd, close enough that those in the front row could hear him without having to shout.

The crowd noticed his arrival and turned to look at him.

"Comrade Petrov."

He suddenly called out the surname of the old worker in the front row.

The middle-aged man holding the cardboard paused for a moment, and the workers next to him also fell silent.

Sobchak looked at him, then glanced at the cardboard he was holding.

"I know you. You're from the assembly workshop of the Northern Shipbuilding System. Last year, you led people to deliver the petition from your factory to the Municipal Soviet."

Petrov's lips moved, but he didn't respond for a moment.

The shouts around them subsided.

Those nationalist youths were still shouting "Don't betray Russia!" from behind, but the workers in the front row had already begun to hesitate.

Because Sobchak didn't see them as thugs, nor as obstacles to be driven away. By calling out one of their names, he brought the chaos back from slogans to concrete individuals.

"You're worried the factory will be sold," Sobchak said. "You're worried about not getting paid, worried that tomorrow someone will tell you the machines are still there, the workshops are still there, but you're no longer needed."

Petrov tightened his grip on the cardboard.

A young man shouted from behind:

"Then why did you send the Japanese?"

Sobchak turned his head and glanced in that direction.

"Because hospitals need medicine, shops need food, ports need equipment, and factories need orders."

The young man was about to shout again when a worker next to him turned around and glared at him.

Sobchak did not take the opportunity to raise his voice; instead, he slowed down his speech.

"If anyone tells you that someone here is going to sell Leningrad today, that person is lying."

"No one can sell this city in front of the Winter Palace, and no one can cross you out of the factory on a piece of paper."

A few disgruntled hisses came from the crowd.

He didn't stop.

"But if someone tells you that as long as you close the door, as long as you don't see foreigners, as long as you keep waiting for Moscow to allocate funds, the hospital will have medicine, the store will have meat, and your wages will be paid on time, that's a lie."

This sentence silenced the people in the front row completely.

Because they know it's true.

Sobchak raised his hand and pointed to the side door of the Winter Palace.

"This is not the place to sign the city's deed today. Today we are discussing medicine, food, port warehouses, and city supplies."

"You may not believe me, but you should at least ask clearly who wants you to kick out the guests before you even hear the answer."

He did not name names.

But that one sentence was enough to make several types of people in the crowd exchange glances.

Petrov still held the cardboard, but didn't move any further.

The nationalist youths behind them wanted to start chanting slogans again, but as soon as one of them took half a step, Soviet guards cut in from the side and separated him from the workers in front.

At the same time, staff blocked the camera's position, preventing the lens from capturing the complete scene of "foreign guests' motorcade being surrounded by the crowd".

The young man who rushed towards the car door was still shouting.

After Fujita's men released him, the Soviet guards immediately took over and led him directly to the side colonnade.

The young man tried to struggle, but once he was out of the camera's view and the center of the crowd, his shouts were no longer as effective.

Sobchak looked at Petrov.

This time, he did not use a speech-like tone.

"Comrades, please stand on the outside of the steps."

"If you have a petition, take it to the people at the city Soviet. I will have the office register it this afternoon."

Petrov stared at him for a while, then slowly lowered the cardboard.

After the workers in the front row took half a step back, the crowd was no longer a wall.

Sobchak turned and gestured to the guards to make way.

The area in front of the convoy was finally clear.

At that moment, Fujita turned around again.

"Young Miss".

Satsuki looked at Sobchak.

He did not have complete control over the city.

But at least he didn't run away at the gates of the Winter Palace.

"Enter."