Among his family and friends, Boris was affectionately nicknamed “the Bear,” Standing six feet four inches tall and weighing slightly more than 340 pounds, Boris’s resemblance to the animal was quite apparent. A layer of thick, curly brown hair that covered much of his body helped to further the illusion. As did his small, piercing black eyes. Bronsky looked the part of his namesake.

However, according to those who loved him, the title came from Boris’s gruff but friendly nature. To his fellow Russians, bears were creatures of the circus—huge, powerful animals without the least bit of meanness in their souls. Bears played with huge balls and buffeted clowns and suffered the most outrageous practical jokes with a seemingly unlimited amount of patience. It was Bronsky’s gentleness that earned him the nickname “the Bear.”

It was a measure of Boris’s skill at keeping his personal and professional lives distinct entities that none of his family knew his other nickname, the one whispered behind his back by his lackeys in the Kremlin. It was a title bestowed in fear, never written down, and known only to a very few. To those in power, Boris Bronsky was “the Permanent Solution.”

Elimination of the enemies of the state was Boris’s specialty. He was the final resort, the last protocol. Only after the secret police and the KGB had tried and failed was Boris summoned. His was a talent used sparingly and with great deliberation. For once unleashed, Boris Bronsky was relentless, unyielding, unstoppable. No one escaped “the Permanent Solution.”

He was, in a sense, one of the last Soviet institutions. In a time of one incredible change after another throughout Russia, he remained a solitary, steadfast, unmoving rock. Sixty-three missions of extermination had been assigned to Boris Bronsky. Of them, sixty-three had ended in the termination of the victim or victims. No one could explain his success. Or dared question his methods. They knew only that Boris never failed. Never.