Yevgeny Prigozhin did not have long to work out who had killed him. But he had long enough. He must have twigged.
It can’t have been more than a few seconds between the explosion aboard the otherwise reliable Embraer Legacy 600 executive jet, and the moment the Russian thug blacked out in his vertiginous acceleration to earth; and yet in that instant I am certain that he knew with perfect clarity what had happened.
He knew whose hidden hand was sending him 28,000 ft down, to be immolated with the rest of his Wagner group companions in a fireball in the countryside of the Tver region north of Moscow — and then on downwards, of course, for the shade of Prigozhin: down, down to Hades and the Tartarean pit below.
He understood what was going on because for the past few weeks he must, at the back of his mind, have been expecting it to happen — either that or something very like it.
Prigozhin knew whodunnit, and so do we all, don’t we?
Yevgeny Prigozhin did not have long to…
