AT THE END OF OUR INTERVIEW, I asked Lavrov what seemed to be a couple of throwaway questions about his biography, two softballs. Why had he decided to study an obscure language like Sinhala at the beginning of his diplomatic career? And why did he choose white-water rafting of all sports for his recreation?
The reaction was not what I expected. A flash of anger went across his composed face, and he stood up abruptly from his chair, switching from fluent English to Russian as he shouted across the table at Alexander Lukashevich, head of the Foreign Ministry's press service: Why didn't you tell me what time it is. It was not a question but a demand. To me, he said curtly, also in Russian: "No, I'm not doing that. I'm not answering these." He pulled his microphone off his jacket and started to leave -- then turned back briefly, shook my hand, and stalked out of the room without another word.
We were left alone in the threadbare splendor of his ministerial conference room, with its vaguely imperial yellow wallpaper and small oil paintings of pre-revolutionary Russia. The hallways on the seventh floor where Lavrov has his office are lined with fraying carpets and on the walls are portraits of all the Russian foreign ministers. Gorchakov is there with the rest of the tsarist officials and, on the other side of the corridor, the Soviets, starting with Trotsky and going on to Molotov, Gromyko, and the rest. Soon, I was told, the increasingly run-down skyscraper, built by prisoners after World War II as a sort of monument to Stalin's triumph, is scheduled to have a major renovation.
I asked Lukashevich why Lavrov had stayed on for so long as foreign minister, even re-upping for a new term when Putin returned to the presidency last year despite persistent rumors he would retire. At nine years and counting, he is by far the longest-serving of Russia's post-Soviet foreign ministers. "He's perfect," Lukashevich said simply. "He's the perfect man for the job."
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