The whole family had turned out to meet me: mother, father, grandparents, four brothers and two sisters, together with uncles and aunts, nephews and nieces. I would struggle to remember so many faces let alone names – with the exception of Anatoly’s uncle, Alexander Markoff, a name I had in my top three to report on if I heard anything of him or by chance saw him in Moscow. He had also just returned from London on business. Alexander was KGB (FSB in new money). I didn’t speak to him, I played the part and enjoyed the evening, deliberately trying to stay with Anatoly, laughing, drinking, playing cards and chess. However, Evgeny, Alex’s son, was absolutely glued to me everywhere I went in the room. Alex and Evgeny were, to all intended purposes, like brothers because the family often looked after Evgeny when Alex was busy with work, which was almost all the time. I knew what I had stumbled into but the gravity of this encounter and the intel I would extract would not be fully realised until 1992 and the Bosnian conflict and later again in the Middle East.
Don’t be mistaken in thinking Anatoly and his family lived in a mansion. On the contrary, the apartment boasted only four rooms. The main room was a quite a large living room/diner with a small kitchenette in the corner of the room; it had obviously been part of a bigger home as it was a huge room that accommodated three settees, a piano and various other antique-like furniture. There were three large floor-to-ceiling arched windows that opened onto the balcony, encased in thick blackout curtains that had survived many occupations of the building. This was the heart of the apartment, where everyone gathered, ate, sang, spoke, read to each other and shared life. It was always kept warm by an open fire which was the only heat source. There was a small bathroom and two bedrooms which led away from the main room, one of which always reverted to an office during the day and was often used for meetings. Everyone slept together in the other bedroom, which could be up to eight of us, with Anatoly’s parents taking sole occupancy of the second bedroom or office. I think at the time this was good living, and I enjoyed the whole family thing immensely.
The building itself was of a grander era most certainly. I think all the apartments had once been part of a very grand Moscow residence now divided up, with some of the apartments offering a glimpse back into grander days. We were soon ushered back downstairs to the ground floor where food had been laid out ostentatiously in what can only be described as a huge reception room, like an old ballroom or hall. The banquet was fabulous, and the room was significantly warmer with huge fires at the far end and two further fires mirroring each other in the central area slowly radiating heat that was melting the ice sculptures the children had made from outside. Huge windows looked out onto the street, framed in the heaviest of rich red curtains, all illuminated by chandeliers that were simply the most impressive constellation like chandeliers hanging from the beautifully painted ceiling.
However grand it felt that first night, the daylight later revealed just how worn and tired the place actually was. I think the hall was seldom used, maybe only for special occasions, official party meetings or drink receptions, when it was required in order to impress or show where the family sat in society. But for that first night it felt like a grand ball that had been arranged for the Tsar himself. I think all the buildings’ occupants made a visit to the party and partook of the festivities, or possibly just took advantage of the free food and drink. It was like a very warm family gathering on the grandest of scales and the warmest of welcomes anyone could possibly have hoped for. It made for an easy first night away from home, the navy and all the suffocation of the recent training and conditioning supplied by the Steering Group. It was like being released back into the wild and I felt completely free of all the bullshit and able to actually relax. I do confess, I remember thinking I’d just enjoy the uni course and ignore all the other shit as if it wasn’t what I was being paid for and have nearly two years of fun – who was to know anyway? I don’t think there was much expectation that I would have any success on this first solo mission. I was of the mind that the whole thing would just be some sort of confidence test or lesser assignment.
Anatoly’s father had been a former party member in the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, or CPSU. This was before the time of Yeltsin and all the reforms that would soon follow in the early 1990s. At the time I knew him, he remained a close friend of the party and those who served in the Kremlin’s inner circles of the Central Committee and former politburo – all good communists, but supporters who were leading a directional change that led to Mikhail Gorbachev entering into talks with the US. There were many visits to the Kremlin Senate Building and the Lubyanka, which I documented and reported on, not just by Erik (Anatoly’s father), Alex and other Russians but by our friends from the Middle East, Jordan, Syria and Iraq and many characters from the Balkans. There were, on occasions, visits to the apartment and meetings held in the office in the apartment that were easily eavesdropped upon and that usually involved some heavy drinking that sometimes spilled out into the living area. My list of interesting persons grew exponentially as each month passed and visitors came and went, but mostly they were insignificant or had become just too drunk to be of any coherent interest to me or my controller.
I had a really great routine in Moscow that allowed me to enjoy my time as a student and live amongst an incredibly interesting Russian family. There was time for fun and good living, sightseeing, and all manner of tourist attractions were visited and photographed in detail. Special focus and attention to detail was given to the background to those photographs and the people in the background, the best ploy being simply to get other tourists or Anatoly to take photographs of me at appropriate times and at different angles. It wasn’t complex at first, but sometimes I had my film ripped out of my camera by local guards as I pushed the boundaries too hard. No digital cameras back then! It meant a continual repeat of attempts to capture the right photos of the right people or groups of people together in the right places. I always remembered my dad saying do it as if you were meant to be there, and that was what I was doing. The building of a jigsaw of characters, places, meetings and timings was slowly assembled, and this raw intel would need to be digested and sifted to give focus and meaning back in the UK. I was working semi-blind with little objective other than my bottom-line directive, which was to observe and seek out certain people and places, which was a little frustrating and too obtuse for me to draw any real substance from.
This was to change after my first leave period in the UK which saw the operation gather pace and focus. Returning to the UK for Easter, summer and Christmas holidays made for some interesting turnarounds – Aeroflot flight to London, met and immediately transferred to Brize and then taken for debrief, sometimes in Cheltenham at the doughnut and sometimes at the training site in Wales. Easter was spent entirely in debrief with no leave, going over every detail of every photograph and every person I had met or observed. It was exhausting. After my first long summer leave I had to meet the wider support team in the zoo, a name that had come to me – slang for the Welsh facilities – before conducting the return journey. Intel had my contacts, Erik Pavlovich, Anatoly’s father, and Alex Markoff, linked to increased Soviet arms trades to the Balkans via the Middle East utilising funds originating from Saudi Arabia and the UK hidden by other trade deals from an unknown source, that source quickly identified by my intel as Alexander. It was suspected he was also supporting a movement against Muslims in Yugoslavia and managing the trade of munitions through various countries to support a possible war in the Balkans.
My directive was to make the link between Alexander, the Middle East and Yugoslavia. The start of the collapse of communism in the Soviet Union was giving rise to a worsening situation in Yugoslavia. As communism in Yugoslavia began to disintegrate, Yugoslavia began over the coming years to break into religiously nationalistic regions, of which the most prominent were Croatia and Serbia. The Steering Group wanted direct intel from Russia as to who was supporting the communists in Serbia or Kosovo and any contacts r
elating to Slobodan Milosevic, Radovan Karadzic or any other unidentified source. I headed back to Moscow feeling quite serious and for the first time not exactly looking forward to getting back. Shit was getting very real now and the pantomime needed to be rehearsed and become theatre worthy.
I arrived home in Moscow and set about rebuilding my relationships within the family and set myself goals for the next full term at university. I slipped back into a routine of school, observation, study and socialising. I decided to confide in Anatoly’s mother and used several paper-clip half-truths – that I was stressed at the prospect of sitting my final exams later that year in England and the cost of my education. She received me, well, like a mother; she always sat on the outside of all things non-domestic, and I think she was secretly pleased that I had sought her counsel. I laboured weekly on these issues through gaining her support and trust, looking to draw her in with the ‘son in need’ paperclip, a young man faced with much expectation, pressure and study; I think she took me under her wing as a second son next to Anatoly. The pressure wasn’t hard to fake as I was feeling it, not only from making the university assignments on time but also the needs of the Steering Group were now very real.
Natalia was very elegant, with long thin black hair, and was always well presented. She always wore pink, and looked very attractive in her grey furs and pink scarfs whenever she left the apartment. Natalia decided she would assist me further in my studies and we secretly used Erik’s office (their bedroom) during the day whenever he was away so that we had some peace and quiet. It was interesting as the office was arranged so it could be converted back into a bedroom very easily, and the furniture was surprisingly quite modern. There were many fascinating pictures on the walls of all the family and some more interesting pictures of Erik with various officials attending functions and conferences. I was caught looking deeply at a photograph of Erik and Alex hunting together. It was quickly taken from me and placed back on the wall. They were better days I was informed.
Alex was a frequent visitor to the apartment and I really needed to make contact or connect with him in some way, and the picture was my way in. I think he scared me a little at first, he was the real deal after all, a KGB operative working across all the lines and into the UK working well as a businessman, and he had a keen interest in construction, apartment blocks in London, football clubs and stadiums and anything financial or technical. He loved spending time with Anatoly who was now pursuing engineering and scientific studies at both the National Research Nuclear University MEPhI and the Bauman University, the oldest and most prestigious in Russia where Anatoly was enrolled in one of the military sub departments. My limited engineering knowledge was truly exposed during such technical discussions at night which covered everything from nuclear medicine applications to enhanced applications for chemical defence and all manner of things that were nuclear related. I needed to become more able to engage during such conversations to better understand Alex’s interests here.
It was during one very cold evening, when Anatoly and I were both studying together in the living room in front of the fire, when it was announced that Alex would be coming over for dinner with all the family. Natalia prepared a banquet from nothing as usual, and there was a great atmosphere building in anticipation of the gathering. It was especially fun when Evgeny, Anatoly and I were together because it was like we were brothers, and both Erik and Alex found amusement in how well us three young men got along together. I think I felt closer to Evgeny and Anatoly than my very own brothers at that time. Although very cold outside the family made for a very warm evening in every respect when such gatherings were arranged. We all sat around the table talking freely about our days and weeks at work or school, our struggles and our highlights and lowlights since the last time we had gathered. We ate well: salads, which were very rare, lots of black bread, beef and potatoes, all slow cooked and without doubt very delicious. It was always washed down with what seemed like gallons of Kvass, a very low-strength alcoholic drink made from rye bread I think, but always followed by too much vodka. The dishes were passed around and everyone glowed with warmth towards each other. It was quite amazing to feel part of this family, and after a year with them here in Moscow I felt right at home. I mean really at home.
Later after one such meal, Erik and Alex invited us all for a vodka in the office, usually reserved for special occasions or private meetings: Nostrovia! – a toast to the family after a great meal. All the men took the vodka in one hit, big smiles and handshakes. I took the opportunity to point out the photo of Alex and Erik hunting.
“Ahhhhhhh…” said Alex, and took the picture from the wall and sat us all down to tell a story. “Let me tell you of friendship and the party,” he said.
I remember this story because it was like he knew – he didn’t of course but it felt like he knew who I really was, the real Andrew looking for a place in the world. The story touched my heart; he told it passionately, with feeling and depth, and after each paragraph he paused and looked deeply into Erik’s eyes and the photograph.
We all sat around in the dimly lit room fixed upon his every word.
“Once upon a time, there was a pack of wolves that lived in the deepest darkest woods of Siberia. Their leader was very old. One day, when the pack was going out hunting, the leader told the young pack he was not capable of leading them. A young strong wolf approached the leader and asked him to allow him to lead the pack on this hunt. The old wolf agreed, and the pack went out to seek food.
“In a day the wolves returned with prey. The young wolf told the leader that they had attacked the seven hunters and easily killed the men. The pack ate well.
“Soon the time came for the pack to go hunting again, and the young wolf took the lead as before with the blessing of the older wolf. The wolves did not return for a long time, and then the wounded young wolf came home alone. He told the leader that the pack attacked the three men and only one young wolf survived.
“The old wolf exclaimed in surprise, ‘But during the first hunt you killed the seven hunters, and they did you no harm!’
“The young wolf replied, ‘There were seven hunters at our first hunt, but this time there were three best friends.’”
Alex looked at us boys, stood up and held up his glass, paused then loudly declared, “To three best friends!” A toast to Evgeny, Anatoly and me.
Absolute honour and pride were in everyone’s eyes. I hugged Anatoly and Evgeny and we laughed uncontrollably together in the joy of the moment. We drank some more and asked to hear more stories of the hunt in the photograph, and who their third friend was. We heard great tales of older days and family gatherings in the forests that were not so far outside Moscow, of the family cabin that still stood but unvisited for so long, of second- and third-hand stories of the great wars from past ancestors. We heard stories from long ago all spoken with a deep desire to live the older times again in honour and glory. We drank too much but, before those lights went out, we stood in a circle, saluted the party and promised to go hunting before winter, visit the family cabin and be like a family of wolves. We all slept together in the bedroom that night under handmade Russian patch quilts, with the door ajar to gain some heat from the fire. As I was about to close my eyes I looked at Anatoly, whose face was glowing from the flickering light of the fire, and said, “Goodnight, my wolf.” He smiled and howled out loud like a wolf; loud laughing could be heard from each and every one of us. I closed my eyes and wondered who Alex’s third wolf was.
Time passed slowly for a while as everyone went about their daily and weekly routines. Breakfast, rush to the university, photographs along the way, detours to pass the right places and seek those on my list. Nothing new, endless monotony, some homesickness as things felt a bit bleak, attend lectures, do assignments, travel home, dinner, sit in front of the fire and try to keep warm. The Russian way of life seemed quite slow and almost sad. It was an endless battle to make ends meet and just keep warm. However, I think it was my rel
ationship with the family, and in particular my time spent alone with Anatoly, that kept me truly warm. I had so many long periods where I simply didn’t do anything other than be a friend and son to the family. I think it’s a very special part of being in intelligence as you’ve just got to get on with being who you’re pretending to be for extended periods. I was actually enjoying the whole experience as though I was with real extended family members, like distant cousins or uncles.
There were very few things to look forward to except being together, which looking back wasn’t such a bad thing. To be alone is death, and the Russian ethos simply revolved around family. I kept the discipline to keep on point, remembering the reasons for my placement. I spent endless time and effort seeking new friends and new acquaintances through uni and those who attended the apartment. My quest was always to be looking for a reason to get closer to anyone political or in the military who may unveil a path to the list. My searching usually ended in dead ends, drinking tea in an apartment block full of freezing young Russians just seeking to hear my stories of England. Some of those I met were nothing short of living in poverty. However, I enjoyed the time I spent with ordinary Russians who would give you anything and were so very grounded in everything they did. Moscow can be a lonely place and its buildings can be like heavy clouds that block the sun’s rays, stopping you from seeing anything remotely positive, the way ahead or what good things the future may bring.
The Steering Group Page 14