Stroika

by Mark Blair

  ‘Go on,’ Yuri encouraged her.

  ‘Well, it was who he was with.’ She paused, almost frightened to say their names.

  ‘And… they were?’ Yuri prompted her.

  ‘Gerashchenko, Karzhov, Dubnikov and Vetrov.’

  Yuri frowned, puzzled. The deputy general secretary, KGB chairman, Soviet defence minister and the interior minister. There might be a hundred reasons why such a meeting might take place, but he couldn’t think of one offhand.

  ‘Did General Volkov see you?’

  ‘Yes… I could see he was startled at first… he could see that I thought it odd. He just said, “An emergency security meeting”. It just didn’t ring true. I know him. There isn’t a meeting in three years that I have not known about, not until that day, at least. When I got back to Berlin, I checked his desk diary. Under July 5 he had written in faint pencil the letters EC… I am not in the habit of checking on my commanding officers…’

  ‘No, I understand… please continue.’

  ‘Well, I flipped back through the diary and found two other ECs, a week or two apart and coinciding with his visits to general staff in Moscow. It’s just he’s never mentioned them…’ her voice trailed off. ‘And that’s it really. I’m sure there is a perfectly good reason…’

  ‘But you can’t think of one… and nor can I at this moment.’ Not one that sounded innocent at least. He could understand now the risk she was taking by seeing him. ‘And why did you bring this to my attention and not someone else.’

  ‘I’m not entirely sure myself… you seem to be doing the right thing… we do need to move on… and General Ghukov trusts you, and the general secretary.’

  Yuri was silent for a minute. He needed time to think on what she had said. Maybe there was an alternative explanation, a legitimate reason, but then why the secrecy and why the deputy secretary general and all those people in the same room? Yuri took a gulp of beer as the lieutenant waited patiently for him to respond.

  ‘Does General Volkov have any idea of your suspicions?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Clearly he knows I saw everyone at the Defence Ministry.’

  Volkov was no fool, though, thought Yuri. If there was something going on he would not want it leaking out. He wouldn’t want loose ends.

  ‘Have you noticed any sort of surveillance?’

  ‘No… I’m not sure… maybe, maybe it’s just paranoia creeping in.’ She smiled for the first time.

  ‘Well, you did the right thing, raising this with me. The safest course of action for you now is to carry on normally. Doing anything else is going to set alarm bells ringing… if something is going on.’

  Chapter 31

  Leningrad

  Misha looked down on the dark waters of the Bolshaya Neva as his small cavalcade crossed the Dvortsovy bridge and headed south onto Vasilyevsky Island in light traffic. Reflexively, he pulled the collar of his coat tight around his neck. Soon the islands would weld together in a vast seamless plane of white and grey. Ivan turned and looked at him and then glanced at the black Volgas tucked in close behind; the one to their front was already beginning to make a left turn.

  ‘I’m not expecting any trouble,’ said Ivan. He extracted his automatic and distractedly examined it before returning it to his shoulder holster.

  Misha thought back to the days of the red Zhiguli not that long ago, when he hadn’t bothered with protection. Life had been a lot simpler then, freer. He was a target now to kidnappers and criminal syndicates, not to mention the more straightforward entrepreneur who saw an opportunity to accelerate market share by bumping off the competition.

  A grand plan there had never been. He would have laughed at anyone who would have mentioned the strategy word. It was just an opportunistic progression and money made money. In the Soviet Union, he reflected, nothing belonged to anybody, not until now, and those that controlled enterprises and contracts had little compunction in virtually signing anything away, as long, of course, as there was something in it for them.

  The car in front dipped as it ran over a pothole, and they swerved slightly to avoid it. The cavalcade had picked up speed now, and there was no stopping for red lights. They ran two, horns blaring and headlights full beam, and took another sharp left and stopped. Four identical cars sat on the cobbled forecourt of the Academy Café; their occupants seemed barely to give them a second glance. Misha recognised Bazhukov in the nearest car.

  He climbed out of the car and looked across the water and to the Admiralty to the east. A gust of wind caught him.

  ‘You wait by the car,’ he told Ivan. ‘You can keep an eye on these guys.’

  The café was a large conservatory-like structure moored against the Neva’s edge, all glass and heavy metal beams. He pushed open the door and took the wrought-iron staircase to the first floor. Misha spotted Konstantin at a table set back from the bar, sipping a cup of something, enjoying a view of the river and the left bank.

  ‘I always like the view from here. Dramatic, don’t you think?’ Konstantin said when Misha sat down opposite. There was no shaking of hands or warm smiles. Misha thought back to when he had spoken to him last – a year ago, maybe longer? Konstantin looked slightly heavier than he remembered him but not necessarily the worse for it; traces of premature grey peppered his jet-black hair.

  ‘Thank you for coming.’ Konstantin waved at the barista standing at the bar well out of earshot. Misha wondered how many scenes like this the waiter had witnessed. A normal morning turns into a gangland meet.

  The barista took Misha’s order for a cappuccino, brought it to him and retreated out of range.

  ‘We can’t go on meeting like this,’ Misha said with an over-serious face and laughed.

  ‘Always the joker…’ Konstantin retorted nonplussed. ‘And how is Vika? She has moved into your offices on Morskaya.’

  ‘Well… makes more sense than her being stuck out by the airport.’

  ‘You impress me. I underestimated you… and Vika and your general friend, of course. You have not let the grass grow under your feet: fashion, freight, oil, and currency dealing… whatever next? Your success has far exceeded my initial expectations… Russian United Industries… R… U… I,’ he said slowly and deliberately.

  There was silence for a moment. Misha took a sip of his coffee.

  ‘You wanted to meet,’ he said, wondering where this conversation was going.

  ‘You are expanding and I am expanding. You move money; I need to move money… into offshore accounts. I understand you can do that.’

  ‘Getting nervous?’

  ‘Things might get a whole lot worse before they get better… or they might just get a whole lot worse.’

  ‘How much are we talking about?’

  ‘One hundred and twenty-five million dollars US to start…… Grand Cayman, BVI, Jersey, Cyprus.’

  It didn’t appear that the drugs business was suffering.

  ‘One per cent,’ Misha said.

  ‘That’s outrageous!’ flared Konstantin.

  ‘I’m quoting you an old-school discount; ask around, if you find someone who can do it for less, be my guest. I’m sure you’ve done your homework.’ Misha thought of the commissions and backhanders that Moika would have to pay; Russia was not a cheap place to do business. ‘You can always set up your own bank.’

  ‘I’ve got enough on my plate,’ he said coolly.

  Misha wrote down Grigory’s number on a napkin and handed it to him.

  ‘I’d also like to invest money here… in RUI.’

  It was Misha’s turn to be surprised; having one of Russia’s largest mafia bosses as a shareholder was unlikely to improve his corporate credentials either in the Soviet Union or abroad.

  ‘A small percentage to start… through an offshore holding, so you are not embarrassed.’

  ‘And why would I want to do
that, or my co-shareholders.’

  ‘Peace of mind, a good price. You know what it’s like out there – a jungle.’

  ‘And you’re “King of the Jungle”.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘I’m sure you can guess my answer.’

  ‘Why don’t you think about it? I wouldn’t want you rushing into any sudden decision… but don’t delay too long. Life’s too short.’

  Misha pushed back his chair and stood up to go. From his back pocket he peeled off a twenty dollar bill and threw it on the table. Konstantin remained seated and signalled the barista for another coffee.

  ‘It’s been good talking with you, Mikhail Dimitrivich.’

  Chapter 32

  Moscow

  Yuri didn’t go directly home after his staff meeting. He needed something to eat. Having dismissed his driver, Yuri flagged a lift from a passing motorist and gave him the route. As he sat there in the front seat, he contemplated his meeting with Lieutenant Biryukova the night before. She had taken a considerable risk in seeing him; he could have denounced her or even been part of the conspiracy himself – that is… if there were a conspiracy.

  The question was what to do? He could hardly blurt out his suspicions to Ghukov. He had no evidence, only the suspicions of a young woman. Volkov would just laugh it off, tell him he was being paranoid; weren’t their constant rumours of dissatisfaction in the army, possible coups? And even if he didn’t mention his source, Volkov was smart enough to figure it out. He didn’t fancy her chances if that were the case. Yuri needed someone he could bounce his thoughts off. The car turned off Dmitrovka onto Nastasyinskiy; a thought percolated up from his subconscious.

  ‘Stop here, please,’ he said.

  Yuri backtracked to Malaya Dmitrovka, took a left and walked up to the next main junction, before taking a right onto Degtyarny. He stopped outside an apartment building built seamlessly into a row of neoclassical nineteenth-century houses. Typed on a yellowing piece of card next to flat number five was the name Terentev. Yuri pressed the button. There was no response. Maybe Ilya was out. He turned up the collar of his coat against the sudden cold and peered into the small dimly lit lobby through a side window. The lift was directly ahead, three metres away, the floor indicator stuck on four. He looked at his watch: eight thirty; it was still relatively early. The indicator blinked.

  A young woman exited the lift and opened the door onto the street. She was smartly dressed and wore a neat red beret over shoulder-length hair. Yuri stood to one side, reached up and held the door open for her. She looked at him briefly and from her expression decided he was clearly not a vagabond.

  ‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘I have been trying to buzz a friend but there is no answer,’ he continued, trying to reassure her as she ducked under his arm.

  ‘It hasn’t been working for weeks,’ she replied, holding his eyes a little longer than necessary. If it had been another evening he might have even enquired her name or given her his card.

  ‘I’ll just go up,’ he said, and slipped past her as she turned onto the street.

  Yuri took the lift to the second floor and walked along the corridor until he found the number he was looking for. From inside Terentev’s apartment Shostakovich drifted onto the landing. Yuri knocked on the door. There was a pause. The visible light on the magic eye on the door went dark and the door swung open. Ilya Terentev stood there in an apron, a cooking spoon in his hand.

  ‘Like something to eat?’ he said, as though he had expected him. ‘I’m about ready to serve.’

  ‘As long as I’m not eating your rations.’

  The flat was small: a living room just large enough for a sofa, armchair and the dining room table. It was very different to his own apartment in the Arbat.

  Ilya shook his head. ‘Help yourself to a beer from the fridge.’

  ‘Water will be fine.’ He needed to keep a straight head.

  ‘What brings you here?’ asked Ilya, coming straight to the point. ‘One of your girlfriends giving you grief?’

  ‘No, just passing.’

  His friend looked at him. How long had he known Ilya? Ten years? More? They had met when they were both junior officers, and then again in Kabul. An easy friendship had developed, with serious conversation invariably gravitating towards women and ice hockey.

  ‘Passing Degtyarny?’ he said, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘Almost… anyway.’

  Ilya didn’t push him further. He sat down and Ilya served him fish with potato and cabbage and black bread on the side.

  ‘Tuck in!’

  Yuri was more ravenous than he thought.

  ‘This is good, Ilya. Where is Anna tonight?’

  ‘Out at a friend’s. I’ve been left to my own devices.’

  Yuri looked at a photo of Ilya and his wife Anna on the dresser looking radiantly happy. He stared at it for a few seconds, gathering his thoughts, thinking how to approach the subject he wanted to discuss without endangering either his friend or informant.

  It was Ilya who provided the cue.

  ‘How’s the reorganisation going?’ Ilya was used to him letting off steam over his frustrations with the district generals.

  Yuri nodded and took a bite of black bread.

  ‘Volkov… he’s not a happy man. He’s against us pulling out of Eastern Europe, even discussing it with the Americans.’

  ‘There are plenty of people I’m sure would support him if it were common knowledge. The general secretary is taking a risk.’

  Yuri nodded, wiping the bread around his plate, mopping up the fish broth.

  ‘Volkov has backed down for now, but I don’t know for how long… maybe he is just biding his time.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘I don’t know… a new general secretary?’

  ‘You mean a coup?’ It was more a rhetorical statement than a question. Yuri shrugged. His friend continued. ‘Personally I think all this rumour-mongering is just the same old state paranoia that not so long ago led to purges and arrests. Look… the KGB would be the first to pick up on anything.’

  ‘You may be right. It’s just there have been some high-level meetings taking place between the military, KGB and senior government figures.’

  Ilya didn’t respond.

  ‘And Karzhov?’ Yuri said, leaving his name hanging in the air. It was Ilya’s time to shrug.

  ‘Our new chief? Not much to say… met him at a directorate meeting. Old KGB, bit of a closed book, as you might expect.’

  ‘This is good, Ilya,’ he said, downing his last piece of bread.

  ‘I don’t suppose you get much home cooking.’

  Yuri laughed and shook his head.

  ‘I also think I’m being followed.’

  His friend’s face took on a serious expression. He was silent for a moment.

  ‘I’ll tell you what. I’ll make some discrete enquires, see if I can come up with anything.’

  Yuri took his leave just after ten and caught a lift back to within a couple of blocks of his apartment. Making a wide circle around his building, he came out on the street in front of the main entrance, on the pavement opposite, a hundred or so metres down, and stopped. His eyes searched for the tail he’d had this morning. The street was empty. Reassured but still cautious, he made his way round to the secret exit he had left by and took the emergency stairwell back to the first floor and the lift to the seventh.

  He entered his apartment and switched on the light. There was a sound from down the hallway. Yuri reached for his automatic hanging discretely behind his coats on the wall rack. Silently, he slid back the safety catch and rebalanced the grip in his hand.

  The door giving onto the living room was open, the room in darkness. His free hand reached for the switch and rotated the dimmer switch. There was a sudden movement from the sofa. He swu
ng round to meet it as his finger took first pressure, ready to loose two rounds. Svetlana lay there in a short dress and heels.

  ‘Don’t shoot!’ she said, over-dramatically raising her hands above her head in mock surrender.

  ‘Fuck, Svetlana… I could have killed you…’

  September 1989

  Chapter 33

  Leningrad

  Misha looked around the vault. Viktoriya stood next to Grigory, who was idly weighing up wads of dollar bills in his hands before placing them back where he had found them.

  ‘Did we get the last of Kostya’s money,’ Misha asked Grigory.

  ‘Over two hundred million US. He seems in a hell of a hurry.’

  ‘That’s way up on what he told me,’ Misha said, frowning.

  Misha cast a glance in Viktoriya’s direction as if she might be able to throw some light on Kostya’s extra millions. It was odd. She guessed Moika was not the only bank Kostya was pushing his money through and Misha would definitely not have been his first choice. Why the rush now? There was less chance of it being noticed by the authorities if it were drip fed.

  The wall phone rang and Grigory picked it up.

  ‘Ivan on the phone.’

  They had been waiting for news on Roslavi. Ivan had joined Major Gaidar’s brigade and entered the plant at first light. They had little idea what to expect, only Federov’s hazy report.

  ‘Put him on speaker,’ said Misha.

  ‘We have the plant under control, but they were waiting for us, someone must have tipped them off… a heavily armed local gang, maybe fifty, ex-army I suspect, ten dead, four of ours.’

  It was almost useless speculating who had leaked their arrival, thought Viktoriya, but they did need to improve their own intelligence about such matters.

  ‘And the plant director?’

  ‘Not very cooperative, at first… he’s onside now. If he gives us any trouble he’ll be out and he knows it. Vika, you can send in your tankers in forty-eight hours, but it’ll take time to get back to half-decent production levels. The place is a mess.’