Stroika

by Mark Blair

  ‘He’s safer here,’ Viktoriya responded. Morskaya was more defensible than the security sieve that was the Mariinsky. There was only one main exit. And that exit was well fortified.

  ‘He needs round-the-clock care. I can organise that for you,’ said the doctor, making a note of things his patient might need.

  ‘He is not to want for anything, you understand me?’

  Grigory handed the doctor a brick of US dollars from the vault. ‘Let me know if you need more.’

  The doctor looked at the money, dumbfounded. Viktoriya doubted he had ever seen so much.

  ‘One more thing,’ said the doctor. ‘Have someone read to him. A TV might be useful too. Stimulate the brain. Snap him out of his coma.’

  ‘So what do we do now?’ asked Grigory when the doctor had gone.

  ‘We reinforce Morskaya. We have to assume Kostya will try again. Ivan has already contacted Roslavi.’

  ‘And Moscow?’

  ‘Who knows? There’s not much we can do about it. Still no word from Yuri?’

  Grigory shook his head and listed off the names of local political figures that had disappeared.

  ‘Maybe it is “The End”, the clocks are about to go back. It looks like Yuri is somehow caught up in it. I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to take the next plane out, Grigory. Wait it out. If it wasn’t for Misha, I’d certainly think about it.’

  To her surprise, Grigory shook his head.

  ‘No, it’s fine. Besides, someone’s got to look after the bank. We’re still trading.’

  Viktoriya gave Grigory a hug.

  What had happened to Yuri? she wondered when Grigory had walked out of Misha’s makeshift ward. Wouldn’t he have tried to contact her by now if he could, or had he been disappeared, like those on the list of names Grigory had reeled off? She felt exposed. RUI needed a much stronger political base. Yesterday’s had simply evaporated. The oil minister, Federov – in all the chaos she had forgotten about him.

  She walked into Misha’s office and picked up the phone.

  ‘Alina, please put Stephan Federov on the line.’ Viktoriya sat back in Misha’s chair and wondered whether it would be Federov who took the call or whether he was part of the cull. She was relieved to hear his voice.

  ‘Comrade Federov, I understand from the news bulletin that the deputy secretary general has assumed the post of acting secretary general.’ She was conscious that Federov’s line might be tapped.

  ‘Yes, that’s correct. We are all hoping for the general secretary’s swift recovery,’ he replied. ‘I spoke with the deputy secretary this morning and he has assured me that this is hopefully only a temporary measure.’

  Viktoriya guessed that Federov was repeating this with closet irony. This was going to be anything but temporary.

  ‘He also assured me that there is to be no immediate change in oil policy.’

  No interruption to oil deliveries from Roslavi, interpreted Viktoriya.

  ‘I also have some bad news… Someone tried to kill Mikhail Dimitrivich yesterday.’

  Federov seemed genuinely shocked.

  ‘Who will be running RUI now?’ he asked, concern in his voice.

  ‘I will,’ she reassured him; he would still get his cut. ‘It’s all legal. I am a major shareholder and the shareholder agreement provides for such an eventuality.’ She had few illusions about Federov. Power and money talked. He wouldn’t lose a minute’s sleep if he were made a better offer elsewhere.

  ‘And General Marov?’ she continued.

  There was silence.

  ‘There is a warrant out for his arrest.’

  ‘But they haven’t caught him yet?’

  ‘Not that I know. Last seen in Cherepovets. Beyond that, I really can’t say.’

  She put down the phone and wondered how long Federov would give her the benefit of the doubt, with her partners and allies fast disappearing. Maybe he had already made up his mind to shift his allegiance.

  Ivan walked into the room.

  ‘That was Maxim on the phone. The military have impounded two of our oil tankers at the border. Direct order from the new military boss in Moscow apparently.’ He looked down at his notes. ‘General… Volkov.’

  Chapter 53

  Near Kalinin

  ‘How far are we from Kalinin?’

  Yuri was concentrating on the road, trying not to oversteer with Derevenko next to him, the two airmen in the back and the owner of the car between them.

  ‘Twenty kilometres,’ said the captain.

  ‘We are going to pass close by Migalovo.’

  Yuri nodded. Migalovo was the largest military air force base in Russia, home to giant AN-22s and IL-76s. If there was a general state of mobilisation, Migalovo would be the pulse.

  ‘Let’s see what’s going on.’

  ‘The place will be crawling with military,’ Derevenko protested.

  ‘It’s east of Kalinin a couple of kilometres across the river; we can make a short detour.’

  ‘You’re the general,’ said Derevenko, capitulating.

  Derevenko would be as wanted as him now, all of them, thought Yuri, glancing in his mirror. They had thrown their lot in with him, on the unreasonable assumption that he could actually do something, somehow to turn the tide.

  ***

  The outskirts of Kalinin reminded Yuri of the grim sixties’ construction around Moscow. Prefabricated apartment buildings bumped into wide boulevards and elegant houses from another era.

  Options, options? He racked his brain for an answer.

  Yuri turned into a side street and stopped.

  ‘Stephan, do you mind taking our guest out onto the pavement. With your permission, Captain,’ Yuri continued when their passenger was out of earshot. ‘I would like Anatoly to do something for me.’ There was no way he could order anyone to do anything, not anymore. He looked at Anatoly’s questioning face in the mirror and turned round to face him.

  ‘I have absolutely no idea how this whole thing is going to play out, but I want you to take the train north to Leningrad, find a Viktoriya Kayakova or a Mikhail Revnik at RUI. They are business associates… and friends. I want you to tell them that I am alive and kicking but I need some support. Ask them to despatch two squads from Roslavi to the Leningrad Freight yard in Moscow and wait. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, General.’

  Apart from this aircrew, Yuri reflected with some irony that the only soldiers he could rely on at this moment were mercenaries, albeit Russian. He might not have a plan, but he knew from experience that opportunity was useless without the means.

  ‘And one more thing,’ it came to him, ‘give them the name of Colonel Ilya Terentev. He lives on Degtyarny. He’s an old friend – KGB – but I trust him with my life. If they need help he’d be a good place to start.’

  Yuri looked at his watch; it was only nine in the morning.

  ‘You can be there inside three hours by train.’ The soldiers could be in Moscow around midnight if Anatoly were successful.

  They waved Anatoly goodbye around the corner from the station and continued towards the embankment. Yuri pulled up for a second time and stared into a curtain of snow.

  ‘We’ll have to take the bridge to get closer,’ Derevenko suggested.

  Military vehicles poured across the iron bridge from every direction, tanks on trailers, artillery and troop carriers. Yuri found himself sandwiched between a public bus and a column of jeeps before turning onto a side road that skirted round the airport to the eastside.

  There must be somewhere that gave them an elevation and a view of the airfield.

  Derevenko pointed at a derelict-looking barn.

  Co-opting their new charge, the four of them applied shoulders to the rotten barn door and splintered the lock from the wood. Yuri brushed the snow off his jacket a
nd breathed in the stale smell of oily machinery and bat droppings. Derevenko shone a torch up at the empty hayloft four metres above them and then back down on the ground, searching for a ladder.

  ‘There’s nothing else for it,’ said Yuri, after drawing a blank.

  Yuri put one foot on their open palms, grabbed the edge, and hoisted himself up into the hayloft. He stood up and dusted hay and dried droppings off the front of his parka while his eyes adjusted to the light.

  ‘Yev… bounce that torchlight off the ceiling, I can’t see a thing.’

  Yuri tested the decking with one foot gently applying weight, wondering if it would take his eighty-odd kilos. The wood groaned in protest before disintegrating with a loud crunch, sending a shower of rotten timber below.

  ‘Are you all right up there?’ Derevenko whispered loudly.

  ‘I’ll tell you in a second.’

  Yuri wriggled his foot free.

  ‘Dry rot,’ he informed them, as though he were an expert on the subject.

  Centimetre by centimetre, Yuri edged his way forward, gradually applying weight, testing to see if the floor would support him. When finally he grasped the sill of the hayloft window and looked out to the road and the airfield beyond, he was shocked by what he saw. Parked on the west side of the airbase, twelve Ilyushin-76s and eight Antonov-22s were being readied for take-off. Everywhere cargo trucks hauled artillery, tanks and ammunition into their vast underbellies. On the far side of the airfield, small loaders ferried H-20 nuclear missiles towards five TU-75 strategic bombers.

  Yuri retraced his steps and lowered himself over the hayloft. Two pairs of hands reached up and helped him to the ground.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Derevenko.

  ‘World War Three… I don’t know, but we’d better get out of here quick.’

  Yuri gave the heavy wooden door a shove and stepped out into the cold.

  The thump-thump of a MTV rotor was the last thing he remembered.

  Chapter 54

  Leningrad

  ‘What do you mean we can’t ship anything?’ Konstantin complained to Vdovin.

  ‘We’ve a general mobilisation under way; every available aircraft is commandeered for the airlift.’

  Konstantin wondered what these clowns were up to. He had given his tacit support to a coup, not the invasion of Western Europe, if that’s what they were planning. Were they completely crazy?

  ‘Volkov is determined that the Communist government doesn’t fall in East Germany. He’s convinced the Emergency Committee to mobilise… as a precautionary measure.’

  These things had a habit of taking on a life of their own, Konstantin thought. If the Americans suspected a blitzkrieg, they wouldn’t sit still and wait.

  ‘Can’t you calm them down? You’re a district general. You have influence, surely.’

  Vdovin shook his head. ‘Volkov is chief of staff now. He has the ear of the committee. And what’s more I support him. Ever since our new general secretary wheedled his way to power, the Soviet Union has been the object of disintegrating forces. You’ve seen it yourself. It’s falling apart. Well not anymore…’

  ‘And how long before you have people on the streets?’

  ‘The general secretary, I’ve no doubt, will be persuaded to resign. It will all be legal.’

  ‘Legal?’ Konstantin sneered.

  ‘We are patriots, not traitors. Best you keep your head down, if you want my advice; it’ll be over in a few days.’

  Yes, they’d all be dead, thought Konstantin. They had all taken leave of their senses.

  ‘I have to be going.’ Vdovin got up and without further comment left the room.

  Konstantin looked up at the wall clock: ten fifteen. He shouted for Bazhukov.

  ‘We’re grounded for now,’ Konstantin informed him. ‘Nothing in or out.’

  ‘Customers are not going to be happy about that, boss.’

  ‘You can tell them to write to the Emergency Committee with their letters of complaint… What’s the latest on Morskaya?’

  ‘Our men are posted outside. Doctors and nurses come and go. Revnik is still in a coma.’

  Coup or no coup, he couldn’t let Misha or his old flame survive now. They would only come back to bite him.

  ‘And Viktoriya?’

  ‘She’s staying put with him.’

  So there was no change. Konstantin knew there was no way they could storm the place; he’d looked at it himself. The gate was steel and concrete, and once in the internal courtyard they would be sitting ducks. He’d lose half his men. It had to be by stealth, not force.

  ‘That friend of Adriana’s, the cokehead, what’s-her-name, where is she now?’

  ‘Cezanne, she is upstairs.’

  ‘Go get her.’

  Konstantin stood up, walked round to the other side of the desk and leaned back on it. He tried to recall what Adriana’s friend looked like: medium height, blonde, slightly wavy shoulder-length hair – no great looker but a great body. The men liked her and she liked coke – an ideal combination as far as he was concerned.

  Cezanne walked into the room. Her fingers twitched nervously at the lapel of her silk dressing gown. She was different to how he remembered. Her hair was now an ash-blonde and slightly shorter than before.

  ‘Come over here.’

  ‘If this is anything to do with Adriana, I don’t know where she is. I haven’t seen her since she was released from the police station. Nobody has.’

  And nobody will, thought Konstantin. She was helping prop up the foundations of a restoration project on Oktabrsky.

  ‘Take off your make-up.’

  He handed her a tissue and a pot of make-up remover someone had left in his desk. ‘This was probably your friend’s; you might as well keep it.’

  ‘She wasn’t my friend really… we just watched out for each other in the club…you know…’

  ‘I do, I do.’ Konstantin grabbed the tissue from her hand and roughly rubbed off her make-up.

  ‘Careful…what are you doing?’ She flinched and pulled away. ‘That hurts,’ she protested.

  Konstantin looked at her. She was exactly what he was looking for…ordinary, unremarkable…unrecognisable as the girl in the club.

  ‘I’ve got a job for you. Do it right and Dimitri here will keep you in coke for a year. How does that sound?’

  He held out a small bag of white powder and snatched it away when she reached for it.

  ‘And what is it you want me to do?’ she said, not taking her eyes off the polythene bag Konstantin held between his fingers.

  ‘Deliver something, that’s all.’

  ‘Have I got a choice?’

  Konstantin shook his head. ‘Dimitri, do you think you can organise a nurse’s uniform for Cezanne and a hospital ID tag.’

  ‘No problem, boss,’ said Bazhukov.

  ‘That will be all, Dimitri, and close the door behind you. No, not you, Cezanne.’ He handed her the small bag. ‘Why don’t you make yourself comfortable on the sofa?’ He wondered if she would be as uninhibited as her friend.

  Chapter 55

  Moscow, Lubyanka

  Yuri came to with his head pounding. Where was he? A bare light bulb illuminated grey walls and a cell door. Was he back at Cherepovets? A stabbing pain made him reach his hand up to a spot just above his right ear. It was sticky with semi-congealed blood. Prodding around, he tried to determine whether his skull was broken and decided he was still, at least externally, in one piece.

  Slowly, he righted himself on the bed. How long had he been here? He looked at his wrist where his Rolex had been and tried to remember. The thump, thump, the MTV, the military airbase at Migalovo – it all started to flood back. Where were the others?

  He struggled to his feet and sat back down again as the room began to swim. Somethi
ng had hit him hard. Gathering himself again, he stood up slowly and walked ten feet to the cell door and banged on the viewing hatch. There was no response.

  Yuri sat back down again and poured himself a glass of water from a jug. At least he was alive, for the moment anyway. He fell back on the rough woollen blanket and tucked the pillow under his head. If only the throbbing would stop.

  The sound of the lock being turned and the bolts sliding back made him sit back up. General Volkov walked into the room and ordered the guard to close the door behind him.

  ‘For your head,’ he said sympathetically. Yuri swallowed the offered painkillers and looked up at Volkov over the edge of his glass. He looked every inch the colonel general in full dress uniform.

  ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Lubyanka.’

  Moscow, the KGB prison; at least he now had a geographical reference point.

  ‘How long have I been out?’

  ‘A few hours.’

  Volkov pulled up a chair and sat down opposite.

  ‘And my friends?’

  ‘They no longer need trouble you… You have been leading us a merry jaunt, General. Quite resourceful… but then that is to be expected. But stopping at Migalovo… that was a mistake. You should have known better.’

  ‘I seem to remember somebody else pointing that out.’

  Yuri wondered what had befallen his companions and what it was that Volkov wanted that was so important for him to come in person. By the looks of Migalovo, he had enough on his plate.

  ‘And General Ghukov?’

  ‘Under house arrest.’ Volkov looked around the windowless room. ‘His quarters are a lot more luxurious than yours. Do you know the old joke, General?’ Volkov continued. ‘The basement of Lubyanka is the tallest building in Moscow… you can see all the way to Siberia.’ Volkov laughed. Yuri looked at him stonily.

  ‘And under what authority am I being held?’

  ‘Military, Article 58,’ replied Volkov, deadpan. ‘Conspiring with the Western powers to assassinate Soviet leaders, dismember the Soviet Union, and restore capitalism.’