Stroika

by Mark Blair

  ‘Please follow me,’ he said politely.

  ‘Second floor,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, number five. I know most of the people in this block.’

  The lift was only fit for three people and felt claustrophobic with the two of them packed in so closely. She should have insisted they take the stairs, rather than be trapped in such a tiny space with a complete stranger. Still, it was only two floors. The door opened.

  ‘After you,’ he beckoned. It was still dark and the stairwell empty. ‘Take a right.’

  Was he really going to walk her to the door? she thought. They stopped outside number five.

  A hand reached over her shoulder and wrapped on the door. She wondered how well this man knew Terentev. Her hand closed tightly on the automatic. It didn’t feel right.

  Footsteps sounded on the other side and the door opened. A woman with long hair, thirties, busy knotting the belt of a dressing gown, looked from her to the face behind.

  ‘Natasha, may I introduce Viktoriya Nikolaevna Kayakova, late of Leningrad, probably the richest woman in Russia.’

  She turned round to face her escort.

  ‘Colonel?’

  ‘The same… I didn’t want to effect introductions in the street… this is my wife Natasha… and I think you can remove your hand from your bag now. I don’t think you need a gun.’

  More embarrassed that her manoeuvre had been so transparent than that she had taken the precaution in the first place, she let go of its handle.

  ‘I don’t normally look like this,’ she said in her own defence.

  ‘Please come in, Viktoriya Nikolaevna,’ said Natasha.

  The apartment was small but cosy. Several photographs of the couple were displayed on a dresser.

  ‘Please,’ gestured Natasha at the slightly worn brown tweed sofa. ‘Would you like something to eat? Maybe freshen up?’

  Viktoriya was not about to decline any of it.

  ‘Red Star?’ asked Terentev, almost a rhetorical question.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘no complaints… look, I’d love to have a shower, but before I do, can I give you this envelope.’ She reached into her duffel bag, prised the inside panel off the base and pulled out a brown envelope.

  ‘I received a message from Yuri yesterday… one of the men he’s been on the run with… he wouldn’t say from where or to,’ – it seemed such a long time ago, she thought – ‘he said I could trust you.’

  ‘You can,’ replied Terentev. He held out his hand for the envelope and she handed it to him.

  ‘Twelve years ago – in fact, April 1977 – I was a student, my friend Mikhail Revnik—’

  ‘—of RUI?’

  ‘—yes,’ Viktoriya continued. ‘He took some photographs of two men on the Moika embankment. Some KGB type put him up to it, offered Misha a reward. We were only sixteen at the time… it could have been almost anyone. The trouble is, he was spotted… but he managed to fence it off on me before they caught up with him. Misha persuaded them he had thrown the camera into the canal.’

  ‘Sounds very resourceful… and the man who had paid him to do it?

  ‘He never reappeared. I hid the film for years and gave it back to Misha just before he travelled to Milan for the first time.’

  ‘And he had it developed there?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I’d never seen the photographs until yesterday. I know Misha couldn’t identify the people in them… well, until yesterday, when he came briefly out of his coma. Maybe he recognised a voice… I don’t know.’

  ‘I’m sorry about Mikhail Dimitrivich. I heard the news. Where is he now?’

  ‘In our own building in Leningrad… under medical supervision… don’t worry, it’s like a fortress… I can’t help but think this is related.’

  Terentev opened the envelope and spread the large black-and-whites on the dining room table. The photos were remarkably clear. She watched him frown and without a word pull up a chair as if to stop himself falling over.

  ‘You recognise them?’ she said.

  ‘I recognise him.’ Terentev pointed at the man with the glasses. ‘Karzhov, chairman of the KGB, but not him, I’ve never seen him before. April 1977, you say?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Can I keep these… for now… I want to run some checks… under the radar?’

  ‘Of course, that’s what I hoped you were going to say.’ Viktoriya stood up. ‘I’d like to freshen up now, thank you, and then I want you to tell me what you know about Yuri.’

  Chapter 62

  Viktoriya stepped out of the small shower cubicle and towelled herself dry, glad to have washed the night away. She wondered if Misha had shown any further signs of improvement and whether Kostya would honour his side of the bargain. For now, she reasoned, it was not in his interest to do otherwise – there were at least eighty-five million reasons why he might hold back for forty-eight hours or so. And he was right. If the so-called Emergency Committee did wind back the clock and the communists regained the upper hand, she would be the one on the run. Exile would be the only option, the only one that didn’t involve being incarcerated, or worse.

  A knock on the bedroom door made her start. It was Natasha’s voice.

  ‘Coffee.’

  The door opened a fraction and the welcome smell of coffee wafted into the room. She thought of mid-morning breaks in Misha’s office, standing at the window observing the goings on below, catching up. She took a deep breath and held it, let go and took another before savouring her first bitter taste of coffee that day. She winced and closed her eyes, concentrating on the familiar caffeine rush, and immediately felt more positive. There was progress of sorts: Misha had woken, even if momentarily, and said something coherent, Kostya had been neutralised, for now at least, and she had arrived safe in Moscow and met someone Yuri told her she could trust. And on top of all that he had identified one of the players in the photograph as the KGB chair himself.

  With her towel, she wiped the mirror free of steam and looked at her normal self, absent heavy make-up and her hair parted where it customarily fell. Quickly, she pulled on her clothes, jeans, a fresh T-shirt and sweater and with the dregs of the coffee headed back into the living room.

  Terentev was talking to a man who must have arrived when she was in the shower. He nodded in acknowledgement but did not introduce himself. Two of the photos were gone. She assumed they were now stowed in his shoulder bag.

  ‘If you will excuse me,’ the stranger said, and let himself out.

  Natasha handed her a plate of scrambled eggs.

  ‘I have to be going too. Maybe I will see you again,’ she said and followed the other man out of the door.

  The colonel scooped up the remaining photos and handed them to her.

  ‘No, please keep them; they’re safer with you now.’

  He disappeared into the bedroom and reappeared a minute later minus the envelope.

  ‘So… where’s Yuri? Please tell me what you can, everything,’ she said, sitting back down again on the sofa.

  Terentev sat down on the dining room chair opposite.

  ‘Not good, I’m afraid. Yuri’s locked up in the KGB prison in Lubyanka, the general secretary is under effective house arrest twenty kilometres south-west of Moscow, and General Ghukov has been replaced by a new chief of staff, General Volkov.’ Terentev paused for breath. ‘If that is not bad enough, the East German government is on the brink of collapse and there is a simmering mass uprising.’

  ‘How do you think the new Emergency Committee will react?’

  ‘Suppress it… start World War Three probably.’

  ‘Not good then.’

  Terentev smiled. ‘Yes, I think that is a good assessment.’

  ‘Can you do anything?’

  ‘I may be a colonel in the KGB, but I have no political a
ffiliations, money, or influence, to any degree… and I am up against some very powerful people, including the chairman of the KGB himself.’

  ‘What about Yuri? Doesn’t he have a following?’

  ‘Not in Lubyanka… the old communist diehards are not giving up without a fight.’

  ‘It would be interesting to know how much support this committee has from other ministers and how much they know about what is going on. Many of them are going to suffer – financially – if the communists gain the upper hand now. Do you know Federov?’

  ‘The oil minister? Not personally.’

  ‘He would be a good place to start. I spoke with him yesterday by phone, but he was necessarily circumspect… Do you have a phone?’

  Terentev nodded.

  ‘I am going to call him to arrange a meeting this morning at that café next to the ministry, you know the one. I’m not going to give him my name, but I’m sure he’ll recognise my voice.’

  ‘And you think you can get him to a meeting, just like that?’ He snapped his fingers.

  ‘Absolutely… if I know Stephan Federov.’

  Chapter 63

  Viktoriya remembered the café from her last visit with Federov: the French-style coffee bar and high stools, the mirrored wall behind, and low-hanging smoked-glass pendant lights. Terentev sat at the bar, facing the mirror with a clear view of the booth she had occupied in a corner out of sight from the street window.

  She took a sip of the cappuccino that had been placed in front of her and thought back to her earlier call to Federov’s office. At first she had struggled to be put through; his secretary had been understandably suspicious but Viktoriya had insisted. It was personal, she had said, Stephan would be very unhappy if she weren’t put through immediately. Federov had taken the call. ‘Federov,’ he had said, his voice filled with suspicion. ‘Stephan’, she had replied, in the warmest voice she could muster. To his credit he had understood the situation immediately, played along with the demanding girlfriend routine and agreed to meet her at the café at ten o’clock. She looked at her watch: now, in fact.

  On cue, the door to the café opened and Federov walked in.

  At least he is alone, she thought.

  ‘I thought you were still in Leningrad? How is Mikhail Dimitrivich?’ Federov said as he slid into the booth next to her.

  ‘Showing signs of improvement, thank you. Stephan, I appreciate the position you may be in, but some candour would be useful.’ There was no point in asking Federov if she could trust him. A simple yes wasn’t going to prove anything.

  ‘There is more at stake here than simply our business relationship, as important as that is. I need to understand your position and that of your colleagues. The information I have is that the Emergency Committee has the general secretary under house arrest.’

  Federov looked surprised.

  ‘You are well informed… who is the man at the bar?’

  ‘He’s with me. He’s totally trustworthy.’

  He nodded. ‘The Emergency Committee is not the Politburo. I have been told the same story as the rest of the public, although I know from my own contacts that what you say is true. The deputy secretary has assumed the levers of state, backed by the KGB chair and the defence minister. Those opposed have been detained or eliminated, like your friend General Marov, for instance. The Emergency Committee is relying on us to keep our heads down.’

  ‘While it decides?’

  Federov looked away.

  ‘The opposition is too strong. It will be like Khrushchev. The general secretary will be replaced.’

  ‘But it won’t be so silent this time, not with Volkov about to risk a war in Europe.’

  ‘No, it won’t,’ his voice trailed off. ‘All I know is we haven’t got long. There is a meeting of the Emergency Committee this afternoon. They are not going to let this drift, especially with the East German situation. I get the impression the general secretary is not going to resign through reasons of bad health either,’ said Federov.

  ‘What do you think will happen to General Marov?’ asked Viktoriya.

  ‘He’ll have to fall in line or not, and if he doesn’t… a posting to the Far East would be a good outcome.’

  Viktoriya knew he was right. It was all or nothing for the Emergency Committee. They would have to legitimise their coup, and anything that challenged that legitimacy would be dealt with. The KGB was not squeamish about such things, arrests and payoffs would be the order of the day.

  ‘And you, Viktoriya Nikolaevna, what will you do?’

  ‘I don’t want to think about that for the moment.’ But she knew she would have to very shortly. Kostya would close in for the kill if the committee became the new government. Nobody was going to worry about the wellbeing of a wealthy street trader cum banker. Kostya would have delivered and no doubt be rewarded with RUI. It wouldn’t take long to make back his lost eighty-five million.

  The oil minister stood up.

  ‘I have to be going, I’m afraid. If I can do anything for you, I will. My advice to you is to follow your money out of the Soviet Union. Don’t wait too long. And if Mikhail is well enough to travel, him too… even if he isn’t, you will have to risk it.’

  Viktoriya watched Federov exit the café as Terentev climbed off the bar stool and walked over to her booth.

  ‘What did Federov have to say?’

  ‘That we are all going to hell in a hand cart… there is no effective opposition…’

  The door of the café opened and the man she had seen in Terentev’s apartment that morning walked in. Terentev waved him over.

  ‘Any joy?’

  ‘I’ve given the photos to our best man; he remembers one or two operatives from that time. He knows it’s urgent… and that if he gets caught it’s probably curtains. The Emergency Committee are meeting at five this evening at the Defence Ministry. There is a broadcast booked for seven.’

  The table fell silent.

  ‘We need to get Yuri out of Lubyanka,’ said Viktoriya. ‘If the conflict widens in Eastern Europe he’ll just be a footnote. Plan A was to kill him… they sabotaged his aircraft. There is no Plan B, not if he fails to support them and, knowing him as I do, he is not going to do that.’

  The colonel nodded.

  ‘I’ve been thinking, Colonel. I have twenty-five fully armed men at the Leningrad Freight yard on the outskirts of Moscow – Yuri’s request before he was arrested. He gave no further instructions… I’m sorry I didn’t mention this before…’ said Viktoriya.

  ‘Well, we can’t storm Lubyanka. It’s bristling with guards.’

  ‘I’ve got another idea.’

  Chapter 64

  Terentev cricked his neck up at the clock set into the uppermost band of the yellow brick neo-baroque palace façade that was Lubyanka: midday. He cast a glance at Gaidar and the two men behind him dressed in military uniform.

  ‘Ready?’

  The three of them nodded. One of the soldiers rearranged his grey ushanka, making sure the red star faced forward.

  With the two soldiers squarely behind him, Terentev walked into the high-ceilinged entrance hall he had entered a thousand times before. Failure, he knew, would also make it the last time.

  Two KGB officers, standing beside a grey granite desk, barred his way.

  ‘Colonel.’ The nearest snapped to attention while the other stood stock-still, his hands gripping the barrel and stock of the Kalashnikov strapped across his chest.

  ‘I’ve come to transfer a prisoner to Lefortovo.’

  The officer entered their names in the log book, giving only a cursory glance to the official-looking paper Terentev produced from his inside pocket.

  ‘Thank you, Colonel.’ He saluted Terentev and Gaidar and stepped back.

  Terentev led them left down the parquet corridor towards the rear of the buildin
g and the courtyard where the prison began, nodding occasionally at a familiar face. A second detail blocked its entrance. This time there was no salute. The officer in charge, a lieutenant, young, perhaps twenty-six – he had not seen him before – looked at him and his escort suspiciously.

  ‘Can I help you, Colonel,’ he asked. Behind him, three soldiers stood studying Gaidar and his men.

  ‘I’ve come to transfer General Marov to Lefortovo Prison – orders of the chairman.’

  The lieutenant took the transfer form from Terentev’s hand and studied it before handing it to one of the men behind him.

  ‘What unit are you with, Major?’ said the lieutenant, directing his question at Gaidar.

  ‘Kantemirovskaya Division, under Lieutenant General Tretyak.’

  ‘General staff have assigned Major Gaidar to the transfer,’ added Terentev.

  It was normal for the military to accompany high-ranking staff officers.

  ‘I haven’t heard of any pending transfer of prisoner Marov, Colonel.’

  ‘As you can see, Lieutenant, the order was only dated an hour ago.’

  The lieutenant held out his hand for the transfer note. The soldier placed it in his palm. He studied it again. For a moment Terentev thought he might hold it up to the light, not that that would reveal anything. The paperwork was real enough; it was only the signature that had been forged.

  ‘Why don’t you call upstairs, Lieutenant? Third floor. I’m sure the chairman’s office will confirm the transfer. Extension 363. We are in a hurry, Lieutenant.’

  Sometimes events hinge on the simplest of turns, thought Terentev. If the lieutenant called his bluff, they were done for.

  The officer studied his and Gaidar’s faces before lifting the receiver and dialling.

  ‘Detail to collect prisoner Marov.’ The lieutenant turned to Terentev. ‘Someone will be up to escort you to the prisoner shortly, sir.’ The lieutenant snapped to attention.