by Daniel Kemp
Chapter Sixteen: Blood Red Poppies
The category of achievements made by Paulo Sergeyovitch Korovin to the erstwhile corridors of Soviet political power were wide and broad, and within their shadow he hid his light and prospered well. His entreaties to Maudlin regarding his son's future were always answered graciously and with sincerity. Concerning Paulo's pleas of learned guidance as to his own future, his father's advice was simple, yet complicated to achieve.
The life spent in espionage intrigue is a short life; nobody is able to keep the pretence for ever. Take the secure route of political influence, and that way you can change the world.
Paulo heeded that recommendation, as he did all Maudlin's opinions, and set his sights higher than the desk occupied by the Head of the KGB.
In order to accelerate his progress in that direction, he placed his fictitious agent Mother in America as a translator, one of only five assigned to a Strategic Studies Group, another figment of his imagination. He built this group up around known movers and shakers within the Richard M Nixon administration, and either plagiarised, partly or whole or added his own exaggerations to Communist operatives intelligence garnered across that whole Continent.
He played his game of charades expertly, attributing useful extracts to Mother and ones of little importance also. It was just enough to keep his seat as supervising officer of intelligence and counter-intelligence warm and snug. He answered to one man and only one; a man of great avarice and ambition, and whose love of power and money far outweighed his love of communism. He bought this man cheaply, then sold him at a great profit, propelling himself through needless years of wait.
Anatoly Petronikov, the same Head of Station in London when Tanya had made her escape, had slowly risen through the ranks in the fifteen years that it had taken Paulo to emerge from third attaché to Deputy Head of all things secret, to be, once again, Paulo's master. After Khrushchev was removed from power and the leadership split between Brezhnev, as First Secretary, and Kosygin, as Premier, Anatoly was elevated onto the ruling Politburo, where he tasted the real qualities of life. He had his Dacha in the Shvorovshiy Woods, on the banks of the Moskva River, and his motorised yacht on the Caspian Sea.
His illicit wealth came from many avenues, most recommended to him by Paulo, who, as previously advised by Maudlin, kept his racketeers close. Anatoly was known as a flamboyant figure, who took risks to please those above him. Because of this, they indulged him, and knew they had someone to blame if things went wrong. The devil makes work for idle hands and Anatoly's were no exception. His were caught in a comatose state, having delegated most of his work to his Deputy in order to fully enjoy his new privileges. He had a weakness for cocaine and loose women, both plentifully supplied by Paulo's contacts and these, ably utilised by Paulo, brought about his downfall.
One night during the winter of 1972, when Moscow vagrants were falling asleep under their ever-increasing blanket of snow, Anatoly did not have their misfortune in having to wait for the thaw of spring to be discovered. He was found dead alongside his equally dead lover, in the warmth of her apartment, where lines of cocaine abounded. An autopsy was performed and a pernicious substance found; on analysis, it was discovered that white, odourless, potassium chloride had been added to the mix. They had been murdered.
Paulo himself, led the fruitless investigation, personally interrogating many of the thousands of drug users and pedlars that were interviewed, but there were no admissions of guilt forthcoming. After some were executed for proven crimes and others sent to Gulags in forgotten region by Paulo, all was dropped and written off.
His discharge of the duties of Deputy Head of the KGB were exceptional and peerless. He had favours to be recalled, along with his established means of gathering information, plus his furtive mind. He plated up his appetiser for his now fellow Politburo companions.
Anatoly Petronikov was not one of theirs after all, he declared! His investigation had unearthed a bank account opened up in London four years previously, with cash deposits amounting to millions of pounds Stirling. All had been discovered when Petronikov's bank in Moscow had contacted the Moscow Centre over its transference. That divergence, along with his flamboyant lifestyle, condemned the unchallengeable Anatoly, and forced the purge that Paulo advised. They covered their houses, and sat back to watch Paulo at his licensed work.
Maudlin's involvement had paid dividends as the two had figured, so he took this opportunity presented by the situation to rid himself of many possible future embarrassments. Unfortunately it was only many, and not all, that were eliminated.
His penchant for the protection of all things English was not extended to other countries. He favoured neither east nor west, discovering rings of networks of spies from West Germany, France, America, and a paid circle of Russians smuggling atomic secrets to the Chinese!
He was awarded the 'Order of Lenin' and pronounced Honorary Secretary of what was once Leningrad but, by now, had returned to its pre-Stalin days of St Petersburg, setting the foundation on which he built his political career. His meteoric rise continued.
In 1979 he became the youngest ever member on the Supreme Soviet of the Soviet Union, and two years later he began a career abroad.
In March 1981, Paulo, this time trading under the name of Dmitry Posharsky, along with his wife and daughter aged eight, were sent to the Middle East under the false pretence of promotion of relationships between the Soviet Union and the Islamic States. His real intentions were not as honourable; he was there to foster links with anti-Israeli movements, and he did not have long to meet one.
Anacova was not his wife, but Katherine was their child, and luckily was in the Embassy, when the Hamas-instigated bomb exploded inside the cafe in Beirut. The suicide bomber, along with thirty-one others, was killed that day.
The embassy driver of their car swerved violently to avoid the flying debris and smashed, sideways, into an oncoming bus. He and Anacova were pronounced dead on arrival at the main Hospital in Lebanon's capital city, and Paulo was recorded with the slight injuries that Harry had noticed on their first encounter, along with a cracked bone in his neck. Two things remained indelibly engraved on Paulo's memory from that carnage. The first was the resolve never to risk his daughter's life again, and the second, a wonder at how a civilised nation could ever defeat one that held life so cheaply. He returned to Moscow a different man, and never had the chance to have his baptismal cross blessed in Jerusalem, as was his wish.
In the same year, something happened that was no accident, and almost tore Paulo's rapid travelling caravan to shreds. Ronnie Reagan was elected President of that other superpower, and his brand of rhetoric frightened the 'old ones' on the Central Council and in the Politburo. They feared for their lives and for all around them, as they believed that the USA would mount a first strike nuclear attack.
The escalation had started in space, with the so called 'Star Wars' programme being initiated, and was further heightened by the stationing of Pershing 11 short-range nuclear missiles on the Soviet borders. Paulo's replacement at the counter intelligence desk was instructed to mount an intelligence-gathering operation on specific targets; those likely to be needed or warned for such an attack, and on the facilities that would need to be readied.
The operation was called 'Ryan.'
All hands were needed on deck, even old, semiretired, ones. Mother handler Paulo was recalled from Tripoli, his residence of work, where, by then, he had become quite an expert in Middle Eastern affairs.
The British Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher, took part in a planned evacuation, as did most of the American Government, and the communications going between each of those nations went sky-high something all in the Politburo considered would proceed an attack. General Secretary Brezhnev and his second in command Andropov were acutely worried. That fear became worse when Reagan decided to test the Soviet Union's radar capabilities by flying bombers and fighters at their border, then breaking off at the last moment at interm
ittent intervals.
The American Naval activity increased dramatically, both in the Pacific and the North Sea, and reports landed on Andropov's head of seabed beacons being laid from Nova Scotia to Scotland and from Iceland to Norway. Paulo was approached to activate his Mother, and to get her observations from within that Studies Group. By now he was almost completely removed from NATO intelligence reports, so he could not enhance existing information and as the situation seemed mightily serious, he could not use his imagination.
He contacted Maudlin, who made enquires amongst his Tory friends at his West End club, and was delighted to inform Paulo that it was merely exercises. The increase in the radio traffic was down to Reagan's invasion of the island of Grenada. 'A country ruled by our Queen,' he added.
Paulo reported this to Andropov and his ratings went higher, as it coincided with reports that the newly appointed head of the American National Security had not taken part in the scamper for underground protection another prerequisite, as he would assume command if front liners were obliterated. The concerns of the Politburo were eased, but only somewhat.
Others within the Military urged a stop to the procrastinations, to pre-empt a first strike by launching their own! Things were getting tense. On the night of 24 September 1983, the tension increased as the Soviet orbital missile launch detector, code named 'Oka', reported the lift-off of a single Intercontinental Ballistic Missile from inside America. The Russian Lieutenant Colonel in charge at the ground installation dismissed this as no early warning radar had picked it up and in any case, he argued, 'they would send thousands…not one.' Within an hour three more ICBM's were detected, but again he rigorously stuck to his guns, and the 'old ones' luckily for the rest of us, never drew their own.
All was not over. There was worse to come, and this was where Paulo saved the world as Maudlin had predicted. In November of 1983, two months on from when the Soviets found that their sputnik was malfunctioning, Reagan initiated Able Archer 83. The codename given to a NATO command operation spanning the whole of Western Europe. It simulated a conflict escalation, leading to a coordinated nuclear release. The name of the exercise, 'Able Archer,' was used every year for such military operations; only this time, it differed from the past, in many ways.
The exercise incorporated a unique form of coded communications that the Communists had never heard, and this was yet another thing to worry about. There was more. All Western alerts were put on DEFCON 1, a never before used state of nuclear release status. This level should not be confused by the movie or television version of DEFCON 5 which is, the lowest level of alert. The status rises to one, after which the world implodes, unless one party pulls back. When this information, garnered by the watchers, was related to Moscow Centre, more than one set of untrimmed eyebrows were raised in speculation.
The whole of this situation had been kept secret from the Press of the world. The Cuban lessons had been learnt well by the politicians. They resolved it would be them who made the decisions this time, unaided by the paparazzi with snapshots of floating missiles, or tank formations to worry the flappable public opinion.
To everyone, young and old, in the Politburo it seemed that war was merely hours away. Andropov was now in charge of all the Soviets, Brezhnev having died of a heart attack, and was listening to his advisors from his hospital bed, as some advised the pre-emptive strike option. Instead, he heeded the doves. Excluding the hawks to the back of his mind, but he took precautions.
He ordered the readiness of their own ICBMs, and standby alert of squadrons of planes in East Germany and Poland. The whole world was, at most, 36 hours from self-destruction; closer, many would later say, than it had ever been, including that crisis in the Caribbean. This time, it was the Russians who felt threatened. Paulo reasoned with himself that the KGB's reliance on observation alone, and not analysis, was not helping the situation at all. If anything, it was a hindrance. If the evacuation of heads of Governments, two years previously, were exercises, and the increase in communications could then be explained, then why could not all this activity have a simple explanation?
He knew little of Americans. Dossiers in Libya were confusing, but if they were friends of the English they couldn't be all that bad, he deduced. He took a gamble, a calculated one. Either he would save the world, or perish along with all his lies.
He coded a message from Mother: It is a pre-planned simulation exercise only. It is a test of the defences. Do not under any circumstance react or open silos, or they will launch!
Andropov pulled back from that precipitous brink on Mother's say-so alone, and fourteen hours later the NATO exercise ceased. Paulo had done more than save the world. He had shown the aggressors that mighty Russia had no need to worry or react to threats, as she knew her true strength and that would have been enough to see off the bullying Americans. One part of the Politburo heaved a huge sigh of relief, while another beat their chests in triumph. However, all parts congratulated Paulo and praised his Mother. He had been made for life.
* * *
Three days before Christmas 1983, Rudi Mercer was busy doing his budget forecast for the upcoming funding arguments and debate before his office closed for the holidays. He was, as Director of the Office of Collection Strategies and Analysis of the American CIA, privileged and entitled to the colour coordinated, latest technological telephone keypad that was now flashing orange, on top of his sandalwood, inlaid mahogany, desk. The silent call, he knew before he answered it, was from President Reagan's chief advisor, Pat Buchanan.
“I'm sorry to land this on you, Rudi, but it's from up top. I want you in London, England, as from yesterday. What would you do in the holidays, anyway? Watch a game? You can do that over there, they must have satellite. You'll find it best to keep working after that latest divorce of yours…they're getting to be a habit. Find someone who loves this work as much as you do, next time. There's a plane on standby with its engines running at Andrews…I'll speak to you when you're there. Oh, by the way, Secretary of State Shultz is going to hold your hand all the way. He'll brief you, it's very important Rudi.”
Rudi considered the use of one of his holy trinity, the President, his priest, or his granddaughter, to whom he could air his displeasure. He never had a direct line to Ronnie, so abandoned all hope of reprieve there. He left a message on Father Leo's machine of regret at not being able to give the Mass reading at midnight two days hence, and spoke to his daughter, preferring her dulcet voice to the castigating words of a three-year-old, more used to unfulfilled promises, than a grandchild should be.
Superfluous was not a word on his lips as the cavalcade drove through the gates of the American Ambassador's English home in Regent's Park that day, and Rudi was whisked silently away from beneath his covering blanket to the second level basement below.
“Where did the Soviets get this study group from, Rudi? Do we have one, or is it something you invented to stop World War Three? Wherever this came from, it worked. Had they not taken notice of this, I'm telling you, Reagan was up for it! They were showing us everything; and we would have won!” The Director of the office of Transnational Issues of the CIA passed Rudi a translated copy of a report he had received a month earlier. It read:
It is a pre-planned simulation exercise only. It is a test of the defences. Do not under any circumstance react or open silos, or they will launch!
“I want you to find out where it originated. You're now in charge of the file named Vagabond; read it carefully, and use the information long-term. We want him high, so high he can't be reached. Do you follow me?”
Chapter Seventeen: Bleeding Hearts
My first night in Clapham was not a good night. Both Peter and Paulo's names kept coming back to me, as I failed in any attempt to find meaningful sleep. I tried to think of anything other than them, but nothing covered their names. Nor was I able to forget my starvation; so much so that I rose early at about six, intending on finding a cafe where I could at least end that discomfort.
&n
bsp; To my surprise Judith was up already, dressed and full of the joys of spring, unlike myself. Apparently Phyllis, next door, was a light sleeper and would be awake at this time of day, so she was about to collect Hector and visit the Common for his morning exercise. As this would be an opportune time to meet her dog, so I was told, and take advantage of her local knowledge, I took her advice and tagged along.
Hector, turned out not to be the Goliath of a Greek beast his name had conjured up in my imagination, but a snappy, snarling, black and white mongrel with an unsocial disposition. He took a dislike to me, which was mutually shared. She had no first hand recommendations of nearby eateries, but promised to direct me towards the Underground Station on the South Side, where she said there was a profusion, from which to choose.
Hector was off his lead, skipping ahead of us and barking as he looked back at me. I had resisted the temptation of booting him over the crossbar at Twickenham and scoring the winning points against France, but only just. Judith caught my undisguised animosity, and suggested a remedy.
“He'll come round to like you if you give him a sausage for breakfast. I think we'll come with you,” she cordially invited him, and herself. The fresh air was beginning to clear my head, but now I felt my hangover returning.
“I was going to Eton Square this morning, then going on to Trimble, Judith. There's a great deal I must see to there. Maurice texted me last night, and it seems that his wife is dead set against him coming home for Annie's, the kid's schools and all that. So, I want to arrange to see whoever is in charge of it all now, and pass it on. Time for change, I think.”
“I can make that happen, Harry. His name is Haig…David Haig, my boss,” she said, as she threw the twig that Hector had returned.