by Lee Jackson
Yermolov tapped his fingers as he contemplated what Jeloudov had said and the implied possibilities. “How do I hide in plain sight?”
Once again, Jeloudov exhibited an enigmatic smile. “How well do you know the story of Rasputin?”
***
Yermolov pulled himself from his reflections back to the present at the airbase in Romania. His staff was prepared to brief. Only Colonel Drygin was missing. “Does anyone know where the executive officer is?”
“Yes, sir,” the adjutant spoke up. “He was on the phone just before we came in. The call seemed serious.”
“All right.” In the practiced manner of Paul Clary, Yermolov set aside his annoyance. “What is the plan for getting to Novosibirsk?”
The operations officer stood. “We can go as early as tomorrow.” He briefed that on arrival, a bus would take them to a local village. Only KGB and army personnel who were vetted supporters would move them. The village was populated with Russian Orthodox Christians, many of whom still hoped for the return of the Romanovs and believed in the legend of Rasputin. “Leaders are ready to spread support to other communities.”
“Excellent!”
Drygin entered and took his seat. He looked tense. “If that’s all,” Yermolov told the staff, “execute the plan. We move tomorrow.”
As the staff officers filed out of the room, Yermolov kept his seat and turned to Drygin. “Did you have something for me?”
“Yes,” Drygin replied. “You’ll recall that we left my driver, Yegor, behind outside of Paris to handle loose ends.” Yermolov nodded. Drygin continued. “He was in the village to get supplies for a few days. When he went back, another car was already there. Yegor says it looked like the one we thought was following me yesterday. It rammed him.”
Yermolov’s brows arched. “What happened?”
“I’ll fill you in on the details. You should hear this first.” He set a recording device on the table. “We had a phone in the operations cabin with a number to give outsiders.”
Yermolov nodded, recalling that he had given the number to Major Ivan Chekov. Drygin pushed the play button.
“General Yermolov,” a disembodied voice said. “This is Major Chekov.” Stunned, Yermolov looked at Drygin. Ivan’s voice continued. “I am alive. I was kidnapped. I am coming to you.”
“He’s alive!” Yermolov drew back. “We suspected that.”
Drygin played the tape several times. “Sounds like he tried to escape,” Drygin observed. “Obviously, he was stopped.”
“That’s the way I see it. When did the call come in?”
“Sometime between our departure and two hours later.”
“Maybe he escaped again,” Yermolov reflected. “He must be concerned about his family. I doubt he just became an ardent supporter. Bring his wife and son to Novosibirsk. High priority.”
“Yes, General.”
Yermolov reflected a few more minutes. “Major Chekov said, ‘I am alive.’ Why would he think we know about his fatal accident?”
“Maybe he’s assuming.”
Yermolov remained in thought. “Maybe. He was at our cabins in Paris. He thinks we know about his death. And he said he’s coming to me, so he thinks he knows where we are going. That’s three data points. How did he get them?” He sat quietly with his thoughts for a few moments. Then he faced Drygin directly. “Do you think we have an informant?”
Drygin responded calmly, but with a slight edge in his voice. “I handpicked these men. They detest Gorbachev’s policies and worry about the future of our country.”
“I appreciate that.” Yermolov breathed a sigh. “It was a thought. Issue an alert to be on the lookout for Chekov. When do we depart?”
“Tomorrow morning. We will be in Novosibirsk by nightfall.”
29
The commanding general of Western Siberia Military District, Colonel General Kutuzov, met Yermolov at the aircraft when they landed in Novosibirsk. “Welcome, General,” Kutuzov greeted. “We flew you to a different airfield than the one planned. Ride with me. Your staff will meet you in the village. We can talk.”
Yermolov did not like operational surprises. Without his own security, he felt vulnerable. He returned Kutuzov’s greeting in equal measure, but as he did, he saw in Kutuzov’s light-green eyes a man practiced at providing requisite expressions for any occasion.
Yermolov carried with him the briefcase delivered in the tavern two nights earlier. Kutuzov reached for it. “My men can handle that.”
“No, no,” Yermolov responded in his most amiable tone. “I prefer to carry this one. It has personal effects.” Colonel Drygin took note.
Kutuzov showed him to a waiting limousine. “This runway belongs to an aircraft manufacturing plant,” Kutuzov explained as they rode away. “Fewer eyes are watching it. Fewer questions.”
Yermolov remembered Kutuzov from years ago. His rise in the Soviet Army to command this vast region in Siberia affirmed his brilliance. Still, this was the Soviet Union where everyone was watched, where watchers watched watchers, and where a shift of political wind could find people at any level banished, imprisoned, or dead.
As the limousine left the airfield, Yermolov noticed a massive airplane gleaming in the sun across the field. Its nose and cockpit were rotated over its roof, revealing a cavernous cargo hold.
“What is that?” Yermolov asked in amazement.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Kutuzov responded. “That is the Antonov 225 Mriya. It’s built to carry the Soviet space orbiter, our version of the Boeing 747 that ferries the American space shuttle around.”
“What’s it doing here?”
“It’s been here a few weeks to be checked out at the aircraft plant. It’s brand new. In a few days, it’ll go on a check ride for its full range, and then fly to Moscow for commissioning.” He nudged Yermolov conspiratorially and lowered his voice. “Excitement about this aircraft will provide cover for our movements.”
Yermolov drew back, but said nothing. Kutuzov turned to him as if to change subjects. “Before I came to pick you up I had this car swept for listening devices. My driver can’t hear us.” His face grew serious. “Tell me. Why should I support you?”
Yermolov stymied a rise in irritation at the abruptness of the question. “You have me at a disadvantage.”
“You must have thought about it,” Kutuzov rejoined. “I’ve gone this distance because I have faith in our mutual friend in Cuba, Ambassador Jeloudov, and because I’m familiar with what you did in the United States.” He reached over and grasped Yermolov’s forearm. When he spoke again his low, slow speech added gravity to his voice. “I know the whole story.” He withdrew his hand and looked out at the passing fields of snow and ice. “I wish you had succeeded with the assassination. I don’t see how the Soviet Union can survive Gorbachev’s policies. I’m not alone.”
Yermolov relaxed. Instead of putting him on the spot, Kutuzov opened to him. “I agree,” he replied. “The plan was developed over months at senior levels in the government and the Party. To have gunmen in place at the precise moment that the general secretary’s motorcade stopped in that exact spot took unbelievable coordination. Monumental, really, that we kept it a secret. That’s the depth of feeling against the general secretary and his policies.”
Kutuzov nodded. “Do you know about the unrest in Moscow?”
“The protests in the streets? They should be put down.”
“Agreed. The more freedom Gorbachev allows, the more people demand. The buffer states are starting to push for greater autonomy. If this continues, the Soviet Union will dissolve. Russia’s underbelly will be laid bare.” He shook his head. “Already the Baltic states demand independence, like Poland.”
Yermolov chuckled. “Soviets seek freedom, and Americans seek more free stuff.” He became serious. “We’re all anxious. I had time to think in Cuba. I’m happy to lay out my ideas, but between here and the village I can give only an outline.”
“Please.” Kutuzov appear
ed eager to listen.
Yermolov took a moment to formulate his thoughts. “My plan revolves around three tenets: restoring military strength, clamping down on political dissent, and loosening economic freedoms.”
Surprised, Kutuzov turned on Yermolov. “I like the first two,” he remarked, “but loosening economic freedom? Have you forgotten that you intend to lead a communist country?”
Yermolov laughed out loud. “I assure you I haven’t. I’m a pragmatist, not an ideologue. Ronald Reagan started this arms race to bankrupt us. But the US is creating its own financial crisis, and with patience, we can exploit it.”
“Explain.”
“The US keeps putting expensive social programs in place that never go away. Add that to their defense spending, and at some point, the US economy will crash under them. We’ll be there to pick up the pieces.”
For the duration of their ride to the village, Kutuzov listened, captivated by Yermolov’s strength of knowledge. “The American Constitution is a big problem for them, because it stands in the way of the government doing what it wants.”
“I’ve never understood that document,” Kutuzov replied.
Yermolov laughed out loud. “Not many Americans do either,” he chortled. “Fewer every year. Someday, it will die a quiet death. We Russians have a different problem. We need to ditch ideology. It’s nothing more than acting with confidence on what we think we know. But what if we’re wrong? It’s costly and gives little benefit.”
Kutuzov was disconcerted. “We stop being communists?”
“Call it whatever we want,” Yermolov replied, “but look for what works. We can’t have factories that manufacture only left shoes and expect to progress. That’s a waste of resources.” He returned to discussion of the military buildup. “For a while, we keep first-strike nuclear capabilities, but we don’t expand or improve them.”
Kutuzov recoiled. “You’re getting close to heresy.”
Yermolov saw that he was not smiling. “I know the Americans,” he said in his most reassuring voice. “They won’t strike first. They’re deathly afraid we will. We already have a nuclear arsenal larger than theirs. If we keep them spending their money and stop depleting ours, we gain ground. Meanwhile, we beef up conventional forces to keep control over the satellite states. Then by applying the results of my third tenet, we’ll have resources to overtake gaps, if they still exist. Some fools in the US want to disarm unilaterally.”
They both laughed, and Kutuzov regarded Yermolov with a new light in his eyes. “I’m starting to see. But I don’t understand the part about loosening up on economic freedoms. Won’t that cause more trouble? We were just talking about the problems with people demanding more freedom in Moscow.”
“Think China,” Yermolov said flatly.
Kutuzov looked doubtful. “That’s a communist country.”
“They call themselves that, but China implemented capitalist methods on a large scale over a decade ago. With over a billion people to feed, they had no choice. If a fraction of their population starves, their whole power structure crumbles.” Yermolov paused a moment. “They already had a taste of that during the Boxer Rebellion when there were so many dead bodies floating on the Yangtze River that they choked it.” He lowered his voice above a whisper. “Chinese citizens are allowed no political freedom at all. They can make as much money as they want, engage in whatever stupidity they desire, buy toys, go to the hairdressers, but if they criticize the government or dissent in any way, they pay holy hell.”
Kutuzov sat in quiet contemplation. “And you think that could work here?” He looked dubious.
Yermolov nodded. “The Soviet Union has more oil reserves than Saudi Arabia. If we present a less hostile face to the US and become friendly to investors, we can rebuild defenses and develop our oil industry with their money.”
Kutuzov rubbed his chin and turned to glance at the passing countryside. They were approaching the village. “What about our social spending? Won’t we face the same challenges as the US?”
Yermolov’s eyes burned with malicious delight. “My friend,” he laughed, “we can stop spending on any program, at any time. No one in the Soviet Union has rights to life, liberty, or the pursuit of happiness. We’ll take spending down to levels they need to be, and if the people cry too loudly,” he looked intently into Kutuzov’s eyes, “they can protest with sticks and stones, and we can shoot them, drive tanks over them, even bomb them to hell, and we won’t worry about choking a river.”
Kutuzov listened intently. He studied Yermolov with a poker face, as though trying to see into his mind.
They arrived at the compound. “After I drop you off I must report on our conversation,” Kutuzov said. “Others are keen to know about your ideas. I’m meeting with the commander of KGB Border Troops tonight. If you’re not too tired, you should come along.”
“Of course.” Yermolov tried to discern Kutuzov’s enthusiasm for their discussion, but saw only a neutral face.
“You can settle in,” Kutuzov said. “I’ll pick you up in two hours.”
After Kutuzov left, Yermolov surveyed the compound. At one time, it might have housed a crude restaurant with adjoining rooms for travelers. The structure was nondescript: concrete walls set up in functional form around a courtyard.
Drygin came to meet him. “Everyone arrived,” he said. He again noted Yermolov’s briefcase. “The rest of your things are in your room.” He reported that he had integrated the staff with the local KGB unit, and had assumed responsibility for perimeter security. “Did you want a staff meeting?”
“Is there anything new to discuss?”
“No. The local leader of the Rasputin group wants to meet with you here tomorrow morning. We’ll arrange that and let you know the time.”
“That’s fine. Any word on the whereabouts of Chekov, Atcho, or Ms. Stahl?” His feeling of unease settled in again as Drygin shook his head at the mention of each name.
“The KGB unit has pictures of all three. They know to be on the lookout, and they’ve spread the word.”
“Let me know when anything turns up. General Kutuzov will pick me up later for a meeting with the KGB Border Troops commander. I’m sure that’s the next step in a vetting process.”
Drygin nodded. “I think you’re right.”
***
Two hours later, Drygin watched as the limousine carrying Kutuzov and Yermolov drove away. He was angered by Yermolov’s suspicions after the staff meeting last night in Romania. He was further troubled by the general’s anxious insistence on receiving constant updates regarding Atcho et al.
A measure of distrust had been expected as a Soviet staple. Drygin recalled a photograph of Joseph Stalin taken during the early days of that dictator’s reign of terror. In the photo were three other men who had been early supporters, and had followed Stalin into power.
The photo was widely circulated. Over the years, each of the other three men disappeared from the photo in sequence as they fell out of favor with Stalin, and their lives were forfeited. In the most recent version of the photo, Stalin stood alone.
Stalin was not unique in history. Drygin’s study of world upheavals often revealed the premature demise of early followers of dictators. History contained myriad examples, but one fresh in Drygin’s mind was Saddam Hussein, the reigning tyrant of Iraq. When Hussein seized power, he had his best friend summarily shot along with others considered to be either less than reliable or potential rivals. And then there was Castro and Che.
Drygin had been a primary contact for Yermolov within Soviet intelligence for several years while the Soviet general doubled as General Clary. He was thus taken aback when Yermolov questioned the possibility of an informant among his group. The general’s suspicions were aimed at men who had taken great risks to forward his ambitions, and Drygin was currently closest to him. From his perspective, Yermolov already showed indications of suspecting him of subversive acts.
The irony was that not only had Drygin set
up the arrangements with the Rasputin sect in Paris, but he had also initiated and managed the contact with the commander of KGB Border Troops, Lieutenant General Fierko. Fierko had arranged for Yermolov’s smooth re-entry into the Soviet Union. More importantly, he had a direct link with the chairman of the KGB, Nestor Murin, without whose support no coup was possible.
None of the men Drygin had brought to form Yermolov’s initial staff were hard-core ideologues. Each had been in the group that provided intelligence, security, and logistical support to Yermolov during the assassination attempt. Most ironic was that Yermolov’s plan for seizing power was Drygin’s plan. The colonel and his staff had developed it.
Drygin went to Yermolov’s room. The door was locked, but Drygin had a master key. Seconds later, he stood in front of a padlocked wall locker. When he could not open it, he took care to relock the room, and went to place a call.
***
Yermolov observed the passing countryside. Dusk approached, and shadows already cut visibility. “Is this meeting part of vetting that began with you this afternoon?” he asked.
Kutuzov eyed Yermolov. “You didn’t expect us to hand over the keys to Moscow easily?”
Yermolov shook his head. “Knowing the process would be helpful.”
Kutuzov studied his face. “Your loyalty and dedication are not in question. We are considering capability. The question is, can you deliver a new direction? I’ll leave it to the KGB to explain how vetting works for our purposes. Do you mind a piece of plain advice?”
“Go on.” He masked his irritation.
“I am a soldier, first, last, and always,” Kutuzov began. He searched for words. “Communist Party officers have interfered with my operations over my entire career, but if I had ever said so, I would have been in a gulag long ago.” He looked intently at Yermolov. “Part of the mission of the KGB is to protect Party ideology. Without them we have no chance of success. You have to sell your plan to General Fierko, and he is KGB.”