by Lee Jackson
Yermolov could not read Fierko, and that puzzled him. Fierko was a small man, but anyone judging him on that basis would err. His reputation was that he had risen on intelligence and political savvy, not lack of them. Ambassador Jeloudov had worked through Fierko to make Yermolov’s transit preparations from Cuba.
Fierko circled to the opposite side of his desk. “Please sit down.” Even though both generals held one rank higher than his own, he obviously felt secure. Yermolov’s formal rank in the KGB had disappeared with his flight from capture following the failed assassination. Referring to him as “General” was a courtesy until he was formally reinstated.
Fierko directed a penetrating gaze at Yermolov. “My job tonight is to explain the process of assessing you and your plans.” He chose his words carefully and nodded in Kutuzov’s direction. “If we had received a less-than-favorable report from General Kutuzov, we would be pursuing a different course of action.”
“I understand. Who is we?”
“As you know, I report directly to Chairman Murin. For any plan to succeed, he must be at the center of it. He will be here tomorrow.”
Yermolov’s face registered surprise, bordering on shock. He had not anticipated Murin’s involvement at this stage. “He will be here?”
“Yes. Officially he’s coming to review new border security procedures and address a conference of senior commanders.”
Yermolov watched Fierko closely. He lacked passion and humor, and seemed incapable of pretense. A bureaucrat’s bureaucrat showing no indication of who is pulling the strings.
“Chairman Murin’s actual purpose is to meet with you,” Fierko went on. “I operated under his general guidance to bring you back in country. Any further actions will rely on his specific order. I hear that you and he are old friends.”
Suddenly, Yermolov understood Fierko’s dilemma. All KGB involvement in bringing Yermolov home had emanated through Fierko so that Yermolov would believe him to be the originator of support. Murin already supported the coup conspiracy, but was keeping himself hidden. If this went south, Fierko would be the fall guy.
Yermolov pictured Murin. From rare photographs in newspapers, Yermolov had seen that he had become a man of rotund proportions. That had not been the case when the two of them had been early in their careers. Murin had been Yermolov’s handler in Cuba back in the days when Yermolov doubled as young Lieutenant Paul Clary of the United States Air Force.
Discussion between the two resulted in inquiry to learn if the anti-Castro resistance leader, Atcho, could be the same man who had graduated from West Point. When investigation confirmed the fact, they speculated over the value of Atcho, if he could be turned.
Murin had developed the idea of kidnapping Atcho’s daughter, but the task fell to Yermolov to implement. Last year, Murin had devised the plan to assassinate Gorbachev, and had survived above suspicion after it failed.
Yermolov saw clearly that he had been set up from the beginning. The plan had gone smoothly right up to the moment of execution. When it failed, Yermolov took the blame.
No one had foreseen that Atcho, the intended assassin, would turn the tables and lay bare Yermolov’s role. Thus, as a “rogue general,” he had shielded Murin’s involvement. Now the task fell to Fierko to be Murin’s shield. Clearly, Murin expected to be the power behind the throne when the plot succeeded.
Fierko studied him. “Did you have a question?”
“No. I’m flattered that he would come this distance to see me.”
“Instructions are tight. Actions must be completed long before the elections. Otherwise, establishing legitimacy will be far more difficult.
“You must gather support of at least two-thirds of the military commands including army, navy, air force, et cetera. What’s left won’t be difficult to pull into line. We’ll release commanders who went to prison last year…” He paused, picking his words carefully, “…in the last attempt to correct our current destructive path.”
Yermolov thought a moment. “How do we get that support?”
“Murin expects it won’t be difficult. Assuming we go forward, he’ll personally vouch for you. Your education, training, and experience are well suited to the job, and your background is known. That leaves managing the economy and governing. You’ll have to address those issues convincingly.”
He nodded toward Kutuzov. “General Kutuzov indicated that your ideas have merit. That message was forwarded to Murin. The conference tomorrow afternoon will be for senior leaders known to oppose current policies. Your job will be to convince them that you have a better way.”
Fierko stood at his window and watched Kutuzov and Yermolov enter the limousine and drive away. Directly across the plaza stood the indomitable statue of Vladimir Lenin, his bronzed cape furling in a permanent wind, his eyes gazing into his utopian vision.
Fierko had been a good student of communism at the University of Moscow. He was part of the vanguard that Lenin introduced into doctrine to propel communism across the globe. No one rose to Fierko’s level without being embroiled in it. “It has its rewards,” he muttered. “But hell, it sure carries its risks.”
He crossed to the door and closed it. Then he sat behind his desk and placed a call over his secure line. He recognized Murin’s voice as soon as he heard it.
“They just left,” he said without bothering with niceties.
“What is your impression?”
“General Yermolov looks in good health. He is a commanding figure. His mind is fully alert and capable. He contains himself well, and showed no concern over the short time to prepare for the conference. General Kutuzov respects him. That is huge for bringing the other commanders on board. We’re ready for your visit.”
“Do you recommend going forward with the next step?”
Fierko saw that Murin was establishing deniability, but also knew that he could not hesitate, and that his voice must convey confidence despite the way his stomach churned. “Yes. The risk can be contained. The plan starts to correct the direction of the Soviet Union. Before we make a final determination, you should know about a call I received from Drygin.”
“What did he want?” Murin sounded more curious than annoyed, but Fierko knew that he was probably both.
“He was concerned that the information leaked out that Yermolov is alive. The Americans know Yermolov plans to re-enter Russia with help from the Rasputin group, so Secretary General Gorbachev probably does too. They must have pieced it together.”
Fierko heard the chairman chuckle low in his chest. “Don’t worry,” Murin rumbled in a voice that cracked from years of heavy smoking. “I personally informed Gorbachev about Yermolov’s ‘sighting’ in Paris. I couldn’t let him think our intelligence services were asleep on the job.
“If the plan fails, our ambassador in Cuba will do the honor of accepting responsibility.” He chuckled again. “You see, I take care of my protégés. Besides,” he added with a draconian shift in tone, “the man who saw Yermolov in Paris will tell no one else.”
Fierko was stunned by Murin’s revelation of how Gorbachev became aware of Yermolov’s continued existence and the intent to let Jeloudov take a fall. Fierko and the ambassador had been classmates in Moscow and had followed parallel careers until Jeloudov transferred to a diplomatic path. Murin had to know that.
“What was Gorbachev’s reaction?” Fierko could think of nothing else to say.
“He was angry, but not surprised,” Murin replied. “I committed to a low-key investigation into Yermolov’s escape. I assured him we would find him and bring him in.”
“What about the Rasputin group?”
“That was a ruse.” Murin chuckled again. “I set that up with Yermolov years ago, complete with documents to show him as heir of both Rasputin and Tsar Nicholas. We spun a story that Rasputin had a secret marriage to the tsar’s daughter, Anastasia, and that she had his child. That would be Yermolov’s father.
“We did that to give Yermolov a place to disappear, if h
e needed it. We kept the rumors of the existence of such a man alive all these years without revealing his identity so that group members would be happy to receive him if the time came.”
He was quiet, and Fierko waited. “You know,” Murin mused, “we came up with this ploy to get Yermolov away from authorities if he needed to escape. We never dreamed that we might use both the Rasputin and Romanov names to…” He coughed. “…correct the direction of the Soviet Union.”
Fierko contained his further astonishment. “I thought Ambassador Jeloudov came up with the idea of having Yermolov pose as Rasputin’s heir.”
Murin laughed out loud. “We must allow Jeloudov to continue thinking that. The suggestion was easy to plant in his creative mind. We found a biography written by an author in California that was supposedly coauthored by Rasputin’s daughter. It made its way to the embassy in Havana, and in conversation with Yermolov, the plan was born—that’s what Jeloudov thinks.” The tone of Murin’s voice suddenly changed. “Did Drygin have any other concerns?”
“Yes. Yermolov somehow acquired another briefcase. He didn’t have it when he arrived in France, nor when they moved into the cabins outside of Paris. He won’t let anyone carry it, and keeps it locked up in his room.”
“Hmm, that is concerning,” Murin replied. “Does Drygin have any idea what it could be?”
Fierko hesitated. “He’s an intel guy, and he said to remember that. He’s trained to consider all aspects. He’s not saying the briefcase is a bomb, but thinks that’s a possibility.”
Murin scoffed. “What would he be doing with a bomb, and how would he get one?” He was quiet a moment. “My guess is he has those documents in there that show his ancestry. I’d be protective of those too. Anything else?”
“Just one. Drygin thinks that Yermolov perceives leaks coming from his own men; that Yermolov might even suspect Drygin.”
Murin scoffed again. “Tell Drygin his services are appreciated. Yermolov was an intelligence officer in deep cover for his entire career. His job was to be suspicious, and he was under constant stress. Anyway, it’s good that Yermolov feels a little off balance.”
Once again, Fierko felt startled. He said nothing.
“Drygin has nothing to fear. I’ll vouch for him,” Murin went on. “Tell him that the Soviet military and intelligence services will soon experience what Americans call ‘upward mobility.’ His contributions will make him a rising star.”
“So, is the plan going forward? Will Yermolov—”
“Of course.” Murin’s gravelly voice was ebullient. “He has as much or more qualification than anyone in the country. We can use the Rasputin followers and the Romanov name to great advantage. That will help establish legitimacy quickly.” He suddenly switched subjects. “I’ll need a new deputy. Are you up to the job?”
Chapter 31
Dawn broke. Yermolov carried his coffee onto the porch in front of his temporary headquarters. He kept his expression impassive, but his impatience grew as he watched a group of Russian Orthodox Church members plod toward him through the snow. To him, meeting with these Rasputin followers was a waste of time.
He wore the uniform of a Soviet Colonel General, and his bearing expressed full appreciation for all that meant. He noticed, as though observing himself, that he felt a sense of satisfaction in the uniform. It fit in a way that the Unites States Air Force uniform he had worn for nearly thirty years never could. He felt genuine, and he reveled in the sensation.
Feeling at all was unusual for him. He knew what he was: a sociopath motivated by the love of power. Over decades he had tasted growing authority as he rose simultaneously through the ranks of the KGB and the US Air Force. His power had been exercised primarily through influence as a leading expert in nuclear weaponry.
He cared little for creature comforts or the family he had lost. They had been nothing more than props lending credibility to his role as a respected member of Western society. Where he slept or what he ate had no relevance as long as he progressed in his quest for power. Except for that damn fish soup! He growled at the thought.
The exercise of power was the single source of joy that drove him, and he saw the pinnacle of national power to be the only achievement that might satiate his hunger for it. To get there required patience, and in the guise of Paul Clary he had learned that the exercise of patience was one of the most necessary and effective survival skills.
Nevertheless, he felt impatient. When he and Murin developed his escape plan through the Rasputin group years ago, they had joked about it. The need to implement it had seemed farfetched.
While convalescing in Cuba, Yermolov endured Jeloudov’s self-congratulating overtures while leading the ambassador to the notion of arranging Yermolov’s escape to the Rasputin sect. In Paris, he had even had to eat some of that vile fish soup at the house of a group member while the staff organized and prepared the cabins.
While still at that house, Yermolov received the documents establishing his connections to Tsar Nicholas and Rasputin. He saw the look of awe and fear in the eyes of his hosts when they viewed them. He understood then that they would assume any risk to move this perceived demigod back into Mother Russia. Now, as the Rasputin group reached the stairs leading to the porch, he recognized the worshipful expression on their faces: hope, awe, and fear.
For the space of seconds, Yermolov knew the feeling of possessing charisma. He felt a tingling of rare enjoyment, and for a fleeting moment he saw a vision of himself in the Kremlin.
He shook himself back to the present and fought down rising impatience stemming from the charade imposed by the necessity to engage with the Rasputin followers. Fools! How can they carry that garbage about Rasputin through generations?
He fought off the sense of what he knew must be hubris, a danger to survival. Then he adopted the countenance of a senior general of the Soviet Army mixed with the professional amiability he had affected as General Clary. He walked down the stairs to meet his guests and extended his hand. “Welcome,” he said warmly. “I am so pleased to meet you.”
The leader of the group, in priestly robes with well-groomed graying hair that extended to a full beard, stopped almost in shock. Russians were not accustomed to being treated with courtesy by government officials, much less a senior officer of the Soviet KGB. He maintained reserve more than the others in his group, and observed Yermolov with an attempt to hide skepticism. He reached up to grasp Yermolov’s hand, hesitance registering in the anxious look in his eyes.
As Yermolov had done in such practiced manner in the halls of the Pentagon as General Clary, he drew the priest’s hand in and took his elbow. “You are kind to meet with me.” He saw the change in the man’s expression that told him he had won him over.
Yermolov led the small group into a dining hall that served as a conference room. There, already laid out, were four documents. The priest drew close and studied them. His eyes grew wide, his expression one of wonder. He gazed at Yermolov and then moved aside for the others to see.
All four documents looked old. Two of them looked ancient and contained ornate print. One of the two more recent documents was a birth certificate, that of a male child born in Akron, Ohio. The child’s name was Paul Clary, born to Peter and Maria Clary.
The second was an immigration form from Ellis Island in 1925. It recorded “Peter Clary” as the name of a boy entering the US. The certificate further showed that the child’s name had previously been Pyotr Rasputin. The collective expression of the group when they saw it was one of amused skepticism.
The third and fourth documents arrested their attention. The visitors looked back and forth between the papers and Yermolov, their disbelief turning to wonder. Both documents were deeply yellowed by age, almost orange. The smaller of the two was another birth certificate. It recorded the birth of Pyotr Rasputin and showed the names of his parents, Grigori Rasputin and his wife, Anastasia Romanov. The men gasped when they read the names.
The fourth document was gra
nd with flourished writing, and scrollwork adorning the margins. On seeing it, the visitors gaped. It recorded the marriage of Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin to Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna of Russia, daughter of Nikolay Alexandrovich Romanov, Emperor of Russia. Both documents bore a waxed double-headed eagle, the seal of Imperial Russia.
“How did things go with the Rasputin group?” Kutuzov asked when he stopped to pick up Yermolov that afternoon.
“Who knows? They seemed suitably impressed. That was an unnecessary annoyance.”
“I’ve watched Gorbachev’s rise,” Kutuzov replied. He explained that Russian Orthodox activism brought about the move to return property to Church control. “That shows effectiveness. The Rasputin bunch is a tiny splinter, but they’re not outcasts. If they promoted support among other congregations across the Soviet republics, the Church could be valuable in establishing legitimacy.”
“I see.” Drygin thinks the same thing. “What should I expect at this afternoon’s conference? I didn’t have much time to prepare.”
“Don’t worry. You’re a legend among senior commanders.” He grasped Yermolov’s shoulder. “Unbelievable! To be on the US side of the table at nuclear negotiations, while looking out for the interests of the Soviet Union. No one can duplicate that. You’re not a rogue general. You followed orders.” He watched the passing landscape. “I vouched for you already. Murin supports you. Repeat those things you told me, and the group will be prepared to act.”
Yermolov looked out the window. Bleak stretches of snow met his gaze. “We’ve gone a good distance down a risky road. To use an American colloquialism, why are you sticking your neck out?”
Kutuzov rested his elbows on his knees. “For my entire career, I’ve defended my country.” He spoke with unguarded passion. “Russia is my country, not the Soviet Union. Invaders lay waste. Right now, America threatens nuclear devastation, and they are well aware of our petroleum and mineral deposits.