[Cold War 02.0] Rasputin's Legacy

by Lee Jackson

  “Those other countries that make up the Soviet Union—Latvia, Czechoslovakia, Kazakhstan, the others—they’re defense mechanisms. If we lose control of them, doing damage to Russia becomes much easier.” He paused to gather his thoughts. “When Gorbachev’s policies destroy the Soviet Union, rich countries will look at Mother Russia with lust for rape. That can’t happen.”

  A Russian patriot? Yermolov thought. Who knew any still existed?

  Kutuzov spoke again. “I reached a position far beyond my expectations. I’m content to remain where I am, retire, or serve in another capacity. I live to serve Russia.” His intense green eyes bored into Yermolov. “Putting me somewhere that doesn’t keep me in command of soldiers serves no one. You’re welcome to my service, and if that doesn’t please you, you’re welcome to my head.”

  Yermolov drew back. He just told me that he’s not afraid of me! I’ll deal with that later. “I appreciate your dedication.” He feigned the warmth of General Clary and nudged Kutuzov’s arm. “We’ll have to put thought into where you can best serve. For the immediate future, keeping you where you are makes sense.”

  They reached the security gate at the army base. A sentry saluted and waved them through. “We’re just in time,” Kutuzov exclaimed, glancing at his watch. “Chairman Murin and the generals are assembled.”

  Chapter 32

  When he entered a small theater-like room, Yermolov recognized his old comrade, KGB Chairman Nestor Murin, on a raised stage, obviously engaged in informal discussion. Thirty of some of the top Soviet generals were already seated in the first three rows.

  Hearing the door open and close, Murin looked over and saw Yermolov, and his face lit up. He stood and approached, arms extended. “Comrade, it’s good to see you safe inside Russia. Among friends.” He grabbed Yermolov in a bear hug.

  They both faced the audience. “I give you a man who needs no introduction,” Murin announced, “Borya Yermolov.”

  The generals stood and applauded, but their expressions revealed reserve. When they had quieted down and were seated, Murin took Yermolov’s arm and guided him around a table on the stage. He offered Yermolov the center seat. Then he took the chair to Yermolov’s left. Kutuzov took the one on the right.

  The symbolism was not lost on Yermolov, nor was the nature of the welcome he had received. To the assembled senior military leadership, the message was clear: This is our guy. Ask what you will, but be prepared to support.

  Yermolov gazed across the assembly. Looking back were faces that bore gradations of hope, tenacity, and skepticism. This is my coup to lose. Lieutenant General Fierko stood there in full uniform with KGB insignia. Two KGB colonels flanked him. Murin stacked the odds in my favor.

  Nearby, but slightly apart, a civilian stood alone. With lights shining in Yermolov’s eyes, he could not make out the man’s features. However, he bore the unmistakable presence of high-level seniority, the Politburo.

  Yermolov felt satisfaction, but almost instantly sensed that gnawing unease that seemed a constant companion. He shook it off.

  Murin stood, but remained behind the table. “Every man in this room is at risk,” he said. “If we’re discovered, we will be considered co-conspirators, and,” he smacked his hands together, “we’ll be executed.” His face grim, he continued. “We came voluntarily, but as of now we’re all in. No one can pull out.” His words hung in the air and he attempted to look each man in the eye. “You came to hear General Yermolov, not me.” He turned to Yermolov. “General, tell us why we should support you.” He sat down.

  No one stirred. Yermolov remained silent, observing each man in the room. He rose to his feet and strode to the front of the platform. “Thank you to all of you for your dedication to the Soviet Union.” He paused and gestured toward Kutuzov.

  “I’m in the presence of greatness. I’m among men who put country and service ahead of personal ambition. Colonel General Kutuzov is a comrade who has no ambition beyond being a great soldier. He has already accomplished that.”

  His arm swept toward Murin. “I’ve had the privilege of working for the chairman, who always provided the support I needed while in foreign lands on national business.” He let the veiled reference to his espionage in the US sink in. “He asked me to tell you why you should support me.” Yermolov dropped his hands to his sides in a posture of utter defenselessness. “My answer is simple. You should not.”

  He watched the looks of confusion. No one spoke. In the second and third rows, some looked at each other in consternation. They leaned forward, eager to hear what he would say next. I guess Paul Clary learned a few things in those dreary US Air Force classes.

  “Your allegiance belongs to the country, and we should never follow a man who seeks self-aggrandizement. Your questions need to be: Is this General Yermolov—who has been absent from our country for so long—capable of leading our nation? Does he have the right ideas to restore our defenses, our economy, our greatness?”

  He spoke with increasing intensity, looking from man to man as he inflected his voice for greatest impact. “You should ask if he is the most qualified potential leader. Does he understand the profound questions that plague us; does he have the knowledge of nuclear defenses and conventional forces? Can he beat the United States in this game called the arms race?” Yermolov’s voice reached full volume. “Can he lead?”

  He let the thought linger. “If you think this Borya Yermolov is competent in every one of those areas, then considering him would be an intelligent move.” He dropped his voice to almost a whisper. “If you have doubts in even one of those areas, then you should seek someone else. The stakes are too high.”

  The room was silent; no one even coughed. “Yesterday, General Kutuzov asked me the same question: Why should he support me? He asked for specifics. I gave him three.” He paced. “Hear me out on each point. The third one will cause raised eyebrows. Is that right, General?” Kutuzov confirmed with a solemn nod.

  Over the next hour, Yermolov explained his tenets. He watched the faces of the generals, but knew that any outward expressions were masks of their true thoughts. Their careers had been forged in a brutal system that rewarded bureaucratic manipulation, political skill, and blatant corruption.

  As much as any of them might consider country, the truth was that they saw a plebiscite looming that they felt to their marrows would seal the fate of the Soviet Union. Chaos lay on the other side.

  Coupled with that pragmatism was the perception that Murin had skillfully cast the die. In a culture where personal loyalty was in short supply and always unreliable, Murin had used the power of his office to coerce, intimidate, or otherwise coopted these senior leaders to hatch a coup. Regardless of patriotic fervor, they were bound together. They dared not resist.

  Yermolov glanced at Kutuzov. He might be an exception.

  The concept of loosening economic freedom seemed to be understood, even welcomed. “Does that mean that my wife can sell the produce from her garden, and I can keep the profit?” one old general quipped. “I’ll put her to work tomorrow. If I can make her shut up, so much the better.” Laughter spread through the room.

  The humorous remark broke the tone of gravity and brought more jesting comments. Yermolov took questions until they seemed to have been exhausted. Then he turned to Murin, who rose from his seat, rounded the table, and gripped Yermolov’s hand.

  “Thank you, General,” Murin said. “General Kutuzov, Comrades, please help me welcome General Yermolov home.” The audience rose as a body, applauded, and formed a line to shake Yermolov’s hand. Within minutes, only a few generals still waited to formally greet Yermolov. Those who had already paid homage grouped around him.

  Soviet democracy in action. Yermolov felt hubris again, more intensely. This time he relished it.

  When the last of the generals had gripped Yermolov’s hand, he called across the room. “Comrades, please take your seats.”

  When they were ready, he addressed them again. “Our plans are im
possible to hide indefinitely.” He turned to Murin. “We need to act sooner rather than later?”

  “Gorbachev knows resistance is growing,” Murin agreed. “If the elections take place, he’ll think he’s succeeded. Establishing legitimacy for a democratically elected government toppled by a coup is tough in the international community.”

  “The international community.” Yermolov almost sneered, but stopped just short. “How soon can we execute?”

  “On command,” Murin replied. “We have everything in place.”

  “Good. Then we’ll execute within two weeks. In particular, the nuclear response capability cannot have a lapse.”

  Murin nodded agreement.

  “The general secretary will be given two alternatives. Either he can retire to his dacha to recover from illness, or he will disappear.”

  The room was deathly quiet. Yermolov went on to say that simultaneously with removing Gorbachev, unreliable military commanders would be replaced. “Furthermore,” he continued, “by mid-afternoon on the day we execute, ambassadors will seek formal recognition from respective countries. Any ambassador who resists will be replaced. At that point, the future of the Soviet Union will be secure.”

  When the meeting adjourned, Colonel General Borya Yermolov appeared firmly in charge. Murin took note.

  Chapter 33

  Collins wiped his palm across the top of his head to ensure that his few straggling hairs were in place. Upon receiving his boarding pass for his flight to rendezvous with President Reagan, he meandered toward the gate. He was tired, and boarding the Concorde was always easy.

  He chose not to think much about his impending visit to the Oval Office. In his profession, access was everything, and a meeting with the President of the United States was the holy grail of journalism.

  The president knew him by name, as they had met on more than one occasion. He had also interviewed another president several years ago in the Oval Office, so the trappings of neither the office nor the man awed him. From Collins’ perspective, they each performed their respective jobs as best they could. Still, the honor was great, even under these circumstances.

  He stopped in a store and browsed the books; he might need a novel to help him sleep on the flight. Finding a suitable one, he moved to the checkout counter. Other customers were ahead of him, so he let his mind wander while he glanced about at passengers hurrying past the store.

  Perhaps because of the intensity of three men moving toward the Aeroflot gates, or maybe because his subconscious mind recognized something familiar about them, they captured his attention. He almost gasped. One of them was Atcho. The other two were the men he had helped from the plane two days earlier. They looked tired. The one who had been sick on the flight from Washington looked like he had been beaten, and he walked stiffly. So, that was Atcho at the airport, and he’s with those guys.

  With a line of customers still in front of him, Collins knew he would lose them if he did not move; but, recalling that Jakes had said he was under French surveillance, he was careful to appear unhurried. He left the queue, returned the book to its shelf, and meandered back out into the terminal.

  He hung back and stopped occasionally to observe a piece of airport art or sculpture as he followed them. Soon they arrived at a seating area at one of the passenger waiting areas and settled in. He noted the gate number and went to one of the arrival/departure displays out of their sight. Their plane left in two hours, bound for Moscow.

  He briefly considered confronting Atcho in the gate area, but dismissed the thought as unworkable. Atcho would stonewall, an unpleasant scene could ensue, and Collins would walk away knowing no more about what the men were up to than he currently did. He glanced at his watch. His own flight was scheduled to close its doors in another twenty minutes.

  For the benefit of whoever tailed him, he exaggerated his gestures of concern and stepped up his pace. He arrived at his gate within five minutes, sweating and puffing, and was immediately shown aboard. There, he waited another ten minutes, rose from his seat, and made his way back to the front.

  “Ma’am,” he said to the attendant, “I am so sorry, but I’m feeling sick.” Sweat still trickled from his forehead. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his brow, and blew his nose. Then he pretended an imminent nausea attack.

  The young woman was aghast. “You can’t fly that way, sir. The other passen—”

  “I know,” he interrupted. “I’ll forfeit the ticket.”

  Without waiting for a response, he left the plane. He ducked into a narrow space behind the ticket desk and sat on the floor with his back to the wall. He waited there until he heard the jet engines revving, and then ambled into the waiting area. It was empty. He took the nearest seat, stayed long enough to see that no one paid attention to him, and walked into the main terminal.

  Ten minutes later, he purchased an Aeroflot ticket to Moscow on the same flight as Atcho and his companions. As Jakes had said, his credentials were up-to-date.

  When he arrived back at their gate, Atcho and the two men still sat where he had left them. He moved to the opposite end of the waiting area, and sat where he could watch them without being obvious.

  His stomach churned. You just stood up the president of the United States! You threw away access that people give their right arms for. On top of that, you’re flying into Moscow, and no one knows where you are. Count on consequences.

  He tried to dismiss his concern. He had acted on instinct in pursuit of a story; in his mind, the right call. Still, his nerves felt raw when he contemplated his current position. To professional peers, his action would seem bizarre. If no concrete story surfaced, he might have just seen the apex of his career pass in front of his eyes.

  He managed to board ahead of Atcho and sit ten rows behind him and his companions. As the plane took off, he knew he would not sleep, and regretted not purchasing the novel.

  Dawn broke rending scattered flame-colored clouds against a blue, early morning sky. The Aeroflot jet descended into Moscow.

  Inside the terminal, Collins located Atcho and his companions, and followed among the passengers trailing behind them through the vast hall. They stopped and inspected a departure bulletin board. Collins realized with dismay that he would lose them; he was not credentialed to fly anywhere else in the Soviet Union. He followed them anyway, until they disappeared into another departure gate. Glumly, he looked at the sign announcing the destination of their flight. It would leave in three hours, bound for Novosibirsk.

  Then, he felt a surge of excitement. After going through customs, he looked for the first place he could find where he could sit and drink a cup of coffee. There, he pulled the Rasputin biography out, and flipped through the pages.

  He glanced up at one point and saw two men watching him. My “minders” have arrived. They were Soviet officials detailed to watch him, as was customary in communist countries. They caused him no concern. He had been to Moscow before, and was accustomed to their shadowing behind. He could not imagine a more boring job.

  He flipped pages until he found what he was looking for. The connection was beyond coincidence: Novosibirsk, Rasputin’s birthplace.

  He headed for the exit, hailed a taxi, and gave the driver the address to the Washington Herald’s local office. As he rode through Moscow’s streets, he was too engrossed in thought to notice his surroundings. Why would Atcho and those two men have such interest in Rasputin’s birthplace? A link had to be there somewhere, connecting Atcho’s role in stopping Gorbachev’s assassination to Rasputin and Novosibirsk. I’m missing something.

  He pulled out the biography and re-read the part relating to the mystic’s relations with the royal family. That ran into a section regarding Rasputin’s contempt for aristocrats and how he humiliated them by flaunting his sexual proclivities. Collins wondered idly whether Rasputin had ever fathered a child by a member of the royal family. Suddenly, he sat bolt upright.

  What if he did? What if Rasputin fathered a
child with one of the tsarinas? What if such a child survived the royal family’s massacre?

  The taxi rolled to a stop. Collins looked up expecting to see the plain façade of the Washington Herald’s Moscow office. Instead, parked in front of the taxi was a police car with its lights blinking. His two minders from the airport approached the taxi.

  Collins jammed the book into his briefcase. One of the minders opened the door and motioned for him to exit. Bewildered, he complied. One of the minders took his arm and led to a black official-looking sedan behind the taxi. A man stood next to an open rear door. He pushed Collins into the middle seat and entered behind him.

  Another grim-faced man sat on the other side. “Don’t talk,” he said in heavily accented English. Collins sat in silence, more curious than concerned at that point. Even Soviets were cautious when handling the international press, particularly with the advent of glasnost.

  The car sped off. Collins tried to take note of his surroundings. Despite that the side windows were heavily tinted, he saw when familiar dark red walls appeared. He had never fathomed the acts of cruelty directed from this repository of classical Russian art that those bulwarks protected—the Kremlin.

  Then to his astonishment, the driver pulled up to a side gate, and they entered. Consternation overtook curiosity. Collins had no idea where he was being taken.

  The sedan steered into a short tunnel to an underground parking area. Collins’ captors ordered him out of the car. They set a brisk pace as they entered a massive building through a back door and climbed many stairs. For a fleeting moment, Collins thought he might be going to see General Secretary Gorbachev. Just as quickly, he dismissed the thought. I’m not a big enough fish, even if I did ditch the president.

  They reached a landing with a single door where the lead escort motioned for Collins to enter. When he did, his jaw dropped. The office in which he found himself was huge. Emblazoned on the opposite wall was a carved symbol of the Soviet Union. Behind a desk was the red national flag, with the hammer and sickle. Collins’ attention focused on the man advancing toward him, Mikhail Gorbachev.