[Cold War 02.0] Rasputin's Legacy

by Lee Jackson

  “Yes, Comrade. Unless you have new information.”

  “None. General Yermolov, what’s on your mind?”

  Yermolov straightened his shoulders and moved close to the speaker. “Comrade Murin, it’s time to accelerate. Nothing on Gorbachev’s itinerary should cause delay. He seems aware that something is taking place, but doesn’t know what, when, or where. By waiting, we give him time to mount counteractions.

  “Even if we assume that Chekov betrayed us, anything he thinks he knows is conjecture, and if we move up our timetable, his knowledge will be outdated.”

  He paused to gather his thoughts. Murin’s silence felt ominous. Yermolov’s voice took on a firm note. “The Rasputin group was ancillary. Soviet power never relied on the Orthodox Church. We have the critical pieces in place. It’s time to move. The future of the Soviet Union rests on what we do now.”

  When Murin responded, his voice was low and cautious, almost challenging. “Are you ready?”

  Yermolov drew to full height. His eyes exuded fire. “I’m ready.” His fate rested with Murin.

  “General Kutuzov, what is your assessment?”

  “No change. As General Yermolov stated, no strategy was grounded on Church support. It was nice to have. That’s all.”

  “What about your escaped prisoners?”

  “At best, Chekov was overpowered. At worst, he helped. We’ll intensify our search. That should not affect our plans.”

  “General Fierko, what do you think?”

  Fierko exhaled. “If we stand down, we’ll face massive retribution. Our best defense is to stay on offense. We have no time to waste. We should press on. Now.”

  Yermolov regarded Fierko with surprise. The guy has guts.

  Murin spoke again. This time, his voice carried gravity, even deference. “General Yermolov, let me be the first to welcome you to Moscow. I’ll meet you in my office at noon the day after tomorrow.” He hung up.

  The office was deathly quiet. Yermolov stood still, a solitary figure. Then he started a slow turn, taking in every detail in the room. As his eyes bore on General Fierko, the KGB general came to attention.

  Yermolov acknowledged him. He continued his turn until his eyes rested on Kutuzov.

  “General Yermolov,” Kutuzov said, standing at attention, “My command is at your service.”

  Drygin noticed the change in deference when the two generals returned to Kutuzov’s headquarters. Yermolov was clearly in charge.

  “We’re moving up the schedule,” Yermolov told him. “I leave for Moscow tomorrow. As of this moment, you’re released to General Fierko. Thank you for a job well done.” I’ll deal with you in a few days. He entered Kutuzov’s office without further comment.

  Watching him, Drygin smiled, his eyes narrowing to slits. He glanced up and saw Kutuzov studying him.

  An hour later, he sat in Fierko’s office. “Colonel Drygin, welcome to my command. We’re accelerating the plan. I leave for Moscow tomorrow. Chairman Murin wants you there tonight.”

  Drygin maintained his calm. “Is there something for me to do?”

  “You’ll monitor security arrangements. I’ll do the same from this end until my departure. We can’t afford mistakes.”

  Barely twenty-four hours had passed since Drygin had voiced his concerns to Fierko. In this cold emotionless way, steps seemed to have been taken to insulate and even advance him, though he wondered about the concept of keeping enemies closer.

  He had weathered many KGB political storms. He foresaw the one roiling on the horizon to eclipse all others, and made his own assessment about where personal loyalties should lie.

  Late that night, Yermolov’s eyes blinked open yet again. This time, a sense of exultation worked his mind, and he basked in it. He had learned before going to bed that the triumphal chariot carrying him to Moscow would be the magnificent Antonov 225 Mriya, the new aircraft he had seen on the runway when he and his entourage arrived in Novosibirsk.

  “Gorbachev must know where I am by now,” he had told Fierko. “Won’t he suspect if the Mriya flies to Moscow a day early?”

  “At this point, he’ll suspect anything that moves,” Fierko said. He related that Murin felt the flight was easy to justify. The aircraft was a terrorist target, and would be best protected in Moscow.

  Fierko had briefed Yermolov on the movement plan. On arrival in Moscow, security teams would board to clear the aircraft. “One of them will escort you to your car. You’ll be taken straight to the Lubyanka.” The next day, Murin would accompany him to a meeting in Gorbachev’s office at the Kremlin.

  “The general secretary will suffer a heart attack, and will be unable to carry out his duties,” Fierko said. “Murin’s handpicked security detail will take action to safeguard the life of the general secretary to ensure the continued functioning of the Soviet Union.”

  Yermolov enjoyed the music of what he had just heard, essentially the Soviet version of, “The king is dead. Long live the king!” Despite the pleasant scenario, he alternated between exuberance and unease. “Do we have any news of Chekov or Atcho?”

  Fierko shook his head. “Speed and surprise are our greatest weapons now. In two days, you’ll have the full might of Soviet forces to unleash on the fugitives.”

  You don’t know Atcho. Yermolov had dismissed the thought. Now, in the still of the night, it returned full force, displacing hubris.

  To Yermolov, Atcho was an enigma. He never quit. Through twenty-seven years of manipulation and imprisonment, his spirit had never broken. His tenacity bordered on lunacy. More problematic, his motivation stemmed from principles, and most high among them were protecting family and country.

  Yermolov contrasted himself against Atcho. Only the drive for power had guided the general’s career. He had affected humility, compassion, understanding, and other virtues as needed. He had even convinced a wife, a daughter, and a community that he was a loving husband and father. His family had been a prop to maintain his cover, nothing more. He had left his house early on the morning of the assassination attempt, and never looked back.

  Now, when he was so close to reaching absolute power on a world stage, he felt the overwhelming emotion he most scorned. Fear. “Damn you, Atcho.”

  Chapter 41

  When Colonel General Borya Yermolov strode into Kutuzov’s office the next morning, he had shaken off the terrors of the night, and wore the full-dress uniform of the Soviet KGB. He arrived at the army post without bothering to obscure his presence, and when he entered Kutuzov’s office, he did so with only a perfunctory knock. He carried his briefcase with him.

  Kutuzov rose to greet him. “At last this day is here.” He shook Yermolov’s hand firmly. “Maybe we can right this ship-of-state.”

  Recalling how easily Kutuzov agreed to Atcho’s execution, Yermolov regarded him with hidden contempt, while feigning warmth. You’re as dirty as the rest of us. “Where is General Fierko?”

  “At the airstrip. We’ve tightened security, so we’ll be traveling in a motorcade.”

  When they arrived at the airfield, both generals could only stare in wonder at the elegance of the Antonov 225 Mriya. Yermolov exited the limousine, carrying his briefcase with him. Kutuzov followed.

  As they approached the aircraft, a crew van drove up on the opposite side. Three members of the ground crew hopped out and inspected the landing gear.

  Yermolov paid them no mind. He was too taken with the Mriya. As a former US Air Force officer, he appreciated the fine lines and aerodynamic detail. It was designed for heavy lift, dwarfing the Boeing 747, yet its steep tail allowed for shorter takeoffs and landings than would be expected of such an enormous airplane. Nevertheless, with a full load it needed a two-mile runway.

  “This is a work of art,” Kutuzov breathed, “in classical Russian tradition.”

  “Agreed,” Yermolov said. But the Ukrainians built it.

  The crew van drove between them and the aircraft, and the driver rolled down the window. “Lieutenant-
Colonel Zhukov will be here in a few minutes. We have ground crew doing final inspections.” He drove on.

  Yermolov noticed that two members of the ground inspection team on the other side of the aircraft were near the crew door, and appeared to be opening it. He could see only their legs. The third had gone to the front landing gear, and was inspecting the tires.

  Just then, an air force officer approached from the operations building. He stood at attention and introduced himself. “I am Lieutenant-Colonel Stephan Zhukov, the pilot. Would you like to board now? We’re waiting for General Fierko and then we’ll be ready to start the flight.” He seemed unsettled.

  “Are you nervous?” Yermolov asked.

  “A bit,” Zhukov replied. “This is an important flight. I’m watching the ground crew to make sure they’re doing things right.”

  “They seem thorough.” Yermolov glanced at the man inspecting the front tires, and then at Kutuzov. “Let’s board.”

  As they started toward the front of the aircraft, Fierko hurried from the operations building. “I’ve been on the phone with Murin.” He turned to Kutuzov. “He insists that you fly in a separate aircraft.”

  Yermolov and Kutuzov were both puzzled. “Why?”

  “He’s concerned about security. He thinks that with this plane being such a high-priority target, having three senior-level officials aboard is inviting fate. He wants me to handle security for General Yermolov when we land. Also, if things go badly on arrival, he doesn’t want the army implicated by having another general on board.”

  Kutuzov looked at Yermolov. “That makes sense,” he said, reluctantly. “What do you think?”

  Yermolov’s survival warnings blared in his head, but he saw no alternative. “I’ll see you in Moscow.”

  “There’s another plane inbound to pick you up,” Fierko told Kutuzov. “You’ll land within minutes of us.”

  Yermolov boarded the Mriya with Fierko and Zhukov. A crewmember met them at the top of the stairs on a crosswalk in front of the flight cabin and cockpit.

  “This is my senior engineer,” Zhukov told them. “He’ll show you to your compartment. I’ll leave you now.” He disappeared through a door into the flight cabin at the center of the crosswalk.

  The generals settled into their cabin. They sat on two couches facing each other, with a table between them. Soon, the plane hummed with the high-pitched whine of generators followed by a deep throaty roar as one after another, six engines thundered to life.

  “Do you recall the estimated flight time?” Yermolov asked.

  “About three hours.” He was not conversational. Although Yermolov did not object, he made a mental contrast between Fierko and Kutuzov. He had found his discussions with Kutuzov valuable. They gave him a sense that he knew the man. He had no such insights into Fierko.

  “Do you have any reservations about what we’re doing?”

  “No, sir,” Fierko said after an extended silence. Yermolov took note of the deference. It was qualitatively different from Kutuzov’s. “I’ve long admired you,” Fierko continued. “As I told Chairman Murin, you have the skills and experience for the job, and you bring insights no one else does.”

  Yermolov acknowledged the comment. Is that sincerity or lip service? “What security concerns are you expecting on arrival?”

  “None in particular. I sent Colonel Drygin ahead to be sure. He was closest to your operation in the US, and knows the security requirements. Murin wanted him there.”

  “Drygin.” Yermolov’s sense of alarm ignited. Why did I turn him loose so soon? “Good man.”

  The Mriya’s engines roared, and the big plane crept from its parking place on the tarmac to a position at the end of the runway. In the cockpit, Zhukov heard a transmission from ground control, “Antonov 225 Mriya, please hold your position. We have an inbound Sukhoi making an emergency landing. Wait until cleared.”

  Moments later, a small fighter streaked low over the Mriya. It settled to the ground, decelerated rapidly, and came to a halt a few hundred yards down the runway. As it did, several trucks and an ambulance rushed toward the aircraft. Zhukov saw the canopy on the fighter pop open, and two figures jumped out while emergency personnel started their procedures.

  General Yermolov appeared in the flight cabin. “Trouble?” he asked, scanning through the windshield.

  “An emergency landing,” Zhukov replied. “Probably a hot-shot pilot overstraining his engine. We’ll be set to go shortly.”

  Twenty minutes passed. A tow truck pulled the fighter off the runway, and ground control cleared Zhukov for takeoff. The Mriya rumbled down the runway, lifted its nose skyward, and pulled its massive bulk into the morning air. Watching from the operations building, Kutuzov thought the plane seemed like a magnificent white eagle soaring into the clouds. “So, it begins.”

  Chapter 42

  On the morning that Yermolov, Kutuzov, and Fierko conferred with Murin over the likely impact of the Pravda articles, Atcho and his companions witnessed an unexpected event. From the little car, they watched as a man used wire cutters to snip the rusted, aging strands of barbed wire strewn on the fence and the gate of the Nevsky Cathedral in Novosibirsk. He pulled the wires apart, leaving them in two piles on either side of the entrance. Then he pried the gate open with a crowbar, and walked into the courtyard.

  While they watched, the church’s dark red bricks came to light, illuminated by advancing rays of dawn. Despite being muted by decades of neglect, the golden main dome glinted in the morning sun, decked with yet more twisted barbed wire.

  Minutes passed. Another man walked past the piles of cut wire. Shortly, an elderly couple followed. Soon a stream of people filed through the stately redbrick gate.

  Atcho and his companions stepped out of the car, shivering against the cold. “What do you think?” Atcho asked. “I was hoping to find a caretaker. I hadn’t expected to see people going to mass.”

  “I didn’t know Gorbachev’s policies had gone this far,” Ivan exclaimed. They approached cautiously, adopting the demeanor of those ahead of them. Inside, Atcho led them into an empty row of pews near the back. Around them, congregants either stood with bowed heads, or looked about as though observing changes in an old friend. Time and neglect had taken their toll but had not destroyed the magnificence of the building, from the carvings that adorned the columns to the sculptures that overlooked the altar.

  They heard rustling behind them. A priest in flowing red robes walked down the center aisle, flanked by two acolytes. He made his way to the altar and faced his parishioners.

  “Welcome,” he said with a solemn smile. “We received the news last night that General Secretary Gorbachev let us into our church a few months early. Our people are once again welcome in the Cathedral of Saint Alexander Nevsky.” He prayed. Men and women let tears run down their faces, celebrating a day they’d thought would never come.

  When the sermon was finished and the people had left, Ivan spoke with the priest. Abruptly, the cleric motioned for Atcho and Rafael to join them, and led them into a darkened corner. “I am Father Matfey,” he said in heavily accented English. “The patriarch in Moscow called last night. He passed the word from Gorbachev to open the church. He said to expect three men. One is called Atcho.”

  “That’s me.”

  Matfey studied him. “He told us about a few articles in Pravda. They make anyone look silly who believes claims of descending from Rasputin. Some members had parents who revered the mystic. They were poor and accepted hope where they could find it.”

  “What about someone claiming to be descended from both the tsar and Rasputin?” Atcho asked. He recalled his own incredulity when Burly had explained Yermolov’s alleged background.

  “There was a Soviet general in Novosibirsk yesterday who made that very claim. He had strong documents, but last night, the patriarch in Moscow called to warn us about him specifically. The general’s name is Borya Yermolov.”

  Atcho’s pulse raced. “What did you think a
bout the newspaper articles?”

  “If we hadn’t heard about them directly from the patriarch, we would have viewed them as propaganda. Our people would have helped Yermolov.”

  “Did you know that Yermolov intended to use Rasputin’s followers to spread his support to other parishes?”

  “Yes. That plan was cynical, and now it will fail.” The priest looked around his church disconsolately. “I hope we’re not outlawed again.” He sighed. “By the way, his staff called this morning to invite us to a social event with him. We don’t know when it will be. It’s still in planning.”

  “As soon as you know the details, please let us know.”

  Hours later, Atcho awoke from sound sleep. He stared up into darkness. He felt someone shaking him, and then heard Matfey’s voice. “Sorry to bother you.” They were in a room on the cathedral grounds. The priest spoke urgently. “Yermolov cancelled the social event. His staff is packing up.”

  Atcho’s eyes adjusted to faint light filtering through the open door as his mind grappled with what he had just heard. Across the room, Rafael sat up and stretched. Ivan yawned.

  The priest tugged at his shoulder. “Yermolov is leaving. They cancelled the event.”

  Suddenly, Atcho’s mind grasped what the priest had said. “He’s moving,” he thundered. “Yermolov is moving. Father, get the news to your patriarch. Ivan, wake up! You’ve got to get us to Moscow.”

  “I have to do what?” Ivan came fully awake with a start.

  “That article spooked Yermolov,” Atcho declared. “He’s moving.”

  “That’s a leap,” Ivan replied. His voice carried his skepticism. “Maybe he’s relocating to the army post. He had his big conference. He might feel more secure.”

  “No, he’s moving on Moscow,” Atcho insisted. “Yermolov didn’t just postpone the social event. He cancelled it. He knows Gorbachev is taking active steps. The Pravda articles told him that. He wants to preempt Gorbachev.”