December

by James Steel

  ‘So, you want to know who is on our faction?’ Sergey grinned as he swung open the door. ‘Well, you will meet them,’ he said as he swept into the room.

  Two men were sitting on the far side of the large boardroom table. Alex was not surprised that he had seen them the night before; he was beginning to understand the way Sergey worked. More food and a tray of vodka glasses were laid out on the table.

  ‘This is Grigory Bezukhov, head of my TV stations in Moscow.’

  Alex leaned over the table to shake hands with him. ‘Alexander Devereux,’ he said formally.

  Grigory gave a friendly smile. ‘Hello.’

  He was in his forties, medium height, slightly tubby, with a few days’ stubble and long curly black hair under a trendy Kangol flat cap worn backwards. He was dressed in a crumpled black Armani suit. A green Russian army surplus satchel sat on the table next to him with a laptop and his BlackBerry sticking out of it. His broad face had a trusting, open look.

  Sergey turned to the next man. ‘And this is Lieutenant-General of the Airforce, Fyodor Mostovskoy.’

  Mostovskoy was also in his late forties but otherwise he and Bezukhov were chalk and cheese. He was thin, pale, like some deep-sea fish that lived away from the light. All colour had been leached out of him, his hair was fine and translucent and his skin had an unhealthy pallor. He was quite tall and stooped, with a thin nose that was crooked to one side. As a military man he had a more formal, reserved manner, and bowed his head slightly as he shook hands. Alex noticed that his hands were fine-boned but the grip was strong. His eyes had a watchful look that spoke of a greater intelligence than he would ever express openly.

  ‘Fyodor is our key man,’ said Sergey, coming around the table behind him and slapping him on the back. ‘He is in charge of Moscow Military District air defences and has organised a lot of support for us in the airforce as well. The only problem is, he doesn’t drink!’ He opened his arms wide in astonishment. ‘I sometimes wonder—is he Russian or a foreign spy?’

  Fyodor’s lips twisted a little in what passed for a smile.

  ‘We are also waiting for one other person, who is helpfully late,’ Sergey said sardonically and looked at his watch. ‘This is as many of the team as I could safely get together in London at one time without arousing suspicion. There are a lot more backers in Moscow on the media side and others who will contribute financially, plus politicians who will declare for us when the time comes. A lot of people don’t like Krymov’s aggressive line against the West. We’re all proud of the Motherland but we don’t want to blow up the whole world in order to prove it!’

  He picked up a small glass of vodka and proposed a toast.

  ‘So, my friends! To the new Dekabristi!’

  Alex dutifully slammed his drink back and winced at the kick. He would have to get used to starting meetings like this. He didn’t, however, know the word in Russian and queried it with Sergey; Sergey hastened to fill in the blank. ‘In English you would say “The Decembrists”, you know, like Shaporin’s opera?’

  Alex was a confident enough character not to mind admitting that he didn’t, and shook his head.

  ‘They were a bunch of idealists back in 1825. They rebelled to try to liberate Russia from tsarist dictatorship. Funnily enough they ended up in the same labour camp as Raskolnikov is now in.’

  Grigory and Fyodor both looked down at the table when he said this, and Sergey suddenly realised that this last point wasn’t actually very funny at all.

  ‘Well, you know,’ he shrugged, ‘let’s be honest about the risks. Life is a fatal condition—no one has survived it yet. Anyway, this time we are trying to get someone out of Krasnokamensk and take them—’

  The double doors burst open and everyone jumped.

  ‘Sergey Stepanovich!’

  The stunning woman from the party last night came sweeping in.

  Alex sat bolt upright—what the hell was going on? Sergey’s security could not be very tight if just anyone could burst in on them.

  ‘I know! I’m late! I’m sorry.’

  Sergey seemed very pleased to see her, though, and opened his arms to embrace her; she kissed him demurely on both cheeks instead.

  ‘Ah! Now we are complete!’ Sergey turned to Alex, puffed out his chest with pride and introduced them formally. ‘Alexander Nikolayevich Devereux this is Lara Mikhailovna Maslova.’

  Alex slowly rose from his seat; he was trying to get a grip on his conflicting feelings of shock that the woman was actually part of their faction, mixed with the physical impact of seeing her again. He did his best to cover it as he shook hands firmly and repeated, ‘Alexander Devereux.’

  She flashed a glance up at him; her blue eyes set above sweeping cheekbones to give her a look as wide and dazzling as the sky over the steppe.

  As she moved away, Alex found himself watching the body language between her and Sergey; his hand rested lightly on the small of her back in a proprietorial manner as the two stepped past each other to sit down.

  She sat next to Alex and looked at Sergey at the head of the table. ‘OK, let’s go!’ She beamed at them all; she seemed to have resolved whatever issues she’d had the night before and leavened the previous sombre mood.

  ‘OK.’ Sergey looked at Alex. ‘Lara and Grigory are the media side of this coup. Now, they are vital because in this game it’s not about who has the real power, it’s who appears to have the power. Krymov has many more soldiers than us, but when this all kicks off, people will sit on the fence and wait to see which way the wind is blowing. With the control of the TV stations we can get the images out there that can make it look like we have popular support on the streets of Moscow and then swing the army behind us.’

  He looked at Grigory for comment, who spoke with the confident manner of someone who knew his job.

  ‘Sergey is absolutely right, media coverage was where the KGB really fucked up in 1991 when they rebelled against Gorbachev. Everybody was watching TV to see what was happening and Yeltsin managed to get just a few minutes of airtime on the news of him standing on a tank. It broke their image of invincibility, someone had stood up to them and suddenly it was the emperor’s new clothes time and everybody turned against them.

  ‘Apart from that, Russia is the world’s largest country, more than twice the size of the US.’ He spread his hands across the table. ‘It’s nine thousand kilometres wide, over seven time zones. So to win, we will also need to get support from a majority of the eighty-eight regional governors and the politicians from those zones; as well as carrying business, the international community and the UN with us.

  ‘We can’t guarantee what will happen on the ground. It will be tough—Krymov is not going to give up without a fight—and a lot of people will wait and see, but with Sergey’s TV channels we can at least make the wind appear to be blowing in our direction and that will be a big factor.’

  Sergey broke in enthusiastically. ‘Yes! And Lara will help us achieve it because she is the most popular TV presenter in Russia at the moment!’ He glanced at her admiringly and she smiled and looked down modestly.

  Sergey preened himself a little. ‘Of course, I discovered her when she was…’ Lara looked up and interrupted him with a venomous glance; Sergey continued, ‘…doing other things. I put her on Deal or No Deal, everybody loved her and it all started from there. So now she fronts Big Brother, Star Factory, all the big national festivals…’ He gestured to her to continue.

  She turned to Alex. ‘I’m the nation’s favourite girl-next-door, you know. I’m down to earth—I’m not a Muscovite; I have a provincial accent—’

  Sergey leaned forward to interrupt her. ‘Same hometown as me—Voronezh—only the best…’ he winked.

  ‘Hmm.’ Lara smiled graciously, taking the interruption in her stride. She seemed used to Sergey’s manner. ‘I do flash my boobs,’ she gestured unselfconsciously to her sculpted cleavage, ‘but I’m very sweet as well. All the dads fancy me and all the mums wish I would marry th
eir boys.’ She tilted her head on one side, looked up at Alex with her steppe-sky eyes and gave a coy smile.

  To Alex it felt as if the earth had tilted slightly. He nodded as professionally as he could but in his head he shouted at himself: Get a grip, Devereux!

  Lara switched the smile off and continued in her matter-of-fact way. ‘I’ve also moved into doing some soft news; it’s mainly interviewing celebrities, but I’m sure I can do a good job on reporting the news of the coup and fronting Raskolnikov.’

  Sergey nodded approvingly and turned to Alex. ‘So, that’s the media side. In terms of troops we are confident of support from a key regiment.’ He looked at Fyodor.

  Fyodor cleared his throat. He spoke quietly, with his head down and his hands clasped on the table in front of him. ‘Yes, the 568th Regiment is stationed in the northern suburbs of Moscow and is having some problems.’ He coughed selfconsciously before admitting, ‘It’s not an unknown fact that Russian army life is very brutal: bullying is a part of the conscription process and commanding officers refer to their men as “slaves”. Far more men die from accidents and suicides every year than in combat.’

  He glanced defensively at Alex, who couldn’t tell if the Lieutenant-General was just embarrassed to admit this to a former NATO officer or if he was just a cagey character.

  Fyodor continued, ‘Krymov has pushed for a return to what he calls “the old values” that made the Red Army great. What he means by that is an increase in brutality. He appointed a new commanding officer to the 568th last year—Colonel Karenin, a friend of his—and he has been so sadistic that his men have been pushed to the edge. Sergey has been in touch with junior officers in the regiment who say they are ready to rebel. We believe that they will come out for us.

  ‘The 568th will be vital because they will help us hold on to the Ostankino TV tower—all the TV and radio stations in Moscow broadcast from there and then relay to the whole of Russia.’

  Alex nodded but Fyodor could see that he needed some background. ‘The tower, you know, it looks like the Telecom Tower in London but it’s three times as high,’ he stretched a hand up above the table, ‘five hundred and forty metres. It used to be the tallest building in the world.’

  Sergey interrupted him. ‘Everything is bigger in Russia!’ he said grandly with his arms spread wide, and then leaned towards Alex and said in a confidential tone, ‘Although, did you know that Russian scientists have recently invented the world’s finest microcomputer?’ He looked at him with a raised eyebrow and nodded meaningfully.

  This complete change of direction flummoxed Alex and he looked back at Sergey, unsure as to what he should say.

  The Russian exploded, throwing his arms wide again and shouting, ‘It’s the biggest in the world!’ He burst out laughing, looking round the table to see if they got the joke.

  Lara and Fyodor both smirked and shook their heads, while Grigory bellowed with laughter.

  An obsession with being the biggest in everything was all part of their country’s general insecurity complex but some of the more intelligent Russians enjoyed poking fun at it. Sergey grinned, pleased to have made people laugh. ‘It’s good, yeah?’

  Alex smiled and nodded appreciatively.

  Sergey was finally satisfied and continued his former line of thought. ‘So, the tower is about five miles north of the centre of Moscow but there was a lot of fighting there in the revolt against Yeltsin in 1994—about thirty people got killed.’

  Alex looked surprised. ‘I didn’t realise it was such a big fight.’

  Fyodor seemed to take a gloomy pride in the event. ‘Well, I was there as a junior staff officer. It was a big deal. We had six hundred armoured vehicles out in Moscow. Tanks shelled the presidential palace and burned it down.’

  Sergey nodded. ‘So, that’s the plan. We get Raskolnikov to Ostankino, do the broadcast with him and Lara, call the crowds out onto the streets and win over the 568th Regiment—simple.’

  Again he shrugged off the enormous risks with a smile. Alex was already thinking of a hell of a lot of things that could go wrong.

  Sergey admitted some of them. ‘What we don’t know is what Krymov will do. The OMON riot police and the MVD troops will certainly support him, but the question is whether the other regiments around Moscow will support us. If they do respond to the broadcast then we win, but if they don’t then we will have a hell of a fight.’

  Alex nodded in agreement. ‘Hmm, as von Moltke said: “When your enemy has only two options he invariably chooses the third.”’

  Sergey pondered it for a moment and smiled before he clapped his hands. ‘Anyway, that’s the Moscow end of things. Now explain your plan for the camp.’

  Alex sat forward, pulled some maps out of his wallet, laid them on the table and talked them through his initial ideas for an attack. Fyodor leaned over and took a keen interest whilst Lara and Grigory sat back. Sergey listened carefully whilst Fyodor asked useful questions.

  Alex wrapped up his presentation: ‘I have been in touch with my usual team and they are interested in the job. Colin Thwaites is in the UK already, Arkady Voloshin and Yamba Douala are on their way back here from Africa, and I have contacted two more people.’

  Sergey nodded with satisfaction. ‘Hmm, very good, Major Devereux. Now, my only input on this is your call sign for the operation—it will be “Baba Yaga”!’ he grinned.

  Lara rolled her eyes. ‘Sergey, is this necessary?’

  Sergey looked at her with exasperation. ‘Lara! Will you indulge me for once?’

  She turned to Alex. ‘His enthusiasm for Russian folk stories sometimes gets the better of him.’

  Sergey’s excitement was undeterred. ‘It’s a good name!’ He too turned to Alex. ‘She’s a witch who flies around Russia doing harm to people—just like you! Although she has iron teeth and she eats children!’ He grimaced, gnashed his teeth and made clawing gestures with his hands. ‘Anyway, Alex should read some Russian literature if he wants to understand what this is all about! The struggle for the soul of the Motherland!’ he declared grandly.

  ‘Hmm…’ Lara sounded unimpressed; Alex had the idea that this was a well-worn argument between them but that she was happier just to let it go for now.

  Sergey jabbed a finger at Alex. ‘You see, you asked me last night—will we win? And I say, yes! We will win because we have the Russian soul!’ He emphasised the words Russkaya dusha. ‘All you Western bastards say we’re all slaves but the Russian soul is not a slave soul!’ He banged the table. ‘Our free spirit will overcome this Krymov son of a bitch!’ He tossed his head so that his thatch of blond hair flayed around.

  Lara put a hand on his and smiled at him sweetly. ‘Sergey, my little fish, can we get on with the briefing, please?’

  Sergey harrumphed but she ignored him and looked at the others. ‘So, now we have Raskolnikov, how are we going to get him back to Moscow?’

  The airforce officer Fyodor came into his own here. He pulled a document wallet out of a briefcase; his eyes narrowed as he looked at the papers. ‘Moscow has the best air defence system in the world but I have some ideas for getting around it.’

  He talked them through, with Alex and the others chipping in suggestions. After a while they had finalised things as much as they could, and Sergey’s attention began to wander.

  ‘Right! I now want you all to piss off downstairs and eat and drink! I am going to explain to Alex why we are fighting for the soul of Russia!’

  Chapter Five

  The authoritarian side of the soul of Russia was making itself felt to Roman Raskolnikov that same evening.

  He lay on his bunk in Barrack 9 and looked at the ceiling. He was at the top of the stack of four beds, shoved right under the planks. He slept there so that no one could get at him during the night—it was not unheard of for prisoners to be found with their throats slit in the morning. Two politicals who supported him and Big Danni slept in the three bunks below him to act as protection.

  It was t
he half-hour after dinner when the men were allowed a few dingy electric lights so that they could get ready for bed and do their chores: darning socks and bartering for cigarettes with favours of one kind and another. He could hear the hundred other men in the hut moving around, muttering and cursing. They were only allowed a bath once a week and the place had the reek of old sweat.

  He knew he should be using his time wisely—repairing boots and clothes, chatting to find out useful information, filing down a small knife to use or sell—but he was just too exhausted after his day dragging logs in the forest. The sinews in his shoulders and forearms felt like they had been pulled out of him.

  His sawdust mattress was thin and conformed to his hipbone so that it rested on the hard wooden bed boards. He lay still, staring at the cobwebs of hoar frost in the corner of the roof. It was below freezing in the hut and he slept fully clothed with his feet stuffed into the arms of his jacket and his head under an old blanket.

  That had been his 868th day in the camp and he was still alive, so he had something to be grateful for. The slack-mouthed rapist, Getmanov, had watched him closely during the day but hadn’t gone anywhere near him and none of the guards had beaten him up as they sometimes did when the mood took them. So, overall, it had been a good day.

  There were only 4,607 more to go.

  Chapter Six

  In another world, in an opulent, warm mansion in South Kensington, Sergey peered at Alex through his fringe in a way that made him unsure if he was drunk or just being very searching. They were now alone in his office.

  Sergey said slowly and emphatically, ‘Sashenka, I can see from your face that you are not a man of no consequence, you are not a man who is blown here and there.’ He flapped his right hand back and forth on the table. ‘You are a man who understands the meaning of suffering.’ He laid the hand, palm up, on the table between them in a gesture inviting assent.