Stroika

Chapter 30

^{MOSCOW, THE ARBAT}

‘So we are agreed on the preliminary timetable?’ Yuri heard himself say. He looked around the long table at the district generals and their delegates. Here and there was the nodding of heads, none spoke. It had been another exhausting and frustrating meeting trying to tie down a phased time for the evacuation of the Western Forces Group from East Germany… should negotiations get that far. He thought, at last, after months of meetings, they were finally there. On an easel at the far end of the meeting room stood a flip chart listing a dozen or more military groups with dates scribbled out and reinserted. ‘We evacuate through Rostock and Reugen.’

‘You are good at retreats, General,’ said General Vdovin, breaking the silence.

Yuri counted to ten; losing his temper was just what Vdovin and his supporters wanted.

‘We have been over this, General. This is a political decision. At the moment it’s still a what if. Last time I looked, the Berlin Wall was still standing.’

‘We were never interested in Eastern European government support before,’ scoffed Volkov. He was shorter than Yuri, eagle-eyed and driven. As commander of the Western Group he was the most immediately affected. ‘It is the general secretary who is out of step. He needs to be better advised.’ Volkov meant that he should better advise him, or better still somebody else entirely.

‘I would remind you, General, that the economy is on the brink of collapse. Your soldiers have not even been paid for months.’

‘And whose fault is that?’ added Vdovin.

‘We start with the 2nd Guards Tank Army, followed by the 2nd and 8th Shock Armies,’ continued Yuri, ignoring Vdovin’s remark. He went round the table, eying each general in turn, not breaking contact until they said yes or grunted their assent. Volkov was last. He looked across the table at Vdovin, who had already signalled his agreement.

‘Agreed,’ he said finally. Volkov stood up abruptly and everyone clambered to their feet. The meeting broke up. Two minutes later, only Volkov and Yuri remained in the room.

‘Does it make you proud presiding over the collapse of an empire?’ Volkov said bitterly.

‘General, I don’t see it like that.’

‘Clearly not.’

Volkov opened the door and was gone.

Yuri sat down at his desk and rubbed his temples. The colonel general had told him it would be hard going; he wasn’t wrong. He was taking the lion’s share of the flak for both the general secretary and the general staff. He sensed Volkov and Vdovin were not about to give up that easily, despite their verbal assurances.

He stood up and walked over to the window. Drizzle lightly wetted rooftops and street lanterns. Five floors below, on Arbatskaya Square, next to a canvas-covered stall, a group of hippies tendered Afghan coats and roughly made leather bags to passers-by. Yuri laughed to himself – weren’t they twenty years too late? A seventies song he knew but couldn’t identify drifted upward, piecemeal and incomplete. He felt the sudden need for fresh air, to get out of the defence building he had been cooped up in for most of the day.

He lifted the papers off his desk, placed them in the drawer, locked it, and buzzed through to the outer office.

‘Olga, can you please call my car.’

He stood up, walked over to the coat stand and unhooked his raincoat. His hands went instinctively into his pockets to check for the apartment keys. They were where they should be. But there was something else too, something he had not expected. He pulled out a small folded piece of paper and studied it in the palm of his hand. He had no recollection of putting anything in his pocket. Maybe it was Natasha? She had put a love note in his pocket when he was in the shower. It brought back memories of the previous night. He must give her a call. Yuri walked over to the window and idly unfolded what he assumed must be a note.

In neat handwriting it read: TONIGHT 8.00 P.M. BARFLY, PUSHKINSKAYA PLOSHCHAD. There was no signature, nothing that would indicate who might have written it.

He wracked his brains. Who could have put it there and when? To have put it in his coat pocket inside the defence headquarters, they would have had to run the gauntlet of security and Olga, who was herself not to be underestimated in this. She had successfully guarded him from a myriad of unwelcome callers. It had to be someone with easy access to his office. He stood there a minute wondering whether to respond. He reckoned that rubbing a three-star general up the wrong way by inviting him on a pointless clandestine meeting was unlikely to improve their position in life. It could, of course, be some sort of trap. He looked at his watch. It was only seven fifteen and he could make it easily, but he would need to throw off whoever had been following him… if indeed he was being followed.

‘Tervaskaya,’ was all Yuri said to his driver. Ten minutes later they had slogged their way through heavy traffic to the front entrance of his apartment building. Acting as he did every day, he checked for messages before taking the lift to the seventh floor and his apartment. Quickly changing out of uniform, he donned jeans, an everyday jacket and silk scarf, which he wrapped loosely around his lower face, covering his mouth.

Ignoring the lift, he descended the emergency stairwell to the first floor and exited onto the landing. The corridor was empty. He followed it round to the rear of the building and an unmarked door, used in Stalinist times as a bolthole, and took a narrow staircase down to the ground. A janitor shifted bins ready for the morning collection.

Yuri walked up the long incline to the main street and continued for a couple of blocks before stepping off the kerb and holding out his hand. A car pulled up, a government employee out to make some extra money on his way home.

‘Pushkinskaya metro.’

The driver named a price. Yuri nodded and climbed in, ignoring attempts to engage him in small talk. The drizzle had thankfully stopped. Residents swept clean the entrance to their buildings as a construction brigade attended a burst water main.

‘Here’s Pushkinskaya.’ The driver pointed to a sign two hundred metres ahead. ‘Where do you want to be dropped?’

Yuri recognised Barfly on the opposite side less than one hundred metres away.

‘This will do fine.’

Outside, a photograph pinned to a cracked and broken glass frame displayed a poorly lit, smoke-filled interior. A girl, sidestepping puddles in her high heels, passed him and gingerly took the steps down to the basement entrance. He looked at his watch: five minutes before eight. He followed her down. A flat-nosed, shaven-headed bouncer blocked Yuri’s way.

‘I have to search you,’ he said bluntly. Yuri noticed he was wearing an old military jacket and heavy army boots. The tattoo of a claw crawled up his neck.

Yuri stood still while the bouncer patted him from head to foot. At least this way, Yuri thought, it would only be the bar staff that carried guns. The bouncer nodded; he was free to go.

A heavily made-up girl in a small cloakroom cubicle took his coat and handed him a ticket. He pocketed it, drew back the curtain and stepped into the bar. The photo outside did not do it a disservice. Cigarette smoke hung thick and pungent, draining what small light and oxygen there was in the room.

Negotiating low tables, Yuri made his way over to the bar, grabbed a stool and ordered a beer. It took a minute for his eyes to adjust. A woman, sitting at the far end of the bar, caught his eye, held it and smiled an invitation; around the room, men and women, both single or together, sat at small circular tables under outsized revolutionary posters that decorated the red-painted brick walls: a virile-looking man driving a sparkling new tractor in a sun-filled scape, his adoring wife looking on; a woman with her index finger at her zipped mouth; a man at dinner, his hand up, refusing a proffered glass of vodka. Yuri smiled; if only life were like art.

He looked at his watch again and wondered who he should be looking for: a man, a woman, someone he would recognise? He looked again at the woman at the bar. What was it that was so important that he be dragged out here? The bartender caught his eye and cast a look to the back of the room. A woman was signalling to him. Picking up his beer, he carried it back to her table.

‘May I join you,’ he said, standing over her. She was dyed blonde with thick smokey eye shadow and dark red lipstick. He didn’t recognise her at first. It took a few seconds for his brain to process her image, strip away her make-up. She was Volkov’s adjutant. Not unexpectedly, she looked entirely different out of uniform.

‘Another drink?’ he said, and she caught the bartender’s attention and pointed at her near empty glass.

‘Galina,’ she said, introducing herself – Lieutenant Galina Biryukova, he remembered. He had caught her studying him across the table during the day’s negotiation. He put her in her early thirties.

‘Please call me Yuri.’

Galina cast her eyes nervously around the room.

‘Just to reassure you… Yuri… I don’t normally go out looking like this. I had to pay the doorman five dollars to come in… I assume that’s the going door rate for sex workers.’

‘Well I do look like this when I go to hockey matches,’ he countered, and smiled, trying to put her at ease. She was certainly more provocative than in uniform.

Her drink arrived. Yuri waited for the waitress to move out of earshot.

‘Does General Volkov know you are meeting me?’

Galina shook her head.

‘So what is it that is so important?’

‘I am not sure.’

‘Not sure?’ Yuri started to wonder whether the lieutenant was wasting his time.

‘General,’ she slipped into army mode, ‘Yuri… I trust I can rely on your discretion. From what I’ve seen and heard, I believe I can.’

‘I think you need to spit it out,’ Yuri said, without giving her any guarantee.

She nodded and seemed to relax, almost anticipating the relief of telling him what was troubling her.

‘Look, I may be way off beam but something is going on which I can’t explain. You know I am General Volkov’s adjutant; I’ve been working for him just under three years. I organise, attend and take minutes of all his meetings. There’s not much I don’t know. But a month ago he attended a meeting at the Ministry of Defence. It was only by coincidence I found out. I was delivering some papers to the ministry and spotted him coming out.’ She hesitated.

‘Go on,’ Yuri encouraged her.

‘Well, it was who he was with.’ She paused, almost frightened to say their names.

‘And… they were?’ Yuri prompted her.

‘Gerashchenko, Karzhov, Dubnikov and Vetrov.’

Yuri frowned, puzzled. The deputy general secretary, KGB chairman, Soviet defence minister and the interior minister. There might be a hundred reasons why such a meeting might take place, but he couldn’t think of one offhand.

‘Did General Volkov see you?’

‘Yes… I could see he was startled at first… he could see that I thought it odd. He just said, “An emergency security meeting”. It just didn’t ring true. I know him. There isn’t a meeting in three years that I have not known about, not until that day, at least. When I got back to Berlin, I checked his desk diary. Under July 5 he had written in faint pencil the letters EC… I am not in the habit of checking on my commanding officers…’

‘No, I understand… please continue.’

‘Well, I flipped back through the diary and found two other ECs, a week or two apart and coinciding with his visits to general staff in Moscow. It’s just he’s never mentioned them…’ her voice trailed off. ‘And that’s it really. I’m sure there is a perfectly good reason…’

‘But you can’t think of one… and nor can I at this moment.’ Not one that sounded innocent at least. He could understand now the risk she was taking by seeing him. ‘And why did you bring this to my attention and not someone else.’

‘I’m not entirely sure myself… you seem to be doing the right thing… we do need to move on… and General Ghukov trusts you, and the general secretary.’

Yuri was silent for a minute. He needed time to think on what she had said. Maybe there was an alternative explanation, a legitimate reason, but then why the secrecy and why the deputy secretary general and all those people in the same room? Yuri took a gulp of beer as the lieutenant waited patiently for him to respond.

‘Does General Volkov have any idea of your suspicions?’

‘I’m not sure. Clearly he knows I saw everyone at the Defence Ministry.’

Volkov was no fool, though, thought Yuri. If there was something going on he would not want it leaking out. He wouldn’t want loose ends.

‘Have you noticed any sort of surveillance?’

‘No… I’m not sure… maybe, maybe it’s just paranoia creeping in.’ She smiled for the first time.

‘Well, you did the right thing, raising this with me. The safest course of action for you now is to carry on normally. Doing anything else is going to set alarm bells ringing… if something is going on.’

Chapter 31

^LENINGRAD

Misha looked down on the dark waters of the Bolshaya Neva as his small cavalcade crossed the Dvortsovy bridge and headed south onto Vasilyevsky Island in light traffic. Reflexively, he pulled the collar of his coat tight around his neck. Soon the islands would weld together in a vast seamless plane of white and grey. Ivan turned and looked at him and then glanced at the black Volgas tucked in close behind; the one to their front was already beginning to make a left turn.

‘I’m not expecting any trouble,’ said Ivan. He extracted his automatic and distractedly examined it before returning it to his shoulder holster.

Misha thought back to the days of the red Zhiguli not that long ago, when he hadn’t bothered with protection. Life had been a lot simpler then, freer. He was a target now to kidnappers and criminal syndicates, not to mention the more straightforward entrepreneur who saw an opportunity to accelerate market share by bumping off the competition.

A grand plan there had never been. He would have laughed at anyone who would have mentioned the strategy word. It was just an opportunistic progression and money made money. In the Soviet Union, he reflected, nothing belonged to anybody, not until now, and those that controlled enterprises and contracts had little compunction in virtually signing anything away, as long, of course, as there was something in it for them.

The car in front dipped as it ran over a pothole, and they swerved slightly to avoid it. The cavalcade had picked up speed now, and there was no stopping for red lights. They ran two, horns blaring and headlights full beam, and took another sharp left and stopped. Four identical cars sat on the cobbled forecourt of the Academy Café; their occupants seemed barely to give them a second glance. Misha recognised Bazhukov in the nearest car.

He climbed out of the car and looked across the water and to the Admiralty to the east. A gust of wind caught him.

‘You wait by the car,’ he told Ivan. ‘You can keep an eye on these guys.’

The café was a large conservatory-like structure moored against the Neva’s edge, all glass and heavy metal beams. He pushed open the door and took the wrought-iron staircase to the first floor. Misha spotted Konstantin at a table set back from the bar, sipping a cup of something, enjoying a view of the river and the left bank.

‘I always like the view from here. Dramatic, don’t you think?’ Konstantin said when Misha sat down opposite. There was no shaking of hands or warm smiles. Misha thought back to when he had spoken to him last – a year ago, maybe longer? Konstantin looked slightly heavier than he remembered him but not necessarily the worse for it; traces of premature grey peppered his jet-black hair.

‘Thank you for coming.’ Konstantin waved at the barista standing at the bar well out of earshot. Misha wondered how many scenes like this the waiter had witnessed. A normal morning turns into a gangland meet.

The barista took Misha’s order for a cappuccino, brought it to him and retreated out of range.

‘We can’t go on meeting like this,’ Misha said with an over-serious face and laughed.

‘Always the joker…’ Konstantin retorted nonplussed. ‘And how is Vika? She has moved into your offices on Morskaya.’

‘Well… makes more sense than her being stuck out by the airport.’

‘You impress me. I underestimated you… and Vika and your general friend, of course. You have not let the grass grow under your feet: fashion, freight, oil, and currency dealing… whatever next? Your success has far exceeded my initial expectations… Russian United Industries… R… U… I,’ he said slowly and deliberately.

There was silence for a moment. Misha took a sip of his coffee.

‘You wanted to meet,’ he said, wondering where this conversation was going.

‘You are expanding and I am expanding. You move money; I need to move money… into offshore accounts. I understand you can do that.’

‘Getting nervous?’

‘Things might get a whole lot worse before they get better… or they might just get a whole lot worse.’

‘How much are we talking about?’

‘One hundred and twenty-five million dollars US to start…… Grand Cayman, BVI, Jersey, Cyprus.’

It didn’t appear that the drugs business was suffering.

‘One per cent,’ Misha said.

‘That’s outrageous!’ flared Konstantin.

‘I’m quoting you an old-school discount; ask around, if you find someone who can do it for less, be my guest. I’m sure you’ve done your homework.’ Misha thought of the commissions and backhanders that Moika would have to pay; Russia was not a cheap place to do business. ‘You can always set up your own bank.’

‘I’ve got enough on my plate,’ he said coolly.

Misha wrote down Grigory’s number on a napkin and handed it to him.

‘I’d also like to invest money here… in RUI.’

It was Misha’s turn to be surprised; having one of Russia’s largest mafia bosses as a shareholder was unlikely to improve his corporate credentials either in the Soviet Union or abroad.

‘A small percentage to start… through an offshore holding, so you are not embarrassed.’

‘And why would I want to do that, or my co-shareholders.’

‘Peace of mind, a good price. You know what it’s like out there – a jungle.’

‘And you’re “King of the Jungle”.’

‘Something like that.’

‘I’m sure you can guess my answer.’

‘Why don’t you think about it? I wouldn’t want you rushing into any sudden decision… but don’t delay too long. Life’s too short.’

Misha pushed back his chair and stood up to go. From his back pocket he peeled off a twenty dollar bill and threw it on the table. Konstantin remained seated and signalled the barista for another coffee.

‘It’s been good talking with you, Mikhail Dimitrivich.’

Chapter 32

^MOSCOW

Yuri didn’t go directly home after his staff meeting. He needed something to eat. Having dismissed his driver, Yuri flagged a lift from a passing motorist and gave him the route. As he sat there in the front seat, he contemplated his meeting with Lieutenant Biryukova the night before. She had taken a considerable risk in seeing him; he could have denounced her or even been part of the conspiracy himself – that is… if there were a conspiracy.

The question was what to do? He could hardly blurt out his suspicions to Ghukov. He had no evidence, only the suspicions of a young woman. Volkov would just laugh it off, tell him he was being paranoid; weren’t their constant rumours of dissatisfaction in the army, possible coups? And even if he didn’t mention his source, Volkov was smart enough to figure it out. He didn’t fancy her chances if that were the case. Yuri needed someone he could bounce his thoughts off. The car turned off Dmitrovka onto Nastasyinskiy; a thought percolated up from his subconscious.

‘Stop here, please,’ he said.

Yuri backtracked to Malaya Dmitrovka, took a left and walked up to the next main junction, before taking a right onto Degtyarny. He stopped outside an apartment building built seamlessly into a row of neoclassical nineteenth-century houses. Typed on a yellowing piece of card next to flat number five was the name Terentev. Yuri pressed the button. There was no response. Maybe Ilya was out. He turned up the collar of his coat against the sudden cold and peered into the small dimly lit lobby through a side window. The lift was directly ahead, three metres away, the floor indicator stuck on four. He looked at his watch: eight thirty; it was still relatively early. The indicator blinked.

A young woman exited the lift and opened the door onto the street. She was smartly dressed and wore a neat red beret over shoulder-length hair. Yuri stood to one side, reached up and held the door open for her. She looked at him briefly and from her expression decided he was clearly not a vagabond.

‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘I have been trying to buzz a friend but there is no answer,’ he continued, trying to reassure her as she ducked under his arm.

‘It hasn’t been working for weeks,’ she replied, holding his eyes a little longer than necessary. If it had been another evening he might have even enquired her name or given her his card.

‘I’ll just go up,’ he said, and slipped past her as she turned onto the street.

Yuri took the lift to the second floor and walked along the corridor until he found the number he was looking for. From inside Terentev’s apartment Shostakovich drifted onto the landing. Yuri knocked on the door. There was a pause. The visible light on the magic eye on the door went dark and the door swung open. Ilya Terentev stood there in an apron, a cooking spoon in his hand.

‘Like something to eat?’ he said, as though he had expected him. ‘I’m about ready to serve.’

‘As long as I’m not eating your rations.’

The flat was small: a living room just large enough for a sofa, armchair and the dining room table. It was very different to his own apartment in the Arbat.

Ilya shook his head. ‘Help yourself to a beer from the fridge.’

‘Water will be fine.’ He needed to keep a straight head.

‘What brings you here?’ asked Ilya, coming straight to the point. ‘One of your girlfriends giving you grief?’

‘No, just passing.’

His friend looked at him. How long had he known Ilya? Ten years? More? They had met when they were both junior officers, and then again in Kabul. An easy friendship had developed, with serious conversation invariably gravitating towards women and ice hockey.

‘Passing Degtyarny?’ he said, raising his eyebrows.

‘Almost… anyway.’

Ilya didn’t push him further. He sat down and Ilya served him fish with potato and cabbage and black bread on the side.

‘Tuck in!’

Yuri was more ravenous than he thought.

‘This is good, Ilya. Where is Anna tonight?’

‘Out at a friend’s. I’ve been left to my own devices.’

Yuri looked at a photo of Ilya and his wife Anna on the dresser looking radiantly happy. He stared at it for a few seconds, gathering his thoughts, thinking how to approach the subject he wanted to discuss without endangering either his friend or informant.

It was Ilya who provided the cue.

‘How’s the reorganisation going?’ Ilya was used to him letting off steam over his frustrations with the district generals.

Yuri nodded and took a bite of black bread.

‘Volkov… he’s not a happy man. He’s against us pulling out of Eastern Europe, even discussing it with the Americans.’

‘There are plenty of people I’m sure would support him if it were common knowledge. The general secretary is taking a risk.’

Yuri nodded, wiping the bread around his plate, mopping up the fish broth.

‘Volkov has backed down for now, but I don’t know for how long… maybe he is just biding his time.’

‘For what?’

‘I don’t know… a new general secretary?’

‘You mean a coup?’ It was more a rhetorical statement than a question. Yuri shrugged. His friend continued. ‘Personally I think all this rumour-mongering is just the same old state paranoia that not so long ago led to purges and arrests. Look… the KGB would be the first to pick up on anything.’

‘You may be right. It’s just there have been some high-level meetings taking place between the military, KGB and senior government figures.’

Ilya didn’t respond.

‘And Karzhov?’ Yuri said, leaving his name hanging in the air. It was Ilya’s time to shrug.

‘Our new chief? Not much to say… met him at a directorate meeting. Old KGB, bit of a closed book, as you might expect.’

‘This is good, Ilya,’ he said, downing his last piece of bread.

‘I don’t suppose you get much home cooking.’

Yuri laughed and shook his head.

‘I also think I’m being followed.’

His friend’s face took on a serious expression. He was silent for a moment.

‘I’ll tell you what. I’ll make some discrete enquires, see if I can come up with anything.’

Yuri took his leave just after ten and caught a lift back to within a couple of blocks of his apartment. Making a wide circle around his building, he came out on the street in front of the main entrance, on the pavement opposite, a hundred or so metres down, and stopped. His eyes searched for the tail he’d had this morning. The street was empty. Reassured but still cautious, he made his way round to the secret exit he had left by and took the emergency stairwell back to the first floor and the lift to the seventh.

He entered his apartment and switched on the light. There was a sound from down the hallway. Yuri reached for his automatic hanging discretely behind his coats on the wall rack. Silently, he slid back the safety catch and rebalanced the grip in his hand.

The door giving onto the living room was open, the room in darkness. His free hand reached for the switch and rotated the dimmer switch. There was a sudden movement from the sofa. He swung round to meet it as his finger took first pressure, ready to loose two rounds. Svetlana lay there in a short dress and heels.

‘Don’t shoot!’ she said, over-dramatically raising her hands above her head in mock surrender.

‘Fuck, Svetlana… I could have killed you…’