Stroika

Chapter 51

^{NEAR KALININ}

Yuri woke at first light and felt a powerful urge to relieve himself. Unzipping his sleeping bag, he rolled off the lower bunk and scrabbled around for his boots. He found them tucked under the bed and fished them out. Derevenko grunted, still asleep. Yuri decided not to wake him for the moment. He donned his parka and gazed out onto the clearing in front of the cabin. The jeep was where he had left it, its roof canvas still visible under a light sprinkling of snow. The snow must have stopped shortly after they had arrived. Tyre tracks traced their way back to the fork he had negotiated the previous night. He wondered how visible they might be from the main road.

Nothing to be done right now. He would wake the captain as soon as he was back. Fifty metres into the wood, Yuri stopped behind a large fir, unbuttoned his jeans and began to relieve himself on a small bank of snow drifted against the tree. He looked up at a crystal-clear blue sky, and, with a sense of relief, breathed in the morning air, watching his breath as he exhaled and the steam rise from the ochre indentation he was making at his feet.

The sound of feet crunching on snow made him look up.

One hundred metres down towards the fork, two men in parka jackets and fur ushankas crept up the drive. Yuri hurriedly fastened his flies and took cover behind the tree. He felt for his automatic and then remembered he had left it in the jeep. He cursed himself… so much for basic training.

He didn’t have a lot of time. The moment the two intruders entered the cabin they would see his empty sleeping bag and guess where he was. Yuri estimated the distance to the jeep at fifty metres, about the same distance to the cabin door.

Squatting down, with the two men in front of him now, he began to circle towards the back of the cabin, using the trees and snowdrifts for cover. When the gunmen disappeared from view, Yuri sprinted the final thirty metres and flattened himself against the log wall, to the right of a small high-up window.

It was then he noticed the hatchet, buried in a wood block, placed next to a pile of neatly stacked logs. Carefully, he twisted it free. It felt heavy but familiar, just under a kilo, with a smooth wood haft. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, he thought of his father and the dacha outside Yekaterinburg, splitting logs in late summer and stacking them in readiness for cold winter nights.

Bending down, Yuri loosened his laces and gently eased off both boots, making sure they didn’t bang on the deck. They must be inside by now, he thought. As if in answer, Yuri caught the high-pitched screech of wood being dragged over wood followed by a heavy thud and a cry of protest. Yuri ducked under the window and edged his way round to the front porch. Raised voices emanated from the open cabin door. He could hear Derevenko arguing. Yuri weighed the hatchet in his hand. It might be Stone Age versus twentieth-century man, but it was the only chance he had… that they both had.

Bent double, Yuri raced under the front window to the door jamb and flattened himself against the side of the cabin. Where were they now? Front or back? He tilted his head slightly towards the open doorway. He could make out Derevenko’s voice.

‘Did you bring us any breakfast? We ate all our rations last night. I’m sure the general will be back in a second.’

‘In the jeep,’ replied a second voice.

Yuri stepped into full view. Derevenko sat at the table with two men Yuri now recognised as the co-pilot and navigator.

‘Cometh the man, cometh the axeman… chopping wood, General?’

Derevenko and his companions began to laugh. Yuri swung the hatchet in front of him in mock attack.

‘A pity, I was rather looking forward to using this. How did you find us?’

‘We borrowed a jeep. There were checkpoints everywhere east of the reservoir so we took the A14. We guessed you would head towards Moscow, General.’

‘And you saw our tracks?’

Anatoly nodded.

‘The goat has a pretty distinctive track.’

‘We should decamp.’

With Anatoly and the navigator acting as point, the two jeeps headed back out on the road. Traffic was sparse; a freighter ploughed past them in the opposite direction and then a car.

Yuri tried to put himself in the mind of his pursuers. It wouldn’t take a genius to describe an arc around Cherepovets. At least the two of them had succeeded in widening that circle by evading capture overnight, but if Anatoly and the navigator could find them, so could the military police.

‘Do you still think they are going to be coming after us, General?’ asked Derevenko.

As if in answer, a helicopter clattered loudly across the highway just above tree height. Yuri glanced up through the dense snow-laden overhang of trees and caught the tail of an MTV as it raced north. He guessed it would turn in about ten to twenty minutes and retrace its steps. They had to change vehicles, into something more anonymous than a military UAZ.

Derevenko flashed Anatoly to stop. The two vehicles pulled over, well under the forest canopy.

‘We need to ditch these. We’re an open target in a sky like this. You saw the MTV?’

They both nodded.

‘They’re doing a sweep. It’s probably not the only MTV up there either,’ said the navigator.

‘Get everything we need out of the jeeps. Yev, you still have your uniform. Anatoly, go up the highway one hundred metres, and Stephan, one hundred metres downwind. When you see something coming, whistle.’

Yuri watched as the two men trudged off in opposite directions and took cover behind the firs that hugged the roadside’s edge. Derevenko climbed into the jeep and turned on the engine.

They didn’t have long to wait. Yuri heard a piercing whistle from Anatoly. Yuri banged on the canvas and Yev rolled forward, blocking the road in both directions. The dark blue Lada skidded inches from the side of his jeep. A heavily built man with wiry hair that stuck out from under his beanie, and wearing a tartan jacket, jumped out, furious at Yev’s apparent lack of road skills. What the hell was he doing blocking the road like that?

Yev climbed out of the jeep as Yuri appeared from the roadside.

The driver looked momentarily confused.

‘What’s going on?’

He looked from Yev in uniform to Yuri in his civilian clothing.

‘This smells fishy to me!’ he shouted, raising his fists.

‘Comrade, we need to borrow your car,’ said Yuri.

Anatoly and Stephan appeared from opposite directions.

‘Borrow? Steal, you mean.’

‘No, comrade,’ said Yuri, ‘we are going to commandeer your very nice vehicle until we reach Moscow and then you can have it back.’

Yuri could see him hesitating.

‘You really don’t have a choice,’ said the captain.

The driver, bug-eyed, turned full circle, looking from face to face before finally dropping his hands in defeat.

‘Comrade, think of it as an act of patriotism,’ said Yuri, holding out his hand for the key.

Chapter 52

^LENINGRAD

‘How is he?’ Viktoriya asked the doctor when they were outside the office that now doubled as a ward room for Misha.

‘I would rather he were in an intensive care unit, but his vital signs are good. He’s young and he’s strong.’

Viktoriya remembered the previous night and the anxious journey to Morskaya. The relief when they had finally pulled through the gates. Grigory had been the first to greet her. He looked pale and visibly rattled, and she had wondered whether he would be able to hold himself together. Ivan had appeared a minute later unscathed behind them and organised a temporary bed from the guardroom for Misha. She had rung the doctor as soon as Misha had been settled and organised for a hospital bed, equipment and medicines the next morning.

‘He’s safer here,’ Viktoriya responded. Morskaya was more defensible than the security sieve that was the Mariinsky. There was only one main exit. And that exit was well fortified.

‘He needs round-the-clock care. I can organise that for you,’ said the doctor, making a note of things his patient might need.

‘He is not to want for anything, you understand me?’

Grigory handed the doctor a brick of US dollars from the vault. ‘Let me know if you need more.’

The doctor looked at the money, dumbfounded. Viktoriya doubted he had ever seen so much.

‘One more thing,’ said the doctor. ‘Have someone read to him. A TV might be useful too. Stimulate the brain. Snap him out of his coma.’

‘So what do we do now?’ asked Grigory when the doctor had gone.

‘We reinforce Morskaya. We have to assume Kostya will try again. Ivan has already contacted Roslavi.’

‘And Moscow?’

‘Who knows? There’s not much we can do about it. Still no word from Yuri?’

Grigory shook his head and listed off the names of local political figures that had disappeared.

‘Maybe it is “The End”, the clocks are about to go back. It looks like Yuri is somehow caught up in it. I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to take the next plane out, Grigory. Wait it out. If it wasn’t for Misha, I’d certainly think about it.’

To her surprise, Grigory shook his head.

‘No, it’s fine. Besides, someone’s got to look after the bank. We’re still trading.’

Viktoriya gave Grigory a hug.

What had happened to Yuri? she wondered when Grigory had walked out of Misha’s makeshift ward. Wouldn’t he have tried to contact her by now if he could, or had he been disappeared, like those on the list of names Grigory had reeled off? She felt exposed. RUI needed a much stronger political base. Yesterday’s had simply evaporated. The oil minister, Federov – in all the chaos she had forgotten about him.

She walked into Misha’s office and picked up the phone.

‘Alina, please put Stephan Federov on the line.’ Viktoriya sat back in Misha’s chair and wondered whether it would be Federov who took the call or whether he was part of the cull. She was relieved to hear his voice.

‘Comrade Federov, I understand from the news bulletin that the deputy secretary general has assumed the post of acting secretary general.’ She was conscious that Federov’s line might be tapped.

‘Yes, that’s correct. We are all hoping for the general secretary’s swift recovery,’ he replied. ‘I spoke with the deputy secretary this morning and he has assured me that this is hopefully only a temporary measure.’

Viktoriya guessed that Federov was repeating this with closet irony. This was going to be anything but temporary.

‘He also assured me that there is to be no immediate change in oil policy.’

No interruption to oil deliveries from Roslavi, interpreted Viktoriya.

‘I also have some bad news… Someone tried to kill Mikhail Dimitrivich yesterday.’

Federov seemed genuinely shocked.

‘Who will be running RUI now?’ he asked, concern in his voice.

‘I will,’ she reassured him; he would still get his cut. ‘It’s all legal. I am a major shareholder and the shareholder agreement provides for such an eventuality.’ She had few illusions about Federov. Power and money talked. He wouldn’t lose a minute’s sleep if he were made a better offer elsewhere.

‘And General Marov?’ she continued.

There was silence.

‘There is a warrant out for his arrest.’

‘But they haven’t caught him yet?’

‘Not that I know. Last seen in Cherepovets. Beyond that, I really can’t say.’

She put down the phone and wondered how long Federov would give her the benefit of the doubt, with her partners and allies fast disappearing. Maybe he had already made up his mind to shift his allegiance.

Ivan walked into the room.

‘That was Maxim on the phone. The military have impounded two of our oil tankers at the border. Direct order from the new military boss in Moscow apparently.’ He looked down at his notes. ‘General… Volkov.’

Chapter 53

^{NEAR KALININ}

‘How far are we from Kalinin?’

Yuri was concentrating on the road, trying not to oversteer with Derevenko next to him, the two airmen in the back and the owner of the car between them.

‘Twenty kilometres,’ said the captain.

‘We are going to pass close by Migalovo.’

Yuri nodded. Migalovo was the largest military air force base in Russia, home to giant AN-22s and IL-76s. If there was a general state of mobilisation, Migalovo would be the pulse.

‘Let’s see what’s going on.’

‘The place will be crawling with military,’ Derevenko protested.

‘It’s east of Kalinin a couple of kilometres across the river; we can make a short detour.’

‘You’re the general,’ said Derevenko, capitulating.

Derevenko would be as wanted as him now, all of them, thought Yuri, glancing in his mirror. They had thrown their lot in with him, on the unreasonable assumption that he could actually do something, somehow to turn the tide.

The outskirts of Kalinin reminded Yuri of the grim sixties’ construction around Moscow. Prefabricated apartment buildings bumped into wide boulevards and elegant houses from another era.

Options, options? He racked his brain for an answer.

Yuri turned into a side street and stopped.

‘Stephan, do you mind taking our guest out onto the pavement. With your permission, Captain,’ Yuri continued when their passenger was out of earshot. ‘I would like Anatoly to do something for me.’ There was no way he could order anyone to do anything, not anymore. He looked at Anatoly’s questioning face in the mirror and turned round to face him.

‘I have absolutely no idea how this whole thing is going to play out, but I want you to take the train north to Leningrad, find a Viktoriya Kayakova or a Mikhail Revnik at RUI. They are business associates… and friends. I want you to tell them that I am alive and kicking but I need some support. Ask them to despatch two squads from Roslavi to the Leningrad Freight yard in Moscow and wait. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, General.’

Apart from this aircrew, Yuri reflected with some irony that the only soldiers he could rely on at this moment were mercenaries, albeit Russian. He might not have a plan, but he knew from experience that opportunity was useless without the means.

‘And one more thing,’ it came to him, ‘give them the name of Colonel Ilya Terentev. He lives on Degtyarny. He’s an old friend – KGB – but I trust him with my life. If they need help he’d be a good place to start.’

Yuri looked at his watch; it was only nine in the morning.

‘You can be there inside three hours by train.’ The soldiers could be in Moscow around midnight if Anatoly were successful.

They waved Anatoly goodbye around the corner from the station and continued towards the embankment. Yuri pulled up for a second time and stared into a curtain of snow.

‘We’ll have to take the bridge to get closer,’ Derevenko suggested.

Military vehicles poured across the iron bridge from every direction, tanks on trailers, artillery and troop carriers. Yuri found himself sandwiched between a public bus and a column of jeeps before turning onto a side road that skirted round the airport to the eastside.

There must be somewhere that gave them an elevation and a view of the airfield.

Derevenko pointed at a derelict-looking barn.

Co-opting their new charge, the four of them applied shoulders to the rotten barn door and splintered the lock from the wood. Yuri brushed the snow off his jacket and breathed in the stale smell of oily machinery and bat droppings. Derevenko shone a torch up at the empty hayloft four metres above them and then back down on the ground, searching for a ladder.

‘There’s nothing else for it,’ said Yuri, after drawing a blank.

Yuri put one foot on their open palms, grabbed the edge, and hoisted himself up into the hayloft. He stood up and dusted hay and dried droppings off the front of his parka while his eyes adjusted to the light.

‘Yev… bounce that torchlight off the ceiling, I can’t see a thing.’

Yuri tested the decking with one foot gently applying weight, wondering if it would take his eighty-odd kilos. The wood groaned in protest before disintegrating with a loud crunch, sending a shower of rotten timber below.

‘Are you all right up there?’ Derevenko whispered loudly.

‘I’ll tell you in a second.’

Yuri wriggled his foot free.

‘Dry rot,’ he informed them, as though he were an expert on the subject.

Centimetre by centimetre, Yuri edged his way forward, gradually applying weight, testing to see if the floor would support him. When finally he grasped the sill of the hayloft window and looked out to the road and the airfield beyond, he was shocked by what he saw. Parked on the west side of the airbase, twelve Ilyushin-76s and eight Antonov-22s were being readied for take-off. Everywhere cargo trucks hauled artillery, tanks and ammunition into their vast underbellies. On the far side of the airfield, small loaders ferried H-20 nuclear missiles towards five TU-75 strategic bombers.

Yuri retraced his steps and lowered himself over the hayloft. Two pairs of hands reached up and helped him to the ground.

‘What’s going on?’ asked Derevenko.

‘World War Three… I don’t know, but we’d better get out of here quick.’

Yuri gave the heavy wooden door a shove and stepped out into the cold.

The thump-thump of a MTV rotor was the last thing he remembered.

Chapter 54

^LENINGRAD

‘What do you mean we can’t ship anything?’ Konstantin complained to Vdovin.

‘We’ve a general mobilisation under way; every available aircraft is commandeered for the airlift.’

Konstantin wondered what these clowns were up to. He had given his tacit support to a coup, not the invasion of Western Europe, if that’s what they were planning. Were they completely crazy?

‘Volkov is determined that the Communist government doesn’t fall in East Germany. He’s convinced the Emergency Committee to mobilise… as a precautionary measure.’

These things had a habit of taking on a life of their own, Konstantin thought. If the Americans suspected a blitzkrieg, they wouldn’t sit still and wait.

‘Can’t you calm them down? You’re a district general. You have influence, surely.’

Vdovin shook his head. ‘Volkov is chief of staff now. He has the ear of the committee. And what’s more I support him. Ever since our new general secretary wheedled his way to power, the Soviet Union has been the object of disintegrating forces. You’ve seen it yourself. It’s falling apart. Well not anymore…’

‘And how long before you have people on the streets?’

‘The general secretary, I’ve no doubt, will be persuaded to resign. It will all be legal.’

‘Legal?’ Konstantin sneered.

‘We are patriots, not traitors. Best you keep your head down, if you want my advice; it’ll be over in a few days.’

Yes, they’d all be dead, thought Konstantin. They had all taken leave of their senses.

‘I have to be going.’ Vdovin got up and without further comment left the room.

Konstantin looked up at the wall clock: ten fifteen. He shouted for Bazhukov.

‘We’re grounded for now,’ Konstantin informed him. ‘Nothing in or out.’

‘Customers are not going to be happy about that, boss.’

‘You can tell them to write to the Emergency Committee with their letters of complaint… What’s the latest on Morskaya?’

‘Our men are posted outside. Doctors and nurses come and go. Revnik is still in a coma.’

Coup or no coup, he couldn’t let Misha or his old flame survive now. They would only come back to bite him.

‘And Viktoriya?’

‘She’s staying put with him.’

So there was no change. Konstantin knew there was no way they could storm the place; he’d looked at it himself. The gate was steel and concrete, and once in the internal courtyard they would be sitting ducks. He’d lose half his men. It had to be by stealth, not force.

‘That friend of Adriana’s, the cokehead, what’s-her-name, where is she now?’

‘Cezanne, she is upstairs.’

‘Go get her.’

Konstantin stood up, walked round to the other side of the desk and leaned back on it. He tried to recall what Adriana’s friend looked like: medium height, blonde, slightly wavy shoulder-length hair – no great looker but a great body. The men liked her and she liked coke – an ideal combination as far as he was concerned.

Cezanne walked into the room. Her fingers twitched nervously at the lapel of her silk dressing gown. She was different to how he remembered. Her hair was now an ash-blonde and slightly shorter than before.

‘Come over here.’

‘If this is anything to do with Adriana, I don’t know where she is. I haven’t seen her since she was released from the police station. Nobody has.’

And nobody will, thought Konstantin. She was helping prop up the foundations of a restoration project on Oktabrsky.

‘Take off your make-up.’

He handed her a tissue and a pot of make-up remover someone had left in his desk. ‘This was probably your friend’s; you might as well keep it.’

‘She wasn’t my friend really… we just watched out for each other in the club…you know…’

‘I do, I do.’ Konstantin grabbed the tissue from her hand and roughly rubbed off her make-up.

‘Careful…what are you doing?’ She flinched and pulled away. ‘That hurts,’ she protested.

Konstantin looked at her. She was exactly what he was looking for…ordinary, unremarkable…unrecognisable as the girl in the club.

‘I’ve got a job for you. Do it right and Dimitri here will keep you in coke for a year. How does that sound?’

He held out a small bag of white powder and snatched it away when she reached for it.

‘And what is it you want me to do?’ she said, not taking her eyes off the polythene bag Konstantin held between his fingers.

‘Deliver something, that’s all.’

‘Have I got a choice?’

Konstantin shook his head. ‘Dimitri, do you think you can organise a nurse’s uniform for Cezanne and a hospital ID tag.’

‘No problem, boss,’ said Bazhukov.

‘That will be all, Dimitri, and close the door behind you. No, not you, Cezanne.’ He handed her the small bag. ‘Why don’t you make yourself comfortable on the sofa?’ He wondered if she would be as uninhibited as her friend.

Chapter 55

^{MOSCOW, LUBYANKA}

Yuri came to with his head pounding. Where was he? A bare light bulb illuminated grey walls and a cell door. Was he back at Cherepovets? A stabbing pain made him reach his hand up to a spot just above his right ear. It was sticky with semi-congealed blood. Prodding around, he tried to determine whether his skull was broken and decided he was still, at least externally, in one piece.

Slowly, he righted himself on the bed. How long had he been here? He looked at his wrist where his Rolex had been and tried to remember. The thump, thump, the MTV, the military airbase at Migalovo – it all started to flood back. Where were the others?

He struggled to his feet and sat back down again as the room began to swim. Something had hit him hard. Gathering himself again, he stood up slowly and walked ten feet to the cell door and banged on the viewing hatch. There was no response.

Yuri sat back down again and poured himself a glass of water from a jug. At least he was alive, for the moment anyway. He fell back on the rough woollen blanket and tucked the pillow under his head. If only the throbbing would stop.

The sound of the lock being turned and the bolts sliding back made him sit back up. General Volkov walked into the room and ordered the guard to close the door behind him.

‘For your head,’ he said sympathetically. Yuri swallowed the offered painkillers and looked up at Volkov over the edge of his glass. He looked every inch the colonel general in full dress uniform.

‘Where am I?’

‘Lubyanka.’

Moscow, the KGB prison; at least he now had a geographical reference point.

‘How long have I been out?’

‘A few hours.’

Volkov pulled up a chair and sat down opposite.

‘And my friends?’

‘They no longer need trouble you… You have been leading us a merry jaunt, General. Quite resourceful… but then that is to be expected. But stopping at Migalovo… that was a mistake. You should have known better.’

‘I seem to remember somebody else pointing that out.’

Yuri wondered what had befallen his companions and what it was that Volkov wanted that was so important for him to come in person. By the looks of Migalovo, he had enough on his plate.

‘And General Ghukov?’

‘Under house arrest.’ Volkov looked around the windowless room. ‘His quarters are a lot more luxurious than yours. Do you know the old joke, General?’ Volkov continued. ‘The basement of Lubyanka is the tallest building in Moscow… you can see all the way to Siberia.’ Volkov laughed. Yuri looked at him stonily.

‘And under what authority am I being held?’

‘Military, Article 58,’ replied Volkov, deadpan. ‘Conspiring with the Western powers to assassinate Soviet leaders, dismember the Soviet Union, and restore capitalism.’

‘Bringing back show trials, General?’

‘I am hoping that will be entirely unnecessary. Indeed it is my fervent wish that you return to the comforts of your luxurious apartment… at the earliest opportunity.’

‘I have to say I’m confused, General. There I was thinking you were preparing for World War Three. I’m touched by your concern.’

‘Marov, I don’t doubt your military talents,’ replied Volkov, clearly annoyed. ‘Despite our past differences. The Soviet Union needs them right now.’

‘Which Soviet Union is the question… yours or the general secretary’s?’

Volkov extracted an envelope from his pocket, pulled out a sheet of paper and handed it to him. Yuri glanced at it. Headed Declaration of the Emergency Committee, it was signed by the deputy secretary, defence minister, chairman of the KGB, Volkov and three others.

‘A declaration of martial law?’

‘I’d like your signature on this, General.’

‘Dignify your coup… I think not.’

Volkov looked irritated. Yuri could see him struggling to control his emotions.

‘Marov, in case you have failed to understand the crisis we are in, the Soviet Empire is on the brink of collapse. That would be a catastrophe of unparalleled proportions. East Germany will follow Poland and so will the rest. NATO will be on our doorstep, as will be their missile shield… that can’t be allowed to happen.’

‘The general secretary does not agree with you. He is not prepared to see Soviet troops bloodily repress Eastern Europe – not anymore.’

‘And the Americans… you are not concerned about them on our doorstep?’

Yuri shrugged. ‘General, we have to let go. We couldn’t hold Afghanistan, and if Eastern Europe rises against us, it will not be any different. We should learn from the British. They were smart, they had their last-ditch efforts too, but they knew when their time was up and withdrew gracefully.’

Volkov looked at him with undisguised disgust. He stood up and rapped on the door.

‘I’ll give you a little time to think about it… to reconsider your position… but not too long… or a headache might just be the least of your difficulties.’

Chapter 56

^LENINGRAD

Misha blinked his eyes open. What was that noise, that flickering? His mouth was as parched as sandpaper. He looked about him, trying to focus. Everything seemed to be swimming around him. He closed his eyes, counted to ten and tried again. His eyes lighted on a plastic bottle mounted on a stand to the side of his bed. A tube with coffee-coloured liquid snaked its way into his nose and down the back of his throat. Another bag of clear fluid supplied a catheter to his arm. In the corner of the room a woman in a nurse’s uniform sat watching TV, the volume barely audible. Sleep was dragging him down again, like a heavy irresistible weight. He refocussed on the screen; a group of men sitting at a table faced the camera. Who was the man in the centre? He was sure he recognised him. The deputy secretary general, Gerasim Gerashchenko, that was it. He shut his eyes and started to gently drift.

The sound of the TV being turned up hauled him back. His eyes darted along the line of grim-looking men. The third one from the middle wore a military uniform; next to him was a man in thick glasses. Where had he seen him before? He closed his eyes and began to float off.

He was running, sprinting full tilt down a wet street, grasping something tightly in his hand. Someone was chasing him, maybe more than one. He was looking for someone ahead but he couldn’t remember who or why. He had to give her whatever it was in his hand. Yes, he knew it was a ‘her’ now, but he hadn’t much time. In fact, no time at all.

His arm was freezing cold; a hand reached out and touched him. Startled, he opened his eyes. A nurse stood over him, syringing a crystal-clear liquid into the catheter. He looked back at the TV. He was sure it was important. He knew where he had seen him now. The nurse smiled down at him.

‘You are awake,’ she said in an unsurprised voice, as though he had woken from an afternoon nap and it was entirely expected.

He tried to say something but his tongue felt as though it was glued to the top of his mouth. The nurse reached for a glass of water, told him to sip and held it gently to his mouth. Misha grabbed her arm as a drowning man might a piece of flotsam. Sleep was pulling him under again. He had to get the words out. She bent an ear to his mouth, the words ‘Safe… Vika… Yuri’ escaped. Misha, exhausted, surrendered to the beckoning deep.

Chapter 57

Viktoriya stared at the heart monitor and watched it describe a regular green ark across a black screen.

‘How long did he wake for?’

‘Only a few minutes. Going back to sleep like this is normal. It’s the body’s way of coping. He’ll be in and out.’

The nurse gently tugged off the tape with tweezers and re-dressed the livid head wound.

‘How did he seem, mentally?’

‘Confused, but that is to be expected. He looked at me and his eyes focussed.’

‘Did he say anything?’

‘It was very indistinct… a few words. The doctor will give you a more professional prognosis… but this is all good news.’

Viktoriya looked at the TV set that had been pumping out propaganda all day long. The secretary general was still supposedly ill and unavailable for interview in his Moscow dacha. She wondered how many people were taken in by the new so-called Emergency Committee.

‘Please try to remember what he said – it might be important.’

The nurse shrugged. ‘As I said, it was difficult to hear, hardly a whisper… maybe your short name, Vika, safe… Dimitri…’

‘Grigory?’

‘No, not Grigory…’

‘Vika, safe, Dimitri?’

‘Yes, I think that was it.’ She could see the nurse trying to remember, unsure she had repeated what he had said correctly.

Viktoriya told the nurse to contact her the moment Misha showed any sign of waking again and went back to her office.

‘Alina, please can you find Ivan and Grigory for me.’

She stood by the long window she so often stood at, talking with Misha, and looked down into the yard. Two heavy machine guns, mounted on tripods, pointed at the gate. Around the internal balconies, men in thick winter gear, sporting Kalashnikovs, covered the machine gunners.

A cough behind her made her turn around.

Grigory stood next to Ivan in the doorway.

‘We were in the vault,’ said Ivan.

She waved them in and told them what had happened.

‘That’s great, wonderful,’ said Ivan, and she could see him struggling with his emotions; he’d been an absolute rock since the attack. ‘He’ll be back in no time.’ Grigory placed a supportive hand on his friend’s back.

‘Any news on the oil shipments?’ said Grigory.

‘I spoke to Maxim this morning. There is nothing he can do either. I’m going to have to go to Moscow and see Federov, try and straighten this out. When do reinforcements arrive from Roslavi?’

‘Tonight, fifty men,’ said Ivan.

There was a pause while they waited for her to say something.

‘I’ve been thinking Kostya is not going to let this sit, whatever his motive might be. Knowing him as we both do,’ and she looked at Ivan, ‘he’ll already have some alternative plan underway and he is unlikely to take prisoners… maybe you, Grigory.’ She smiled. ‘Where is he now?’

‘At the airport,’ answered Ivan. Vladek had been tracking him all day.

‘Well, tell me when he is back in his office.’

‘Why do you think Konstantin wants Misha dead,’ asked Grigory, ‘… why now?’

Viktoriya had been asking herself the same question. Kostya did things for a reason: to secure his power base, further his business interests and punish transgressors. He did not perform random acts of violence or revenge. He was far too intelligent for that.

‘What if it’s all connected,’ said Viktoriya. ‘Yuri’s arrest warrant and disappearance, the general secretary’s illness, the Emergency Committee, Kostya’s attack and the military stopping our tankers. Maybe Kostya is not the initiating factor, but somebody higher up the chain.’

‘But then who?’ said Ivan. ‘Why would Misha present a threat?’

Viktoriya sat back down in the chair and closed her eyes. Why? Why? An image of Misha showing her the vault and the mysterious small safe swam into consciousness. What was so important that only the two of them had the code… although hadn’t he walked off before properly telling her. Safe… Vika, safe, Dimitri…? Maybe it wasn’t Dimitri, it was Yuri. She jumped to her feet. Maybe that was what Misha was trying to tell her.

With Ivan and Grigory in close pursuit, Viktoriya virtually flew down the stairs to the basement. Two armed guards stepped back from the vault door.

‘Open it,’ ordered Viktoriya.

Wordlessly, Ivan ad Grigory punched in the dual access codes. Whirring and a loud clunk signalled success. Ivan rotated the large wheel lock and heaved open the door.

‘I may be wrong but there is something important in here,’ she said, facing the small wall safe – perhaps something worth killing for, she thought.

‘Do you have the code number?’ asked Grigory.

Viktoriya shook her head. ‘Misha said I would know it. I suppose he didn’t want to burden me… If questioned I genuinely wouldn’t. Except I do… somehow. Just give me some space. I need to think.’

The two of them withdrew to the vault’s entrance as she stared at the ten-digit keypad. It had to be a number they both knew, something special. She punched in his birthday, her birthday, long and short year date… that would be too obvious… her mother’s, his mother’s… nothing… Ivan’s… Kostya’s. There was a click and the door sprang a millimetre ajar. Misha’s little joke, she thought, and smiled.

She waved over Ivan and Grigory and reached into the safe. Inside was a large sealed envelope. She picked it up and weighed it in her hands. Both of them looked at her expectantly. She shrugged. She had no idea what it could be. Grigory walked to the counting table and passed her a letter opener. She slid it carefully under the sealed edge and upended the envelope. Six large black-and-white photographs slid out onto the table. She picked one up and studied it. Two men stood on the embankment on that wet morning twelve years ago… how could she forget that day? She had kept the roll of film hidden for all those years… until Misha’s first visit to Milan. She went back to the safe and felt for the negatives… nothing.

‘Misha took these years ago, when we were teenagers, for some cloak and dagger guy who never reappeared… Do you recognise either of the two men in the photos?’

They stood staring down at the photographs she had neatly rearranged on the table.

‘The man with the glasses looks sort of familiar, but this is years ago, people change,’ said Grigory.

‘Who?’

‘The guy in the Politburo line-up they’ve been beaming non-stop today. I have no idea who is.’

That would make sense. Maybe Misha had witnessed something when he woke, recognised one of the men in the photo. But what was so important about these two men, these photos?

Alina materialised in the doorway.

‘Vika, there’s a man upstairs, says he needs to see you urgently. He has a message from Yuri.’

Chapter 58

Viktoriya threw clothes into an overnight bag, opening and closing drawers seemingly at random. When she had what she wanted, she carried the bag out into the living room and handed it to Rodion before returning to her bedroom and stripping off and passing her clothes to Alina, who had already taken off Vladek’s coat and balaclava. Sliding back the wardrobe door, she pulled out a red G-string from the underwear drawer and flicked through the rail until she found the matching red corset. She held it up to the mirror. It would do fine. She stepped into the G-string and stood still for Alina as she buttoned the corset up from the back. She looked at herself again in the mirror.

‘I need a belt,’ she said, almost to herself. She rummaged through a chest of drawers and pulled out a narrow red patent leather belt and buckled it tight.

Viktoriya stepped into the bathroom and unzipped her make-up kit. It took a few seconds to find the foundation she was looking for – one a good shade darker than her everyday one. Pinning back her hair, she shook the small glass bottle before dabbing on its light creamy liquid with her finger and smoothing it with a brush. She used a dark blusher to accentuate her strong cheekbones and a bronze mascara for her eyebrows and lashes. She stepped back and looked at herself in the mirror before applying a dark smokey eye shadow and a contrasting bright red lipstick. Perfect. Finally, she combed her hair along a different parting.

‘What do you think?’ Viktoriya asked Alina as she slipped her feet into a pair of red stilettos.

‘I hardly recognise you,’ she said, helping her on with a short black satin wrap. ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’

Viktoriya nodded. She looked out of the window to the wide pavement below. Four cars lay tucked in against the kerb, ready to take her back to Morskaya. A block down, another car – she could only assume it was one of Kostya’s, keeping a lookout. Her small motorcade had surprised them, when the gate on Morskaya had been flung open for the first time since Misha’s dramatic return. Men had rushed about in confusion. She had recognised several as Kostya’s. Ivan, in the lead car, had given them just enough time to see that Misha was not with them.

Viktoriya turned back to Alina.

‘Has Vladimir arrived?’

Alina nodded. ‘He’s in the living room.’

Vladimir had come separately by foot, hopefully unnoticed by Kostya’s men.

Viktoriya donned her long overcoat, walked into the living room, picked up the phone and dialled her mother. She imagined the ringtone echoing in the communal hallway and prayed her mother was in. Come on, someone, pick up the phone.

‘Hello,’ said a familiar voice. It was her mother’s neighbour.

‘Elsa, how are you? Is my mother there?’

Viktoriya heard footsteps and banging on a door and then her mother’s voice. She hoped whoever was bugging her phone was listening.

‘Mother,’ Viktoriya said when she answered the phone, ‘I can’t talk long.’

‘Where are you? I’ve been worried about you? This new government, will that affect you?’ She rushed out her questions without taking breath.

‘Everything will be fine, Mother. I’m not staying at the apartment at the moment. Misha is not well.’ She did not wish to elaborate and send her mother into panic. ‘I am staying over with him at Morskaya for a night or two; I’m just headed back there now. I’ll call you in the next day or so… and, mother, you must come and live in Leningrad.’

When she put down the phone she found herself staring at the floor trying to get a hold on her emotions. So much had happened. Hearing her mother’s voice had brought her close to tears, unsettled her. Half of her even doubted she might see her again. Would anything ever be the same now? At that instant she would have given almost anything for her mother’s warm reassuring hug.

When she looked up, three pairs of eyes met hers across the room.

Viktoriya forced a smile, picked up the hat she had arrived wearing from the sofa and plumped it down on Alina’s head, putting a finger to her lips as a reminder.

‘Right, I think I’m ready to go back now, Rodion.’ She locked the apartment door behind her, took the overnight bag off Rodion, and watched him and her new double and Vladimir take the lift to the car. Three in three out; she hoped they were counting.

Five minutes later, Viktoriya caught the elevator to the first floor and walked the last flight to the basement and service exit at the rear of the building. The cold wind hit her as she walked up past bins and rubbish piled high to the main prospect. Cars sped by. A taxi hove into view. She stepped forward and flagged it down.

‘The corner of Liteyny and Kirochnaya.’

Viktoriya threw her bag into the back seat and slid in beside it. Ten minutes, she thought, and there would be no turning back. She reached into her bag and found the handle of the Markov and ran her finger along the silencer.

Snow had begun to fall lightly again. Staring out the window at passers-by, Viktoriya felt detached from the real world, out of synch with the everyday. The taxi stopped. She paid him and climbed out onto a virtually empty street. Two blocks up, she saw the entrance to Pravdy. Two armed men stood outside. One of them stepped out of the pool of light by the door and walked over to a car parked in front. There was loud laughter. He banged on the car roof and ambled back to his post. Viktoriya shivered.

Cutting around to a side street, she hiked two streets over before winding her way back to a narrow passageway that ran at the back of the club. She paused at its entrance. A door opened. Light flooded momentarily onto the street before evaporating. A girl in jeans and a heavy parka jacket with an overlarge fur collar trudged past her. Viktoriya flipped up her hood, slung her bag over her shoulder, walked up to the door and knocked. The door opened. A guard she did not recognise looked down at her with disinterest.

‘I’m new,’ she said, before he had a chance to say anything. ‘I know where the dressing room is, Anna showed me yesterday.’ Maybe it was because she had named one of the dancers that swayed him, her confidence or his complacency, but he nodded her through. The corridor was as she remembered: a black tunnel, low ceilinged, one person wide, lit only by small, dim sodium overhead lights that gave off an eerie orange glow. A girl approached from the other direction, on her way out; they both turned slightly and, without pausing, squeezed by each other.

Just before the dressing room and the stairs to the basement and Kostya’s office, Viktoriya stopped outside the women’s toilet, a cramped single cubicle. Thankfully, it was empty. She stepped inside and locked the door. Extracting the automatic from her bag, she stashed it firmly under her belt in the small of her back. Twice she drew and replaced it, making sure it didn’t catch. Satisfied, she stuffed her coat in the duffel bag and crammed it into the small fitted cupboard under the sink.

A loud, sudden knock on the door made her jump.

‘Hurry up, I have to be on in five minutes,’ said a girl’s voice.

Taking one final look at herself, she pulled the short black silk dressing gown around her, sufficient to obscure the gun, and opened the door. A girl she recognised but couldn’t name looked at her.

‘You new?’

‘Sveta,’ Viktoriya introduced herself.

‘Well, don’t hog the loo. There’s only one between all of us girls,’ she said, and pushed past.

Viktoriya nodded, suitably chastened. Up ahead she could hear women’s voices and what sounded like an argument. Music from the club above throbbed through the ceiling. Heart pounding, she took the staircase to the basement and the narrow corridor to Kostya’s door. A single guard looked her up and down. His eyes travelled down her bare arms and legs, and back to her gown, which hung provocatively open, revealing her corset and G-string.

‘Konstantin sent for me,’ she said in explanation. The guard bent forward to hear her above the din of the club immediately above the corridor and attempted to slide his arm inside her gown. Viktoriya jumped back and felt the automatic shift in her belt.

‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you.’ She reached up to his face and stroked his cheek. ‘Maybe later. What’s your name?’ she asked him.

‘Taras,’ he answered. He had large hands and a round face that glowed orange in the subdued light.

‘Okay… Taras… Kostya doesn’t like to be kept waiting, you know what he’s like.’ Her hands went to her G-string. She adjusted the elastic lower on her hips.

Taras pushed open the familiar door to Kostya’s office and closed it behind her.

Kostya looked up from his desk. He was pouring over some list or other with Bazhukov. They both seemed more bemused than irritated, no doubt wondering why one of the club girls had suddenly appeared uninvited. Bazhukov started to say something, but it was Kostya who reconfigured her appearance first. He looked startled.

‘Vika!’ he exclaimed.

Bazhukov went for the gun in his shoulder holster but he was slow. Viktoriya already had her hand on the Markov; she slid it out from under her belt and pointed it in his direction. Bazhukov took a step back and raised his hands.

‘Kostya, keep your hands on the table where I can see them,’ she said more calmly than she felt, ‘and Bazhukov, you keep them up… I have to say I don’t think much of your security.’

‘So what is it you want?’ Kostya asked coolly.

Viktoriya raised the barrel a fraction and squeezed the trigger. Bazhukov made a pouf sound and tumbled over the chair behind him.

‘You’ll need a new head of security now. That’s for my father.’

Kostya’s hands shifted down the desk a fraction.

‘That’s far enough,’ she warned, and pointed the gun squarely at him. ‘So explain.’

‘Explain, ah… well it’s nothing personal.’

‘It never is with you, Kostya.’

‘Somebody wants your friend dead… somebody high up. Until now it’s only been me that has stopped them… but it’s imperative now, you see. I have no idea why… you know, if it wasn’t me, it would only be someone else.’

‘And who is somebody?’

‘The question I ask myself… KGB… the military… the new government.’

‘And me… did that figure in their equation or yours? I thought we trusted each other… but then I should have known better. We are all means to your ends, aren’t we, Kostya – every one of us, dispensable.

‘Are you going to pull that trigger?’ he said, staring at the barrel.

‘I’m considering it.’ She took first pressure.

Konstantin tensed.

‘Kill me and our friend dies.’

‘Isn’t it the other way round? Why is he suddenly our friend now?’

‘You’ve made your point,’ Konstantin said, looking at Bazhukov’s body and the large red stain spreading over his shirt. ‘Look, if you kill me they will just give the contract to someone else. They are not going to stop. Maybe it will be Vdovin and his merry men. He’s not going to worry about losing a few soldiers taking Morskaya. Look… if the coup succeeds, the best you can do is get out of the country. If it fails – and these guys are crazies – maybe, just maybe, it will all stop. I can keep them satisfied for now, tell them Misha’s in a coma and not going anywhere. Kill me and you’ve signed Misha’s death warrant. Besides, did you think I had given up? You know me, Vika.’

Konstantin lifted his hands off the table and sat back in the chair.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Call him in.’ She hoped there’d be only one.

The guard who had tried to grab her walked in to deliver a message he had in his hand. She pointed the gun at him and waved him over to Konstantin’s side.

‘Quite a party now,’ said Kostya, smiling.

‘One last thing, and this is going to hurt, Kostya… Misha thought you might try something like this. That money you sent us – the last batch, all eighty-five million of it – it’s sitting in an intermediary account in the Cayman’s… I might just recall or divert it somewhere more useful.’

It was the second time in the last ten minutes that Kostya had looked shocked.

‘Whatever happened to my word is my bond?’

‘The same thing that happened to friendship… So here’s the trade,’ she said, waving the automatic at him. ‘You stop whatever devious plan you have in train, your men remain strictly hands off Morskaya and Misha, and you escort me nicely out of the club.’

‘And my money?’

‘Let’s see if you can behave first.’

Kostya nodded, picked up the phone and dialled RUI on Morskaya. Viktoriya heard Alina’s voice answer.

‘Alina, this is Kostya. Tell the nurses to throw away all the injectables and ensure you get a fresh supply. Have your doctor check it over.’ He replaced the receiver.

‘It’s a shame, Kostya, you could have been anything. Now both of you remove your guns and drop them on the floor. Use the tips of your fingers.’

Kostya nodded to the guard and the pair of them removed their automatics.

‘Now, we’re going to just walk out the way I came in.’

The corridor was empty. With Kostya directly in front, she walked her two captives steadily up the stairs.

‘Get my bag, Taras.’ She pointed at the toilet door. ‘And now the back. Tell your man to down his gun.’

‘You’ll need to put your coat on, Vika.’ She could hear the faint tone of amusement in Kostya’s voice. ‘And if you ever want a job…’

‘Don’t tempt me, Kostya.’ She nudged him in the back with the silencer.

The man who had let her in backed away from the door as they exited onto the alley. Viktoriya thought how the scene might look to a passer-by: three men – and a woman, barely clothed, holding a gun.

She waved them back inside, kicked off her shoes and sprinted up to the main street. A black Volga screeched to a halt in front of her. Ivan threw open the door.

‘Okay, the station. I need to catch that late train.’

Viktoriya cast one last look down the passageway at the lonely figure of Kostya staring back towards her.

Chapter 59

^MOSCOW

Colonel Ilya Terentev gazed out the café window to the food queue across the street that had formed in front of a pop-up stall. Children tugged at their mothers’ hands while the elderly stood patiently, inured to a crumbling system. All day, state television had broadcast pictures of the general mobilisation in response to so-called Western provocation. Was it going to be 1956 all over again? Thousands had died in Hungary. Yuri was right that things had to move on. But where had that landed his friend? Locked up in Lubyanka for anti-Soviet activity and, if the coup prevailed, it would get much worse. He gulped a mouthful of lukewarm coffee and grimaced at its bitterness.

The door opened. A man with a neatly trimmed beard and red scarf tucked into a dark grey wool overcoat stepped in, signalled the waitress for a coffee, and took the chair opposite Ilya.

‘News from the front?’ asked Terentev.

‘None of it good, I’m afraid, Colonel.’

Terentev counted his good fortune. At least he felt could rely on his men’s loyalty. Sticking together in an organisation as large and amorphous as the KGB was the first rule of survival.

‘Our lot have the general secretary holed up in his dacha at Peredelkino. I sent Vasily there to check it out. Have you ever been there, Colonel?’

‘Many times, with my wife. My friend has a dacha there.’

Terentev pictured its woods, small well-tended gardens and evening gatherings when dissident artists rubbed shoulders with the political elite.

‘The Emergency Committee has not done itself any favours holding the general secretary so close to Moscow. How many men?’

‘Forty… fifty… maybe more. No one gets in or out… under the direct command of the KGB chairman himself.’

‘And General Marov?’

‘General Volkov visited him this afternoon… came away furious apparently. It doesn’t look like Volkov got what he wanted.’

‘Support, I would guess,’ said Terentev. Safety in numbers. Yuri would be a perfect addition to the list of conspirators. ‘I doubt General Marov is going to be rushing to the cause.’

Volkov was clearly not as confident as he appeared. Terentev doubted if the new colonel general could rely on the undivided loyalty of every district general. Yuri might just give him the credibility he needed with the outriders.

‘Are you reporting this up?’

Terentev shook his head. Where? If anyone found out that he was conducting a surveillance operation in Peredelkino he would land up in the same place as Yuri. The question was what could he do about it, if anything? The answer was plain enough, not very much. The deputy general secretary, secretary of defence, even his own boss were all complicit. Rumblings had not converted to people on the street… not yet, but then it had been less than forty-eight hours since the general secretary had disappeared from public view. The average citizen wanted to believe the Emergency Committee, but that confidence would soon evaporate if there were no sightings of the general secretary soon, and then what?

His junior officer sat waiting for instructions, staring out the window at the queue Terentev had been studying ten minutes before.

‘Just keep me informed; any change, let me know immediately.’

For now, he would just have to wait.

Chapter 60

^{MOSCOW, LUBYANKA}

Yuri relieved himself in the hole that excused itself as a toilet in the corner of his small cell, zipped up his jeans and pulled on the overhead chain. He needed more water; the jug by the table had run dry an hour ago.

Through a gap in the hatch he counted four cells opposite and, if he stood sideways, the solid reinforced door giving on to the narrow corridor.

‘Derevenko… Yev!’ he shouted. Silence. If they wanted to isolate him, he thought, they had done a good job.

He went back and lay on the bed and wondered whether Anatoly had got through to Leningrad and what Viktoriya would make of it all if he had.

He thought back to Smolensk. It felt like a lifetime ago when Viktoriya and he had wandered the streets in that early first winter snow, of how he had kissed her under the prying eyes of an elderly woman who sat on a chair at the end of her hotel corridor. He remembered how Viktoriya had looked at him with a mixture of suspicion and amusement. You remind me of a wolf, she had said randomly, looking at him with those icy-blue eyes. How off guard he had been caught by that remark and how much he had thought about it since: predator, instinctual, powerful animal, threatening were all epithets one could attach to the word wolf. When he asked her what she had meant, she had just shrugged. Maybe she was right, but he wasn’t sure he entirely liked it either, not in the way she felt about him, anyway. But how else would he want to be perceived: a snake, a lamb…?

Neither of them had made any promises to each other when they had set off for their respective destinations the following morning: she to Leningrad, he eventually to Moscow; it had all been left hanging in the air, suspended, unresolved. If they ever met again, he wondered if she would pretend it never happened.

Yuri’s mind turned to Volkov again and the other district generals. Had they thrown their lot in with the new chief of staff? Presumably they had by what he had witnessed in Migalovo, or was it an intended consequence of a general mobilisation, with no time for introspection or dissent. All the same, Yuri didn’t think they would all be happy with it either. Ghukov was respected, but he did not believe Zhakov of the Far East district or Ivchenko of the Urals – who he got on with personally – would be eager to support a revived Communist government, not after the debacle of Afghanistan. General Alyabyev of Central Command Moscow, though, was that much harder to read. Older, no doubt approaching retirement, Yuri had little to do with him personally apart from staff meetings in Moscow. Alyabyev gave little away.

The sudden jangling of keys in the door made him sit up. The defence minister entered, followed by a guard with a jug of water, a bowl of something and a piece of rye bread. Were they trying to kill him with kindness now, he thought?

‘General, please eat.’

The defence minister gestured at the bowl.

‘May I say, General, I am deeply sorry to meet you under these circumstances.’

‘Well that makes two of us, Comrade Dubnikov.’

Yuri had met the defence minister, Viktor Dubnikov, on several occasions, although it was Ghukov as chief of staff who met with him mostly. He was definitely communist old guard. In his sixties, Dubnikov had served Brezhnev before the present general secretary. Yuri guessed he was part of the political balancing act that the general secretary had needed to perform in the Politburo. Neatly dressed in a black suit, white shirt and red tie, the minister took the only chair and sat down. He removed a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and mopped his face.

‘As I said, I am sorry to see you under these circumstances,’ he repeated.

‘We could take this conversation to a café,’ Yuri countered.

‘Well that would be awkward, I’m sure you will appreciate. Colonel, General Volkov has, I understand, been to see you. I just wanted to reassure you personally that should you decide to support the Emergency Committee, you would be well rewarded. You may have your personal difficulties with Volkov, but he does respect your military ability, he has told me so, as I do, I might add. We need talent like yours, General… How would second in command to the colonel general sound?’

‘Comrade Dubnikov, I’m truly flattered, but all this can be easily solved. Let me see the general secretary. If he is ill, as you say he is, I will certainly reconsider.’

‘I’m afraid that will not be possible. The general secretary is not receiving visitors, he is too unwell.’

‘Why did I think you would say that?

‘Comrade, I said this to someone quite recently, do you want to be on the wrong or the right side of history? Do you, Comrade Dubnikov?’

Dubnikov stood up, blue in the face, and banged on the door for the guard.

‘I’m sure General Volkov pointed out that our patience is limited,’ said the defence minister coldly. ‘We need you final answer by this time tomorrow.’

Yuri stood up and took a step towards him so they were face-to-face.

‘Comrade Dubnikov, I, of all people, am not someone who takes kindly to being threatened, remember that.’

The minister blinked and, without another word, left.