The Moscow Club

by Finder, Joseph

  They sat around a mahogany coffee table, Gorbachev on a leather couch, Pavlichenko in an adjoining armchair.

  “Well, Andrei Dmitrovich,” the President intoned, coming directly to the point as always, “what have you learned?” No fat in his conversations; no small talk. Gorbachev, who certainly could be charming, held his charm in check when there was work to be done.

  Pavlichenko answered without hesitation. “I think these bombings are just the beginning.”

  Gorbachev replied with poise. “Meaning?”

  “I mean, a coup.”

  “Yes,” Gorbachev began irritably, “we’ve already discussed—”

  “I’m afraid,” Pavlichenko interrupted almost inaudibly, “that the evidence is beginning to point that way. All my people, all my number-crunchers and eggheads, seem to think that’s what’s going on.” He ran a hand over his face, feeling stubble; he hadn’t had time to shave.

  “So,” Gorbachev said. His shoulders seemed to sag visibly, although his expression remained neutral.

  Pavlichenko knew well that there is nothing the Soviet Politburo fears more than a coup d’etat.

  This is almost certainly because the Soviet Union was established by a coup d’etat on November 7, 1917, a small but lightning-fast attack on the democratic provisional government. The Politburo, therefore, recognizes that such a threat exists at all times.

  Gorbachev had reason to be fearful.

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  The Soviet Union was in turmoil, with nationahst uprisings— public demonstrations!—throughout the remaining Soviet republics, which, one after another, were calling openly for independence from Moscow. Even the Russian Republic was pulling away from the Kremlin. Only the Ukraine would never be permitted independence from Moscow. Never, that is, short of war. And the Soviet bloc was crumbling. The Berlin Wall had been dismanded, and with it went East Germany and Poland and Hungary and Czechoslovakia and Bulgaria… . The Soviet Communist Party had lost its decades-long grip on power; the old-line leadership was steadily being replaced. The Soviet empire was, in the space of a few short years, almost gone, and Gorbachev was to blame.

  Pavlichenko could almost see Gorbachev’s mental calculations. The President could count on perhaps three or four solid votes in the Politburo. At any time, there was the possibility of a coup, of his enemies on the Politburo’s ousting him as they had done Khrushchev in 1964. There was clamoring in the Supreme Soviet and the Congress of People’s Deputies for Gorbachev’s removal. Boris Yeltsin, as head of the Russian Republic, clearly wanted Gorbachev out, and Yeltsin had enormous support.

  “There may be forces,” the KGB chairman said after Gorbachev had been silent for almost a full minute, “conspirators who no doubt have access to tremendous resources. At least, this is what my people are postulating.”

  “Here in Moscow?” Gorbachev said, almost scoffing.

  “Perhaps. Yet, as I’ve said before, there may be links to the West. I’m vague, because, frankly, we don’t know.”

  “Meaning?”

  Pavlichenko only shrugged.

  “How high?”

  “You mean, in the West?”

  “I mean here.”

  “Sir?”

  “How highly placed? Do you think these … forces … are controlled from the Politburo level?”

  “I think it’s likely,” Pavlichenko replied.

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  Gorbachev’s response was surprising under the circumstances. “I don’t want anything to interfere with the November summit,” he said, suddenly louder. He shook his head. “I don’t want anything to prevent it.” He got to his feet, signifying that the meeting was over. “If there’s a link to the West, whether it’s the White House or Langley or anyone, I must know. Is that clear? I want nothing to disrupt the summit, but I am not prepared to have the world view us as cowards.”

  “Yes, sir.” Pavlichenko was inwardly relieved that Gorbachev was not out for his blood, although that could still come anytime.

  “It’s one of us, isn’t it?” Gorbachev sighed.

  “Look, I don’t have to tell you—you’ve got a list of enemies as long as—”

  “Such as?”

  Pavlichenko shrugged.

  “Sherbanov?” Gorbachev asked. Vladimir V. Sherbanov, the defense minister, was an alternate member of the Politburo, which meant he didn’t vote. It was remarkable: the head of the Soviet military, for the first time in decades, wasn’t a voting member of the Soviet leadership! Gorbachev had maneuvered this arrangement, knowing how the Red Army opposed his slashing the military budget.

  “That’s …” Pavlichenko furrowed his brow. “That’s completely impossible. He’s a pain in the ass, but he’s also one of the most loyal people around. He’s completely reliable.”

  Gorbachev was silent for a long time before he spoke. “No one is anymore.”

  30

  Moscow

  Charlotte Harper had been harassed by the Soviet authorities several times before during her tenure in Moscow, but never had she been arrested.

  With the President coming to Moscow to meet w ith Gorbachev, she’d thought it might be interesting to do a stor' on an extreme-right-wing neofascist organization that had recently begun to meet in Moscow. The' wore black shirts and swastikas and were calling for pogroms against all non-Russian nationalities. It was trul- sensational stuff— explosixe, really, since the Soiet authorities wanted to distract attention from such groups, which had begun to spring up in Moscow with disconcerting frequency.

  She made a few calls, and several people seemed to be willing to talk on camera. So she and her cameraman. Randy, dashed to the office car, a red 'olo, and drove out to an apartment in the newly deeloped section of southwestern Moscow.

  When she arried, she saw that she wasn’t alone: there were sexeral Moscow policemen, the militsiya, standing outside the apartment building, waiting. They were burly and red-faced and looked like taller ersions of Nikita Khrushchev.

  As soon as the police saw the American television reporter and her cameramen unload their equipment from the station wagon, one of them came up to her and said, in Russian, “No camera. No interiew.”

  Charlotte’s Russian was fluent. “We’re not breaking any laws.”

  “I’ll break vour camera.”

  THE MOSCOW CLUB ■ 227

  “Just try.” It wasn’t wise to provoke a Russian cop, but this had slipped out. “Randy, let’s go ahead.”

  The cop followed them to the entrance of the building, where he and another one blocked their way. “Forbidden,” the second cop said.

  “Switch on the camera, Randy,” Charlotte said in English, quickly and quietly. “At least we’ll get something.”

  Randy turned it on. The footage of the militsiyoneri blocking their access would, by itself, tell part of the story of how sensitive the Soviets were, even with glasnost—well, no, especially with glasnost—to such issues.

  At that moment, the cop, realizing what was going on, stuck his hand out and flattened it against the camera lens.

  “Hey, watch it!” Randy said. “That’s an expensive piece of equipment, you bastard.”

  The militsiyoneri were surrounding them now, and one of them shoved Randy harder.

  “All right!” Charlotte shouted in Russian, fuming. “All right, we’ll turn it off.” In a lower voice, she added, “Goddamn you.”

  The militsiya arrested Charlotte and Randy, threw them unceremoniously into a paddywagon, and brought them to a tiny local police station, which was empty. The two Americans were locked in a bare room.

  Randy looked at Charlotte and said, “Oh, great. Now what the hell are we going to do?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said.

  Within an hour, another policeman, who appeared to be a senior officer, entered the room.

  Even before he had a chance to speak, Charlotte said in Russian, “You realize we didn’t break any laws. I happen to have very clos
e ties with the American Embassy”—this much was true—“and I think you should know that if you don’t release us at once you will single-handedly be precipitating an international incident.” She softened her demand with her warmest smile. You had to manage these things adeptly; it wouldn’t do to challenge the ego of a Soviet cop. “With the summit so near, would you want to risk that?” she asked sweetly.

  228 ■ JOSEPH FINDER

  She looked up and saw that there was another man standing in the doorway, listening: a gray-haired miHtary man, in full uniform. He had, she saw, sad gray eyes.

  He held out his hand to shake Charlotte’s. “My name is Colonel Vlasik,” he said. “Nikita Vlasik.” He spoke in excellent English.

  Charlotte paused and then took his hand. “Charlotte Harper.”

  “I know who you are. Miss Harper. I watch your broadcasts from time to time.”

  “I’m flattered.” Probably he watched pirated videotapes of the stories she sent over the satellite. That meant he must be fairly influential within the military hierarchy.

  He made a gesture with his hand, and the policeman left.

  “You make a very good argument,” he said. “But that line of thinking rarely works on our policemen. They don’t think of political consequences. They think of, pardon my expression, covering their asses.”

  Charlotte laughed. Where did this guy come from? she wondered.

  He continued, “We need people like you on our side.”

  “Thanks, but I’ve already got a side.” The colonel meant well, and so she responded gently.

  “You remind me of my daughter,” the colonel said.

  “Oh, really?” Russian men, Charlotte was once again reminded, were incorrigible—sexist, chauvinistic, laughably old-fashioned, and infuriating.

  “Both of you have—how do you call it?—spunk.” He laughed. “If you are going to break our laws, Miss Harper, let me give you a few pointers on how to do it without getting into trouble. My men have much to do. Maybe you can save us all the trouble of arresting you next time. “

  “Maybe you can tell your men not to bother a reporter when she’s doing her job.”

  He flashed a winning smile. “I can’t argue. But let me give you a little advice.”

  “All right,” she said dubiously.

  “Get to know our Criminal Code. If anything happens to you, just—what is your expression?—give them hell. Don’t let your inter-

  THE MOSCOW CLUB ■ 229

  rogators make you talk. Article 46 of the Soviet Criminal Code says you don’t have to answer questions. Article 142 says you never have to sign any documents. Any interrogator who hears you mention these will shit in his pants. Please forgive my language.” Charlotte smiled. “You’re forgiven.”

  She returned to the office and began to do some routine catchup work, rooting through Pravda and Izvestiya and Literaturnaya Gazeta and some of the other unspeakably dull Soviet publications. Then, glancing mindlessly through the AP newswire printouts, she glimpsed a small item about the Alfred Stone affair: Charles Stone was still at large, being sought in connection with the murder.

  Days had gone by, and she had done nothing to find Sonya Kunetskaya, who Charlie believed was a key to the mystery he was trying to solve. He needed her help.

  The first place to look, of course, was the phone book. Not such an easy proposition: telephone books are enormously scarce in Russia. The last one was published in 1973, and the Ministry of Communications had only put out fifty thousand copies for a city of eight million people.

  The 1973 book did list an S. Kunetskaya, and she dialed the number.

  The listing was out of date. The phone was answered by a gruff-voiced man who insisted he had never heard of this Kunetskaya.

  It was certainly possible that the man was lying, but even if he weren’t, she had reached a dead end. There was nothing to do but go there, to the address listed in the book, and see for herself.

  The address was on Krasnopresnenskaya Street, an area known, despite the Soviet Union’s “classless-society” claims, as a working-class neighborhood. The building was run-down and shabby.

  The man who answered the bell was coldly hostile: he had no interest in talking to an American journalist.

  “I don’t know of any Kunetskaya,” he barked at her. “Go away.”

  Finally, after Charlotte had rung the bells of all of the man’s neighbors, she found what she’d been seeking.

  “Of course I remember Sonya Kunetskaya,” said a plain-looking

  230 ■ JOSEPH FINDER

  babuskha abruptly. “Why do you want to know? She moved years ago.”

  “Do you have her address?”

  The woman fixed Charlotte with a suspicious glare. “Who are you?”

  “I’m an old friend of hers,” Charlotte said. “From America. I haven’t seen her in years, and you know how hard it is to get phone numbers.”

  The babushka shrugged. “I’ll see.”

  A few minutes later, the babushka returned with a small, grimy address book. “Here it is,” the old woman said. “I knew I had it somewhere.”

  31

  Washington

  The accommodations Stone found upon arriving in Washington were dismal but anonymous. From the Yellow Pages he’d selected a rooming house in Adams-Morgan. It was a seventy-five-year-old house badly in need of a paint job, with twelve rooms on three disheveled floors. Stone’s room, on the third floor, contained an infinitesimal kitchenette, a dreadfully soft bed covered with what looked and smelled like a horse blanket, and not much else. He paid, in advance and in cash, for two nights. The proprietor, an elderly woman who wore an ill-fitting green double-knit polyester pants suit, was annoyed at the short stay, and said so—she preferred guests who stayed at least two weeks— but she took his money anyway.

  Hours earlier, back in Boston, the food-service truck had left the Ritz and immediately proceeded to its next stop, a luxury hotel in another part of town. Of course it would have done little good for Stone to try to hide in the truck, so he presented himself to the driver, who, when he recovered from his shock, appeared to believe Stone’s story that he was evading the irate husband of a woman with whom he had had a rendezvous at the Ritz. The driver was actually amused by the tale, and kindly offered to drop Stone off anywhere on the truck’s route. He also offered Stone a seat in the front of the cab, which proved a good deal more comfortable than the boxes in the back.

  The driver let Stone off at a truck stop on the outskirts of Boston, where he hitched a ride in a truck that was delivering discount women’s clothing as far south as Philadelphia. In the early part of the morning, shortly after four o’clock, Stone found himself in a truck stop near Philadelphia, and, after a full breakfast and several cups of coffee, located a truck that was going directly to Washington.

  By the middle of the afternoon, he had gotten himself organized enough to do the things necessary for survival. He could no longer risk carrying around such a great number of bills; he went to a bank and converted some of it into larger denominations. With some of the cash, he bought traveler’s checks, using Robert Gill’s passport. The rest he planned to hide later. He visited several clothing stores, bought a few changes of clothes, casual as well as business wear, and a small leather traveling case with a concealed pocket in the lining. There he placed his passport and driver’s license in the name of Robert Gill. Briefly, he returned to the rooming house and worked for a few hours with razor blade and glue, carefully inserting his real passport and the rest of the cash in the binding of two hardcover books, inside the liners of his shoes, and beneath the lining of his leather case.

  He found a pay phone and called Directory Assistance for the Washington area. Unsurprisingly, Deputy Secretary of State William Armitage’s number was unlisted. Stone knew that he could not talk to Armitage at State, even if he could get in to see him; much better to reach him at home. And a surprise call could reveal a tremendous amount.

  Armitage had
interrogated Anna Zinoyeva in 1953; was he one of them? His immediate, uncensored reaction to Stone’s unexpected appearance might well reveal whether he was a vital link in this conspiracy.

  Obviously Armitage was a risk, but Stone had little choice now.

  He called the State Department and asked the operator for the office of Deputy Secretary of State William Armitage. A female receptionist in Armitage’s office answered.

  “This is Ken Owens from The Washington Post,” Stone told the secretary. “Listen, I talked to one of Mr. Armitage’s assistants yesterday, and I’ve lost his name.”

  “One of his assistants?”

  THE MOSCOW CLUB ■ 233

  “Yeah. A guy.”

  “There’s a couple of people it might be,” the secretary said. “A fellow? Was it Paul Rigazio?”

  “Right. That was it. Thanks.”

  “Would you like to speak with him?”

  “Later on. I needed to get his name. Thanks. Oh, and do you have his extension?” The secretary gave him Paul Rigazio’s telephone extension, and Stone hung up.

  He next called the State Department’s personnel office. “This is Paul Rigazio in Bill Armitage’s office. Extension 7410. Bill left a message for me to call him at home, and he didn’t leave me his new number.”

  “All right,” said the woman who answered the phone. “One moment.” She returned to the line half a minute later. “I don’t see any new number here, sir.”