Moscow Rules

by Robert Moss

  ‘We’re trying, sir. There’s a lot of static. It seems they’re arguing. She’s saying he has to meet somebody. He says something about Delhi.’

  ‘Delhi?

  ‘I think that’s New Delhi, India, sir.’

  ‘I know where it is!’

  ‘He’s breaking away from her. He’s getting into his car.’

  ‘Get the license tag!’

  ‘She’s leaving the other way. She looks really upset. Shall we follow her?’

  ‘Follow both of them!’

  Yurovsky reached the car park too late to see the general for himself. It was hardly believable — a Soviet general meeting a Jewish-American girl who had been involved with the saboteurs in Togliatti. Well, it wouldn’t be hard to find the man. There couldn’t be many Soviet major-generals who lived in the neighborhood of the Visotny Dom.

  *

  The group that assembled at Bangladesh that night was larger than before. In addition to Sasha, Nikolsky, and Zaytsev, there was Kolya Vlassov, now one of the senior men at the Aquarium, a young general from one of the Airborne divisions, and a colonel from the Strategic Rocket Forces.

  ‘You know what they used to say,’ Feliks murmured to Sasha. ‘For a secret meeting in Moscow, three is already too many.’ That had always been true. Confine a meeting to two people, and if you were betrayed, you knew for sure who was the informer.

  Then and afterward, Sasha seemed more than usually guarded, and Feliks sensed that it wasn’t just because of the size of the gathering. Nikolsky tried to liven things up with a few jokes, one of them at the expense of the General Secretary’s notoriously promiscuous daughter.

  ‘Do you know what she puts behind her ears to attract men? Her knees,’ Feliks answered his own question.

  Only Vlassov and the Airborne general laughed.

  ‘There’s not much time,’ Sasha brought the meeting to order. ‘The General Secretary has been taken to the clinic at Kuntsevo. The Marshal is very concerned that Askyerov won’t wait for the death certificate before he makes final arrangements for the succession. You’ve all heard the news from the Caucasus.’

  It was, indeed, the talk of the messes up and down the country. Many of the Russian officers were openly furious that the Defense Minister had rubber-stamped the order to form two Caucasian divisions without consulting Marshal Zotov. Nobody doubted that the initiative came from Askyerov, or that the Prime Minister was seeking to create, in these ‘wild divisions,’ an armed force totally loyal to himself.

  ‘There’s more,’ Sasha continued. ‘The Marshal has received information that the wild divisions are going to be brought to Moscow.’

  ‘To Moscow?’ Zaytsev exploded. ‘Those black-asses? It’s not possible.’

  But every man in the room realized that it was, and their discussions gained further urgency.

  When the others had left, Nikolsky said, ‘I thought I might go to hear the gypsies sing tonight. Why don’t you come? God knows when we’ll be able to do it again.’

  Sasha shook his head.

  ‘There’s something wrong, isn’t there?’ Feliks pressed him.

  For a moment Sasha was tempted to share his burden. But he shook off the mood quickly. How could he tell anyone that all their efforts had been placed in jeopardy because Elaine had waylaid him in a parking lot and relayed a message from the CIA — a threat that, unless he agreed to deal with them, they would use their dossiers to destroy him? He couldn’t believe that Elaine understood the full meaning of the words she repeated, but the meaning was there nonetheless. He had played for time, telling her to inform her controllers that it was impossible to arrange a meeting in Moscow, but that he would agree to a rendezvous during his next visit abroad. As it happened, he was supposed to accompany the Marshal on a trip to New Delhi in three weeks’ time. Maybe the CIA would leave him alone until then. At the pace that things were moving, it would be time enough.

  ‘Go to your gypsies, Feliks.’ He patted Nikolsky’s shoulder. ‘But keep your head clear.’ The news about the General Secretary had come from him. Thanks to Nikolsky’s relationship with Topchy, they had excellent inside information on Askyerov’s activities. They depended on Feliks to tell them when it was time to move.

  *

  Nikolsky arrived at the Lubyanka rather late the next day. He had stayed at the gypsy club in the early hours, giving himself over completely to the wild intoxication, followed by exquisite melancholy, that the music inspired. It was the most dangerous music in the world, more dangerous than alcohol or hashish. It broke down all of a man’s reserves, it opened cravings as limitless as the steppes. Feliks’ club, an hour’s drive from the center of Moscow, wasn’t for tourists. It was for those who knew. They still drank charochki there in the old way. Several times, the singer — the great Tamara Fedorovskaya — placed the huge beaker of champagne on its plate in front of Feliks. Then she would burst into song, and the whole troupe would take up the chorus. When they were done, Nikolsky would stand — less steadily as the night wore on — bow low, and drain off the whole drink at once, turning the glass upside down to show that not a drop was left. He never failed in his duty.

  By the time he got home it was too late in the day to bother with sleep. He had breakfast with his children and indulged in a long steaming-hot bath. On his way to the office, he felt perfectly composed, suffused with a pleasurable sadness, bittersweet as a slice of lemon fished out of a glass of gin.

  Topchy was no stickler for office hours. On the other hand, if he wanted you, you had better be available. He wanted Nikolsky that morning. He was visibly excited, more elated than angry.

  ‘Alexander Sergeyevich Preobrazhensky,’ he greeted Nikolsky. ‘You knew him in New York, didn’t you?’

  ‘We had a few drinks,’ Feliks conceded. ‘He’s not very amusing. You know how these woodentops are.’

  ‘I’ve been going through the file,’ Topchy went on. ‘There’s something that was never cleared up. One of our contacts, a fellow named Churkhin, made the allegation that Preobrazhensky was in contact with the CIA. Do you know anything about that?’

  ‘I never believed it,’ Nikolsky said cautiously. ‘I think Churkhin was trying to get a bonus. It happens all the time. As I remember, Churkhin went home with his ass in a sling.’ He was desperately trying to work out why Topchy should suddenly have decided to investigate Sasha. Had there been a leak from Kavrov?

  ‘I want you to track down this Churkhin and see what he has to say. Get on it right away. There’s no time to waste.’

  As Feliks returned to his own office, his delightful gypsy hangover supplanted by near panic, he was trying to work out how to get a message to Sasha. Better to wait, he decided, until he had managed to sniff out how much Topchy knew. He called Records and told them to put a trace on Churkhin. If they were lucky, the bitch got himself shot in Afghanistan. But somehow, people like that managed to survive.

  *

  Gussein Askyerov received Topchy around noon, in a splendid suite at the Rossiya that was reserved by his Armenian associate for confidential meetings of this kind. The Prime Minister’s eyes glistened as he listened to Topchy’s account of the meeting between an American girl, a suspected CIA agent, and Marshal Zotov’s son-in-law.

  ‘How did you find out?’ Askyerov interjected.

  ‘Yurovsky’s men were trailing the girl. They asked me to identify the general.’

  ‘Yurovsky is a thorough investigator,’ Askyerov said in a natural tone. Topchy understood the undertow. We don’t own him.

  ‘I want to take charge of the case myself,’ Topchy said. ‘This is Third Directorate business.’ He mentioned other peculiarities in the case, including Churkhin’s report. He suggested that Churkhin’s testimony had been suppressed by Zotov to protect a member of his own family.

  ‘Let me see if I have the whole picture,’ said Askyerov, steepling his fingers. ‘The girl is no ordinary tourist, and we have circumstantial evidence that she is in contact with Western services.
We know that she has attended one — probably more than one — clandestine meeting with Preobrazhensky. We know that Preobrazhensky is not only Zotov’s son-in-law, he’s the man’s brain as well.’

  ‘And he has access to everything that crosses the Marshal’s desk,’ Topchy added.

  ‘Which means,’ Askyerov pursued, ‘that Zotov is either an accessory to espionage or too incompetent to be in his job.’

  ‘That’s how it looks,’ Topchy encouraged him.

  ‘But can we make it stand up?’

  ‘Just give me a few days.’

  ‘We don’t have that much time.’ Askyerov uncoiled himself from his armchair like a lizard and moved, with no sense of haste, to the liquor table, where he poured himself a glass of some sweet fizzy drink. ‘I am going to Kuntsevo this afternoon.’

  Topchy didn’t say anything. Kuntsevo meant the Kremlin clinic, where the General Secretary had been in intensive care for more than a week.

  ‘What I am about to say doesn’t leave this room,’ Askyerov said, fixing Topchy with his stare. ‘An emergency meeting of the Politburo will be convened tomorrow morning. We need a hand at the wheel. This time, we’re not going to wait until the body is cold. The General Secretary will sign whatever I put in front of him. There’s only one man who would dare to oppose us openly. I want to break him tomorrow morning. Then we can put reliable men in the high command. Do you understand what I’m saying? When Marshal Zotov leaves the Central Committee tomorrow, he will no longer be Chief of Staff.’

  Askyerov sucked at his drink. Topchy thought it looked like liquid shit. He eyed the cut-glass decanters of whisky and vodka thirstily, but wasn’t offered anything. Maybe since his last trip to Damascus Askyerov was starting to remember that his family were once Moslems.

  ‘What you have told me has great possibilities,’ Askyerov resumed. ‘Our friend the Marshal is popular in the officers’ messes. It’s too dangerous just to tear off his shoulder boards, especially after Togliatti. We might create another martyr in uniform, like Leybutin. We have to crush not only Zotov but the very idea of Zotov, the way Stalin dealt with Tukhachevsky. You may have supplied the means. But I can give you only twenty hours. Can you do it?’

  ‘We need a confession,’ Topchy volunteered.

  ‘Whose confession? Preobrazhensky’s?’

  Topchy played with his earlobe. In his experience, in time, and under proper care, any man would confess. One of the great achievements of their form of society was that the victims always felt guilty. Topchy said, ‘I would need full powers.’

  Askyerov snapped his fingers, and the Armenian left the telephone. He had been engaged in sorting out a number of housekeeping problems, ranging from the dispatch of a special consignment of cement for the Prime Minister’s villa in the Crimea to the private screening that night of a new soft-core film from Sweden.

  ‘Get hold of Chetverikov,’ Askyerov instructed him. ‘Tell him that Colonel Topchy is in charge of the case of the American girl because it involves military security. Arrange for Colonel Topchy to be delivered the necessary arrest warrants.’ He turned back to Topchy. ‘How many?’

  ‘That depends on the results of the interrogation.

  ‘Six warrants,’ Askyerov told the Armenian. ‘Leave the names blank. Anything else?’

  Topchy looked longingly at the liquor table.

  ‘Help yourself,’ Askyerov said. ‘We know each other well enough,’ he went on while Topchy sloshed scotch into a heavy-bottomed glass. ‘You know that I don’t forget a service. I was already planning to make you head of the Third Directorate. That’s worth a couple of stars.’

  Topchy’s smile came and went like a facial tic.

  ‘What do you want? Chetverikov’s job?’ Askyerov studied him. ‘Don’t be too impatient, my friend. There’s a time for every purpose.’

  *

  In the afternoon, Nikolsky went to Topchy to report that Churkhin was currently stationed in Alma-Ata. He was half-expecting to be ordered to fly out there to interview the wretch. But Topchy seemed to have lost interest in Churkhin and his allegations.

  ‘Shut the door, Feliks,’ he said. The scotch had made him more jovial than normal, but Nikolsky backed away from the fumes. The effects of his sleepless night, and the charochki, were beginning to tell.

  ‘I told you you’d do well if you stuck with me,’ Topchy reminded him. ‘Well, after tomorrow, you’ll see I’m a man of my word.’

  ‘What’s happening?’

  Topchy put a finger to his lips. ‘Not a word, mind, not a word! I have it on the highest authority. The Politburo is meeting at eight o’clock. There’ll be great changes, Feliks, you’ll see.’

  Then he was correct and official again. ‘Get me the papers on that new man we’re sending to Kavrov. I think I’ll take them over to Gogol Boulevard myself. I want to see what those bitches are up to.’

  On his way out, Nikolsky passed Skvortsov, on his way in, and noticed that the man was armed. Skvortsov was a typical product of the Third Directorate: a swaggering, foul-mouthed lout. Topchy used him for his dirty work.

  As soon as he had forwarded the transfer forms that Topchy had requested, Feliks left the Lubyanka to find a safe phone. They had less than seventeen hours.

  *

  Elaine had stumbled out of the parking lot near the Visotny Dom through a cold sleet and wandered the embankment, bareheaded, until her hair was wet and matted. The river was the gray of tarnished pewter. The sky was pressing down on the city like a vast metal lid.

  The moment Sasha had recognized her, his face told her how wrong it had been for her to come. He had the look of a cornered animal. His eyes darted all around, seeking a way of escape, as she nervously repeated Gladden’s message.

  ‘Do you understand it?’ he asked her. They were standing side by side, not looking at each other, as if they were strangers waiting for different partners. ‘I warned you it might come to this.’

  Then she understood, and hated herself for her stupidity. Gladden had duped her. It was Gladden’s people who had the compromising dossiers. They were trying to blackmail Sasha, as he had predicted. And they were using her to deliver the threat.

  She began stammering excuses.

  ‘Don’t,’ he silenced her. ‘There’s no time. You wouldn’t have come if you’d been thinking clearly. I know what drove you. I feel it too.’ The words touched her like a brief caress. But his final statement was clipped and impersonal: ‘You will go to your friends and say I agree to their terms. But I cannot meet them here. Tell them it will be Delhi, in three weeks’ time.’

  Then he had turned on his heel and marched off to his car.

  Elaine stopped. The embankment seemed strangely deserted, except for a man reading a newspaper on a bench, and she felt terribly exposed. She saw a taxi with its green light on, and ran out into the street to wave it down. She drove straight to Guy Harrison’s apartment block. It was mostly occupied by foreign correspondents, and one of the inevitable KGB goons was squatting in the middle of the steps. He made no effort to shift his bulk to let her pass, and she had to climb around him. He shouted a coarse joke after her as she went inside.

  ‘Fuck you!’ she called back, and he showed a row of broken teeth, yellowed like one of the meerschaums Guy kept on his desk. She was angry with the whole world.

  ‘Fuck you too!’ she yelled at Harrison when he finally answered the doorbell. The rims of his eyes were red, flecked with white. He looked like an aging basset hound.

  ‘Steady on,’ he said. ‘It’s too early in the day for that sort of thing.’

  While Harrison brewed tea, she sat on his disheveled sofa and described her meeting with Sasha.

  ‘So it’s New Delhi, is it?’ he said thoughtfully when she had finished. ‘I think I saw something about a trip the Marshal is going to make. Well, the Reverend Gladden ought to be able to live with that.’

  ‘You can tell Luke that I think he’s a bastard. ‘ She couldn’t find a word that seemed stro
ng enough.

  ‘He may have been called that before,’ Harrison observed.

  She watched him take a pinch of snuff; the man was a walking museum of Anglophile eccentricities. He started sneezing copiously and dabbed at his bulbous nose with a spotted handkerchief that had obviously been used for this purpose before.

  ‘I’ve never seen Sasha frightened until now,’ she went on. ‘He looked like a man on Death Row. I can’t believe Gladden used me like this.’

  ‘He was carrying out orders.’

  ‘That’s been said before too.’

  ‘I’d better hop round to the Embassy,’ Harrison said. ‘Why don’t you make yourself at home? You look like you could do with a hot bath.’

  ‘I’m going back to New York, Guy. There’s nothing left for me here. I want to leave today. Can you arrange that?’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  He went away and made phone calls. The first flight he could manage to get her on, using all his connections — including a girl at Aeroflot who liked to be kept supplied with the latest pulp paperbacks from the West — left the following day.

  When he came back to report the news, she was peering down into the street from behind a curtain.

  He followed the direction of her gaze. There was a man propped up by a streetlamp reading Pravda, and another beside the main entrance.

  ‘Just the usual hoods,’ Harrison said. ‘You don’t think you were followed, do you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Gladden’s men had the meeting covered. I’m sure they would have intervened if they saw anything. But look here. I really think you should stay here until tomorrow. You’ll only be miserable at the Metropol.’

  ‘What about my clothes?’

  ‘I’ll have your things brought round. There’s plenty of room, and you’ll feel safer. You needn’t worry about your virtue. I’m not the marrying kind. Oh, dear, I didn’t shock you, did I?’

  She managed a wan smile, and Guy left the room as lightly as a man of his girth could manage. For a couple of hours she fiddled with his shortwave radio and wondered whether there was any world where she and Sasha would be free to love, until she fell into an uneasy sleep. She dreamed that she was riding on horseback through a snow-covered forest, with a pack of baying hounds at her heels. Something started from cover, and the hounds overtook her and charged after it. Luke Gladden rode up beside her and shouldered a rifle. She saw he was aiming at Sasha, who was backed up against a fir, inside a circle of snarling dogs. She was struggling with Gladden, trying to stop him, but she felt the gun kick and saw the snow falling from the branches, and looked at her own hands, and found they were spattered with blood. Harrison insisted on driving her to the airport himself. She would pick up the New York connection in Geneva, and fly on home by Swissair. She had been quite emphatic that she did not intend to sit on a Soviet plane all the way to New York.