Moscow Rules

by Robert Moss

  He ripped the top off a bottle of vodka, sloshed some of the contents down his gullet, and passed it to Skvortsov, who took a big gulp without bothering to wipe the neck, then belched contentedly.

  Topchy rubbed his eyes and consulted his watch. It was only 3:12 A.M. He felt he’d been up a lot longer than that. But wait, his watch had stopped. He swore copiously. The watch, which was gold-plated with quartz action, had the name of one of the most prestigious Swiss manufacturers on the dial. It was a gift from the Armenian, Askyerov’s crony. It was supposed to run for a year before being recharged, and he’d had it only six weeks. The thing was a dud, or a counterfeit. Come to think of it, was that casing really fourteen-carat gold? It looked a bit tarnished. Well, he’d see to it that they paid through the nose before he was through, Askyerov and the Armenian both.

  He wrenched the bottle away from Skvortsov.

  ‘What the fuck is the time?’

  It was past five. In just a few hours, the members of the Politburo would all be converging on Old Square in their fat limousines. Topchy felt a spasm of pain in his left leg, and then in his lower back, and dosed himself with another swig from the bottle.

  He stared at the phones on his desk, irresolute. Should he call Askyerov with the good news that they had more than enough to hang Zotov’s son-in-law, and therefore the Marshal himself? Why bother? He answered his own question with another. If Askyerov was awake, he could sweat it out for a bit longer. That way, he might be all the more grateful when he got what he wanted. Topchy visualized the scene now, as he arrived at Askyerov’s residence, just as the Prime Minister was preparing to leave for Old Square. That would be the perfect moment to put the squeeze on. Why settle for promotion to chief of directorate? Hell, Askyerov could make him Chairman of the KGB.

  This reflection cheered him up considerably. He handed the bottle back to Skvortsov, who fell on it like a man who was dying of thirst.

  Topchy pulled a paper out of his pocket. It was all the authorization he needed to deal with Preobrazhensky. It was an arrest warrant, nicely official. All he needed to do was fill in the name. A private line to the Chairman of the Council of Ministers certainly helped to cut down the paperwork.

  ‘What do you say, Vanvanich?’ he consulted Skvortsov. ‘Shall we go round to Gogol Boulevard and stick a needle up that bitch’s ass?’

  ‘Why not?’ Skvortsov grinned stupidly. He emitted a sound like old plumbing.

  Then Topchy frowned. There was something he couldn’t afford to forget. What was it? Fatigue and vodka were clouding his brain. Oh, yes, Kavrov. There was something very wrong about that. He ought to check.

  ‘Get on the phone to Kavrov,’ he instructed Skvortsov. ‘I want to talk to what’s-his-face.’ His speech was slightly slurred.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Our man with the Spetsnaz brigade. The one who replaced Suchko. What the hell is his name?’

  Skvortsov couldn’t remember either. It seemed to take him an awfully long time, as well as further lubrication, to place the call. Then he had trouble communicating with the man on the other end of the line.

  Topchy grabbed the receiver away from him and yelled into it, ‘Who is this?’

  The man on the other end was almost inaudible. Topchy assumed he was drunk or half-asleep.

  ‘Pull yourself together and do what I say,’ Topchy roared into the phone. ‘I want a full report on Suchko’s death — a new report. Have you got that? I want it on my desk by noon today. It will state that we are investigating new leads that suggest that his death was not accidental. Yes, that’s what I said! Are you deaf? What’s that?’

  Topchy could only make out a succession of grunts. They sounded accommodating.

  ‘Listen,’ he went on. ‘Is there anything unusual happening down there? Anything that doesn’t seem right? What’s that? Well, get your ass outside and check! You’re a military chekist, fuck your mother! If you see anything out of the ordinary, call me at once. Do you understand?’

  When he slammed down the phone, he found that Skvortsov had managed to finish off the vodka. The idiot was holding the bottle upside down, a lopsided grin on his face. Topchy looked at him in disgust. Then he opened the safe and took out a second bottle.

  ‘Go and wake up the others,’ he instructed Skvortsov. ‘Make sure that everyone is armed.’ He slammed the metal door to the safe shut and started fumbling for his personal seal. When he had his papers, and the last of his precious liquor reserve, sealed up tight, he took a quick look at Nikoisky in the adjoining office. He was still laid out on the table. He looked bloated and bled-white. The girl was pretending to be out to the world too, but he could see her pupils stirring under the lashes. He made a little bow to her. Major Furtsev, who was standing watch over both of them, with his pistol on the table at his elbow, looked almost as pale as Feliks. He was too squeamish for this line of work, Topchy thought. He must remember to transfer Furtsev to something more appropriate, like supervising the flowerbeds at the dacha he would soon be able to enjoy. He made a motion as if to toss the bottle to Furtsev, but thought better of it, and brought his arm back abruptly.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ Topchy said.

  Furtsev was already on his feet, and his upper lip was trembling, it was hard to say whether with fear or anger.

  ‘You have to let me call in a doctor,’ Furtsev said. ‘Nikolsky needs immediate medical attention.’

  ‘You’re a babysitter, not a fucking wetnurse.’

  ‘He’s been unconscious for more than an hour,’ Furtsev went on.

  ‘He’s going to be out for a lot longer than that.’ Topchy waved the bottle at Furtsev to dramatize his point. ‘We’re dealing with a case of treason, Comrade Major. Perhaps you have heard of the crime? Some very big people — oh, yes, some real brass hats — are going to get themselves chopped off at the knees as a result of this. So what you do is, you sit at your desk there and you play with yourself and if anybody except me comes in demanding access to your prisoners, you shoot to kill.’

  Furtsev’s mouth dropped open.

  ‘Anything can happen tonight,’ Topchy said with satisfaction. ‘Anything at all. Now I have to go and sniff high boots. Cheer up, dorogoy moy. ‘ He patted Furtsev’s plump, almost hairless cheek patronizingly. ‘We’re all going up in the world.’

  Topchy strutted out into the corridor, and a wild kind of exhilaration came over him, like a blast of hot air from a furnace. The sensation was compounded with nostalgia, a harking back to a place and a time where none of the normal rules applied. He saw himself, young and strong, in his chekist’s leather coat, roaming the blasted landscape of East Prussia like a power of nature. There were Skvortsov and the others, cracking jokes, and that, too, evoked scenes from the past, from his early days in the Lubyanka — before anybody thought of trying to clean the place up — when drunken chekists roamed from cell to cell in the middle of the night, beating up prisoners or blowing their brains out.

  There would be explaining to do later, of course. But by then, the case would be sewn up tight, Preobrazhensky and his father-in-law would be broken like wooden toys, and Moscow would be under new ownership. He imagined himself presiding over that vast, opulent office one floor above, with its fine mahogany paneling and luxurious oriental rugs, the one reserved for Dzerzhinsky’s heirs.

  Then he felt a painful, burning sensation, as if hot coals were falling through his bowels, and rushed out to the bathroom.

  *

  The cars were waiting in the Well, the courtyard inside the old seven-story building, the original Lubyanka. The massive iron gates leading out into the alley behind KGB headquarters were dragged back. Topchy let the bottle circulate and Skvortsov, sitting in the front seat of their Volga, kept turning around and proposing toasts.

  From time to time, Topchy would growl at him, ‘Shut up, you piss-artist,’ but there was no force of reprimand in the words. Topchy was in excellent spirits. Since he had emptied his bowels, he felt invincible. As their little
convoy sped through the deserted streets, other scenes from the past returned to him. He saw the faces of men he had killed and enjoyed killing. He saw the haughty features of a Russian army officer, the one who had been bleating over the fate of a German whore in some nameless village in Prussia at the end of the war, as if one life more or less — especially a German life — mattered a damn in the midst of all that carnage. Topchy relived the almost sexual thrill as the big gun kicked back in his hand and he watched the dark stain spread between the officer’s shoulder blades. The fool had it coming, he reflected. He was a real byvchy, a throwback to the Tsarist officer caste. Just like that arrogant bitch Preobrazhensky.

  In the frosty stillness, the mass of the General Staff complex, its enormous communications tower and its forest of antennas and satellite dishes rising above the roofline, seemed more daunting than usual. But Topchy had his driver pull up right in front of the main entrance and then strutted in as if he had just bought the deed to the property.

  A soldier with the red tabs of a special guards company insisted on inspecting all of their KGB identity booklets. He asked Topchy to sign the admissions book while he got on the intercom to his duty officer.

  ‘I see...I’ll have to check,’ the duty officer’s voice crackled back when it was explained to him that the KGB men were on their way to visit Major-General Preobrazhensky. The guard set down the receiver.

  ‘What is the reason for this delay?’ Topchy glowered at the guard, moving as if to go past him toward the elevators.

  ‘We have to locate the general, sir,’ the guard said stiffly. ‘It should only take a minute.’

  One of the elevators descended, the doors opened, and the duty officer appeared, all smiles and servility.

  ‘Allow me to escort you myself, Comrade Colonel,’ said the major.

  ‘I know my way.’

  ‘But really, sir. It’s no trouble.’

  Topchy looked at the major curiously and shrugged. The man was obviously just following regulations. How these woodentops in the army loved their standing orders! No Soviet army major was going to interfere with a KGB colonel in the execution of his duty.

  Topchy, Skvortsov, and two assistants — one man had been left outside, with the cars — rode the elevator with the duty officer to the seventh floor, then followed him along a white-walled corridor and through an outer room to the leather-padded ‘Beria door’ that screened Sasha’s private office. Another army major was sitting at the desk in the outer office. He stood to attention when Topchy came in. Then he rapped on the frame of Sasha’s door.

  ‘Come in!’ Sasha’s voice boomed from within.

  The door swung open, and as he stepped into the frame, Topchy saw his victim lolling back in his chair, a mug of steaming coffee in front of him on the desk. There was a radio playing in the office. Topchy realized, to his surprise and delight, that Sasha was listening to the BBC World Service. One more item for the dossier.

  ‘Well, Colonel,’ Sasha greeted him. ‘It’s good to see that our friends in the Committee get up early.’

  ‘You seem to get up early yourself.’

  ‘You’ve heard the news, I suppose,’ Sasha cocked his head toward the radio. There had still been no announcement in Moscow on the state of the General Secretary’s health. But there were reports in the West that the man had suffered a terminal stroke and that the knives were out among the leaders disputing the succession. One London tabloid, which had distinguished itself in the past by claiming to have found Martin Bormann hiding in Brazil, had garnished the Moscow story with rumors that the General Secretary had been shot by the son of a disgraced Party official. ‘I wonder if anybody has told the General Secretary he’s dead yet?’ Sasha summarized. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘There will be changes, I suppose. If it’s true.’ Topchy hovered there in the doorway, not wanting to rush this moment of pleasure. ‘By the way, do you get all of your news from the BBC?’

  ‘Oh, no. Sometimes I listen to the Voice of America. But I prefer the accent of the British announcers. But please’ — Sasha played host — ‘won’t you sit down? Would you like some coffee?’ He raised his own mug. ‘I’m afraid it’s the strongest stuff we serve here.’

  Topchy threw himself down on a chair, completely confident of his ground, with Skvortsov and the others blocking the doorway behind him.

  ‘Oh, this is charming, General,’ he said to Sasha. ‘There you are, drinking your coffee. Take your time. I want you to savor every sip. That’s the last coffee you’re going to get.’

  ‘I’m not sure that I understand you.’ Sasha remained perfectly relaxed. He let his arms swing down along the back of his chair, where his uniform jacket was draped.

  ‘I’m taking you to Lefortovo so we can have a nice long talk,’ Topchy said.

  ‘You mean I’m under arrest? May I know the charge?’

  ‘Article Sixty-Four. Betrayal of the motherland. The penalty —’

  ‘I know the penalty,’ Sasha said with seeming indifference.

  Topchy felt acutely disappointed. Why didn’t the man react?

  ‘You’ll be shot,’ Topchy informed him. ‘But not until you’ve answered all our questions. You’ll wish that I’d shot you tonight.’ He toyed ostentatiously with the butt of his Makarov.

  ‘On whose authority are you making this arrest?’ Sasha asked lazily.

  Visibly annoyed, Topchy pulled out the warrant and threw it on the desk. Dammit, how could Preobrazhensky just sit there?

  With his left hand, Sasha picked up the warrant, and scanned it. He said very slowly, ‘I’m afraid you have made a mistake, Colonel Topchy. This document has no meaning in this building.’

  This was too much for Topchy, who sprang from his chair yelling, ‘Stop the bullshit! We’ve got the goods on you, fuck your mother! and now you’re coming with us. Vanvanich!’

  Topchy had his gun out. When nobody came to his aid, he looked around, over his shoulder. Skvortsov was still blocking the doorway, but he was goggle-eyed, his tongue was protruding between his teeth, and his broad face was flushed angry red, verging on purple. At the same moment, the soldier who had been silently and expertly garrotting him with a length of nylon fishing line released his grip, and Skvortsov fell in a heap. Topchy turned to Sasha, and saw a second soldier emerge through the door to the back room, cradling an automatic rifle.

  Topchy was reduced to making an incoherent gargling sound.

  ‘Take his gun,’ Sasha ordered his bodyguards. ‘And dispose of the others. I’ll deal with this one myself.’ He had brought his right hand out of his jacket pocket and was leveling a P-6 at Topchy’s chest.

  ‘You can’t do this,’ Topchy tried again when they were alone.

  ‘That statement is anachronistic.’

  ‘What’s going on, fuck your mother?’

  ‘It would take too long to explain.’ Sasha released the safety catch on his pistol. His tone hadn’t altered. He sounded completely detached. It was that, more than what he had seen done to Skvortsov, that told Topchy he was a dead man.

  The blood drained from his face, and he turned away from Sasha, his shoulders hunched. He looked old and blanched, scuttling sideways like a hermit crab.

  ‘Turn around,’ Sasha said evenly. ‘I am not going to shoot you in the back the way you murdered my father.’

  Topchy turned around, his fear mingling with intense curiosity. ‘Your father? What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m sure you remember. It happened in East Prussia. Years later, you had a man killed in the labor camps because he had seen you do it.’

  ‘It’s not possible.’ Topchy gaped at him.

  ‘The man you had murdered in the camp was Lieutenant of Artillery Ivanov. The man you shot in cold blood in East Prussia was Captain Sergei Mikhailovich Preobrazhensky. He was a Hero of the Soviet Union.’

  ‘Your father.’ Topchy rubbed his face with his hands. ‘I thought there was a look about you. How long have you known?’

&nb
sp; ‘All my life. All of it that matters.’

  ‘They couldn’t have told you the whole story.’ Topchy saw a chink, and tried to wriggle through it. ‘Your father was a fine officer. It was a terrible mistake, but those things happen in a war. People’s nerves are stretched beyond endurance. You can’t imagine what it was like at the front.’

  ‘This is the first time in your life that you’ve seen the front.’ The words were as precise, as implacable as nails being driven into the lid of a coffin.

  Without haste, Sasha extended his right arm so that his pistol was pointing into Topchy’s face, his left arm folded behind him as if he were engaged in a dueling contest. Topchy jerked sideways at the last instant, so the bullet drove through the socket of his right eye. His head seemed to explode as he fell, spattering blood and brains across the wall on the far side of the room, over the space where the portrait of the General Secretary had hung.

  Sasha stepped over the body. He felt as if a yoke had been lifted. He threw open the door and told his adjutant, ‘I’ll move into the Marshal’s office until this war is over.’

  Chapter Nine – The Coup

  ‘The moment you decide an event is impossible and therefore stop directing your attention to it is the moment when it will take place.’

  General Petro Grigorenko

  The lines of the Moscow metro converged on the center of the capital like the spokes of a bashed-in wheel. At 5:30 A.M., when the trains started running, Zaytsev’s advance squads began to arrive in twos and threes at Vodnny Stadium, north of the airport, and at Sokol’niki. The weather was on their side. With the bite of winter in the air, it was natural to go about in overcoats or parkas, which made it easy for the Spetsnaz teams to conceal the tools of their trade: Malish mini machine guns, P-6 pistols, knives, and magnesium grenades.

  Orlov arrived at Dzerzhinsky station a few minutes before six, and emerged from the pedestrian subway on the far side of Kirova Street. There, in the middle of the traffic circle, was the statue of Iron Feliks, his back confidently turned to the gray stone building that had once housed the All-Russian Insurance Company. The streets were almost empty. It wasn’t hard to identify the KGB guards in civilian clothes loitering around the entrances to the Lubyanka. They were obvious bruisers, stocky, hard-faced types from the Ninth Directorate. Orlov spotted two at the front of the building, and a third on the near side. There would be more around the back, and around the new headquarters block that had been built for the Second Chief Directorate.