The next Five Year Plan and Beyond
Projected Energy Needs and Shortfalls
Preliminary Report of the Oligarchy Committee
The Soviet leader flicked back the cover and glanced down the frontispiece. It bore only two names. One was his own. The other, in a bottom corner, beneath the date, was that of the document’s author, the chairman of the Oligarchy Committee and the man who sat watching him from the other side of the desk.
Abel Aganbegyan was the country’s most radical economist; since Gorbachev’s rise to power he had become its most powerful. He was also a trusted friend.
‘You tell me this is the only copy?’ Gorbachev asked at last. He lifted his gaze from the document to scrutinise the Georgian’s swarthy features.
Aganbegyan’s dark-rimmed eyes flickered beneath his bushy eyebrows. He was exhausted; months of intense work and political pressure had taken their toll. The night’s vigil had been but the latest in a chain of nights when sleep had had to be pushed aside.
‘The only copy apart from my own,’ he confirmed quietly.
The room was pooled with soft lamplight, still stronger than the dawn. Behind Aganbegyan, at the far end of the office, were the leather couches where the two men had sat for most of the hours of darkness. On the glass-topped table between the couches was spread an untidy clutter of files, reports and papers. Some of the papers had strayed onto the couches, some had followed Aganbegyan to the desk.
Gorbachev stretched back in his chair, catching sight of his watch as he did so. He sighed and glanced at the lightening windows.
‘Dawn. We’re a day older, Abel.’
His head ached, his eyes were burning with the endless statistics that had swum before them for the last several hours. He removed his glasses and massaged his forehead, his fingers wandering instinctively across the long birthmark. He caught the habitual gesture in mid-act and, as always, swept his hand instead over his thin hair.
‘Abel, I thank you and the committee for your hard work. I wish I could also thank you for your conclusions.’
Aganbegyan shrugged. To Gorbachev he looked like a man who was used to delivering bad news, a doctor perhaps. He capped his ballpoint and began gathering up the jumbled papers.
‘I saw no point in varnishing the truth, Misha.’ There were few others who felt able to use the familiar form of Mikhail Gorbachev’s name. ‘Too many others have lied to our country for too long.’
‘That’s why I didn’t set them this project.’
The economist nodded. He rose and moved to the glass table and leather couches, where he continued scooping up the clutter of papers and documents.
‘The day you asked me to start on this, Misha, we both knew what the outcome would be; we just didn’t say it out loud, that’s all. I’ve merely quantified what our instincts were already telling us. So now I’ve said it aloud for both of us.’
‘You knew it would be this bad?’
Aganbegyan took a second or two before he answered. He sat on the arm of one of the couches, a clutch of files in his arms, and stared at the far wall.
‘They had thirty years to make it this bad. You can do a lot of damage in that time. I feared the worst.’
The lines in Gorbachev’s forehead deepened. ‘Abel, our predecessors mismanaged grossly, I grant you. But we can’t blame this whole …’ He tried to avoid the word that came most readily to mind but gave up. ‘We can’t blame the whole catastrophe on them. World markets –’
‘The markets are no excuse.’ Aganbegyan’s tone was suddenly severe, his tiredness momentarily forgotten. ‘Good planning should take account of all eventualities. Besides, the movements you’re talking about have only been disadvantageous over the last few months. And they impact on revenue alone; they have nothing to do with capital investment – or the lack of it – which is a large part of the problem.’ As he stood up he added quietly, ‘Anyway, price movements have nothing to do with the condition of the RBMKs.’
Gorbachev knew that everything he said was true. Brezhnev and his gang of thieves had bled the country white through a combination of economic ignorance and straightforward personal greed. Chernenko and Andropov had been unable to stem the flow, the one too weak, the other too short-lived. Now, with the help of Aganbegyan and a handful of others, Gorbachev had made some kind of start in the rebuilding that was needed so desperately. They had only begun, yet already much had been achieved.
Until this. Which could wipe everything out.
‘Abel, this will set the country back by decades.’
‘I know.’
Aganbegyan returned to his chair by the desk and they sat in silence for a full minute. Gorbachev’s thoughts were on a young law student who had devoured Lenin’s theories and writings as eagerly as if the father of the revolution had been speaking to him directly. The student had compared the theories with the reality of his society and had found the latter wanting. It set his path through life. He couldn’t change the theories; he didn’t want to. It was the reality that had to change.
Now, forty years on, the law student had arrived at the heart of Soviet power; but this morning he was holding a report that told him his life’s work might be for nothing. That the great experiment that was world communism might yet turn to dust.
He became aware that Aganbegyan was clearing his throat politely.
‘What happens now, Misha? Do you want to share my analysis with the Politburo? It’s complex, as you’ve seen, but I’m sure I can simplify it into something manageable. If that’s what you’d like.’
Gorbachev heard the doubt in his voice. Aganbegyan understood a great deal more than economics.
‘You know the answer to that.’
The Soviet leader rose and went to the window behind his desk. Snowflakes the size of fifty-kopek pieces drifted past the steamed-up glass. But it wasn’t the weather that made him shiver. It was the thought of the men who sat around the Politburo table with him. Yegor Ligachev the arch-conservative, Chebrikov the KGB chief, Georgi Zavarov the militarist: they were the ones who would close in like timberwolves scenting blood as soon as they saw a vulnerability in their leader’s position. Nor would they be the only ones. The rank beneath them could prove just as dangerous. Men such as Nikolai Serov, Chebrikov’s head of the the First Chief Directorate: where would a man like Serov stand? The FCD was the powerful body that operated the KGB’s foreign networks; its loyalty and effectiveness would become even more vital with the curtailment of military operations that Gorbachev planned. Could a man like Serov be counted on?
It was the same throughout the country. There were tens of thousands whose loyalty was a matter of guesswork or who would actively obstruct progress because it wasn’t in their interests: the bureaucrats and corrupt managers, the time servers, the black marketeers.
Gorbachev turned back to the room. The economist had begun to stuff papers and files of graphs back into his two well-worn briefcases.
‘Abel, what you’ve told me must not go beyond this room. Not yet. Nor must we allow any change to be seen in our conduct. We press on with the business of government – all reform programmes go ahead as planned.’
Aganbegyan nodded. ‘I’ve already dissolved the Oligarchy Committee and impounded the working papers. The committee members’ loyalty is beyond question. You know that. But as for finding a way out of this –’ He finished packing the briefcases and gestured towards the red-bound report. ‘We have little time. The situation deteriorates by the day.’
‘I’m aware of that. I’ll act in the best and fastest way I can.’ Now Gorbachev came around the desk and faced him squarely. ‘But I have to take care. There are many who would be happy to say that this whole crisis is of my own making in the first place.’
The long session was over. Aganbegyan stifled a yawn as he fetched his crumpled overcoat from a closet concealed in one of the wall’s decorated panels. He began laboriously to squeeze his thick body into it.
‘A day older,’ he m
uttered. ‘I feel a hundred years older.’
Gorbachev smiled wryly as he accompanied him to the door. ‘You’re indestructible. You’ll gallop into the next century like a young colt, never fear.’
But the weary economist paused and looked up at him with eyes that were as dark and cold as the ice on the Moskva.
‘Let’s hope the next century is worth seeing,’ he said softly.
He swung the great door open and two uniformed colonels of the Soviet leader’s personal guard clicked to attention. One of them led him off through the palace’s echoing halls, the soldier’s crisp uniform and precise movements contrasting with the economist’s slightly shabby figure.
Gorbachev stood on in the doorway, listening as their retreating footsteps faded.
Press on with the business of government, he had told Aganbegyan. Perhaps there were even some things that should be accelerated.
He turned to the other colonel, who snapped to attention again.
‘Find me comrade Ligachev,’ he told him. ‘I want to see him at once.’
Then, before the man could protest at leaving him unguarded, he strode back into his office and closed the door.
*
‘Nikolai? Is that you?’
Galina’s voice sounded far away, as if she were still dreaming. Serov moved quietly from the bedroom door, leaving it open to spill daylight into the room. He slid the leather greatcoat from his shoulders, draping it over a chair, and crossed to the bed.
‘It’s me.’
The smile that answered him was sleepy and sensuous, her eyes still closed. The bedclothes rustled and her arm stretched across the pillows towards him. He sat down on the edge of the bed and took the hand, kissing its palm. It smelt fragrant and warm. His body stirred, reminding him of its need.
Now she was pushing herself up on an elbow and shaking her long hair from her face. Her eyes flickered open, blinking against the light, the irises still dilated with sleep. He took in every detail as if seeing her for the first time. Blonde hair, green eyes, milky skin as smooth as glass; like her mother. Devastating.
She watched him watching her, enjoying the effect that she knew she was having, and the sleepy smile broadened into a grin; then her arms closed about him.
‘I knew you’d come today. Dear Nikolai. I told myself you would.’
The kiss that followed was open and hungry. He yielded to her willingly enough for a time; when he finally drew away, it was as gently as possible, to let her know his reluctance.
‘We’re strong willed this morning.’ She reached to turn the clock face towards her. The bedsheet fell from her breasts and he felt the sudden pulse of blood behind his temples. She was less than half his age. Every curve and hollow of her youthful body inflamed him. There was no part of it he didn’t know. Why should there be? He had watched it grow from childhood.
‘Eight fifteen,’ she mumbled. ‘I am impressed.’ She peered more closely at him, noting the dark suit, white shirt. ‘You’re dressed for headquarters.’ She fingered the knot of his tie. ‘Impeccable. Always impeccable, Nikolai.’ Her expression changed to disappointment. ‘Can’t you stay?’
‘Not for long.’
‘Why not?’ She was pouting, turning it into a game now: little hurt girl.
He pinched her nose gently, as if she were a naughty child. ‘Things to do. I’ve already done a morning’s business while you’ve been fast asleep.’
‘Ha!’ She eased back against the pillows. ‘Not official business, that’s for sure. You don’t chase about at this hour on official duties. You have minions for that.’
He smiled and got to his feet, watching her hand as she ran a fingernail lazily along the seam of his trousers.
‘Stay with me tonight, Nikolai. Please? Don’t run off to that mysterious apartment of yours.’
She had ended the game now; this time her request was sincere.
‘If I can, I’ll come back here. I promise.’
He crossed to the wardrobe and unbuckled the shoulder holster. The wardrobe door swung open and he stood looking at his reflection for a moment. She was right about his clothes. He took care. Apart from the heavy Makarov in his hand, he could have passed for a prosperous Western businessman.
Her voice broke into his thoughts.
‘I thought I’d go out today or tomorrow. If the snow stops for a while.’ Her tone had grown heavy with sleep again.
‘Oh? Where? You must have emptied the shops by now.’
The reply was drowsy, barely audible. ‘Vagankovskoye. Maybe tomorrow.’
He froze, the holster and harness halfway to the hook at the back of the wardrobe, but didn’t turn around.
‘It’s hardly the best weather for standing about in a cemetery, Galya,’ was all he said.
He waited but there was no further response. He finished undressing in silence, folding or hanging every garment carefully.
By the time he returned to the bed and slipped in beside her, her eyes were closed again and her breathing was deep and regular, like a sleeping child’s.
Vagankovskoye. Well, let her go, if that was what she wanted. Perhaps, after all, there was no harm.
Listening to her breathing, he began to wonder if his visit this morning was to be in vain. Then she moved against him; warm arms encircled him again.
‘Dear Nikolai.’
As he embraced her, his gaze fell on the black leather greatcoat, folded across the chair where he had left it. A crooked streak of dirt snaked up the length of one sleeve. For a moment he was irritated, puzzling over what it was and where it had come from. Then he shifted position slightly and saw that it was only dust. Probably from Gramin’s shovel. Grave dust.
It would brush off. He put it from his mind and bent his head to kiss the girl’s warm body.
2
Georgi Fedorovich Zavarov, Marshal of the Soviet Union and Supreme Commander of All Armed Forces, swathed himself in a dressing gown and padded out of the bathroom, still towelling his cropped grey hair. A big man, powerfully built, the advancing years had failed to diminish him.
‘Think what a good brandy’s like after sixty-odd years!’ he liked to say. ‘That’s me! Full bodied, peak condition, just the thing for a winter’s night!’
Or a winter’s morning, he thought as he noticed the snow piled on the window ledge. He sniffed appreciatively as an enticing aroma reached his nostrils. Thick, sweet coffee: the next thing he needed to wash away the cobwebs of last night’s drinking.
He turned towards his dressing room where Ratushny, his valet, would be waiting to help him dress. Instead, he found the major-domo standing by the bedroom window, gazing into the street below.
‘Stop gawping, man!’
The little man in the white uniform, a soft creature all roundness and wobbling chins, jumped in surprise. ‘Sorry, comrade Marshal.’
‘What’s going on anyway?’
‘I was just wondering who was about so early, sir.’
Zavarov parted the lace curtains to see for himself. Ten floors below, in the centre of Kutuzovskiy Prospekt’s fourteen lanes, a limousine sat in the privilege lane, flanked by militia cars and waiting to cut across to his apartment block. Its direction suggested it had come from the Kremlin. The vehicle was a Zil, the model reserved for the Politburo.
‘I was just thinking, Marshal, it looks like someone’s been up to the Kremlin very early.’
Zavarov scowled in reply. Since most of the leadership had their Moscow apartments along this stretch of road, many of them in the same block as himself, the hunch made sense.
‘Never you mind.’ He threw his dressing gown off for Ratushny to catch. ‘You just see if you can get me a cup of that coffee I can smell. I taste like a horse’s arse.’ He headed for the clothes stand in the dressing room where his garments were waiting.
But as soon as Ratushny had gone he returned to the window to resume watching the street while he struggled into his uniform trousers. The limousine had completed its manoeuvre
, the flow of ordinary traffic having been halted for it to do so, and was crunching through the snow towards the archway that led to the block’s inner courtyard. It drew up at the kerb and the driver leapt out. By the time he’d circled around, his passenger had already flung the door open for himself and was stepping out, his feet gliding over the snow by the sill to stand safely on the swept pavement. He wore an overcoat and scarf but no hat, revealing a perfect head of pure white hair.
‘Ligachev,’ the marshal breathed softly. ‘What have you been up to at this hour?’
He watched as the Politburo’s number two spoke briefly to the driver and walked towards the building’s entrance, disappearing from his line of vision. A bodyguard had also climbed out from the car but made no move to follow him; the pavement was thick with plain-clothes Ninth Directorate men with radios at their ears and right hands that never strayed far from the fronts of their jackets. When the guard and driver climbed back into the warmth of the limousine and the red and blue lights on the roofs of the militia cars stopped flashing. Zavarov knew that Ligachev had entered the apartment block.
Three minutes later the marshal was dressed but for his jacket and cap when the doorbell rang. He pushed past Ratushny, making him spill the coffee over his white uniform, to answer it himself.
‘Good morning, Georgi Fedorovich.’
Ligachev was round-faced with shining cheeks, like a schoolboy on a winter morning.
‘I’m an early bird today.’
He glanced past the marshal at Ratushny’s stained uniform and the dripping tray.
‘I haven’t caught you at a bad time?’
Zavarov stood aside and waved him in. The major-domo, flushed with embarrassment, took the visitor’s outer coat and scarf, then scuttled off down the corridor, muttering that more coffee would be on its way.
The two men went through to the apartment’s luxurious drawing room and settled in the easy chairs by the log fire, unlit but laid ready for the sake of appearances.
At first Ligachev talked about the weather, about his temporary driver, about anything, it seemed to Zavarov, except whatever might have brought him.
Patriots Page 2
