Patriots

by Kevin Doherty

  And all the while Galina was growing. Ah, Galina. Blonde hair, green eyes, milky skin; like her mother. Devastating. And untouched. But so tempting.

  49

  Moscow

  The last Tuesday in February dawned cold and clear.

  In the heart of the city, gangs of workers, KGB staffers to a man, arrived to put the finishing touches to the flags and staging of the Kremlin’s Palace of Congresses. Later that morning, under the severe gaze of a colossal portrait of Lenin, the palace would receive five thousand delegates from every corner of the country. They would be assembling for the 27th Congress of the Communist Party of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.

  As the yawning workers set about their task, two men were meeting in an old-fashioned dacha deep in the woods in the Kuntsevo region, half an hour’s drive to the west of the city.

  The dacha belonged to Mikhail Sergeyevich Gorbachev. His visitor was Abel Aganbegyan, the economist who had brought him the report of the secret committee known as Oligarchy.

  ‘I’m just an economist,’ said Aganbegyan.

  ‘The best in the Soviet Union.’

  ‘The best engineer on the railway doesn’t know how to drive the train. I can’t understand the things you’re telling me.

  Gorbachev smiled tolerantly. His eye fell on the mantel shelf where, among a range of other ornaments, there stood a hand-painted wooden matrushchka doll. He rose to his feet and lifted it down. The doll, whose name meant ‘little mother’, had the rosy cheeks, curls and traditional peasant garments, all painted on, that had made the puzzle toy a folk symbol of Russia the world over.

  ‘Let me explain,’ Gorbachev said. ‘How better than with the help of this lady? Nothing could be more fitting.’

  He placed the doll in front of Aganbegyan.

  ‘For a few moments, Abel,’ he began, ‘role play a little with me. You are the British. Or the Americans – it makes no difference. This lady –’ he tapped the matrushchka ‘– is the situation as you perceive it.’

  ‘Namely?’

  ‘You learn that Gadaffi is plotting with Prince Ibn to overthrow King Fahd. The intelligence seems to come from bona fide sources. You investigate further and discover that Gadaffi’s motive is simple enough. He wants to sell OPEC oil to the Soviets. Naturally, you are horrified.’

  ‘This much I understand,’ put in Aganbegyan, ‘The price of oil is at an all-time low. It has brought Gadaffi near to bankruptcy. He doesn’t like Fahd’s policies, especially since they help the West. He knows that we in the Soviet Union need more oil to support industrial expansion – more than we can force out of our own reserves, vast though they are. It will take years to change that, years we don’t have. Our nuclear power programme is badly behind target and can’t make up the difference – not to mention the dangerous condition and poor design of most of the reactors. One of these days the RBMKs will explode in our faces. This energy crisis – this is what Oligarchy was about. Gadaffi has second-guessed our predicament. Am I right so far?’

  Gorbachev nodded.

  Aganbegyan continued. ‘But in this scenario how does Gadaffi think we’ll pay? Like the other oil producers, he wants US dollars. But these days you’ll find a Jew in the Politburo easier than a dollar bill in the Central Trade Bank. Our main source of dollars used to be our oil exports – when we had a surplus to export. Now we’ve barely enough for our own needs. What little there is has been reduced in value by the falling oil price – just like Gadaffi’s own revenues. So, this Libyan colonel, is he going to take roubles from us?’

  ‘Hardly, my friend. To him that doesn’t matter. What’s driving him to bankruptcy is his spending on arms and militarisation, his insane wars with neighbours like Chad, and his egotistical civil construction schemes – roads, buildings and dams. Although times are hard, he refuses to cut back on anything. He’d be happy to trade his oil for Soviet armaments, where he’s one of our largest debtors anyway. Or for our help – material and expertise – in his construction schemes. Besides, he knows that as soon as the West hears he’s trading with us, they’ll pay any price he wants for his oil – and in dollars – to stop him. Either way, he thinks he can’t lose.’

  Aganbegyan gazed down at the matrushchka doll. ‘Meanwhile, the British and Americans decide they can’t let it come to that. They have to block his plot. And they do.’ He cocked a forefinger and thumb at the doll, like a pistol. ‘They kill the Saudi prince whose coup Gadaffi is backing. Yes?’

  Again Gorbachev nodded.

  ‘What now, Misha?’

  Gorbachev picked up the doll, unscrewed it at the waist into its two halves and set it aside. His fist remained closed.

  ‘Behind the situation that the Western powers see, just as you have seen the first doll, is this.’ He opened his fist; an identical but smaller matrushchka now stared round-eyed up at Aganbegyan. Gorbachev set it before him. ‘This is what they don’t see – my plan to entrap them.’

  ‘Through their killing of the Saudi prince?’

  ‘By putting that killing on record with evidence that would be irrefutable in the eyes of the world. The Arab world in particular.’

  ‘This is where I become confused,’ Aganbegyan admitted. ‘Please take the train slowly along this stretch of track.’

  Gorbachev obliged. ‘Gadaffi accuses the West of being behind Ibn’s death. The West denies it. Just as we have seen. They produce the corpse of a young Libyan terrorist, with apparent evidence that he killed Ibn. But this is a lie and we have proof that it is. Irrefutable proof. For the present, we keep it to ourselves. Now, comrade –’ He rose to his feet, swept along by his own thoughts, and gestured at the economist. ‘I want you to imagine something else. Imagine that in a few weeks’ time, after Gadaffi’s allegations, the West’s denials and then the discovery that Gadaffi was to blame for the Saudi’s death have echoed around the world, Gadaffi himself is assassinated. Who do you think would be blamed for his murder?’

  ‘It depends who the accuser is,’ Aganbegyan said slowly. ‘There would be those in Libya who would accuse the West, of course. Again.’

  ‘There would be. Especially if we encourage them to do so. Now think on. What would the West do in response?’

  ‘Refute the allegation, of course.’

  ‘In the same way as they refuted the allegation about Prince Ibn’s assassination?’

  ‘Undoubtedly.’

  Gorbachev’s eyes glinted. ‘So what would happen if our irrefutable proof of Britain’s and America’s guilt of Ibn’s assassination were then released to the world’s media?’

  A smile of understanding spread across Aganbegyan’s features. ‘Not only would they be known to be guilty of Ibn’s killing, but their denials of responsibility for Gadaffi’s death would also ring hollow.’

  ‘How would the rest of the Arab world respond to that, including the OPEC nations?’

  ‘Deep revulsion and anger against the West.’

  ‘More than that, comrade. There is in Libya a man called Major Abdul Salem Jalloud. He is Gadaffi’s right-hand man. But he’s also an ambitious man. Ambitious enough to have been involved in some of the attempts on Gadaffi’s life. Jalloud would be one of the contenders for power after Gadaffi’s death. There would be chaos then, with all the competing cliques trying to seize power. We would give Jalloud all the help he needed – we have our military infrastructure in the country already, we could airdrop many more troops, and our fleet is now within a few hours of Tripoli. With our support, Jalloud would quell resistance within days and stand as the unchallenged leader of Libya. He would become our mouthpiece. Through him, Fahd and the Saudi ruling cabal would be accused of complicity in the assassinations of Ibn and Gadaffi, to serve the Western interests that many Arabs suspect them of being enslaved to already. The Arab world, my friend, would be in uproar. Fahd would fall or at least lose all credibility, and Jalloud would emerge as the natural leader of the Middle East oil nations and of OPEC.’

  ‘And he’d be our
creature,’ breathed Aganbegyan.

  ‘Indeed. OPEC would be ours. All the oil we could ever need, and the ability to make the economies of the West rise and fall at our whim. Suddenly, they’d be paying sky-high prices for Arab oil – and not just in dollars, Abel. They’d have to share their technological advances with us, and anything else we stipulated. Even Japan would be at our feet – mighty Japan, potentially the world’s greatest economic power, but with no oil reserves of its own.’

  ‘It’d be a master stroke,’ Aganbegyan whispered.

  But Gorbachev’s smile had vanished. His face darkened as he screwed the second doll apart. ‘Yes, Abel. Except for one thing. This isn’t reality at all, it’s just a little wooden doll – a façade masquerading as truth. Flim-flam tricked out to be the most daring international gambit in our history.’

  Looking as if he were tempted to crush it in his hands, he set the hollow second doll aside. A third was revealed inside it, smaller again. Again he set this matrushchka before Aganbegyan.

  ‘Here we have the next layer of truth,’ he said softly. He returned to his chair and pointed at the little wooden ornament. ‘Comrades Zavarov, Ligachev and Chebrikov. The men who constructed the façade. A clever façade. Clever men. Well, some of them anyway. Men who planned to fool me.’

  ‘Don’t go too fast for me, Mikhail Sergeyevich,’ the economist cautioned.

  But the doll puzzle had all of Gorbachev’s attention.

  ‘Their plan,’ he went on, ‘which they have now implemented, is that Gadaffi’s death will never occur. Because the Western powers will prevent it happening. Exactly how doesn’t matter – they’ll find a way.’

  ‘Comrade? How can this be?’

  Gorbachev frowned and sat forward, his hands clasped between his knees. ‘The operation has been exposed. The West has been alerted to it.’

  Aganbegyan was thin lipped. ‘By the three who conceived it – Zavarov, Ligachev and Chebrikov?’

  Gorbachev shook his head. ‘Those three did not conceive the operation. I didn’t say that. I said they constructed its façade. Someone else conceived it. But yes – all along their intention has been that it would be exposed.’

  ‘The old guard,’ Aganbegyan said quietly. ‘The soldier, the party man and the KGB chief.’

  Gorbachev said nothing.

  ‘How have they done this, Misha?’

  Gorbachev stared across the room. ‘That needn’t concern us now.’

  ‘You mean it needn’t concern me.’

  Gorbachev shrugged. ‘I tell you much, Abel. I trust you. But I needn’t tell you everything. The important thing is that these three want to neutralise me. That’s their motive for this. They want to lead me into a foreign policy blunder of such magnitude that it undermines my position as leader. Our good comrades are implementing a coup of their very own.’ He stared blackly at the little doll.

  ‘This would never be enough to topple you,’ Aganbegyan said. ‘Even if you were accused of error, leaders have erred before.’

  ‘Toppling me isn’t necessary. My judgement would be shown as unreliable – that’s all they need. I’d forfeit support right across the senior and middle ranks of the party hierarchy. How would I build caucuses to back me under those circumstances? My whole reform programme – the programme that was making them and others like them so uncomfortable – would have to be tempered to what this country’s old guard finds acceptable. You know as well as I do, that would get us nowhere.’

  Aganbegyan leant forward, to peer into Gorbachev’s face. He saw plenty of anger in it. But his instincts told him something else: it wasn’t the face of defeat. Not by a long way.

  ‘Misha,’ he said slowly, ‘Are you telling me they’ve succeeded? Are you telling me the old guard has won?’

  Gorbachev took a long time before he looked up from the doll and met the economist’s gaze. Then he picked the toy up and yet again unscrewed it into two halves. A fourth matrushchka, tiny but solid this time, the kernel of the puzzle at last, fell into his hand. As with its predecessors, he set it before Aganbegyan. It rocked gently back and forth.

  ‘No, Abel,’ Gorbachev said simply, and smiled bleakly. ‘The old guard has not won.’

  *

  They rode downtown together in Gorbachev’s limousine.

  ‘What will you do with them?’ the economist asked. ‘Brezhnev or Andropov would have stood them against the nearest wall and had them shot.’

  Gorbachev seemed to find the thought amusing. ‘Not good for the image, comrade, as the Western public relations men would say. This is the age of enlightenment in the Soviet Union.’

  ‘Disgrace and imprisonment, in that case. Pack them off to a labour camp, to the Gulag.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What, then?’

  Gorbachev stared out at the Kuntsevo parkland as it glided past.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said.

  Aganbegyan swung around in his seat and stared at him in disbelief. ‘Are you serious?’

  Gorbachev nodded.

  ‘You’re demoting them at least?’

  Gorbachev shook his head.

  ‘But they’re traitors, they plotted against you. They tried to bring you down.’

  ‘Their punishment will be subtler than any you mention. And of more benefit to me.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Take Zavarov. If I demote him or lock him up, I need to replace him. Who with? A younger man you’d say, one with new ideas. Fine, comrade, if I knew one I could trust. But in the whole of the Soviet military, I don’t know of such a man. Do you?’

  ‘Appoint a civilian.’

  ‘Ho! There speaks a civilian!’ Gorbachev relished the idea for a moment. ‘The Red Army wouldn’t take kindly to that, Abel. Maybe one day it’s a possibility. In a year or two. But maybe by then I’ll have found a soldier I can trust anyway. What I need now is time. Time to watch, time to decide. No –’ He shook his head again. ‘I don’t need to send Zavarov to prison. I have him there already. This plot was to get him out. All I have to do is keep him there. That’s his punishment.’

  ‘And Chebrikov?’

  ‘The same thing applies. He’s younger than Zavarov – he can give me even more time. And if it’s difficult to know whom you can trust in the military, imagine what the KGB is like. Chebrikov also stays where he is. I knew him well enough before this started; now I know him even better. What more can any leader hope for than to know his enemies – and keep them close?’

  ‘Ligachev,’ Aganbegyan said. ‘He doesn’t have age on his side. He ought to go for that reason alone.’

  But again Gorbachev was shaking his head. ‘Who knows the party caucuses better than that old fox? Ask yourself, Abel – what must I have over the next few years? I told you earlier – a network of caucuses across the country to support my policies and watch my back. I’ve drawn what little fire Ligachev had left. He’s a spent force. But he’s still an encyclopaedia of information on the party’s operations and people. I’ll keep him by me until I’ve drawn out everything he has to teach me.’

  Aganbegyan remained doubtful. ‘They’ve made a fool of you, Misha.’

  ‘In whose eyes? Not the Western powers. They’ve seen that I can bite as well as smile. It’s good that they know I was prepared to go through with the whole operation. So what if I was led into it? What leader isn’t the object of such intrigues at one time or another? Maybe next time the scenario will be of my own making, and then they’d better watch out. In politics it’s final survival that counts, not the skirmishes along the way. The Western leaders understand that just as well as us. Now they have to wait and see what I’m going to do. If the conspirators remain untouched, that leaves the West all the more baffled. “What’s Gorbachev’s game? Does he know about the conspiracy or not? Has he been weakened or not? Was there more to this than we’ve been told?”’

  He broke off, thought for a moment, then added quietly, ‘The conspirators can’t weaken me, Abel. I’ve turned their own guns o
n them.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘They’ll find out,’ was all Gorbachev would say.

  *

  London

  In Curzon Street, the sharp-faced woman from Personnel arrived as Eva was loading the personal contents of her desk into a stout carrier bag.

  ‘Mind if I come in?’ she asked, and did so without waiting for an answer. She stood for a moment watching what Eva was doing.

  ‘Hope you’ll let Security vet that lot before it leaves the building,’ she said. ‘Hope you don’t mind me saying so. You know the rules, I daresay.’

  ‘I don’t mind you saying so. I know the rules.’

  ‘Good.’ The woman patted the folder she was holding against her flat chest. ‘I’ve got a few forms here. Just one or two really.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We like people to fill them in when they’re leaving. Standard debrief procedure. What job are you going to next, has it been security cleared in relation to the position you held with us, why have you decided to leave – that sort of thing.’

  ‘I know the sort of thing.’

  ‘You don’t mind, do you? Most people don’t.’

  ‘I don’t mind. Give them here.’

  The woman set the folder down on the cleared desk and picked out several forms: more than the one or two that she’d promised. She handed them over.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, clutching the folder to her chest again, like a shield. ‘Pop them in on your way out. Well – I won’t trouble you any more.’

  ‘No trouble,’ Eva said. With great care, she tore the forms in half, shuffled the halves together, tore them again, and pushed them back inside the folder.

  ‘No trouble at all.’

  *

  A mile away, in Westminster, the Lord Chancellor was not a happy man. He liked things fair and square. He’d kept his side of the bargain, after all. The cheques for the commuted pension and the housing compensation had cleared, and he’d burnt Knight’s document personally.

  The letter was just two paragraphs long.