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On this the last day in August, 1982, Captain Mikhail Khalatsyn was handed a communiqué by an orderly. It contained both good news and terrible news. He looked out his office window at the picturesque forests of the Urals’ foothills. They were just beginning to shed their greenery. Soon they would turn to fall’s gold, red and orange before the snows covered their skeletal remains in white. The scene that brought back memories of the Hindu Kush in Mikhail’s mind; breathtaking from a distance, but up close, suffering and death hid beneath its beauty.
He read the communiqué a second time; then he flipped through a calendar on his desk. He counted nine months until June, 1983. Sometime around that date the two most important men to his career would be reassigned to Afghanistan. There they would be attached to the General Staff. His mentor and his mentor’s mentor were going to that awful place. Although Mikhail was like a particle swept up in the tails of their streaking comets, he genuinely liked and admired them. He remembered a quote from the Bible his father, who still held fast to his faith, had used: “Ask and ye shall receive.” Not a religious man, nevertheless, in Mikhail’s mind to ask something of Someone who might or might not really be there is to risk nothing. So he prayed for their safety. Even generals and senior officers were killed in Afghanistan.
The communiqué also informed him that his meeting with General Yakov in Moscow had been canceled. The last line stated Peter (Colonel Renzkov) would come to Mayak in early October to be debriefed. What Mikhail had for him, so far, was only a theory: that KGB not only had spies in Chelyabinsk, but also had them in City 40 and Mayak. To what purpose, that had yet to be determined. As for the other black Russian, Comrade Mikhail Katkov, he might merely be a means pursuant to the Chekka’s evil ends.
Mikhail also hoped that to expose KGB’s scheme might just keep him from being sent back to Afghanistan, too. One trip across the River Styx was quite enough.
***
EX-SPETSNAZ CAPTAIN Mikhail Khalatsyn knew how to pass through Mayak like a ghost when he wanted to be unseen and unnoticed. His senses had been forged in the crucible of war. To see an enemy, to hear an enemy before he sees or hears you means your survival and his death.
Today, while on his morning rounds it had become quite clear that something had surged through and agitated the scientific community at Mayak like an electric charge. Mikhail had noticed small knots of people gathered in corners conferring amongst themselves. These discussions appeared serious and urgent. Although these chat groups were distant, he was able to pick up snippets. Shocked, he wondered why KGB needed informants when word-of-mouth spoken so openly here was more than enough.
When he asked his chief-of-staff about this, Lieutenant Sergei Zaitsev replied rather matter-of-factly, “Three puppets where killed yesterday while cleaning out the reactors, Comrade Captain.”
It seemed state secrets here at City 40 and Mayak were little more than gossip. Shocked, he asked Zaitsev, “Civilians here speak openly about puppets?”
“They know they’re criminals and what they’re used for, Comrade Captain, but not that the army calls them puppets, sir.”
“It’s supposed to be a state secret, Zaitsev. Not even you or I are supposed to speak of these things.”
“I know, sir, but—”
An angry, “But why hasn’t my predecessor done anything about it?” because if everyone in City 40 talked openly about puppets, then why had Katkov been singled out?
“Because, Comrade Captain,” said the Lieutenant, “if the Army started arresting people there would be no scientists or engineers in Chelyabinsk, Ozersk, or Mayak.”
That set Mikhail’s teeth on edge: Such are the ways of a pragmatic world.
He entered the cafeteria at ten a.m. He ordered that a pot of black coffee be brought to his table. Rank had its privilege; no need for him to wait in a food line. As Mikhail passed the scientists waiting in line, they smiled at him as if it was their honor to have him cut in ahead of them. His cult of personality was as strong as ever.
Along with coffee, he intended to snack on any bits of chatter about puppets that might drift his way like the aroma off hot java. He believed that Comrade Mikhail Katkov had been setup by someone with a personal grudge. He doubted that any of Katkov’s friends, Alexandra, Tono, or Lev had betrayed him. Whoever the informant was, Katkov, an avowed atheist, would not be crucified and wear a crown of thorns for everyone’s sins at Mayak!
Mikhail spotted them long before they noticed him. Comrade Katkov sat at a table with two scientists, one old the other young. The latter two appeared to be related, perhaps father and son. All three appeared to be absorbed in an intense discussion that Mikhail suspected had nothing to do with nuclear theory. Katkov and the young one sipped coffee with milk while eating szarlotka (Polish apple pie). The old man drank tea with lemon and was working on a piece of sernik (Polish cheesecake). He was short and fat while the younger one appeared to be about the same height but chubby like Tono. The young man had many more years ahead of him to pack on even more pounds.
Mikhail shook his head. Quite a lot of Polish food served in a Russian cafeteria, I should think.
He picked up his pot of coffee and mug and headed to Katkov’s table. As he passed, Mikhail called to a food service worker behind the counter: “Comrade, you will send a large serving of szarlotka to that table.” He pointed to where the three scientists sat.
“My apologies, Comrade Captain,” the worker replied, “but we have no more.”
“Make it sernik, then.”
Mikhail approached the table from behind. He heard Katkov say, “Poor devils.”
The old one commented, “I know they’re all convicts, but still...” He had gray hair, a gray beard, and wore glasses. Mikhail guessed he was in his late 50s.
The young one, about the same age as Katkov, added, “I should be afraid to be in the same room as their coffins, even if they are lined with lead.” That comment was not meant as a joke.
When Mikhail walked up and asked if he might join them, the tension dissipated. All three scientists stood up. Katkov handled the introductions: the old one was Leonid Lavrov and the younger one was his son Boris. Mikhail was glad to see his friend’s social circle had widened.
“We are so happy to finally meet you, Comrade Captain,” said the father, Leonid.
Smiling brightly, “We have heard so much about you,” added Boris. “We are quite glad to meet Comrade Katkov’s most distinguished friend.”
Smiling, “And all of Comrade Katkov’s friends are now my friends,” replied Mikhail.
Mikhail sat down just as the food service worker placed his cheesecake on the table.
“Two black Russians working in the same facility, how lucky we are,” said Leonid. He sounded genuinely pleased.
Mikhail took no offense, and neither did Katkov, because the sentiment expressed was real even if done a bit tactlessly. Boris caught it, though; he gave his father a sharp look. But Katkov gave both Lavrovs an, It’s OK, no offence taken grin.
The Lavrovs had a lot of questions for Mikhail about how the war was going in Afghanistan. Boris held the same opinion as Katkov that the Soviet Union was there to help the Afghans build a new socialist society. Leonid, being older and wiser, his questions were more pointed. He seemed quite skeptical of the U.S.S.R.’s pure intent. He said that Afghanistan held a treasure trove of rare earths and other minerals found in few other places on earth. Father and son quarreled sharply on the point. Mikhail, playing peacemaker, came down squarely on both sides of the equation. As for his true feelings:
How noble would you think our intentions are, Boris, Not-So-Smart-Mishe, if you’d been ordered to leave a pregnant woman behind to die in the snow?
Nonetheless it surprised Mikhail how easily he had slipped into the role of diplomat, telling each side exactly what they wanted to hear.
Eventually, the three scientists returned to the serious discussion they were having before Mikhail had joined them. They spoke openly, unconcerned that an army official sat with them. Nor did they worry that others seated at nearby tables might overhear. Lieutenant Zaitsev was right, discussing the use of puppets in Mayak was viewed as news rather than something that might get a person imprisoned. Mikhail wondered if his lieutenant was also correct, that the scientists knew that they were special and certain restrictions that applied to normal Soviet citizens did not apply to them.
For the next week, Mikhail would overhear many more conversations about the dead puppets in places where scientific personnel had gathered to chat.
***
COLONEL PETR RENZKOV’S (Peter) eyes went wide with delight, and he inhaled deeply, when the cafeteria workers carried plates of food into Mikhail’s office. A large round table had been brought in for the Colonel, Mikhail and Lieutenant Zaitsev. The workers began to set up a buffet. None of these spicy dishes came from the cafeteria, however; Mikhail had sent two soldiers and a truck into Chelyabinsk to bring back food, pre-ordered by Mikhail personally, from his favorite eatery, the middle-eastern café.
“Their food is excellent, Comrade Colonel,” said Mikhail, adding, “The café was recommended to me by one of our scientists,” a hint by Mikhail that the unnamed scientist was Mikhail Katkov. Then a glance at his chief-of-staff, “Comrade Zaitsev and I have eaten there also, sir.”
“What wondrous aromas,” the Colonel replied, “I can’t wait to begin, comrades.” Then a bit of dark humor: “I suppose where I’m going I will have to adjust my palette to exotic cooking, the General Staff has brought in some fine chefs from our Asian republics.”
Colonel Petr had arrived by military plane from Moscow late in the morning. After making a preliminary inspection with both Mikhail and his chief of staff, the three army officers returned to Mikhail’s office for dinner. Later, the Colonel would debrief Mikhail in private. When Mikhail had invited Lieutenant Zaitsev to eat with him and Colonel Renzkov, Zaitsev was honored to be shown such respect by his immediate superior. Zaitsev had been a member in good standing in the cult of the Black Russian from the beginning. Mikhail had long experience in gaining the respect and admiration of those in his command. His axiom, Treat them as you would have them treat you, had yet to fail.
When Mikhail had mentioned to Colonel Petr that he had sent his men into Chelyabinsk to pick up the food, Petr grinned. “Did they have any problem at the gate, Comrade Captain?”
Despite their friendship, neither Mikhail nor Colonel Petr would address each other in the familiar while they were in uniform; and especially not in front of a lieutenant who knew nothing about Mikhail’s real mission.
Matter-of-factly, “None whatsoever, sir,” Mikhail replied.
“Comrade Colonel, sir,” said Zaitsev, “Comrade Khalatsyn is far too modest. The dogs who guard the gate know better than to anger him or any of our men.”
“One army conscript is worth a hundred border guards,” snickered Mikhail.
The Colonel signaled a worker to come refill their glasses with the café’s finest Polish vodka. Then he raised a toast: “To the Soviet Peoples’ army.”
Mikhail and the Colonel let loose Spetsnaz war whoops.
Then the Lieutenant added: “And to the KGB dogs! Let them be content to bully those who will not bite back!”
Colonel Petr let out a hearty laugh. “Well said, Comrade Zaitsev.”
The Lieutenant beamed. His face showed pride to be in the company of two of the Soviet Union’s best warriors. Mikhail felt pride, too, in the fine feast he had assembled. When the workers finished setting the table, he said, “And now, comrades, let’s eat!”
Deadpanned the Colonel, “Would someone like to say a prayer first?”
Inside, Mikhail winced. Tentacles of the faith of his father still clung tenaciously to the inside of his mind. He shot a glance at Zaitsev; he looked uncomfortable, too.
Being soldiers, they all concentrated on the main meat dishes:
Stuffed meatballs and chestnuts in a saffron broth;
Beef dolmas (wrapped grape leaves) with apricots and tamarind;
Roasted chicken with sumac flat bread;
Herbed lamb stew;
Spiced chicken kebabs in garlic yogurt sauce;
Khan Plov (chicken pilaf in lavash crust);
And Persian tamarind-stuffed fish.
Mikhail and Colonel Petr began scooping mounds of food into their plates. Zaitsev hesitated, then portioned himself only small amounts.
“You are a soldier, Zaitsev, not a bird,” barked Mikhail. “We have plenty of food. I order you to stuff yourself until you can barely lift your bum out of that chair.”
Smiling: “Yes sir.”
All three now attacked the buffet as if digging trenches.
“Ah, here’s something that looks familiar,” said the Colonel. “What is it called, Comrade Khalatsyn?”
“I don’t know what it’s called, sir, but it’s a tahini-beet dip served with pita.”
Colonel Petr added, “I suspect it is far superior to borscht.”
The side dishes were also eagerly consumed:
Smoky baba ghannoui with oil-cured black olives;
Fried artichoke hearts;
Galilean-styled hummus.
Dessert was served with pots of Turkish coffee.
Thought Mikhail: There will be enough left over to feed another five thousand.
After dinner, when the Lieutenant arose from his seat, his enormous, bloated belly nearly spilled over his pants’ belt. Mikhail and Colonel Petr remained seated as the workers cleared.
“Comrade Lieutenant,” said Mikhail, “I’m informed that there is still plenty of food left.”
“Shocking,” mumbled the Colonel, arching his brows.
“See that it is distributed among the men.”
“Yes sir.” As he waddled towards the door, “I shan’t need to eat again for a week.”
The door to the office was closed and a guard posted outside. A shot of adrenalin boosted both GRU officers out of a gastronomic overdose. The Katkov debriefing began.
“Now we speak English, Mishe. And you will call me Peter.”
“Yes, Peter. And how is General Yakov?”
“He is well, he sends his warmest regards.”
“I have put aside another bottle of fine Polish vodka. Alcohol is not allowed in Mayak, but rank has its privilege. After a particularly grueling day, Comrade Lieutenant and I always share a drink together.”
Peter feigned being cross: “Only one bottle, Mishe. How stingy. Good thing I brought a case with me; a special (October) Revolution gift to you and your men.”
What a pleasant surprise. “Thank you, Peter.”
Mikhail began by telling of his strong suspicion that KGB plotted to fill City 40 with its own informants. Then he added, “I’ve heard it myself, personnel talk openly about those ‘poor souls’ who have to clean out the reactors — may they continue to die horrible deaths by the bushels. They speak as openly as they do the weather. I’m positive KGB is trying to use this loose talk against us, sir.”
A small smile began to creep across Peter’s face. It was the smile of a mentor whose protégée has found his own way into the light. “And why did they choose Comrade Katkov?”
“He is their Black Jesus. They find it expedient to dump the sins of the many solely on him, and by extension, the army.”
“Your assessment of Katkov?”
“There is no doubt in my mind, sir, he is a loyal communist dedicated to the Soviet Union and its ideals. He and many of his colleagues here believe the War is a just cause.”
Peter snickered. “As long as they’re here and not there. We both know that none of that gruel Pravda feeds our people is true.”
Mikhail nodded grimly.
“I want you to know how proud the Army is of you, Mishe. You have independently validated suspicions the General Staff has held for quite some time.”
And then Peter went into full lecture mode. Mikhail could see how much the man enjoyed his role of teacher. Out of respect, he listened without interrupting even though he already knew most of what Peter was saying.
“Power in the Soviet Union is like stool with three legs: the Party, KGB and the Army. Each is supposed to have...” Peter stumbled around inside his head searching for the correct English word. When he could not find it, he said in Russian, “... nadzor (oversight).”
“Yes sir. In America the legislature and courts are supposed to oversee the powers of president. Reagan is a demented warmonger, but no one in America seems to care.”
Peter’s confused face read, What is this word, demented?
“Bezumnyy, sir,” Mikhail replied in Russian.
Peter clapped and laughed. “Ah yes. Sounds so much better in Russian, no?” Then he continued his oration on the Soviet Union’s balance of power. In the constant struggle between the Party, KGB and the Army, the Army held a most powerful chess piece: the nuclear arsenal. He added that KGB had long plotted to gain support within the Party by exposing the Army’s security lapses in the Soviet Union’s closed cities.
“KGB wishes to control fuel supply for our nuclear weapons,” Peter said.
Mikhail’s Ah Ha moment: “And if they do, that gives them the upper hand.”
“Precisely. Obviously this is of great concern to General Staff. The entire Katkov business is sham, is grab for power.”
“And Katkov is just another darkie as far as the Chekka is concerned.” Mikhail felt his jaw muscles tighten. He feared that one day racism might grind his teeth down to the nubs. “What will KGB do to him if they prove him guilty? A long prison sentence? A firing squad?”
“This will surprise you, Mishe. They will do nothing. Katkov and his parents are loyal communists. He is talented physicist. They will threaten him with all sorts of horrible things, but at end, they will rehabilitate him.”
Like Comrade Trotsky. “And then, as the Americans say, they will own his black ass.”
Peter said, “But you, my good friend, will see to it that does not happen. You were right when you said you were selected because of your black skin. But skin color is only added plus motivation. Your cleverness and judgment will make this assignment success.”
Then Peter told Mikhail what he already knew: KGB had a file on him. “They know you are new GRU officer; add to this your Negro background makes them underestimate you.”
“GRU knows what is in my KGB file, Peter?”
“But of course. They have informants in GRU as we have informants in KGB.”
Mikhail grinned.
“What the Friends of the People do not know is about your powerful friends in the Army and Party. When you turn this Katkov business against KGB, they will never see shit storm that comes to hit the fan in the faces.”
The next morning, a car waited to take Peter to the airport. Mikhail said goodbye to his friend with a salute. He wanted to hug Peter; the man was like a favored young uncle to him. But such behavior would be frowned upon.
He did, however, lean his head into the car to say in Russian, “You and Comrade General, be safe.”
As he watched the car drive away, I will pray for you and the General whether you approve or not, dear friend.