| |
Military-Diplomatic Academy
December 1982
When Mikhail Khalatsyn entered General Yakov’s office, the General stood up, walked out from behind his desk, and greeted him with a gigantic smile. Mikhail’s friend and mentor, Colonel Petr Renzkov was also there to greet him. He stood next to a chair in front of the General’s desk. There was an empty one next to him, obviously reserved for Mikhail. Yakov’s desk was stacked with papers and folders in neat piles waiting to be boxed. Mikhail had never seen the General’s desk so nice and tidy. The entire room had the look of someone who was moving on.
Then he realized: Afghanistan. The broad grin he’d been wearing melted away.
“Ah Michael!” said Yakov in his excellent English. “Have a seat, please.” Then Yakov commanded his orderly to bring them three glasses along with a bottle of Polish Vodka from the GRU’s special restaurant.
When Mikhail had laid out his plan to Colonel Petr in early October, Peter had praised him. “The genius of your plan, Michael, lies in its simplicity.” There were only three variables that had to be in place at a specific time:
1) An army truck loaded with new puppets;
2) A taxi filled with Mikhail’s scientist friends to serve as witnesses;
3) And finally, Ukrainian border guards Oleksiy and Fedir had to be on duty at the main gate.
All were easy to arrange. Then Peter had suggested an add-on: two senior KGB officers would also be present. When Mikhail expressed skepticism, Peter replied, “Not to worry, Michael, Comrade General and I shall see to the matter personally.”
When the orderly returned, the General, himself, poured: first for Mikhail, then for Peter, and then for himself. He raised a toast: “To you, Comrade Khalatsyn. I send you to find one enemy of Army and GRU and you have given us four.”
As Peter and the General had promised, two senior colonels and their Ukrainian lackeys had all been on post at the main gate. This was thanks to the KGB informant that Mikhail had been seeking, but was never able to identify.
Peter and General Yakov knew who the man was — and soon Mikhail would too.
The three GRU officers shouted Spetsnaz war whoops and chugged. Then Yakov refilled their glasses and raised another toast: “And to you, Comrade Petr, for finding the perfect man to carry out this difficult assignment.”
They all chugged, and then Mikhail refilled their glasses.
“So, Michael,” the general began. “Please tell us exactly what happened. Do not leave anything out.” Turning to Peter, “This makes for me a very happy day.”
***
ON A LATE AFTERNOON in mid-November, the sun was beginning to drop, casting the scene in various shades of gray. The mood was film noir. A large taxi-van stopped at the main gate that led into City 40. The van was packed with scientists from Mayak, including Alexandra, Mikhail Katkov, Lev, Tono, and three others. Mikhail Khalatsyn, the bait, was also a passenger. The van had returned after a long luncheon in Chelyabinsk to celebrate Lev’s promotion to supervisor. Because the scientists would soon return to their work, very little alcohol had been consumed. Just like Mikhail had wanted, witnesses at full capacity.
Unknown to Lev his promotion, more symbolic than anything else, had been carefully arranged by GRU and the Army. Still, it came with a nice raise in salary that meant a lot to a man with a family.
That made Mikhail, also a family man, quite happy. He had suggested the promotion as part of his plan.
General Yakov had readily agreed. “I’ve seen his file, he is a good man.”
When passing through the gate at ten this morning, Mikhail had made it a point to insult and harass the two Ukrainian border guards, Oleksiy and Fedir; therefore, when the taxi returned sometime around four, along with the guards were the same two senior colonels Mikhail had first met on the train from Moscow to Chelyabinsk. Obviously, the Ukies had called in their daddies for protection.
Glorious! thought Mikhail.
Oleksiy motioned with his rifle for the van to pull off to the side. Its tires crunched in the snow. Then the two colonels clad in their freshly pressed, finest uniforms and heavy boots strutted out of the guard shack towards the van. Given their heavy steps and excess poundage, jackboots crunched the snow. At the van, they ordered everyone out. Meekly, the scientists exited the vehicle and stood in the snow off to the side, shivering, more from fear than the cold. Obviously, they had never been confronted by senior KGB and border guard officers in full uniform before. Mikhail remained inside, casually leaning back in his seat, fingers locked behind his head. From inside the van he could hear Oleksiy snicker to Fedir,
“The black bastard is going to get it now. Colonel Zhaba will put him in his place.”
“About time, too,” Fedir added. His tone was snarky, but Mikhail could hear a hint of caution in it. The guard held his rifle high at his chest.
The border guard colonel, Vladimir Zhaba, glanced behind him for a quick look at the KGB colonel, Boris Krysa, whose expression said, I’ve Got Your Back, Comrade. Then he leaned his head inside the door, “I said everyone out! That means you, too, darkie!”
Mikhail casually alighted from the vehicle and approached the border guard colonel, who back-stepped until he stood side-by-side with Colonel Krysa. Then both of them threw out their chests like mini-Mussolini’s and stretched to their full five foot six inch heights. Krysa, less short than his comrade, stood with his hands on his hips. Zhaba crossed his arms over his chest and shot Mikhail a grin that said: We’ve got your black butt now, comrade!
Mikhail, relaxed, stared down disdainfully at the two mighty midgets.
“Captain Khalatsyn,” the KGB colonel squeaked. Then he coughed to regain his command voice. “You will stand at attention when addressing a superior officer!”
Mikhail guessed that somewhere in their gene pools swirled the DNA of rats and toads and various other creepy-crawlies. He step and fetched his long, tall body into a position that only slightly resembled attention. He said in English, “Yassa, Massa,” and then he gave his superior officers a weak-kneed, overly theatrical salute.
Of course Krysa had no idea what Mikhail said, but the man got his subtext if not exact text. Behind them, Mikhail heard chuckles and snickers from the scientists. Not only did they speak English, but they were also quite familiar with the Black Russian’s plantation reference. Now that they knew who was really in charge here, they began to relax, fascinated by the unfolding minstrel show. They would be excellent witnesses.
Both colonels’ face glowed beet red; they knew they were losing control of the situation. The border guard colonel, Zhaba, reached out his hand. “Let me see your entry pass, soldier!”
“Don’t got me no pass, Massa,” wept Mikhail, continuing to play Ole Sambo. “Please don’t whip me, sah!” Even he was surprised by his newly discovered acting talent. One day it might serve him well as an intelligence officer. Behind the colonels, more chuckles from the scientists.
“Speak Russian, you insolent ape!” screamed Colonel Zhaba.
Mikhail slowly stepped out of his Ole Sambo role and turned a withering glare on the border guard colonel. “Apes don’t speak Russian, you ignorant toad... And I don’t need a pass to enter a fucking army facility!”
KGB colonel Krysa pointed to the gate and ordered the Ukrainian guards to take up position; then he whirled on his heels, lost his balance, and fell on his bum in the snow. The scientists roared with laughter, but Mikhail remained cool; only a crinkle in his eyes gave any hint of amusement.
Colonel Zhaba tried to help Colonel Krysa up, only to be vigorously shaken off. On his feet again, the KGB man repeated the order and the two Ukrainian guards, momentarily stunned, ran to their positions. Mikhail had seen fear and uncertainty before, although never on Spetsnaz. These two border guards now had those looks stamped onto their faces.
Border guard Colonel Zhaba: “You two!” he said to Oleksiy and Fedir, “if anyone tries to get through without a pass, open fire.” Clearly that meant Mikhail; he was the only one who had refused to show his papers.
Enraged KGB Colonel Krysa dusted himself off, raised a fist, and screamed at Mikhail, “Now what are you going to do about that, you black, Negro, son of an African ape!”
Out of the corner of his eye, Mikhail saw two army trucks approaching. The first truck was filled with his regular army troops commanded by Mikhail’s executive officer, Lieutenant Sergei Zaitsev. The truck that followed was carrying new puppets.
“At the moment...” Mikhail calmly replied. “Wait.”
***
BACK IN THE GENERAL’S office, Yakov and Peter were laughing so hard they’d nearly toppled out of their chairs.
“He called you the son of an African ape?” Peter said to Mikhail. Then to the General, “I’ll bet the Chekka man was so angry he must have bounced up and down like an enraged turnip.”
“Did you tell him how unseemly he was behaving, Mikhail?” asked Yakov.
“No sir, I was kind.”
Yakov ordered another bottle along with caviar and biscuits to snack on. “Please continue,” said the General. An aside to Peter, “I haven’t laughed so hard in years.”
“We need it, sir.”
***
THE LEAD TRUCK STOPPED at the gate, and the second pulled in right behind it. Lieutenant Zaitsev jumped out of the first truck.
“Comrade Captain,” he said, “is there a problem here, sir.”
“I’d say there is, Comrade Lieutenant. Seems these KGB borzois are about to shoot me.”
“I don’t think so, sir,” growled the Lieutenant. Then he ordered his men, all ten of them, out of the lead truck. The soldiers drew their weapons. All the scientists, along with the driver, scampered for cover behind the van. Mikhail grinned. Outnumbered and out gunned, the colonels and the border guards had better pucker their assholes tight or they’d all be standing in a piles of their own excrement.
The KGB colonel, struggling mightily to maintain control of the situation and his bowels, demanded to know, “Lieutenant! What are your men doing here? And what is in that other truck?”
“We are escorting a special supply of replacements,” said Lieutenant Zaitsev.
“Special replacements, sir!” scolded the KGB colonel. “You are addressing a superior officer, Lieutenant!”
Mikhail shot his second-in-command a Humor Him look.
From Zaitsev an uninspired: “Special replacements, sir.”
“Replacements for what?” Colonel Krysa demanded to know. When no one answered, Krysa turned to his colleague, Colonel Zhaba, for clarification.
Zhaba replied with the magic word: “The army calls them puppets, Boris.”
One down, three to go.
“Puppets?...Oh, you mean gladiators. Oh, I see,” said Krysa. “We in KGB use these criminals, too.”
Two down, two to go.
“What does the army use these gladiators for?” asked Krysa.
Snapping to attention, “Sir!” an over-eager-to-please Oleksiy called out. “They use them to clean out the reactors, Comrade Colonel, sir.”
Three down, one to go.
Not wanting to be outshined by Comrade Oleksiy, Fedir added, “Comrade Colonel, these trucks pass through all the time. We always let them through with or without passes, sir.”
Four Humpty Dumpties had just tumbled off the wall. Soon enough, the GRU would scramble them all into an omelet.
KGB Colonel Krysa ordered, “Let them pass.” Then to Mikhail, “Lucky for you, I’m in a generous mood. You and your comrades shall pass, too.”
Still in theatrical mode, “Thank you, Massa,” Mikhail replied in English.
***
“ANOTHER TOAST, GENTLEMEN,” roared Yakov. “A major victory for GRU! We shall maintain security at our own facility!”
“I dare say,” Peter added, grinning, “the Chekka’s hatred of you just increased one hundred fold, Michael. Not that it matters. You are a hero, the Army and the GRU will always protect you.”
When General Yakov noticed the bottle empty again, he ordered his orderly to fetch them another. “And more caviar and biscuits.”
“So, Comrade General, Comrade Colonel,” asked Mikhail; “who is the KGB informant?”
When they told him, Mikhail’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline and nearly jumped off his face. “Tono! Tono, comrades?” The Cuban had completely fooled him.
“KGB thinks Antonio Santos is their spy,” Peter added, “but he really belongs to us. He tells the Chekka exactly what we want them to know. Because of your run-in with two senior colonels on the train (from Moscow to Chelyabinsk), and, of course, your — shall we say altercation with KGB thugs on the metro back in Moscow—”
Yakov chuckled. “Call it what it is, Peter, our Black Russian singlehandedly thrashed three KGB thugs.”
Everyone grinned as Peter continued: “The Chekka hate you, Michael, so it was relatively easy to get, not one, but the two most senior officers from Chelyabinsk on scene.”
“Does Tono know about me,” Mikhail asked Peter, “and my mission?”
“We certainly did not tell him, Mishe,” said Yakov, “but Peter tells me our little Cuban is a clever chap. He’ll figure it out sooner or later.”
“Was Comrade Katkov ever in serious jeopardy?” Mikhail asked.
“No,” Peter replied. “We knew all along that he was just a pawn in KGB’s game.”
Yakov refilled their glasses. “Which we won,” he added, raising another toast. “I suspect that soon we shall be quite drunk, comrades.”
Peter grinned. “Are not we already, sir?”
The orderly returned with another bottle without being asked. General Yakov complimented the man on his initiative. Then, “First we shall toast our KGB and border guard comrades and wish them well on their extended stays in Lubiyanka. And then — good news for you, Mikhail.” To Peter, “Comrade Colonel, you shall have the honor of telling him.”
Three chugs, and then Peter told Mikhail that his next assignment would be in London, England. He would be posted there as a trade representative and undercover GRU officer.
“London is always first stop for our most talented young officers out of Academy. You Michael, as the Americans say, you are about to enter the big league.”
General Yakov broke in with, “After London, your next stop will be New York. Only our best and brightest officers are assigned there.”
Mikhail’s joy flashed across his face, but it was soon tempered by the fact that the two men he loved liked brothers were now headed to that hell hole, Afghanistan.
“Wipe sad look off your face, Mikhail,” said the General. “Let me tell you something about myself.” Yakov refilled their glasses in anticipation of yet another toast.
“I was sent here to Academy to reorganize it and produce top notch GRU officers,” Yakov admitted. “And do you know why?’
“No sir.”
“Because of guilt by association. Is big problem here in Soviet Union.”
“Comrade General, sir. I do not understand,” Mikhail said, genuinely perplexed.
“I was GRU rezident in London in 1978 when the Committee found out that the KGB residency was riddled with MI6 and CIA penetrations. Since the KGB rezident and I were close friends, I was dragged down along with him, even though GRU residency had no penetrations. My fall was not quite as precipitous as my friend’s. I was posted to East Germany where Comrade Petr became my chief-of-staff. After we both served in Afghanistan, I was given command of Academy.” He looked at Peter. “Peter’s record is exemplary. I was delighted that he chose to follow me here.”
Mikhail recalled Peter’s words: “I am not an elephant. There are no black marks on my record.”
Peter chuckled. Then to Mikhail, “Is like a marriage, mentor and protégé, for better or worse.”
Three more chugs, then, “Your success in Chelyabinsk is now our success, Mikhail,” Yakov said. “I am forever grateful.”
“Why are they sending you to Afghanistan, sir?” asked Mikhail.
Peter said, “Drop off that sad face, Michael, because General and I are quite happy to do our duty. And now our careers will be forever joined: you to us and us to you. Your continued success is our continued success.”
“And the higher up in GRU Peter and I go,” General Yakov was quick to remind Mikhail, “the better we will make your career.”
Mikhail stood, mainly because at this point he was the only one who could. He swayed a bit, steadied himself, and raised his glass. “I love you, comrades. We are now, and forever will be, brothers-in-arms. I shall never let you down, sirs.”
Spetsnaz war whoops! A deal sealed with copious amounts of Polish vodka and caviar.