It had been a week of frenetic activity in Dzerzhinsky Square. By the time the weekend came all the heads of the First Main Directorate wanted to do was get away. The two generals drove down to Zhukovka on Friday afternoon, before the traffic built up. Because he was going with Michaelov, Povin had dismissed his own driver until Monday morning with orders to report to the dacha at eight a.m., ready for work. The man was pleased but not surprised. Most senior KGB officers who were also bachelors (there were not many) insisted on staffing their holiday retreats with chauffeurs, cooks and bottle-washers, but Colonel-General Stepan Ilyich Povin was not among them. He preferred the simple life: books, records, a little vodka and his own company were all he wanted.
Unfortunately, however, it was the first weekend of the month, so he was bound by convention to dine with his superior Michaelov and his wife Nadia. Privately Povin thought little of Nadia, who was a bore, and would have liked to break this convention if he could, but he was a good-natured man and he sensed that his visits helped the Michaelovs, in a funny sort of way. So month in and month out he did his duty on the first Friday, always vainly hoping that illness or the exigences of the service might intervene to save him.
But nothing that happened in Dzerzhinsky Square, not even the defection of a traitor like Bucharensky, ever seemed sufficiently serious in Michaelov’s eyes to warrant the breaking of a social engagement.
On arrival in Zhukovka Povin managed to dredge up a smile and the hug which was the very least required by such a longstanding friendship as theirs, before delivering himself of his presents.
‘Stepan Ilyich, you really should not do this…’
‘It is nothing, nothing. My contribution to the feast, eh?’ Michaelov caught Povin’s eye and surreptitiously tapped his throat – the Russian way of saying ‘Drink?’ Povin smiled and nodded. Once he was closeted with his chief in the study, and Nadia was safely ensconced in her culinary domain, he could relax.
‘The usual?’
‘Please.’
Povin watched while Michaelov poured a generous tot of petrovka, the brown vodka which goes so well with milk mushrooms. He had been addicted to it ever since officers’ school at Ryazan.
‘Still nothing for you?’
Michaelov shook his head dolefully.
‘The doctor… aah! Sometimes I’m tempted, but then Nadia always reminds me of what happened last time.’ Povin nodded sympathetically. His chief suffered from ulcers. Alcohol was forbidden. The last time Michaelov broke the embargo and drank cognac, the surgeons only just managed to save his life. Nadia, thought Povin, would be unlikely to forget.
‘But to go back to what I was saying in the car…’ Michaelov sat down opposite his deputy and lit a ‘papirosy’, a vile, sweetly scented cigarette consisting of a cardboard tube half-filled with tobacco. They were manufactured for him specially by the makers of ‘Novostj’, a popular brand obtainable in Moscow. It was a joke in Dzerzhinsky Square that you always knew where old Michaelov was by the smell.
‘…Stanov was a fool to have compiled “Sociable Plover” in the first place. All that information collected together in one place…’
‘Maybe.’
‘You’re still not convinced?’
‘I just wish I could be sure he’d ever compiled it in the first place, that’s all.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, nothing really. But if it’s gone, why hasn’t it surfaced by now? How explain the fiasco in Athens? And the trick he played on the British – what do you make of that?’
Michaelov shrugged. ‘Don’t talk to me about Athens. What a balls-up. But Bucharensky’s another idiot, thank goodness.’
‘Not such an idiot as Stanov for trusting him in the first place.’
‘You’re right, Stepan. So much for double-oh-seven-eight.’
Povin downed the last of his vodka and made a face.
‘That one was a born loser. I’ve always said so. The Administrative Organs Department of the Politburo was never going to release its hold on our appointments, I don’t give a damn what Kazin’s supposed to have said. It’s all a myth.’
‘Well if it wasn’t before, it is now,’ Michaelov assented. ‘They’ll never let Stanov forget it was he who recommended Bucharensky for promotion. Chairman’s Order 0078 won’t be promulgated in our lifetimes. Here, give me your glass.’
‘Make it a tumbler,’ said Povin gloomily. ‘I tell you,Valery, if we don’t catch up with Bucharensky soon, we’re going through The Door, you and I. Is there anything new on the diary?’
These innocent-sounding words seemed to lower the temperature in the room by several degrees. ‘The Diary’ was a sensitive subject among KGB officers of general rank; this was the first time since its discovery that Povin had summoned up the courage to talk to his chief about it, and on reflection he realised that it might have been more tactful to avoid the subject so soon after mentioning The Door.
‘Forensic say it’s genuine.’
Michaelov addressed the wall, busying himself with drinks.
‘The paper and ink were official issue, but the pen was Bucharensky’s own. His handwriting. Stanov’s enjoying this, you know. He likes having us all on a plate. There are times I almost think he wrote that bloody diary up himself…’
As Michaelov handed Povin a fresh drink the door behind them burst open and he turned round, startled, the glass in his hand forgotten. In the doorway stood a lanky, long-haired blonde girl. Povin blinked. She was wearing thigh-tight faded jeans, obviously from the West, and a denim jacket. It took him a second to recognise Olga, the Michaelovs’ eldest daughter. She nodded carelessly in his direction, then said: ‘Where are the car keys, father?’
Michaelov straightened his shoulders and barked: ‘Olga! More to the point, where are your manners? Come here at once, say hello to General Povin.’
From the mulish look which crept across the girl’s face Povin judged that she would refuse outright, and was mildly surprised when she obeyed. She approached the sofa where he was sitting and said, ‘Good evening, Stepan Ilyich. It’s good to see you. How are things?’
‘Very well, thank you, Olga. You?’
‘Yes, well. Father… the keys. Please.’
Michaelov felt in the pockets of his uniform. ‘Here. But remember, don’t be back late.’
‘Yes, yes. G’night, Stepan.’
The girl bounced out of the room without acknowledging her father. Povin turned an inquiring eye towards Michaelov in time to catch the baffled look on his face.
‘A concert. It all started with this Elton Jahn… John?’
‘John,’ confirmed Povin.
‘Now it’s every Friday. Underground, of course. I’ve asked Stupar to tell his boys to be damn careful who they pull in tonight.’
Povin nodded approvingly. What father would not do as much for his daughter?
‘All the same, I don’t mind telling you… it’s tough, being a parent these days. They get harder to control. What can I do?’
Michaelov pulled a gun-metal cigarette case from the pocket of his coat and lit up. Povin’s nose wrinkled; after years of working with this man he still couldn’t help it. Despite his doctor’s warnings Michaelov had proved unable to cure himself of the nicotine habit, and continued to smoke his revolting cigarettes.
Povin smiled at Michaelov, who commanded the First Main Directorate of the KGB and was responsible for the Soviet Union’s entire foreign intelligence system.
‘The young are so difficult to manage, Valery. Don’t let it worry you. She’ll grow up soon.’
Before Michaelov could reply Nadia summoned them to table, and the subject was closed. Povin knew from hard experience that you did not discuss the children in front of Michaelov’s wife.
The evening passed off quietly, as usual. Povin declined a lift home and set out through the pine woods shortly before midnight. It was very cold; the snow squeaked under his feet. Above him a white moon sailed in a cloudless sky devoid of any threat; tomorrow would be fine.
As he trudged homewards his thoughts kept returning to the dacha he had just left – what would become of Olga, he wondered? In five years, say: a brilliant scientist devoted to the service of the State… or a dissident, in exile, or worse… on the archipelago. Povin let himself in through the back gate of his own house and began to trot up the path.
The empty house, solitude, had never worried him. The woman who came twice a week to look after his dacha in winter had left the stove piled high with wood, so that his place was warmer than the Michaelovs’. He poured himself a last glass of his favourite petrovka and switched out the lights. From his chair by the window he could look out across the Moscow river, winding like a snake through the snow-laden pine trees that fringed his spacious property. In the moonlight everything looked still and peaceful.
But Povin’s inner mood was rapidly losing touch with the tranquil surroundings. It had been an effort to appear calm in front of the Michaelovs. Now he was a desperately worried man. For the past few days he had pushed everything to the outer fringes of consciousness while he strove to concentrate on the immediate problems of office. Once the pressure was off, however, he could no longer delay facing the harsh realities of his situation. The truth was appalling. But he had to keep calm. Panic was a short-cut to the grave.
Something had to be done to stop Bucharensky. And the quicker the better.
Povin put down his glass on the table beside him and eased himself on to his knees. Praying was not as simple as it used to be.
He had started his career in the KGB by being assigned to what is now the Fifth Direction of the Fifth Main Directorate, which oversees the practice of religion within the Soviet Union. At first the prospect had bored him. Then he was instructed to infiltrate a Ukrainian sect of the Russian Orthodox Church, and overnight his life had changed. He came away from the first meeting, held in a darkened cellar with someone on the door to listen for the guards, shaken out of his old complacency. To run such risks, merely in order to join with a few others in a demonstration of faith… there had been a Red Army officer there, his head bowed with the rest of them, also a local Peace Committee leader. Something kept Povin from reporting their presence. A few days later his superior, Major Oblensky, called him into his office. When Povin faced him across the table the major’s eyes were cold.
‘The other night you attended a meeting of the Krinsky Square sect. Captain Mitkov of the 16th Airborne Division was there. So was Rudolf Maximov, from the Peace Committee. Yet you did not report these matters. Why not?’
Povin stammered. ‘I did not recognise them, comrade Major.’
‘Don’t make it sound worse than it is already,’ said Oblensky coldly. ‘You’re in deep.’
Even at that moment Povin had no regrets. He looked stubbornly at the floor.
‘Lesser men might have been finished by this.’ Oblensky was speaking again. ‘Fortunately for you, Povin, your family is too well connected for me to take the steps I originally had in mind. I’m transferring you to other duties.’
He nodded curtly. The interview was at an end. As Povin laid his hand on the door handle Oblensky fired his parting shot.
‘Stay away from religion, Povin.’
It was advice he had persistently ignored ever since. He sometimes wondered what had happened to Major Oblensky who one day, like so many other people, simply wasn’t around any more. Shortly after that he had met Michaelov and struck up a friendship with him; ever afterwards Povin had advanced smoothly under the benign influence of his own highly placed Party family and the man who was destined to become Russia’s chief foreign spymaster. It was all God’s work, Povin had no doubt of it. With growing power and rank he had more time to read and think, greater freedom of movement and expression. It was no secret that the elite frequently discussed among themselves subjects which were officially taboo and Povin was soon in a position to talk over his innermost doubts and convictions with others of like mind. There were more of these than he had ever suspected. When one day Povin simply began to think of himself as a Christian, he was acknowledging something which had in fact occurred long before.
So that night Povin stayed on his knees for a few minutes, praying for Oblensky, as always, and for Michaelov and his family and all the nameless others in general who impinged on his consciousness: the prisoners in the camps, the poor, the helpless… the words of the ancient Orthodox prayer came readily to his lips: ‘…for those under trial, or condemned to the mines or bitter labour in exile…’
There were so many to pray for. But chief among them tonight was Povin himself.
Next day he was up early, ready for his expedition to the Khruschev Store.
Most people did their shopping in Zhukovka at the large, single-storey complex which was the nearest thing the Soviet Union had to a supermarket. If your face didn’t fit you didn’t get in, but most of the high-ranking officers, ministers, scientists and artists who were allowed to live in the region were well-known there. Even though Khruschev had officially ceased to exist, his name lingered on with this shop, the Khruschev Store. Inside, the white hygienic shelves were always well-stocked with fresh dairy products, meat and fish; to the left, as you entered, were racks of men’s and women’s clothes shipped from France and Italy, while at the far end, by the checkout, stood rows and rows of fine French and German wines. Everything sold cheaply; this was a state-subsidised store. It was an almost classic demonstration of the theory that all are equal but some are more equal than others; the poor and unconnected weren’t allowed in, but one afternoon Solzhenitsyn and Rostropovich had stood in line to buy tomatoes while behind them Molotov waited patiently to pay for Scotch and cigarettes.
The stores are presided over by a woman known to her customers only as Mother Kerenina. She has survived every purge, every change at the top, every reversal of policy; she knows all her customers by their patronymics; her stock of good-humour is boundless. This morning as Povin entered the store Mother Kerenina was dusting down a huge stack of tins piled up by the door.
‘Ah Stepan Ilyich,’ she cried, her eyes lighting up at the sight of him. ‘How are you?’
The hug he gave her was warmer than the one he had given Nadia the night before.
‘Very well. Good to be back.’
‘You like my latest line?’
She waved a proud hand in the direction of the tins. Povin peered closer.
‘Gravlaks! Is it any good?’
She shrugged. ‘As good as tinned stuff ever can be. I suppose you’ll want herring, Stepan Ilyich.’
‘Please.’
‘Over there, in the ice cabinet. Deep frozen, I’m afraid, but good quality.’
He wandered over to inspect the recently delivered ‘catch’. Suddenly he became aware of someone standing by his side.
‘If you pick that stuff over any more, Stepan Ilyich, it will be unfit for human consumption.’
He looked up to find the laughing face of Stolyinovich close to his own. Povin grinned.
‘Capitalist. You’ll be wanting me to cook it for you next.’ They embraced affectionately. Povin was very fond of the pianist and had all his records in his Moscow apartment. Since Stolyinovich had been granted his own dacha the two men spent much time together – Povin had shyly sought the other man out to declare his admiration and respect, stayed for a drink, then for dinner and overnight. They had even gone into a kind of partnership: on his frequent trips to play in the West Stolyinovich bought up as many Deutsche Grammophon records as he could, the aim being to equip and maintain a jointly financed music library.
‘Anyway, why aren’t you in some western paradise, you idle wretch. Not sunning yourself in the south of France, eh?’
‘Not yet. But I go tonight. So here I am, getting in my herring for the journey.’
‘It will go off. Besides, you can buy herring anywhere.’
‘Ah, but not like this. And I have a freezer pack; it is filled with some kind of chemical, don’t ask me what, but it stays cold until I can get it into my hotel fridge.’
Povin shook his head indulgently. ‘One of these days, Pyotr, I shall get the boys to work you over at the airport.’
Stolyinovich flicked a contemptuous finger. ‘I go through Vnukovo now. Your boys don’t get a look in.’
Povin chuckled. He knew that the distinguished pianist had recently won the right to use the V.I.P. airport on the other side of Moscow. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘you’d be surprised at what the hidden x-ray cameras show up at Vnukovo.’
He made no secret of his job to Stolyinovich, had told him long ago that he was the Deputy Director of the First Main Directorate. His friend even knew his speciality: England and Ireland.
‘I can guess. Pornography and state secrets.’
‘More or less.’
‘And in my case, herring. Now tell me, Stepan, which should I choose. What about that fellow, eh? He looks nice and plump.’
Povin studied the freezer-shelf where he had himself been rummaging a moment before. ‘I should take… that one.’
‘You are sure?’
Povin nodded and moved away, as if uninterested. Stolyinovich followed him on his round of the shop, talking excitedly about his coming trip to Stockholm. When at last their bags were full they stood for a minute in the slush outside the store, reluctant to part.
‘Come to lunch.’
‘I can’t old friend. I have an early flight. I must practise. Then I must sleep.’
Povin nodded resignedly. ‘Go safely, then.’
Stolyinovich smiled and nodded. Povin stood on the steps and watched him until he was out of sight, carrying the frozen herring which was addressed to the head of the Secret Intelligence Service, London.