An hour later in Fierko’s office, the three generals viewed each other guardedly. “Do we know anything about the whereabouts of Atcho and Chekov?” Yermolov asked.
Fierko turned to Kutuzov. “He was your prisoner. A single guard accompanied the transfer. Chekov had an ID showing he is a colonel. Have you heard anything about the soldier?”
Kutuzov took his time to reply. “My staff is working on it,” he said coldly. “I came to discuss the Pravda article. If that’s not why we’re here, I’ll go back to my command.” He directed his eyes to Yermolov. “I assume that Chekov, whatever his rank, was helping Atcho.”
Yermolov returned Kutuzov’s steady gaze. “I requested a conference call to Chairman Murin.” He turned to Fierko. “Place the call.” His command brooked no challenge.
Fierko stared back, and then dialed the number. Murin’s smoke-worn voice sounded over the voice box. “General Fierko, do we all know the same things?” There was no sound of warmth.
“Yes, Comrade. Unless you have new information.”
“None. General Yermolov, what’s on your mind?”
Yermolov straightened his shoulders and moved close to the speaker. “Comrade Murin, it’s time to accelerate. Nothing on Gorbachev’s itinerary should cause delay. He seems aware that something is taking place, but doesn’t know what, when, or where. By waiting, we give him time to mount counteractions.
“Even if we assume that Chekov betrayed us, anything he thinks he knows is conjecture, and if we move up our timetable, his knowledge will be outdated.”
He paused to gather his thoughts. Murin’s silence felt ominous. Yermolov’s voice took on a firm note. “The Rasputin group was ancillary. Soviet power never relied on the Orthodox Church. We have the critical pieces in place. It’s time to move. The future of the Soviet Union rests on what we do now.”
When Murin responded, his voice was low and cautious, almost challenging. “Are you ready?”
Yermolov drew to full height. His eyes exuded fire. “I’m ready.” His fate rested with Murin.
“General Kutuzov, what is your assessment?”
“No change. As General Yermolov stated, no strategy was grounded on Church support. It was nice to have. That’s all.”
“What about your escaped prisoners?”
“At best, Chekov was overpowered. At worst, he helped. We’ll intensify our search. That should not affect our plans.”
“General Fierko, what do you think?”
Fierko exhaled. “If we stand down, we’ll face massive retribution. Our best defense is to stay on offense. We have no time to waste. We should press on. Now.”
Yermolov regarded Fierko with surprise. The guy has guts.
Murin spoke again. This time, his voice carried gravity, even deference. “General Yermolov, let me be the first to welcome you to Moscow. I’ll meet you in my office at noon the day after tomorrow.” He hung up.
The office was deathly quiet. Yermolov stood still, a solitary figure. Then he started a slow turn, taking in every detail in the room. As his eyes bore on General Fierko, the KGB general came to attention.
Yermolov acknowledged him. He continued his turn until his eyes rested on Kutuzov.
“General Yermolov,” Kutuzov said, standing at attention, “My command is at your service.”
***
Drygin noticed the change in deference when the two generals returned to Kutuzov’s headquarters. Yermolov was clearly in charge.
“We’re moving up the schedule,” Yermolov told him. “I leave for Moscow tomorrow. As of this moment, you’re released to General Fierko. Thank you for a job well done.” I’ll deal with you in a few days. He entered Kutuzov’s office without further comment.
Watching him, Drygin smiled, his eyes narrowing to slits. He glanced up and saw Kutuzov studying him.
An hour later, he sat in Fierko’s office. “Colonel Drygin, welcome to my command. We’re accelerating the plan. I leave for Moscow tomorrow. Chairman Murin wants you there tonight.”
Drygin maintained his calm. “Is there something for me to do?”
“You’ll monitor security arrangements. I’ll do the same from this end until my departure. We can’t afford mistakes.”
Barely twenty-four hours had passed since Drygin had voiced his concerns to Fierko. In this cold emotionless way, steps seemed to have been taken to insulate and even advance him, though he wondered about the concept of keeping enemies closer.
He had weathered many KGB political storms. He foresaw the one roiling on the horizon to eclipse all others, and made his own assessment about where personal loyalties should lie.
***
Late that night, Yermolov’s eyes blinked open yet again. This time, a sense of exultation worked his mind, and he basked in it. He had learned before going to bed that the triumphal chariot carrying him to Moscow would be the magnificent Antonov 225 Mriya, the new aircraft he had seen on the runway when he and his entourage arrived in Novosibirsk.
“Gorbachev must know where I am by now,” he had told Fierko. “Won’t he suspect if the Mriya flies to Moscow a day early?”
“At this point, he’ll suspect anything that moves,” Fierko said. He related that Murin felt the flight was easy to justify. The aircraft was a terrorist target, and would be best protected in Moscow.
Fierko had briefed Yermolov on the movement plan. On arrival in Moscow, security teams would board to clear the aircraft. “One of them will escort you to your car. You’ll be taken straight to the Lubyanka.” The next day, Murin would accompany him to a meeting in Gorbachev’s office at the Kremlin.
“The general secretary will suffer a heart attack, and will be unable to carry out his duties,” Fierko said. “Murin’s handpicked security detail will take action to safeguard the life of the general secretary to ensure the continued functioning of the Soviet Union.”
Yermolov enjoyed the music of what he had just heard, essentially the Soviet version of, “The king is dead. Long live the king!” Despite the pleasant scenario, he alternated between exuberance and unease. “Do we have any news of Chekov or Atcho?”
Fierko shook his head. “Speed and surprise are our greatest weapons now. In two days, you’ll have the full might of Soviet forces to unleash on the fugitives.”
You don’t know Atcho. Yermolov had dismissed the thought. Now, in the still of the night, it returned full force, displacing hubris.
To Yermolov, Atcho was an enigma. He never quit. Through twenty-seven years of manipulation and imprisonment, his spirit had never broken. His tenacity bordered on lunacy. More problematic, his motivation stemmed from principles, and most high among them were protecting family and country.
Yermolov contrasted himself against Atcho. Only the drive for power had guided the general’s career. He had affected humility, compassion, understanding, and other virtues as needed. He had even convinced a wife, a daughter, and a community that he was a loving husband and father. His family had been a prop to maintain his cover, nothing more. He had left his house early on the morning of the assassination attempt, and never looked back.
Now, when he was so close to reaching absolute power on a world stage, he felt the overwhelming emotion he most scorned. Fear. “Damn you, Atcho.”