The Falstaff Enigma (36 page)

"I'll see you soon."

David sat in the back of a BMP-1 armored personnel carrier. It was the middle one of three that had been sent for him. The vehicle's six huge tires enabled them to move at fast speeds, easily keeping up with regular trucks on a well-paved road. Inside, seven young soldiers sat uncomfortably, all of them ignoring the VIP they had picked up. The interior was very cramped, with the heat from the engine compartment doing nothing to alleviate the sense of claustrophobia that slowly crept into each occupant. After a length of time on good roads the vehicle seemed to be making a cross-country run. On one large bump, David smashed his head against the steel ceiling that enclosed the vehicle. He understood why everyone else in that APC was short.

The machine came to a stop and its twin doors swung open in the rear. The soldiers piled out efficiently, the last one waiting for David to go first. They
guided the would-be mole into the same entrance that General Ilyan had used twelve hours earlier. David was led down a series of corridors, deep underground, until one of his escorts pointed into a small room. It was almost barren but contained a dresser, a desk and what looked like a comfortable bed. The escort made a gesture telling David to wait until further notice. He then realized that the soldier carrying his bags had somehow become separated. He returned to the door. His escort was now his guard. David closed the door and left his fate to time.

The sun hung low on the horizon
as the black sedan sped down Leningradsky Prospekt toward the center of Moscow. The waning traffic of the evening rush hour still clogged the road, but the car had no trouble in the lane reserved for high Party officials. Occasional drops of rain collided with the car's windshield. It was just enough to annoy the driver but not enough to allow the wipers to do their job effectively. The driver pressed the washer button with his thumb. Nothing happened.

A young soldier sat in the passenger seat an
d another sat behind the driver. In the rear, Anatoly Borskov grew uncomfortably warm as all four men rapidly heated the musky interior. He rolled down his window an inch to allow the rushing air to strike his face. He thought about the two soldiers in the car, each one cradling his AKM assault rifle closely. They were nervous and kept their eyes on the long column of slowly moving cars in the lane to their right. Could these men be trusted? How would they find loyal Army units? Borskov suddenly wished he had spent time in Latin America so that he would have some experience with military coups. He had no idea how to go about deciding someone's loyalty in this situation. He had always prided himself on being able to judge a man's ultimate motives just by striking up an insignificant conversation. But this was different because the same motive – love of the motherland – could just as easily take one down the path of loyalty or into the arms of rebellion. At least as far as these two went, he had to satisfy himself with the knowledge that the general secretary had sent them personally.

The car turned right onto
Marksa Prospekt and worked its way slowly along as the walls of the Kremlin loomed above them on their left. The KGB colonel noticed immediately that the number of soldiers marching around the walls was greater than normal. However, he couldn’t be sure that it was not just his own paranoia dictating a new logical heuristic. He looked around at the traffic, joining the two soldiers in their nervous habit. They had lost the use of their privileged lane and now had to suffer like commoners over the last couple hundred meters before turning into the medieval fortress.

It happened without warning.
The car in front of them stopped suddenly and Borskov’s driver slammed on the brake. A small truck behind them did likewise but could not avoid hitting the black sedan's bumper. The soldier next to Borskov acted quickly and professionally. He reached over and grabbed the colonel's shirt, his strong arm able to pull Borskov down without resistance. "Evgeny, out!" this man shouted as he brought his assault rifle up into firing position, his body twisting at the waist to be able to point his gun 180 degrees to the rear.

In the front passenger seat, the young soldier threw the door open and stepped out. He looked at the car in front of them first, but it was already continuing its journey. He pivoted his body around, scanning each vehicle as he did. He saw nothing unusual until he came to the truck behind them. He ran to the truck's cab while pointing his weapon at the driver. The
colonel shut his eyes and waited for the horrible sound that projectiles make as they penetrate glass.

"Out, out!" shouted the young soldier, his finger applying dangerous pressure to the rifle's trigger. He came to a stop and opened the passenger d
oor opposite the truck's driver. Inside, an overweight man in his thirties turned whiter than normal with fear. He threw his hands in the air. The soldier looked over. He saw nothing unusual. "Come here." The fat man slid across the front bench seat with great effort. "Move!" The muzzle of the soldier's gun was pointed at the hapless driver's ribs, threatening to destroy them at any moment. In the lane next to the soldier all the cars stopped. Several drivers hid beneath the flimsy sheet metal of their car doors.

The fat driver stepped onto the street, unable to comprehend wha
t was happening. The soldier looked him straight in the eye, seeing only pure fear. He motioned for the driver to step to the rear of the truck. They both stepped around back, the soldier turning his weapon toward the small truck's doors. "Open it."

The fat man complied. He had trouble freeing the latch, even though there was no lock. The doors swung open. Only stacks of canned soup boxes awaited the soldier's steely gaze. The young man relaxed and looked at the driver again. The fat man was shaking uncontrollably. "Lie down, count to
50 slowly, and then get out of here," the soldier instructed. The man looked at him in puzzlement. ''Do it!" The driver complied.

The soldier ran back to the sedan, which had pulled up as far ahead as traffic would allow. His door was still open. He hopped in and slammed the door. ''It was just a fat guy. He
was scared to death." The soldier in the back signaled Borskov to rise to a sitting position again.

"To hell with this," the soldier
said. "We are fifty meters from the gate." The lanes going in the opposite direction were free of traffic for a brief moment. "Pull to your left and get out of here." The driver was happy to obey. He preferred the excitement of driving against traffic to that of waiting to get shot.

The sedan sped to the gate and turned left, being engulfed by the darkness of a dimly lit tunnel under the huge Kremlin wall.
They emerged into an underground parking garage and proceeded to a well-lighted area where a lone door was guarded by several soldiers and a small armored personnel carrier. The car stopped just long enough to deposit the two soldiers and Borskov. The colonel took up a position between the two soldiers, with the man who had been next to him in the rear now taking the lead spot. After a long trip deep into the underground basement that forms the foundation of the Kremlin, Borskov was led into a well decorated chamber about the size of a middle-class living room.

The walls were covered in an elegant wallpaper which featured gold vertical stripes against a background of royal blue. A large crystal chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling. The soldier from the back seat pointed to a plush couch resting against one wall. "Please have a seat, sir," the soldier
said. "Premier Andropov will see you shortly." Borskov bypassed an antique armchair and sat down on the couch. He looked at the opposite wall, which was covered almost entirely by a painting of Napoleon's capture of an abandoned Moscow in the winter of 1812. The painting commemorated not Napoleon's victory but rather his defeat at finding a city devoid of all food and supplies.

In front of the
colonel was a large oak coffee table with gold gilt forming intricate patterns in each corner. On top of it lay the day's issues of Pravda and Izvestia. Borskov heard a door close and looked around to see that he was alone. He leaned back and tried to envision the conversation he was about to have.

After ten minutes the door to Borskov's left opened and an
Army officer stepped into the room, turned sideways and saluted. Behind him emerged General Secretary Andropov. The communist party leader looked exhausted. Only the surety of command that came from over a decade of leading the KGB seemed to salvage his face from the look of death. Borskov could not help thinking that a lesser man would not survive such a tense period. The officer stepped out of the room, closing the door in his wake. Andropov offered his right hand to the rising colonel, at the same time scratching his balding head with his left hand.

"Well,
Colonel Borskov, you appear to be losing weight."

It was only the third meeting for the two men. Andropov had always been inaccessible to most of the men who served in the KGB, instead interacting sole
ly with his direct reports. In fact, Borskov recalled, the first two times they had met were in reception lines at Moscow parties.

"I'm afraid, sir, that the current state of affairs has not been good to my appetite."

Andropov walked around the coffee table and sat down in the antique armchair. He was clearly exhausted. His face held no expression – no emotion. "You know, this is my favorite chair." Borskov managed a smile in response. "Colonel, if we survive the next few days, you will have saved not only this country but the entire world as well.

"Since you called me this morning, I have been busy trying to understand the situation I am confronted
with. Your comments brought everything into focus, all the events of the past few months finally gaining some meaning. I now understand that certain of my generals are plotting to stab me in the back. They are even mobilizing their forces for this traitorous act. Marshal Khuzhotzov even asked me last week if I had ordered that certain units be mobilized out of reserve."

Borskov grew excited.
"Sir, that is very important. Marshal Khuzhotzov, the commander of the Moscow Military District?"

"Yes."

"Good. If he asked you that, then he isn't part of the rebellion."

“How do you know,
Colonel?"

Anatoly Borskov recounted the events of the last couple of weeks since he had caught Austin and
Margolis. The Soviet leader sat in hushed amazement, finding it hard to believe all that he heard. But he did not break into the KGB man's speech.

As Borskov arrived at the events of earlier that day, the
premier finally interrupted. "You mean we have had this man spying for us from within American military intelligence?" Andropov’s voice was agitated. The question had been formulating for several minutes in the leader's mind because it had not come at a logical time for interruption. The colonel nodded slowly, unsure of whether to continue. Only a few more sentences were needed to complete his historical monologue. The premier opened his mouth in preparation to speak, but caught himself. Borskov decided to wait as his commander-in-chief thought about what he wanted to say.

"I was never told of thi
s," continued Andropov finally. “I was chairman of the KGB for 15 years.” He had been like a student listening to his favorite professor, but now he was angry. "You said this man had been spying for us for long?"

"Yes, comrade
general secretary. We do not know exactly how long, but we assume it has been many years. His file showed that he had attended Oxford University in England and we think he was recruited then. Unfortunately, there is nothing in his file about his spying activities."

"I do not understand. Didn't this man work for the KGB?"

"No. He had contact with only one man as far as we can tell: Colonel Yuri Savitsky in the GRU."

"And Savitsky is loyal to Timolenko and his rebels."

“Yes, sir. That appears to be the situation.”

“Arrest Savitsky. Get him in here,” demanded the leader.

“Sir, we tried to a week ago.” Borskov lowered his eyes as well as his voice. “There was a firefight. Savitsky was killed.”

“You didn’t mention that in your story,
Colonel.”

Indeed Borskov had left out that detail. He was embarrassed at the failure of his team. “I am sorry, sir.”

"I was never even informed," repeated the premier softly.

He was speaking to himself. He stood and began to pace from one end of the coffee table to the other. "So Marshal Timolenko is the leader?"

“Yes.”

"And you think he knows that you have informed me of all this?"

"I can only assume so at this point."

"I should have had him executed last year. I knew myself that softness would haunt me."

"Excuse me, comrade general secretary, but we need to figure out just whom you can trust within the military. The original date for the coup was July fourth, but we are certain that they will have to change their timetable. They could act at any moment." The colonel's large frame was settled  uncomfortably on the edge of the couch.

Andropov had stopped at the opposite end of the coffee table. He was examining the huge
painting on the far wall. He thought about the different ways history could treat the next forty-eight hours. Unconsciously he tapped his right thigh at a slow rhythmic pace. "Give me your thoughts please, Colonel."