‘And which side of the debate are you on?’ Viktoriya asked, trying to regain the initiative.
‘Progress…’
The colonel looked at his watch. Misha decided it was time to come to the point. He wished he had more time to get to know him but his gut feeling told him that the colonel was someone they could trust. He hadn’t robbed them thus far.
‘I think we are on the same side, Colonel. Progress comes in many forms. I provide people what they want… and make a profit – still a dirty word in Russia – doing it. And there are, of course, plenty of people who try and stand in my way. I am sure this is not foreign to you.’
The colonel did not reply but continued listening.
‘I am starting a new venture. It has some small but important political backing in Leningrad, buying diesel and oil from state companies and shipping it across the border.’
‘At Smolensk.’
‘Exactly.’
‘And you want my support.’
‘Yes.’
‘And for me?’
‘A stake in the business, a significant stake. I need partners, long-term partners with the same interests. There are going to be plenty of opportunities out there. It strikes me that you are just the sort of person we need… progressive, by your own admission – not like Vdovin in Leningrad – of a similar age to us, plenty of contacts, and you can organise… like Viktoriya here. I could go on. Weren’t you strategic command in Afghanistan?’
‘Yes.’
‘Graduated top at the General Staff Academy, a rising star until your reformist views had you consigned here. Somehow I don’t think you are the sort of person who will be held back long, and in the meantime… this is an opportunity – dare I say historic – to make serious money. The smart communists already have a sniff of it, but years of doing what they are told has deadened their senses. The world belongs to our generation now, at least Russia…’
The colonel nodded, stood up abruptly and held out his hand. ‘Let me think on it. I have to take my minder for a walk now. It’s been a pleasure meeting you both.’
And with that, he and the man in the corner were gone.
JANUARY 1988
Chapter 22
LENINGRAD NIGHTCLUB
General Vdovin leaned forward and helped himself to a Cohiba from the lacquered box sitting on Konstantin’s desk. Dance music interspersed with loud cheering and clapping filtered from the club floor above. Someone wolf-whistled, joined by several others.
‘Busy night?’ he asked in between puffs of the aged cigar. ‘This is very good.’ He helped himself to another and put it in his jacket pocket.
‘Help yourself,’ Konstantin said sarcastically.
Despite the millions he had placed in the general’s Zurich bank account, Vdovin still clung to the old dress code: an ill-fitting dark grey double-breasted suit. Konstantin could even picture the store he purchased it from in the GUM arcade opposite the Kremlin, one of those outlets exclusively reserved for party members. It was a joke, ridiculous, that such things were still regarded as a sign of privilege. He wondered which bright bureaucrat years ago had come up with the original design and how many committee meetings he had had to endure while the lapel size and number of cuff buttons were finally determined. Konstantin reached for a cigar himself, and, without lighting it, put it in his mouth.
‘There’s talk of a pull-out,’ said Vdovin.
‘We’ve been here before.’
‘Serious talk… it’s an unpopular war and the new general secretary wants an accord with the Americans. The arms race is beyond the country’s means, he says… not that it has ever bothered any other general secretary that I have known.’
‘And does he have the support to do it.’
‘At the moment… but there is increasing internal opposition… not just with his policy towards the imperialists.’
Imperialists, thought Konstantin, hadn’t the Soviet Union donned that epithet when it invaded Afghanistan? How long ago? Christmas Eve, 1979… at least, the Catholic Christmas Eve when the so-called imperialists were waiting for Santa. Brezhnev should have left well alone, but then again he would have missed a huge business opportunity. The drugs business was booming.
‘And will they continue to support Najibullah?’
The general shrugged.
‘I don’t know, perhaps, but I doubt it will be decisive. The Americans have created a monster in the mujahideen. They will tear the country apart.’
And the price of opium sky will rocket, he thought. If Vdovin was right, the general secretary would indeed prove to be a sore in his side. He would have to renegotiate his supply routes and make friends with a whole new circle of tribal leaders, who might not be quite so well disposed to a Russian.
Above, someone had turned up the music. Konstantin looked at his watch – eleven o’clock. He wondered whether the new girl Bazhukov had hired would be on the floor yet. She had been sitting at the bar when he had entered earlier that evening before the club had opened. For some reason he had found it hard to concentrate on Bazhukov’s daily update and had found himself staring at her across the room. Wearing a T-shirt and stretch jeans, she was tall with alabaster white skin, jet-black hair, and a wide, sensuous mouth. At first she had ignored him, intent on the men checking out the stage floor lighting. Perhaps she had thought him a punter. It was Bazhukov, sensing his distraction, who had finally waved her over.
‘Adriana… meet the boss.’
‘Where are you from?’ he’d asked.
‘Horlivka,’ she had replied in a deep, throaty voice. He didn’t know the place but recognised her Ukrainian accent. She was older than most of the girls at the club; he guessed late twenties, sexier, more mature-looking.
‘First time in Leningrad?’
‘She knows Cezanne’ said Bazhukov, interrupting. She was another Ukrainian, with a reputation for doing a lot of coke.
Half an hour later she had been ushered down to his office by one of the guards. Wordlessly, he had unbuttoned her blouse and slid his hands under her bra, cupping her breasts. She had stood motionless and looked unflinchingly into his eyes as he had caressed her nipples and then pinched them hard. Her eyes had only closed when he found the moist space between her legs and forced her back on the sofa, roughly pulling down on her jeans and taking her.
‘I need a meeting with the KGB chief,’ Konstantin said, snapping back to the present. ‘In fact, the defence minister and KGB.’
Vdovin looked surprised.
‘Isn’t it best to go through me?’ Vdovin said defensively.
‘Here in Leningrad or in Moscow, it doesn’t matter, just fix it up,’ he said, ignoring him. He needed a face-to-face meeting. Go-betweens could only accomplish so much. ‘And what about those photographs, thinking about the KGB?’
‘Bah… much ado about nothing! They’re just a blur. You have to wonder why Revnik kept them at all. My KGB contact seemed satisfied, so you are… we are, off the hook.’
Konstantin felt relieved. It had been more problematic than it should have been but the KGB was off his back and Harkov taken care of.
‘They wanted Revnik dealt with,’ Vdovin added. Konstantin sat up. ‘I told them they were misguided; there was no advantage in it. He’s become too well connected; it would just stir up a hornet’s nest for no good reason. I think they’ve backed off. I told them you wouldn’t have anything to do with it.’