Misha pushed back his chair and stood up to go. From his back pocket he peeled off a twenty dollar bill and threw it on the table. Konstantin remained seated and signalled the barista for another coffee.
‘It’s been good talking with you, Mikhail Dimitrivich.’
Chapter 32
MOSCOW
Yuri didn’t go directly home after his staff meeting. He needed something to eat. Having dismissed his driver, Yuri flagged a lift from a passing motorist and gave him the route. As he sat there in the front seat, he contemplated his meeting with Lieutenant Biryukova the night before. She had taken a considerable risk in seeing him; he could have denounced her or even been part of the conspiracy himself – that is… if there were a conspiracy.
The question was what to do? He could hardly blurt out his suspicions to Ghukov. He had no evidence, only the suspicions of a young woman. Volkov would just laugh it off, tell him he was being paranoid; weren’t their constant rumours of dissatisfaction in the army, possible coups? And even if he didn’t mention his source, Volkov was smart enough to figure it out. He didn’t fancy her chances if that were the case. Yuri needed someone he could bounce his thoughts off. The car turned off Dmitrovka onto Nastasyinskiy; a thought percolated up from his subconscious.
‘Stop here, please,’ he said.
Yuri backtracked to Malaya Dmitrovka, took a left and walked up to the next main junction, before taking a right onto Degtyarny. He stopped outside an apartment building built seamlessly into a row of neoclassical nineteenth-century houses. Typed on a yellowing piece of card next to flat number five was the name Terentev. Yuri pressed the button. There was no response. Maybe Ilya was out. He turned up the collar of his coat against the sudden cold and peered into the small dimly lit lobby through a side window. The lift was directly ahead, three metres away, the floor indicator stuck on four. He looked at his watch: eight thirty; it was still relatively early. The indicator blinked.
A young woman exited the lift and opened the door onto the street. She was smartly dressed and wore a neat red beret over shoulder-length hair. Yuri stood to one side, reached up and held the door open for her. She looked at him briefly and from her expression decided he was clearly not a vagabond.
‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘I have been trying to buzz a friend but there is no answer,’ he continued, trying to reassure her as she ducked under his arm.
‘It hasn’t been working for weeks,’ she replied, holding his eyes a little longer than necessary. If it had been another evening he might have even enquired her name or given her his card.
‘I’ll just go up,’ he said, and slipped past her as she turned onto the street.
Yuri took the lift to the second floor and walked along the corridor until he found the number he was looking for. From inside Terentev’s apartment Shostakovich drifted onto the landing. Yuri knocked on the door. There was a pause. The visible light on the magic eye on the door went dark and the door swung open. Ilya Terentev stood there in an apron, a cooking spoon in his hand.
‘Like something to eat?’ he said, as though he had expected him. ‘I’m about ready to serve.’
‘As long as I’m not eating your rations.’
The flat was smalclass="underline" a living room just large enough for a sofa, armchair and the dining room table. It was very different to his own apartment in the Arbat.
Ilya shook his head. ‘Help yourself to a beer from the fridge.’
‘Water will be fine.’ He needed to keep a straight head.
‘What brings you here?’ asked Ilya, coming straight to the point. ‘One of your girlfriends giving you grief?’
‘No, just passing.’
His friend looked at him. How long had he known Ilya? Ten years? More? They had met when they were both junior officers, and then again in Kabul. An easy friendship had developed, with serious conversation invariably gravitating towards women and ice hockey.
‘Passing Degtyarny?’ he said, raising his eyebrows.
‘Almost… anyway.’
Ilya didn’t push him further. He sat down and Ilya served him fish with potato and cabbage and black bread on the side.
‘Tuck in!’
Yuri was more ravenous than he thought.
‘This is good, Ilya. Where is Anna tonight?’
‘Out at a friend’s. I’ve been left to my own devices.’
Yuri looked at a photo of Ilya and his wife Anna on the dresser looking radiantly happy. He stared at it for a few seconds, gathering his thoughts, thinking how to approach the subject he wanted to discuss without endangering either his friend or informant.
It was Ilya who provided the cue.
‘How’s the reorganisation going?’ Ilya was used to him letting off steam over his frustrations with the district generals.
Yuri nodded and took a bite of black bread.
‘Volkov… he’s not a happy man. He’s against us pulling out of Eastern Europe, even discussing it with the Americans.’
‘There are plenty of people I’m sure would support him if it were common knowledge. The general secretary is taking a risk.’
Yuri nodded, wiping the bread around his plate, mopping up the fish broth.
‘Volkov has backed down for now, but I don’t know for how long… maybe he is just biding his time.’
‘For what?’
‘I don’t know… a new general secretary?’
‘You mean a coup?’ It was more a rhetorical statement than a question. Yuri shrugged. His friend continued. ‘Personally I think all this rumour-mongering is just the same old state paranoia that not so long ago led to purges and arrests. Look… the KGB would be the first to pick up on anything.’
‘You may be right. It’s just there have been some high-level meetings taking place between the military, KGB and senior government figures.’
Ilya didn’t respond.
‘And Karzhov?’ Yuri said, leaving his name hanging in the air. It was Ilya’s time to shrug.
‘Our new chief? Not much to say… met him at a directorate meeting. Old KGB, bit of a closed book, as you might expect.’
‘This is good, Ilya,’ he said, downing his last piece of bread.
‘I don’t suppose you get much home cooking.’
Yuri laughed and shook his head.
‘I also think I’m being followed.’
His friend’s face took on a serious expression. He was silent for a moment.
‘I’ll tell you what. I’ll make some discrete enquires, see if I can come up with anything.’
Yuri took his leave just after ten and caught a lift back to within a couple of blocks of his apartment. Making a wide circle around his building, he came out on the street in front of the main entrance, on the pavement opposite, a hundred or so metres down, and stopped. His eyes searched for the tail he’d had this morning. The street was empty. Reassured but still cautious, he made his way round to the secret exit he had left by and took the emergency stairwell back to the first floor and the lift to the seventh.
He entered his apartment and switched on the light. There was a sound from down the hallway. Yuri reached for his automatic hanging discretely behind his coats on the wall rack. Silently, he slid back the safety catch and rebalanced the grip in his hand.
The door giving onto the living room was open, the room in darkness. His free hand reached for the switch and rotated the dimmer switch. There was a sudden movement from the sofa. He swung round to meet it as his finger took first pressure, ready to loose two rounds. Svetlana lay there in a short dress and heels.
‘Don’t shoot!’ she said, over-dramatically raising her hands above her head in mock surrender.