‘I’m sure General Volkov pointed out that our patience is limited,’ said the defence minister coldly. ‘We need you final answer by this time tomorrow.’
Yuri stood up and took a step towards him so they were face-to-face.
‘Comrade Dubnikov, I, of all people, am not someone who takes kindly to being threatened, remember that.’
The minister blinked and, without another word, left.
15 OCTOBER 1989
Chapter 61
MOSCOW
Viktoriya sat on her duffel bag outside Terentev’s flat on Degtyarny. Six thirty in the morning and it was still dark. She had already worked out that the doorbell to flat five did not work and decided to wait fifteen minutes and see if anyone opened the main door before she started ringing bells randomly waking residents and drawing attention to herself.
Her sleep had been fitful on the Red Star from Leningrad. Travelling second class in a women’s-only four-berth couchette, her only fellow passenger was a woman in her forties visiting family in Moscow. She did not proffer anything more than visiting a friend herself. What would she have said if she had told the truth – taking photographs of indefinite significance to a KGB colonel?
The door clanged open. Viktoriya jumped to her feet. A man, mid-thirties, sporting a military-style haircut and a canvas duffle bag hung off one shoulder, stepped onto the street.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked, looking her up and down and the bag parked on the street. She had slipped on a pair of jeans and a blue cashmere sweater in the car before boarding the Red Star but had still not bothered to remove her make-up from the night before.
‘I’ve come to see a friend. I’m from out of the city; his bell doesn’t seem to be working.’
‘If you don’t mind my asking, who is it you have come to see?’
‘Ilya Terentev.’
The man stared at her for a moment, sizing her up. She felt slightly unnerved.
‘I’ll show you up. I know where he lives.’
Viktoriya protested that that wouldn’t be necessary but he ignored her. Extracting his key, he unlocked the street door and waved her in. There was nothing else for it. She picked up her bag, slung it onto her shoulder and let her hand drop inside.
‘Please follow me,’ he said politely.
‘Second floor,’ she said.
‘Yes, number five. I know most of the people in this block.’
The lift was only fit for three people and felt claustrophobic with the two of them packed in so closely. She should have insisted they take the stairs, rather than be trapped in such a tiny space with a complete stranger. Still, it was only two floors. The door opened.
‘After you,’ he beckoned. It was still dark and the stairwell empty. ‘Take a right.’
Was he really going to walk her to the door? she thought. They stopped outside number five.
A hand reached over her shoulder and wrapped on the door. She wondered how well this man knew Terentev. Her hand closed tightly on the automatic. It didn’t feel right.
Footsteps sounded on the other side and the door opened. A woman with long hair, thirties, busy knotting the belt of a dressing gown, looked from her to the face behind.
‘Natasha, may I introduce Viktoriya Nikolaevna Kayakova, late of Leningrad, probably the richest woman in Russia.’
She turned round to face her escort.
‘Colonel?’
‘The same… I didn’t want to effect introductions in the street… this is my wife Natasha… and I think you can remove your hand from your bag now. I don’t think you need a gun.’
More embarrassed that her manoeuvre had been so transparent than that she had taken the precaution in the first place, she let go of its handle.
‘I don’t normally look like this,’ she said in her own defence.
‘Please come in, Viktoriya Nikolaevna,’ said Natasha.
The apartment was small but cosy. Several photographs of the couple were displayed on a dresser.
‘Please,’ gestured Natasha at the slightly worn brown tweed sofa. ‘Would you like something to eat? Maybe freshen up?’
Viktoriya was not about to decline any of it.
‘Red Star?’ asked Terentev, almost a rhetorical question.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘no complaints… look, I’d love to have a shower, but before I do, can I give you this envelope.’ She reached into her duffel bag, prised the inside panel off the base and pulled out a brown envelope.
‘I received a message from Yuri yesterday… one of the men he’s been on the run with… he wouldn’t say from where or to,’ – it seemed such a long time ago, she thought – ‘he said I could trust you.’
‘You can,’ replied Terentev. He held out his hand for the envelope and she handed it to him.
‘Twelve years ago – in fact, April 1977 – I was a student, my friend Mikhail Revnik—’
‘—of RUI?’
‘—yes,’ Viktoriya continued. ‘He took some photographs of two men on the Moika embankment. Some KGB type put him up to it, offered Misha a reward. We were only sixteen at the time… it could have been almost anyone. The trouble is, he was spotted… but he managed to fence it off on me before they caught up with him. Misha persuaded them he had thrown the camera into the canal.’
‘Sounds very resourceful… and the man who had paid him to do it?
‘He never reappeared. I hid the film for years and gave it back to Misha just before he travelled to Milan for the first time.’
‘And he had it developed there?’
She nodded.
‘I’d never seen the photographs until yesterday. I know Misha couldn’t identify the people in them… well, until yesterday, when he came briefly out of his coma. Maybe he recognised a voice… I don’t know.’
‘I’m sorry about Mikhail Dimitrivich. I heard the news. Where is he now?’
‘In our own building in Leningrad… under medical supervision… don’t worry, it’s like a fortress… I can’t help but think this is related.’
Terentev opened the envelope and spread the large black-and-whites on the dining room table. The photos were remarkably clear. She watched him frown and without a word pull up a chair as if to stop himself falling over.
‘You recognise them?’ she said.
‘I recognise him.’ Terentev pointed at the man with the glasses. ‘Karzhov, chairman of the KGB, but not him, I’ve never seen him before. April 1977, you say?’
She nodded.
‘Can I keep these… for now… I want to run some checks… under the radar?’
‘Of course, that’s what I hoped you were going to say.’ Viktoriya stood up. ‘I’d like to freshen up now, thank you, and then I want you to tell me what you know about Yuri.’
Chapter 62
Viktoriya stepped out of the small shower cubicle and towelled herself dry, glad to have washed the night away. She wondered if Misha had shown any further signs of improvement and whether Kostya would honour his side of the bargain. For now, she reasoned, it was not in his interest to do otherwise – there were at least eighty-five million reasons why he might hold back for forty-eight hours or so. And he was right. If the so-called Emergency Committee did wind back the clock and the communists regained the upper hand, she would be the one on the run. Exile would be the only option, the only one that didn’t involve being incarcerated, or worse.
A knock on the bedroom door made her start. It was Natasha’s voice.
‘Coffee.’
The door opened a fraction and the welcome smell of coffee wafted into the room. She thought of mid-morning breaks in Misha’s office, standing at the window observing the goings on below, catching up. She took a deep breath and held it, let go and took another before savouring her first bitter taste of coffee that day. She winced and closed her eyes, concentrating on the familiar caffeine rush, and immediately felt more positive. There was progress of sorts: Misha had woken, even if momentarily, and said something coherent, Kostya had been neutralised, for now at least, and she had arrived safe in Moscow and met someone Yuri told her she could trust. And on top of all that he had identified one of the players in the photograph as the KGB chair himself.