“That’s a good story. And the moral is clear”, he chuckled, patting his father’s arm.
“Son”, said the former spy chief after walking silently for a while. “No one knows you as well as I do, and I feel you are still disappointed with my answer. But I have an idea.
“It’s still early in the afternoon. Let’s go sit at the Café Pushkin on Tverskoy Boulevard. Maybe a hot chocolate and vodka will get me to tell you a fascinating story.”
And with that, the old man and his young officer son exited the heavy iron gates of the Novodevichy Cemetery and headed for the parking lot.
Chapter 1
Gospodin[1] Vladimir Petrovich Yermolov, or Mister Vladimir, son of Peter, Yermolov, was the way the private secretary of the General Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union always addressed her superior. In her early forties, Svetlana was tall and pretty, and her lean, upright figure still retained the form of the professional gymnast she had been in her youth. And, like a young athlete, she still kept her chestnut hair pulled back in a bun at the back of her head.
For six years, Vladimir Yermolov had been the General Secretary of the Communist Party, the only party permitted in the Soviet Union. For the past two years, he had also been serving as Chairman of the Council of Ministers, for all intents and purposes acting as both President and Prime Minister. He had become the most powerful man in the Soviet Union.
In 1955, ten years after the war had ended, Yermolov was already a member of the Supreme Soviet, the country’s highest legislative body. His analytical skills and attention to detail, coupled with his vast knowledge and judicious temper, had earned him the respect of his colleagues.
It was only a few years later that the Supreme Soviet selected Yermolov to serve as the Minister of Industry, a position that accorded him vast powers and authority. He moved quickly to institute industrial reforms; these bore fruit during his term, further increasing his influence and popularity, and thus paving his way to the highest office in the Soviet Union.
The Red Army’s commanders never objected to his advance to the top, considering Mr. Yermolov a thoroughly civilian bureaucrat, who lacked military experience even as a soldier; it was inconceivable that he could pose a threat to their authority. His six-year tenure as the party’s General Secretary had proved relatively peaceful and uneventful, both domestically and internationally. On the domestic front, thanks to regular rainy seasons, the yields from the wheat crops were sufficient to keep imports of wheat and maize from the United States to a minimum.
Yet his term was far from idyllic. Internationally, the dark clouds of the Cold War were casting their shadow over Soviet-American relations. It was the height of the Cold War, with both nations powerful, armed to the teeth and intent on preserving their interests in the world, not least their prestige. Behind the superpowers’ businesslike relations, there were constant conflicts and attempts to supersede each other in various regions worldwide. But Yermolov made sure that very little of the drama was reported and discussed in public. He knew how to keep tensions well under control.
Yermolov, now in his sixties, was quite undistinguished-looking, appearing more like an accountant or a math teacher than a world leader. He was below average height and above average weight. His thinning white hair was always combed to the left. Often, during conferences or conversations, he would pull a small metal comb out of his pocket and run it through his hair. His naturally ruddy complexion was highlighted the red cheeks of a heavy drinker, and the black- rimmed spectacles he always wore sat somewhat sloppily on his nose. Only his family and those few in his inner circle could testify to his biting sense of humor. His forty-year marriage to Irena, a high school teacher, had produced a son, a daughter and three grandchildren. He kept his family away from the limelight, and they were rarely seen or mentioned in the media.
It had been hard for Svetlana to earn the General Secretary’s trust, as Yermolov had found in her a serious, irreparable fault: her uncle. Svetlana’s mother’s brother was Marshal Nikolai Sergeevich Budarenko, Minister of Defense and Executive Commander of the Red Army. Budarenko was, to say the least, a controversial man; hot- tempered and easily provoked to respond loudly and aggressively to any hint of disagreement, which he interpreted as a challenge to his authority. When Yermolov’s aides learned of Svetlana’s reputation as an excellent office worker who spoke several languages, including English, and was well-versed in arts and letters, they urged him to employ her as his private secretary. Knowing of her family ties to Budarenko, Yermolov was loath to appoint her, but eventually gave in to his aides. Still, even when she did become his private secretary and his closest confidante at work, he ordered the KGB to produce weekly reports on her whereabouts and activities 24 hours a day.
Svetlana was well aware of her boss’s suspicious attitude toward her uncle, which bordered on disapproval, and she spared no effort not only to prove her loyalty to her boss, but to ensure that her loyalty was noticed. She had already been his private secretary for two years before Yermolov allowed himself to refer to the Minister of Defense as “your uncle”, and even then, not without rancor.
The Grand Conference Room In The Kremlin Had No windows. Three huge gilt chandeliers, of the same type that adorned the magnificent Mayakovskaya and Taganskaya Metro stations of central Moscow, hung from the lofty, domed ceiling. A massive old oak table, burnished by time, took up most of the room’s length, softly reflecting the bright lights from the dozens of electric bulbs in the chandeliers above. Those seated around this table at meetings could imagine that all the sensitive secrets the table had witnessed over the years were concealed under each layer of varnish.
It was early morning, and a small crowd of senior government officials and chiefs of the security services were gathered in their seats around the table. It was too early for a routine meeting, and, indeed, this meeting was an emergency one. At the head of the table, under a huge portrait of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, founder of the Soviet Union, the General Secretary’s seat was empty. The Chief Political Commissar, Sergey Ivanov, was already seated to the right of Yermolov’s empty chair. The buzz of conversations held in hushed tones faded to complete silence when the General Secretary appeared in the doorway. All those around the table rose to their feet with respect for their supreme leader.
Yermolov sank into his seat and motioned for everyone to be seated. The topic of this emergency meeting had not been announced, but there was little need for that. All those present knew why they had been invited to this unscheduled meeting.
Everyone waited expectantly for Yermolov to begin, but he took his time. Pulling a white handkerchief out of his pocket, he slowly and methodically cleaned his eyeglasses before placing them back on the bridge of his nose, all the while scanning the faces before him.
“Good morning, Comrades”, began the General Secretary, looking intently at each and every participant.
“We met here a week ago. Each of you said what you said and recommended what you recommended, and I was expected to act on your recommendations. I would have acted exactly as you advised me — but I have done just the opposite!” He forcefully banged on the table with his fist, his eyebrows contorted in a scowl and his face becoming redder and redder.
“In Yugoslavia and Romania, the workers’ protests have intensified. Worse still, here, at home, we are seeing budding expressions of solidarity with the rebellious reactionary mobs in Yugoslavia and Romania.”
The Secretary’s eyes were alight with anger.