But nothing heartens us. The airwaves are silent. The teletypes print out Yeltsin’s addresses to the people. These are immediately reproduced and distributed throughout headquarters. The situation in the city is heating up but on the screens there are only cartoons and on the telephones only anxious voices of people who understand and know nothing. My own voice is among theirs.
The most important phone rings—ATS-1—the Kremlin. It is Sergei Vadi-movich Stepashin whom I recently met for the first time. Along with the other members of the Supreme Soviet of Russia he visited the FCD in early summer. I don’t remember his exact words but the sense was clear—something had to be done to avert the approaching tragedy. I am in total agreement with Stepashin; we are moving toward something dreadful.
“We have to talk to Kriuchkov immediately. All this must be stopped. How can we get in touch with him? We are all in Burbulis’s office.”
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I try to find Kriuchkov on another line. I am told that he is in conference with Ianaev [vice-president to Gorbachev]. I call reception and demand that Kriuchkov be summoned. He takes the receiver. I tell him that negotiations are necessary, that an end must be put to everything. He asks for Burbulis’s number and hangs up. To this day I don’t know whether they had a conversation. The airwaves are silent. Toward evening Ianaev holds a press conference. He creates a stupefying impression. It is a huge nail in the coffin of the would-be dictatorship. Beskov and his commando group are in the recreation building. They have received no orders, but they are being fed.
The flow of contradictory news keeps swelling. It is clear that the people are defending the White House. At mid-day there is a report (was it the CNN or a phone call from the city center?) that the White House is about to be stormed. Stankevich [a leader of the democratic opposition] has ordered that all women be evacuated from the place. I manage to reach Kriuchkov by phone, report to him and ask that he cancel this venture. He laughs nervously: “What nonsense. Who made all this up? I just spoke with Silaev and told him that it’s all nonsense.”
But his denial gives me no peace. I have heard that laugh once before. It bodes nothing good. Kriuchkov is nervous and he is lying.
At 1730 Beskov calls. His men have done reconnaissance on the White House and concluded that a mad and bloody venture is being readied which will have totally disastrous consequences. I call Kriuchkov, inform him of Beskov’s report and ask, beseech him to cancel the plot.
“Report to Ageev,” he says. That’s all. While keeping Beskov on the line so that he can hear everything, I relay the information to Ageev. On an internal line I switch in V.A. Kirpichenko and ask him and Beskov to listen to me carefully.
“Boris Petrovich [Beskov],” I say, “I command you not to execute any orders without informing me and getting my authorization.” I repeat if for clarity and effect. Kirpichenko understands everything and acknowledges the order.
It’s max alert. At 2115 I’m in my office at headquarters trying to find Kri-uchkov and confront him. But he is not in the building and the duty officers say that he is in the Kremlin. I try to reach Beskov, but he is at a meeting with Ageev. I have him summoned to the telephone. He reveals that the storming is still being discussed despite the totally obvious opposition of all its would-be
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executioners, that is, Beskov himself and V. F. Karpukhin leader of group Alpha of the Seventh Directorate [specially trained antiterrorist squads].
I categorically reconfirm my instructions to refuse any order to storm the White House and to do everything possible that no such order be given. Kri-uchkov is still away from headquarters.
Beskov reports that it has been decided to cancel the storming (but when? At night or in the morning?). I ask him to return the groups to their quarters in Balashikha, which he does with relief.
The session of Supreme Soviet of the Russian Federation is being televised live. Many of those who, like us, kept silent, now rush to announce their allegiance to the winning side. Everyone pretends that they knew all along that the State Commission on Extraordinary Affairs was nothing more than a bunch of conspirators. (If one were to believe everything that was said and written after 21 August, then millions of people were manning the White House barricades while the enemy consisted of eight helpless evildoers.) The twenty-first of August was not a peaceful day, rather it was a day of deten-sioning, the end of the first act. Later that evening the president of the USSR [Gorbachev] returned from the Crimea [where he had been held hostage].
The government is in place; the conspirators arrested; television is presenting news reports; the people are rejoicing. Does life go on? Maybe. At 0630 I take the dog, put on a vigorous and confident air for the benefit of the gate guards and proceed to the FCD. Normally these are the best twenty-five minutes of each day, but not today. What have we been thrust into? How could Kri-uchkov have betrayed us? I am plagued by the naive question of a virgin: “Whom can I trust?”
The phone rings at 0900. It is a woman’s voice: “Mikhail Sergeevich [Gorbachev] requests that you come to his office at noon.”
“Where is it?” (A stupid, but sincere question.)
They give me directions. Things seem to be getting easier. I go to KGB headquarters in order to be closer to the Kremlin and bide my time. Grushko hastily gathers the Collegium. In a collective mood of “mea culpa” we accept the Collegium’s condemnation of the conspiracy. In the condemnation the word “sullied” is used. An idiotic argument ensues: isn’t it better to say
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“stained” or “besmirched?” It is an argument straight out of Kafka or the Supreme Soviet. We are all in a state of general and amicable mindlessness; the only unstated thought is that we are all up the creek. Yes, up the creek and how. Yesterday’s impotent cursing of the chief gives no comfort. He has betrayed everyone.
The Collegium is breaking up. I stop by Grushko’s office and tell him of the president’s invitation. Grushko says that Mikhail Sergeevich had called from his car that morning and asked for everyone to remain calm. And Grushko is calm though his eyes are sunken and his face is somber. It was a brief conversation about nothing.
I drive to the Kremlin. My papers are thoroughly checked at the Borovit-skii Gate. This is something new. In the past the guards would merely glance at the number on the car’s plate. I cross Ivan Square past the gleaming domes of the great bell tower (a joyous gift to Moscow by the ill-fated Boris Go-dunov) toward the Soviet Ministries building where the Politburo used to meet and where the president’s office is now located. There are two enormous black ZIL limousines at the entrance. I see that M.A. Moiseev, chief of the General Staff, has arrived. We meet in the reception room. The others present are I.S. Silaev [prime minister], chief justice of the Supreme Court Smolent-sev, and V.P. Barannikov [head of the Interior Ministry]. Finally A.A. Be-smertnykh comes in. We are all somewhat nervous but not gloomy. Moiseev and I have a friendly exchange in which we excoriate our previous bosses. More people arrive: S.S. Alekseev, chairman of the constitutional commission, E.M. Primakov [then director of the Institute of World Economy and International Relations and advisor to Gorbachev], V.N. Ignatenko, the president’s press secretary, V.V. Bakatin, and someone else. “The black walnut room,” cherished spot of the Soviet VIP’s was full.