Vice-Admiral Feliks Astashenkov looked round cautiously as he entered the arrivals hall at Moscow’s Sheremetyevo airport. He was not in uniform and had flown from Murmansk under a false name. The plane had developed an engine problem at the start of its taxi run; the passengers had had to wait on board for three hours while an Aeroflot mechanic repaired it.
As one of the Vlasti, the ‘powerful ones’, he was unused to such demeaning treatment. The Deputy-Commander of the Soviet Navy’s Northern Fleet was entitled to better than that. But the message from the Soviet leader, delivered to his home by a courier, had insisted on maximum secrecy for their meeting.
At Murmansk Airport a KGB guard had recognized him. It was inevitable that someone would. He’d slipped the man ten roubles, told him he was Moscow-bound for a weekend with his mistress, but that his wife thought he was on a fishing trip. The policeman had passed the note across his mouth. His lips were sealed.
The silence he’d bought was to keep the journey secret from the Northern Fleet Commander, Admiral Andrei Belikov, rather than from his wife. Belikov was just a vassal of Admiral Grekov, Commander-in-Chief of the Soviet Navy, who’d been at odds with Nikolai Savkin, the new Soviet leader, from the moment he’d taken over.
They told Astashenkov he’d be met at Sheremetyevo and taken to the rendezvous. He elbowed his way through the crush, impatient at the willingness of his countrymen to accept such conditions. Astashenkov felt apprehensive. He’d been given no reason for this unorthodox summons to Moscow. He’d met the General Secretary on several occasions, admired his energy and reforming zeal. Nikolai Savkin was of his own generation, a man with the vision to press on with change even though the birth pains of the new, competitive Soviet Union had become intolerable to many of his countrymen.
Comrade Savkin was in need of friends, no doubt about that. Was that why he’d been summoned? But why him? It was in the factories and the Politburo that Savkin’s support was waning. The armed forces had stood back from the arguments over the economy. And why call for him at this precise moment, when a massive fleet of NATO warships was assembling a few hundred kilometres from the Soviet coast for ‘manoeuvres’? At a time like this he should be at his headquarters in Severomorsk, studying intelligence reports, ready to take action if the ‘exercise’ turned into something else.
‘Comrade Vice-Admiral…’
The touch on his arm was casual, as if someone had merely brushed against him.
‘Please follow me.’
It was the courier who’d delivered Savkin’s message. Dressed in a brown parka with a fur-lined hood, he moved through the crowd slowly enough for Astashenkov to follow with ease. Not once did he turn his head to check; to anyone watching, the two men would appear unconnected.
They stepped outside. It was after eight in the evening and dark, and the October air had a nip of frost. The Admiral spread the gap between himself and his escort. Ahead was the car park; Astashenkov fumbled for keys, as if he had a vehicle of his own to go to.
The messenger stopped by a battered yellow Volvo estate and opened the door on the driver’s side. Astashenkov paused, placed his overnight bag on the ground and began to feel in his inside pockets, while looking around to see if he was being observed. The passenger door of the Volvo was pushed open. He climbed in.
They drove for nearly half-an-hour, the courier making it plain he had no wish to talk. Astashenkov had spent several years of his career in Moscow, but the part of the city through which they travelled was unknown to him. He suspected that the driver was making the route circuitous in order to confuse him.
They stopped in an old quarter. He followed the driver into what would once have been the townhouse of a prosperous merchant. Feliks was mystified; all this subterfuge for a meeting with the Soviet leader? What was going on?
Inside it smelled damp, as if seldom used. An oil heater burned in the hall. A guard emerged from the front reception room, carrying a sub-machine gun. The escort removed his parka and helped the Admiral off with his coat. Then he led the way upstairs.
Savkin seemed smaller than Astashenkov remembered, as if the burden of a national crisis had begun to crush him. At the sound of Astashenkov’s entrance, the General Secretary of the Soviet Communist Party and President of the USSR stopped in mid-pace across the room.
‘Ah, Feliks! A tired, impatient victim of air travel! And they always call it a “technical” fault, don’t they?’
The smile looked forced. The pure white mane of hair looked as if it had not seen a comb all day.
‘They wouldn’t let us leave the plane! We were like pigs in a pen.’
‘All the more reason for me to be grateful that you came.’
‘It was my duty, Comrade General Secretary.’
Savkin’s eyebrows arched momentarily. ‘Duty’ was such a subjective concept. Where would the Admiral feel his ‘duty’ lay once he’d heard what Savkin had to say?
‘Come and sit down. I must apologize for the room.’
He waved a hand dismissively. The walls were faded and peeling, marked with dusty rectangles where paintings had once hung. A heavy pedestal desk in one corner was half covered with files from an open briefcase. Savkin led the way to a green, leather chaise longue, and sat himself in the high-backed armchair opposite.
‘The house belongs to the Pushkin. It’s not used much, only for storing spare exhibits. My wife’s cousin is curator of the gallery, so my link with the place is personal rather than official, which means it’s clean — no bugs. And the guards here are my men. They’ll bring us tea in a moment. Now, remind me. When was the last time…?’
It was a gambit. Savkin would remember perfectly well. Such urbanity did nothing to calm Astashenkov’s unease.
‘It was June. At Polyarny. Podvodnaya Lodka Atomnaya. The nuclear patrol submarines — your inspection.’
‘Of course.’ Savkin nodded. ‘It was a good turnout. Very impressive. Fine technology. The efficiency of your men was so vibrant you could almost touch it.’
‘They were on their best behaviour. You must be used to that.’
‘Yes, but you can tell when it’s just show…’
There was a tap at the door, which had been left ajar. It was the guard bringing the tea. Conversation lapsed until he had left the room.
‘Now. Why do you think you’re here, like this?’ His tone of voice was condescending, keeping the Admiral at a disadvantage. He would be asking a lot from Astashenkov, but did not want to appear to be a beggar.
The Admiral shrugged. There was no point in prevaricating.
‘I really don’t know. It might be that you require some service from me which would not win the approval of my Commanding Officer…?’
Savkin smiled drily. He’d wanted a forthright reply. It saved time.
‘And if that were the case…? If neither Grekov not Belikov were to be involved?’
‘Then it would be a difficult decision. I should need to understand why.’
‘Of course.’
The grey eyes studied the sailor. Astashenkov recognized in them the flicker of uncertainty and weariness.
‘Let me ask you something,’ the General Secretary said. ‘I’ve gained the impression, on the few occasions we’ve met, that your interests stretch wider than just naval matters. That perestroika has caused you some excitement; that you welcome it. Am I right?’
‘It’s my duty to be politically aware…’ Feliks stalled.
‘Yes, but you know I’m talking of more than awareness, Comrade. I’m talking of commitment.’
Astashenkov looked blank. Savkin would need to be more explicit.