FOURTEEN
Viktor Yemlin sat across the broad conference table from Yuri Kabatov, who’d been appointed interim president, and Yeltsin’s former chief of security Lieutenant-General Alexander Korzhakov, watching both men read copies of his overnight report He’d been summoned to the office of the director of the SVR late last night where he’d been ordered to prepare a briefing for the president on the West’s reaction to their concocted story about Yeltsin’s death.
McGarvey was right, of course. The Americans did not believe the story. But to this point they continued to maintain the position that they did. President Lindsay was scheduled to attend the state funeral on Friday, and the western news media continued to report on Yeltsin’s life, all but ignoring any references to Tarankov and the incident at the Riga Nuclear Power Station in Dzerzhinskiy. Yemlin used to admire the honest relationship the CIA apparently had with the President and Congress, until he’d come to learn that truth was highly subjective and depended on the political mood of the government body being reported to. Presidents of the United States and of Russia were alike in that they were mere men in difficult positions who wanted to hear what they wanted to hear.
He’d spent all night gathering the latest information from the analysts and translators in the various departments of the North American Division. By one in the morning it was 5:00 p.m. in Washington, and the first of the dailies from the Russian Embassy on 16th Street were coming in, along with the first late afternoon reports from the Russian delegation to the United Nations. As he’d learned to do, Yemlin refrained from any speculation. He merely presented the facts as they came to him, placing them in an outline that supported what Kabatov’s new government wanted to believe.
By 6:00 a.m.” he’d finished his first rough draft report, which ran to sixty-eight pages, with another three hundred pages of translations, mostly of articles that had appeared in the early editions of the New York Times and Washington Post.
By 8:00 a.m.” the translations of ABC’s, NEC’s, CBS’s and CNN’s 11:00 p.m. news reports came across his desk, and he included them in his final report which was finally ready at 10:00 a.m.” exactly one hour before he was scheduled to arrive at the Kremlin.
General Korzhakov finished first, and closed the report. He stared at Yemlin, his dark eyes burning, his thick lips pursed until President Kabatov also finished and looked up.
“The fiction seems to be holding,” Kabatov said.
“It would appear so, Mr. President,” Yemlin said tiredly. He was too old for all-night sessions. His eyes burned, his throat was sore and he felt as if he couldn’t go on much longer before he had to get some rest.
“In any event it’s in their best interest to go along with us so long as our problems remain internal,” Korzhakov said, his voice flat and unemotional. “Has the SVR given thought to that? Because I’m sure that the CIA is watching us closer than ever.”
“My division’s efforts are directed toward North America, General,” Yemlin said, after a careful moment. “We have detected no outward indications that the CIA or FBI have begun to take a more active role against our diplomats in Washington or New York.” He shrugged. “As for internally, that is a matter for the FSK. General Yuryn could best address the issue.”
“You’re both still the KGB,” Korzhakov burst out, angrily. “You communicate with each other.”
“To this point, on this issue, my division has been given nothing. I assume that the service has managed to place an agent aboard Tarankov’s train. But no one has said anything to us.”
Korzhakov and Kabatov exchanged a glance, and the Russian president sat back, content to let his chief of security continue.
“Apparently there have been difficulties. The man they sent was. found last night — what was left of him-in a taxi parked in front of the Lubyanka.” Korzhakov ran his fingers through his thick black hair. There is a leak at high levels.”
“It was expected.”
“General Yuryn suspects that you may know something about it.”
“My division—?”
“You personally,” Korzhakov said bluntly. He opened a file folder. “On the evening of 23 March you and Konstantin Sukhoruchkin took off aboard an Air Federation passenger jet on a flight plan to Volgograd. In fact it is believed that you flew to Tbilisi.” Korzhakov looked up. “Can you tell us the nature of your trip?”
Yemlin was stunned, but he was professional enough not to let it show. In this business you always planned for the worst for which a partial truth was sometimes more effective than a well-crafted lie. “We went to see Eduard Shevardnadze.”
“You admit it?” President Kabatov demanded, rousing himself. “Da. President Shevardnadze is an old friend, whose opinion I value highly. I was troubled after President Yeltsin’s assassination, as was Konstantin. We wanted some advice.”
“In regards to what?” Korzhakov asked.
“Tarankov’s chances for becoming President of Russia and starting us back to the old ways,” Yemlin said. “It would destroy us.”
“I agree with that much at least,” President Kabatov said. “But Shevardnadze is no friend of Russia’s.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. President, but he is not our enemy. Georgia has just as much to fear from Tarankov as we do.”
“What was his advice?” Korzhakov asked coolly.
“He gave none,” Yemlin said heavily, letting his eyes slide to the damnable file folder.
“Did you tell him the truth about Yeltsin’s murder?”
“Yes,” Yemlin said looking up defiantly.
“Traitor—”
“Nyet,” Yemlin interrupted sharply. “I love Russia no less than you, Comrade General.”
“What were you doing in Helsinki yesterday?”
Yemlin was glad that he was seated. He didn’t think his legs would support his weight. “Shopping,” he replied. “I’m no traitor, but I’m no idealist either.”
“Were you shopping in Paris last week as well?” Korzhakov asked after a moment.
Yemlin forced himself to remain calm. If they knew anything substantive they would have arrested him by now. This was General Yuryn’s doing. He was caught in the middle of a factional fight that had been brewing since the KGB had been split into the internal intelligence service and the external service. Yeltsin’s murder was a catalyst that the SVR had planned using against General Yuryn. The wily old fox was simply fighting back.
“Among other things,” he said.
“What things?”
“As you probably know I own a small apartment in Paris.” “Do you have a mistress there as well, whom you’re supporting?”
Yemlin refused to answer.
“A bank account, perhaps?” Korzhakov suggested. “You crafty old bastard, have you been salting away money in foreign banks all along?”
“No. Nor is that why you called me here today,” Yemlin said looking into President Kabatov’s eyes. Sudden understanding dawned on him. They were frightened, and they were clutching at straws. “I will not accept blame for the failures of the FSK or the Militia not only to protect President Yeltsin, but to arrest Tarankov.”
Korzhakov flared but said nothing.
“Mr. President, if our government is divided, if we fight amongst ourselves, Tarankov will win,” Yemlin said trying one last time to convince them that nothing less than the nation was at stake. “We’re trying to become a nation of laws. That means laws for everyone, from kulaks to presidents.”
“You’ve spent a lot of time in the West, Viktor Pavlovich. Is that what you learned?” Korzhakov asked.
