Джозеф Файндер - The Moscow Club

There was no way to get to the commandant of the mausoleum; it was impossible. They were left with one strategy: the driver would have to negotiate with one of the guards, if they could find one who was not KGB: Red Army, perhaps, or GPU, for they were all out in force this morning. If he could persuade one of them of the urgency – persuade a soldier to talk to his superior officer, and maybe one would have the good sense to listen.

“Over there,” the driver said. He pointed at a small gaggle of Red Army soldiers.

“Go,” Charlotte said.

He accelerated, the wheels squealing, until they were abreast of the soldiers. He rolled down the window and said, “Where is your commanding officer?”

A voice replied, but it was not one of them. It came from the other side of the car: a KGB guard was fast approaching. “What is your business, comrade?”

“I need to talk to one of these fellows’ commanders,” the chauffeur replied.

The guard arched his eyebrows. “What is your business?”

“Let’s get out of here,” Charlotte said. She sat in the front seat, instinctively slumping down as the guard approached and peered into the window.

There seemed to be a spark of recognition in the guard’s eyes, and he looked even more closely. “Stop this car, officers,” he told the others. “Arrest them.”

“Now,” Charlotte whispered to the driver. “Up ahead. That group of MVD militsiya. Do it!”

With a bewilderingly swift motion, the driver slammed the car into gear and barreled ahead, knocking the KCB guard to the ground. A bullet was fired into the back windshield, but only the surface of the bulletproof glass cracked. They had made it the hundred feet or so to the next checkpoint, which did not seem to have any KGB guards in attendance. Charlotte rolled down her window and, quickly glancing at the epaulets on the men’s uniforms, knew these were indeed MVD, Ministry of Internal Affairs.

“Arrest me,” Charlotte called out.

9:40 a.m.

The chairman of the KGB reached for the pistol he had concealed in the large front pocket of his hospital robe. “Where are we?” he asked the driver warningly.

The orderly sitting next to the driver answered. “Outside Moscow, sir.”

“What’s going on?” He curled his forefinger around the trigger. The charade was no longer necessary, so he struggled at the straps, trying to free himself. “We’re not in Kuntsevo,” he said, drawing the gun from his robe and pointing it at Stefan, “and I suggest you take me there immediately.”

But Stefan Kramer and a close friend, Zhenya Svedov, the son of one of Yakov Kramer’s fellow prisoners, swung themselves out of their seats and were immediately joined by a third, who leaped out from beneath a stretcher behind the front seat: Charles Stone was out of the ambulance, slamming the doors behind him.

Pavlichenko sat up and fired a shot, spider-webbing the windshield.

“I don’t suggest you fire again,” Stone spoke in Russian, in a clear, strong voice. He and the two others had spread themselves out at a distance around the vehicle: Stone aiming his Glock on one side; Stefan on the other, aiming a revolver his father had kept since World War II. The chairman of the KGB could see at once that he was outnumbered, and for a moment he froze.

Stone watched Pavlichenko, who seemed relaxed and confident, his gun casually pointed, as if this whole thing were but a brief interruption that would soon be over.

Of course it had been a simple matter for Stefan to get the ambulance and the uniforms, but Stone had been stunned at how simple it had been to go right into the Kremlin Clinic with no security credentials at all, just an ambulance operator’s uniform. Even in the Soviet Union, hospital security was lax: speed in saving lives displaced the Soviet instinct for security.

Stone had picked the deadbolt on the garage with improvised tools selected from Stefan’s medical-assistance bag: a long metal curette which he bent to simulate a torsion wrench, and a long steel pin used for testing “pinprick sensation.” Quite an assortment of explosives and detonators had been left there, obviously in order to implicate the Kramers in the Red Square bombing.

Knowing that Pavlichenko had readied a room at Kuntsevo for later that day, and that the CAT scan would appear to have been done at the central Kremlin Clinic on Granovsky Street, Stefan had theorized that Pavlichenko would have put in a call for an ambulance. This was confirmed by Chavadze’s information: a bed was being readied for a Politburo member this morning at Kuntsevo.

And Stone and Stefan, joined by Stefan’s friend Zhenya Svetlov, had managed to arrive first, before the real ambulance.

“Who are you?” Pavlichenko asked tranquilly. “A foreigner, it must be; I can hear that. Let me urge you to surrender at once. Do you realize the gravity of what you’re doing? I think you may not know that you’ve abducted a member of the Soviet government. Please be thoughtful and put down your weapons.”

From the right side of the ambulance came the voice of Charlie Stone. “And not just any member. A traitor within the government.”

Pavlichenko shook his head and laughed gently. “You are dangerous, crazy people, and I am afraid you are terribly deluded. I urge you not to speak such nonsense to me.” So close, so very close to the end, and this. Who were these people? Not ordinary MVD, probably not GRU.

Pavlichenko had not fired a gun in years, even decades, not since KGB Vysshaya Shkola arms instruction. But he knew that combat drew upon not just weapons but also psychology. These men were young, and they seemed not to be professionals. If they could not be intimidated by the enormous power of Pavlichenko’s office, they could certainly be outthought, outmaneuvered. He was strong; they were weak.

“If you insist upon going through with this charade,” Pavlichenko said, shaking his head sadly, “please be my guest and do so, but I warn you that the might of the entire Soviet Union will be massed against you. You may harm one man, but you will not survive.” The three men had not shifted their positions; two guns remained leveled at him from either side, and he kept his pointed at the foreigner to his right. “Terrorism is a seductive thing, I imagine. You three no doubt think that by taking a member of the Politburo hostage you will change the world. But please understand that taking my life will make no difference in the end.”

“I know about M-3,” Stone said. “I know about how a young aide to Beria was propelled to power. With the help of some cynical Americans. Who didn’t know how naive they were being.”

“You are quite mad,” the KGB chairman said. “Who are you? CIA? Don’t make a mistake your Agency and your country will surely regret.”

“Interesting,” Stone said, “to meet you after such a long journey. A long journey for both of us, I imagine. Now, lower your gun. You’re outnumbered now. It’s that simple.”

Pavlichenko did not lower his gun. He watched, his eyes moving slowly back and forth, assessing the situation, probing for the weak spots. The idiots had to be taken seriously, talked down. One was foreign, probably American. But the others – Russians, surely? Were they CIA? Or – yes. The CIA employee Stone. Of course. “I admire your bravery,” he said gently. “But come now. Kidnapping the chairman of the KGB? I don’t know what goals your service wants to achieve, but you must understand, now that you have done it, how foolish you’re being. Brave, yes, but foolish.”

“Put down the gun,” Stone said. “We know about the mausoleum. We can get you to a telephone so you can countermand the orders – there’s still time, I believe. Or we can get you to Red Square right away, if you prefer.”