The Red Collusion

  This book is dedicated to three close and beloved individuals who are no longer with us, and I feel their absence every day. First of all my father, a loving and caring father and grandfather, a noble man, wise and knowledgeable, and at the same time modest and unassuming; and also to my mother, who was his complete opposite – that is, she was a dominant woman, a socialite whose captivating presence could not be ignored, as well as the unique sense of humor which so characterized her. The book is also dedicated to my cousin, Elliel Yossi of blessed memory, a remarkable fighter pilot with an equally remarkable sense of humor. Yossi and I were the same age, and together we shared many unforgettable experiences; he was like a brother to me in every way.

  The Red Collusion

  David Yaron

  Copyright © 2018 David Yaron

  All rights reserved; No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information retrieval system, without the permission, in writing, of the author.

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  Contact: dudi.yaron@gmail.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Message from the Author

  ◆

  Moscow, May 1989, Novodevichy Cemetery

  The 500-year old Novodevichy convent sits by the Moscow river. It is home to Russia’s most revered cemetery. Some 27,000 sons and daughters of Russia, military heroes as well as cultural icons, rest in peace completely, some since the days of Ivan the Terrible. The cemetery’s elaborately decorated tombs, sculpted in stone and granite in the image of the dead, nestling amidst dense, manicured greenery, lend it the air of a museum of Russian history. Muscovites enjoy occasional visits to the Novodevichy Cemetery, as do other Russians from all over this vast country, who are referred to condescendingly by the locals as “tourists”. Both tourists and locals follow the custom of leaving colorful bouquets on their favorite heroes’ graves.

  Built some eighty years prior to the tumultuous events of this story, the cemetery reflects the Russian love of order and discipline. It is divided into sections according to the deceased’s occupation in life, with one area allocated to writers and others to musicians, playwrights, and masters of all the arts and sciences.

  In the autumn of 1971, Nikita Khrushchev, the Soviet Union’s indisputable leader in the eleven transformative years preceding 1964, was laid to rest in Novodevichy. He was buried secretly, and his death went unreported in the media by order of his successor, Leonid Brezhnev. In fact, the entire cemetery was locked to the public for ten years just to stop his grave from becoming a pilgrimage site for his many admirers.

  Just A Few Steps From Khrushchev’s Grave, another grave had just been dug, for another great leader of the Soviet Union. The bouquets adorning the fresh grave of Comrade Vladimir Petrovich Yermolov, the General Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, were piled so high that they exceeded an average man’s height. Thousands of people stood at attention in the cemetery while a small contingent from the Red Army Choir solemnly sang the Anthem of the Soviet Union. It was the revised version, having been rewritten twelve years earlier to eradicate any mention of Joseph Stalin, the ruthless dictator who had led his nation to a costly victory over Nazi Germany. Unlike Stalin, Yermolov had been loved, not feared. The ceremony was broadcast live throughout the eleven time zones of the Soviet Union. On hearing the national anthem, people from all walks of life, throughout the land, stopped their activities and stood in silence in honor of their beloved leader.

  When the ceremony was over, the master of ceremonies requested that the crowd remain in place while world leaders left the grounds. As the crowd slowly dispersed, an elderly, slightly bent gentleman leaning on a cane remained in place. Dressed in a gray suit, he raked his fingers through his thin white hair from time to time to protect it from the wind. Beside him stood a young officer dressed in a blue Air Force uniform sporting a shiny golden star insignia set between two blue stripes, indicating his rank of major.

  Occasionally, members of the crowd approached the old man, some having a brief word with him.

  “Father”, said the major to the man by his side, “It seems that even though you left the KGB seven years ago, there are still quite a few people who respect you very much.”

  The older man smiled wryly.

  “I’m not so sure of that, son. They may be expressing their gratitude for my retirement”, he suggested, only partly in jest. He took his son’s arm. “Let’s go now. If we’re lucky, we might pass by some of the great sons of our glorious nation.”

  The two walked slowly from the fresh grave along the high red wall, not unlike the more famous wall of the Kremlin. Here, the less distinguished were interred on four levels resembling miniature Soviet city blocks.

  “Father”, asked the young man. “Why isn’t Secretary Yermolov buried inside the Kremlin, as he deserves? You were very close to him. Was that his wish?”

  “Yes, son”, replied the aging former chief of the Committee for State Security, otherwise known as the KGB. “It was his specific request when he fell ill. At one of our last meetings, he clearly said that he did not want to become a tourist attraction after his death. Of course he said it with humor – he always had a sense of humor. He wanted to be buried here in Novodevichy, as he did not wish to have politicians as his neighbors. ‘They will bore me to death,’ he joked. ‘I prefer the company of Anton Chekhov, Nikolai Gogol, Sergey Prokofiev.’ He may have even mentioned Rostropovich and Shostakovich.”

  “Was Yermolov fond of classical music, like you?” the young man wondered.

  “Yes, son. He loved good music, just as he loved all the arts. He was especially drawn to writers and playwrights.”

  The two continued to walk arm in arm on the narrow path along the red wall. They stopped by a tomb bearing the bust of a man holding a violin set atop a tall marble column.

  “Father, you seem tired. Do you want to rest for a while?”

  “Well, I’m not tired, but the feet… the feet are not what they used to be, you know.”

  He looked at the bust of the man. “It will be a great honor to rest beside David Oistrakh. He was one of the greatest violinists of the twentieth century. See for yourself – it says so here. He died fifteen years ago.”

  Nodding, the young man looked down at the marble slab.

  “Father, at the funeral today, I heard for the first time that General Secretary Yermolov was also a hero of the Soviet Union. I’m confused. He was not a military man. What did he receive that honor for? And why didn’t the public know?”

  The retired KGB chief just nodded. “Come, let’s go to the gate. Forgive me, son, but this is a long and complicated story in which I too was involved. I’ll tell you about it some other time, when the time is right.” He looked into his son’s eyes.

  “Have I disappointed you, son? Let me try to cheer you up with a joke that relates to this situation.”

  “I’m always happy to hear a good joke”, bantered the young man. “Maybe some of the nation’s heroes buried around
here will enjoy it as well.”

  “Well”, continued the father, “it’s a Kazakh story about a father and his son who were leading a camel through the Kazakh desert. They walked for hours without saying a word. At dusk, just before sunset, the father asked the son, ‘Why are you quiet son? Why aren’t you asking me questions as you always do?’ The son answered, ‘Why does the sun always rise in the east and set in the west?’ The father said, ‘I don’t know.’ Several minutes later the son asked again, ‘How can the camel walk for days in the desert without drinking water?’ The father again replied, ‘I really don’t know, son.’ The son became discouraged over his father’s failure to answer his questions and continued walking in silence. Several minutes later, the father asked his son, ‘Why aren’t you asking me any more questions? If you don’t ask, how will you learn?’” The former KGB chief’s son barked a laugh.

  “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

  Moscow, eight years earlier.

  Gospodin1 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.

  The KGB chief, Leonid Kliatchko, dressed in the light blue uniform of his office, shifted nervously in his chair. This did not escape Yermolov, who now directed his attention to him.

  “I will deal with you soon, Comrade Kliatchko, but right now, just listen to me”, Yermolov admonished, pointing a finger at him.

  The General Secretary continued, all the while glaring at the KGB chief. “We must operate on two levels simultaneously. First of all, we must personally attack all those individuals abroad who are fomenting trouble and encouraging the traitors in our midst. These people are being organized, financed, and directed by the secret services of the Federal German Republic, France and the United Kingdom, which all follow the directives of the Americans and the CIA. As I see it, there is no difference between intelligence agencies and the governments that operate them. We will therefore punish these countries.

  “Within 24 hours, I want a plan of action from each of you for undermining the stability and internal security of these Western states. We operate well-developed KGB infrastructures in all these countries, and we have plenty of Spetnez2 sleeper fighting cells planted in them. These should be awakened and given a chance to justify their reputations and our investment. I am not ruling out any means or methods, from encouraging labor union strikes, to physical sabotage of transportation networks, utility infrastructures and anything else you may come up with. I want anarchy there! Anarchy – no less! I want chaos that will ruin the lives of their citizens and drive them to loathe their own capitalist regimes. We have to expose these governments’ impotence. Is that clear?”