 
### The Russian Blonde

### By

### Robert Hendry

### Smashwords Edition

### Copyright 2012 Robert Hendry

### The Lidiya Petrova Series

A Freebie trailer with unpublished pilot stories and extracts from the Lidiya Petrova Series.

******

It is the spring of 1984, and the Cold War is heating up. Washington and Moscow distrust one another and the geriatric leaders of the Soviet Union are paranoid. One man in Moscow has ambitious ideas and they depend on a lovely young blonde.

Her name is Lidiya Mikhailovna Petrova and she is the daughter of a railroad track worker in Kazan. She became a junior communications rating at Black Sea Fleet HQ in Sevastopol. Blind fate and her own resourcefulness catapulted Lidiya up the ranks of the Soviet Navy to make her the youngest Captain (Third Rank) since the Great Patriotic War.

She wears the Gold Star Hero of the Soviet Union medal on her breast, together with Turkish and American decorations. She is the wife of Admiral of the Fleet Mikhail Petrov, Soviet Ambassador to the United States, and in her spare time has become the mother of two adorable girls with a third baby on the way.

Back in Moscow, 78-year-old Boris Ponomarev has headed the International Department of the Soviet Communist Party for quarter of a century. A man who works behind the scenes, Ponomarev selected Lidiya to repair the crumbling relations between the superpowers. When terrorists held Lidiya and her husband hostage, her resourcefulness resolved not one but two international crises.

It made Lidiya a household name in America as well as in Russia, and Boris plans to capitalise on her star status, but it is not long before Lidiya is thrown into the maelstrom of international diplomacy once again.

This Freebie trailer opens as Boris discusses Lidiya's future with a leading Soviet filmmaker and his wife, both of whom have been drawn into 'Operation Lidiya'. Extracts from the first three novels in 'The Lidiya Petrova Series' follow.
Copyright 2012 (C)

The Moral Right of the author has been asserted. All Rights Reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Except as noted below, Names, Characters Places, and Incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.. All the characters who appear in this book, with the exception of Leonid Brezhnev, Viktoria Brezhneva, Konstantin Chernenko, Marshal Dmiti Ustinov, Admiral Sergey Gorshkov, Andrei Gromyko, Marshal Nikolay Ogarkov, Boris Ponomarev, Ronald Reagan and Charles Lichtenstein are fictitious. Any resemblance to any other actual persons, living or dead, is purely co-incidental.

Author's note: All characters depicted in this work of fiction are 18 years of age or older.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

### About the Author

Robert Hendry is a successful author with 26 published titles. In 'The Lidiya Petrova Series', Robert draws on thirty years experience of the Soviet Union, and its politico-military complex. He has first hand knowledge of much of the military hardware and many of the locations that appear in this series.

Robert has seen live firings of a variety of Soviet missiles. He has seen and photographed Soviet warships, helicopters, armoured vehicles and support vehicles at close range. He has watched Naval infantry and Spetsnaz Naval frogmen training. He was present when a World War Two Nazi mine needed to be removed from Sevastopol harbour, a real life episode that provided the inspiration for an incident in the Lidiya Petrova series. He is married to a charming Russian girl, Elena, and has three daughters.

### The Lidiya Petrova Series

### The Russian Blonde

### By

### Robert Hendry

### Chapter 1

Boris Ponomarev's Office, the International Department, Moscow, Tuesday 29 May 1984

Nikita Tarasov stifled a smile as Nadia handed a glass of water and a pot containing three tablets to her 79-year-old boss, Boris Nikolayevich Ponomarev, the head of the International Department of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union.

The elderly Soviet grandee, who had been born in 1905, and had joined the Red Army in 1918 at the age of thirteen, was clearly very fond of his thirty-something auburn haired translator.

'Now, don't forget to take your tablets, Boris Nikolayevich.'

'No Little One, I'll remember.'

'Good, because I shall come back and check.'

Although Westerners often saw the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Andrei Andreyevich Gromyko as the determining factor in Soviet foreign policy, the reality was that organs of government such as the MFA obeyed the party organs. The International Department, which Ponomarev had headed since 1955 was a party organ, so it was clear where the real power lay.

'Off you go, Little One.'

The girl giggled. Both men watched her walk out of the room, if her sexy wriggle could strictly be called walking, that is. Ponomarev smiled.

'Nadia is a ray of sunshine in my life, looking after my tablets, seeing I wear a warm coat in winter...'

'You are very fortunate, Boris Nikol'ich, to have such a splendid translator.'

As he spoke, Tarasov glanced to his left to see that his praise for Nadia had not upset his companion too much. He was relieved to see that Svetlana Kulikova had a soft but knowing smile on her face.

He realised that it was almost a year since the dramatic meeting in Ponomarev's office. It was on that day that Lidiya Petrova, the wife of Admiral Mikhail Petrov, then C-in-C of the Black Sea Fleet, had demanded that the film that was being made about her role in unmasking a plot to murder Yuri Vladimirovich Andropov, the heir to the Soviet 'throne' should include the tragic story of her friend Irina.

Tarasov had been outraged at his professional judgement being called into question by an amateur, but Ponomarev knew that to change Tarasov's mind would be a lot easier than to change Hero of the Soviet Union Lidiya Mikhailovich Petrova's mind.

With hindsight, Tarasov realised that Lidiya had been correct. The tragic story of Ira, whose husband Fedor had died as a result of one plot, and who had sacrificed her own life to bring the plotters to justice, had turned the film into a classic. He resumed where he had stopped speaking when Nadia came in.

'Lidiya Mikhailovna was quite right, Boris Nikol'ich. The scene where Ira confronts Zsuzin and Markov will become a classic in Soviet film history. The beautiful young widow who has lost everything that matters to her confronts the enemies of the state, and her training in DOSAAF allows her to take down two of them, but at the cost of her own life.'

Ponomarev nodded. Listening to Tarasov he could sense the director's pride, and a glance at the table revealed why. Tarasov intercepted the glance.

'Da, Da, To win Best Screenplay at Cannes is a great boost for our Soviet film industry, and that Svetlana was awarded Best Actress against international competition is testimony to the power of the role and to her acting skills.'

Ponomarev smiled at Tarasov's praise for his leading lady and reticence about himself. Such modesty was rare in the film world. He responded.

'And Best Director, Comrade Tarasov, is not something we should forget.'

'Spaseba, thank you. You are much too kind, Boris Nikol'ich.'

Ponomarev glanced at the young actress. Naturally blonde, Svetlana Kulikova had been obliged to tint her hair to play the dark haired Irina. Finding her way into Tarasov's bed had been just as inevitable and predictable as tinting her hair. As she had not reverted to her natural blonde colour it seemed that she had come to like her raven hair

Her marriage to Nikita Tarasov suggested that sharing the director's bed, which was a quid pro quo for her chance at a starring role in the film, had led to something more meaningful for both of them. The wedding of the Best Actress to the Best Director forty-eight hours after Svetlana had received her prestigious award had dominated the latter part of the Cannes Festival.

Standing barely 1.5m tall, Svetlana had been told from the day she entered the film industry that she was too short to play a leading role as the public preferred taller actresses. She had become resigned to earning bit parts on the casting couch in the director's office.

With her role in playing the tragic and lovable Ira in the film, the young Russian actress had rocketed to international stardom and had become the undisputed 'face' of the festival to the chagrin of the many internationally renowned actresses who had flocked there. Ponomarev decided a word of praise would not go amiss.

'Svetlana Alexievna, first of all please accept my sincere congratulations on your marriage to Nikita Vladimirovich.'

The girl blushed.

'Thank you very much, Boris Nikol'ich, I am very happy.'

Ponomarev sensed that she really meant it.

'Nikita is a very fortunate man to have such a lovely wife.'

'You are too kind, Boris Nikol'ich.'

'You and Nikita can be quite sure that the Party will recognise your contribution to enhancing the standing of the Soviet film industry and of the Soviet Union.'

Tarasov, who was more used to moving in official circles than Svetlana, gave his thanks on behalf of the couple. The pleasantries now concluded, Ponomarev pointed to a ring binder on the desk.

'Well Comrade Tarasov, what do you think?'

Nikita Tarasov picked up the folder, shaking his head wryly.

'It is every bit as dramatic as 'The Admiral's Woman' as we finally decided to name the film we have just released. I recall the nail biting tension when Lidiya had to tackle Milutin in the Ai Petri Mountains, when she was unarmed and he had a knife. Even when we were filming, it was terrifying, but I cannot begin to imagine what it must have been like in real life.'

Ponomarev nodded.

'It was a stunning moment in the film.'

To his surprise, Svetlana interrupted.

'Lidiya deserved that Best Actress Award, not me. Did you see? Some of the audience were in tears at that moment.'

Tarasov put his hand on his wife's shoulder.

'And they were in tears when you played Ira in the shoot out.'

For a moment Ponomarev had scarcely believed what he was hearing, when an actress proclaimed the merits of her 'rival' leading lady. After a second or two, he realised that just as Lidiya and Ira had become devoted to one another in real life, that Svetlana and Lidiya had become close during the filming.

He thought back to the day he had taken Lidiya and her husband to Comrade Brezhnev's dacha, and outlined his plans to utilise Lidiya to promote the Soviet Union, and how the first two people to fall victim to her charm had been Brezhnev and himself. His initial annoyance at the disruption that her pregnancy would cause to his plans had turned to concern for her welfare within minutes.

He realised that Tarasov was speaking.

'The story of Lidiya's kidnapping in Washington, the way she turns the tables on the dushmen, the rescue by Major Fed'ko and the tragic death of the young FBI agent will make it a worthy sequel.'

'How do you suggest we handle the film Comrade?'

'May I speak freely, Boris Nikol'ich?'

Most of the Soviet grandees were intolerant of suggestions from below. Boris Ponomarev had owed his survival through the traumatic Stalin era to being pragmatic. If someone had a good idea, use it.

'Of course, comrade.'

'The simple way would be to make this a Mosfilm production, shot here in the Soviet Union. There are some parts of the film, for example Admiral Petrov's appointment as Ambassador of the United States that can be shot here, but if we are to make this film the equal to "The Admiral's Woman", we should shoot as much of it as possible in Washington.'

'Is that feasible?'

'If we approach some of the big Hollywood film companies such as MGM, Twentieth Century Fox, or Warner Brothers, we can offer a joint Russian-American production. If the Soviet Union funds the film, we will retain control, but as a joint production, we gain their immense technical resources, and when it comes to distribution, it will be seen as an American film.

'You think that Hollywood would buy into the idea, Nikita Vladimirovich?'

'Da, da, I do. With the publicity Lidiya Mikhailovna received, she is an even bigger celebrity in the States than in the USSR. Did not His Excellency the American President say that "if Lidiya had been born in this country instead of in the Soviet Union, I would be scouring the jobs column in the papers, as I think I would be needing a new job after January eighty-five"?'

Ponomarev nodded wryly. Only a native-born American was eligible to stand for election to the White House, and Ronald Reagan's quip about Lidiya's popularity in America had been a charming tribute from 'The Great Communicator' as Reagan was justly known.

'What do you wish us to do, Boris Nikol'ich?'

Ponomarev thought for a moment or two. Tarasov's idea of a joint Soviet-American film was brilliant. It would ensure global distribution for the sequel to 'The Admiral's Woman' and project Lidiya to superstar status. The benefit to the Soviet Union were glaringly obvious, but there were a number of reactionaries on the Politburo, who if they fell over a pot of gold, would kick it out of their way unless it had a red star painted on the side!

'You will direct the film, Nikita Vladimirovich, and the ID will back your proposal for a joint Soviet-American film in which the superpowers hold out the hand of friendship. As Svetlana was such a success in "The Admiral's Woman", I think it would be excellent if she were to be teamed up with Lidiya again. What do you think?'

Tarasov nodded vigorously. He saw the merits in repeating a winning combination especially as half of that winning combination was his wife, but Svetlana cut in hurriedly.

'But I speak hardly any English.'

Tarasov put his hand on her shoulder.

'My Lovely, the FBI agent who died was only a few cms taller than you are. There is a distant picture of her standing near Lidiya and Lidiya is much taller. You could play that role, and maybe we can work on your English. If not it could be dubbed, and we will require Russian language and English language versions in any case.'

'Nikita, People will say I am playing Ira again. It won't work.'

'The FBI girl had her hair done quite differently to Ira and she was a redhead. I think that will suit you well, Sveta.'

Sveta smiled at her husband.

'I just think you like killing me, Nikita.'

As Ira had died in her first role, and as Dorothy had died in the role that was now projected for Svetlana, her remark, which caused mirth to Ponomarev and to her husband, was understandable.

Ponomarev saw the sense in what the director was saying. It would do no harm to boost Sveta's confidence.

'Being killed once won you an award at Cannes. Who knows it may be an Oscar the next time you get killed!'

After Tarasov and his wife left, Ponomarev picked up a manila folder. It was headed 'Operation Lidiya'. It had been opened before Lidiya had even visited Turkey where she had received the Turkish Medal of Distinguished Service and an honorary doctorate at Ankara University and had nearly been assassinated.

The returns from 'Operation Lidiya' had already exceeded Ponomarev's wildest hopes. With Lidiya serving in Washington as the wife of the most popular Soviet Ambassador in history, her regular appearances on US television and Tarasov's brilliant idea of a joint Soviet-American film, even the most xenophobic member of the Politburo could not fail to see the PR benefits to be secured.

'Operation Lidiya' was now open ended and would have the full resources of the Soviet Union behind it.

### Chapter 2 To Kill Our Worthy Comrade

How did it all begin? To answer that question we need to board the Moscow-Sevastopol train.

Between Simferopol and Sevastopol, Friday 27 March 1981

Late March and early April is a delightful time in the Crimea. The chill winds of winter have gone, and the baking heat of summer has yet to come. The climate is mild and the countryside is bursting into life. With 15 or 20 minute stops at regular intervals, Soviet long distance trains are not fast, and Lidiya Mikhailovna Kornilova had been travelling for something like 36 hours in packed hard class coaches.

Privacy was not a strong point when travelling hard class, nor was separation of the sexes. A male passenger in the same six-berth section as Kornilova had spent a great deal of time looking up her skirt. She resented it bitterly and had no doubts that, if asked, the slug could have described her legs and her underwear in intimate detail. If she made a complaint no-one would pay any attention, so all she could do was to glare at him.

Her journey had started near Leningrad, where she had done her basic naval training. She was very proud of the golden Cyrillic F for 'Flot' on the blue service patches on her shoulders. They showed that she was now a moryachka or female rating in the Voyenno Morskoy Flot, or Soviet Navy.

Proud though she was, she wished she had been a boy. The chances for a girl to become a Starshina, or petty officer, let alone put up the gold shoulder boards of a Naval Lieutenant with its precious star were negligible. Even so, it was nice to dream of swapping blue for gold.

Her family name was the cause of her being on the train in the first place. It was the same as Admiral Kornilov, one of the heroes of the Russian navy, although so far as she knew, Lidiya was in no way related to the Admiral. However her childhood fascination when she read of a heroic figure that shared her name had prompted an interest in the Crimean war and then in the navy.

Whilst boys were conscripted into the Soviet armed forces at 18, unless they could find a very good excuse to avoid it, girls were only conscripted in time of war. Because of her fascination with the Navy, as soon as Lidiya was 19, and old enough to enlist, she had volunteered for a six-year spell in the navy.

With her school grades, she was assigned to communications duties, the main use for women in the Soviet armed forces being clerical work, communications, and the medical services. Unlike the brutal treatment handed out to the male conscripts, the female volunteers had a much better time, but it was still a career choice that few young women made.

Whilst Lidiya would never go to sea, she was in the Navy, but six months in a run down and chilly naval barracks in Leningrad had done little to sharpen the enthusiasm of any of the girls in her group. However, she and eight other girls had struck lucky with postings to the Black Sea Fleet.

They were the envy of the rest of their group, who had drawn assignments in the Baltic Fleet, Northern Fleet or with the Pacific fleet in far off Vladivostok. It was pointed out to all nine girls that they were the lucky ones, but that if they put a foot wrong, they could expect reassignment to the Arctic. Lidiya Kornilova did not intend to put a toe wrong.

In common with the rest of the girls, she was looking forward to the end of the train journey when she could stretch her legs. Thirty-six hours in hard class accommodation was not much fun. The only exercise was a trip to the toilet at the end of the coach in the hope that the Providnitsa had opened it after the previous station stop and someone else had not got there first.

Beyond Mekenziyeve Gory, the railway line into Sevastopol gives numerous glimpses of North Bay, the long inlet that creates Sevastopol naval base. In between plunging into several tunnels, it offers increasingly good views of the fleet anchorage. When she saw the ships, Lidiya realised why security men had boarded the train at Verkhnesadovaya, a short distance back, to check everyone's dokumenty.

Lidiya was excited, for her hero, Admiral Kornilov, had served in Sevastopol, being killed in a massive explosion at the Malakoff redoubt on 17 October 1854. One place Lidiya intended to visit as soon as she could was the Malakoff.

The train pulled into Inkerman station, sitting there for several minutes whilst the girls chaffed at the delay. Eventually it was under way again, giving even closer views of North Bay, and passed within metres of a massive 17,000 ton all gun cruiser in Soviet light grey paintwork with green boot topping and a large white painted numeral on the side.

As a communications rating, the 20 year old Lidiya was sure she would get to know the names and identification numbers of all of these ships before long. Admiral Kornilov had served his country, and now she was going to do the same. She thought of the blue shoulder boards and wished they could be gold, but that was an impossible dream. If only she had been a boy.

Finally the train arrived at Sevastopol station, where the girls disembarked on to the long platform, which was devoid of shelter of any sort. A naval lieutenant was waiting for the young women, and told them to follow him, as he would take them to fleet headquarters where they would be working.

As the arrival of a bunch of communications girls was of no importance, he was not in the smart parade uniform that Admiral Petrov had worn when he assumed command of the fleet, but in everyday uniform.

Fleet Headquarters, Sevastopol Wednesday 29 April 1981

For several days, Lidiya Kornilova knew it would happen, and that she had to be smart. She thought back to her six months in Leningrad and what had happened there. The young Lieutenant in charge of her squad of girls was a first class swine. He had propositioned several of the girls already, making it clear to them that the wrong answer would led to them being on a charge of some sort.

When he had made a pass at Lidiya, she had smiled back, and said she would love to go out with him. She added that they would need to keep it quiet from her boyfriend, Pavlik, or he might take it out on both of them. As the boyfriends that the teen girls usually had were factory hands, kolkhoz workers or a conscript in the VMF, the lieutenant was not worried.

When Lidiya told him that her boyfriend was a Lieutenant in the KGB, working at the 'Big House' on Ulitsa Kalyaeva, the local KGB headquarters, he rapidly lost interest in her. He knew that if you were dumb enough to mess around with KGB 'property', life might get very difficult. If the damn girl belonged to a KGB officer, you left her well alone.

It was better to go after a girl who did not have a 'friend' who could trash you. You also treated the bitch with kid gloves, in case she got mad enough to whine to her boyfriend. After their friendly chat, he treated Lidiya much better than the other girls who lacked a protector. Lidiya knew how deeply she was in debt to her fictitious KGB boyfriend.

A month or so after she was posted to Fleet HQ, she faced the same problem. This time it was the Captain (Second Rank) in charge of the Communications unit. Captain Viktorov smiled at her as he invited her out. Lidiya gave him a sexy smile, and said how great it would be to go out with someone as important as the Comrade Captain. She hoped he would take her somewhere nice. As he heard her say that, Viktorov thought.

'This potascookha – slut - is going be an easy lay.'

She added as an aside that they had better keep it secret from her boyfriend, Pavlik. He might get nasty. Viktorov was not afraid of an angry worker or peasant. In fact, he enjoyed the power it gave him if the girl was afraid that their brief liaison might tear her love life apart. He had deliberately landed one of the girls in hot water with her long-term boyfriend for the fun of seeing her misery.

He asked her about Pavlik. When she said that Pavlik, whom she had now promoted to major, was in the Sevastopol office of the KGB, Stephan Viktorov rapidly lost interest. No sane navy captain played around with a slut who was owned by a KGB major, even if she was as willing as this little tramp was. The 'little tramp' chased the captain for the next week or so, until he made it clear she could go to hell, which is what she had hoped he would say.

Admiral Petrov's Sitting Room, Fleet headquarters, Sevastopol 10.30pm, Friday 26 June 1982

Following the General Secretary's departure for Oreanda, Mikhail Petrov had a less than friendly interview with Vice Admiral Milutin, who had been in commend of "The Red Fleet", during Moonlight Waltz. "The Red Fleet", as defenders of the Rodina, was expected to defeat the much weaker invaders of "The Blue Fleet" under Rear Admiral Ozhimkov.

Instead, Milutin's force had been defeated contrary to all expectations. This suggested that the defence plans for the Crimean coast were not good enough, or that Milutin was a fool. Petrov felt the defence plans were weak, but it was clear that Milutin was inept. Privately, Petrov would not willingly entrust the man with a 150-ton fire boat.

After a long and worrying day, and once he had finally got rid of Milutin, and his endless excuses, Petrov was tired and irritated. Hoping for a peaceful night, he gave orders that he was not to be disturbed. When he returned to his sitting room, he found to his surprise that Kornilova was still there, waiting patiently, as she had been told by Captain Viktorov to expect a debriefing.

There was an almost empty bottle of Vodka on the table and two glasses, so the General Secretary had enjoyed the facilities placed at his disposal. After sitting for so many hours, the girl was dozing, and had a glazed and vacant expression on her face. He wondered if she was overcome with embarrassment, as everyone would know she had been chosen to 'entertain' Leonid Ilyich.

On the other hand, she might be dumbstruck at the honour of having been with the great man. Shame or pride; either reaction was possible. Petrov had no wish for another interview, and was tempted to dismiss her. As the girl must have been sitting there for six hours, he decided he could spare ten minutes to hear her report.

As he felt like a drink after a troublesome day, Petrov poured a generous measure of Vodka for himself, and handed a glass to the girl as well. She was clearly embarrassed to be the recipient of such a courtesy from her C-in-C, and thanked him politely, her eyes downcast.

He did not want to know how the General Secretary might have 'performed' with the girl, but any questions Leonid Ilyich had asked her regarding the fleet might be important. At first Kornilova seemed dazed, but as she threw off her sleepiness, and before she had even finished her vodka, she had become distinctly 'merry' to Petrov's surprise.

He recalled that in common with all the guests at the lunch, she would have had several shots of vodka, as there had been many toasts. Good manners called for you to down the contents in one gulp, but common sense called for a small shot, or making a glass last two or three toasts. If the girl was unused to vodka, could not hold her drink, or did not know how to keep the intake down, she could have drunk far more than was prudent.

That might explain her behaviour. Her reply when he asked about the General Secretary, confirmed that. Instead of the respect that was due to the General Secretary, the girl told him between sobs of laughter that Leonid Ilyich had poured large glasses of vodka for both of them to drink, but after pawing her boobs for a few minutes and giving her a second glass of vodka, he had fallen asleep on her shoulder. She giggled.

'I am the pillow of the General Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, Comrade Admiral, of dear Leonid Ilyich.'

Petrov knew only too well of the Soviet jokes about the over use of the cliché 'dear Leonid Ilyich' in speeches, and of the joke that the great man answered the phone, 'Hullo, this is dear Leonid Ilyich...' Petrov decided to send her back to her quarters, as no useful questioning was possible, given the state she was in.

Before he could do so, she burst into song, in the form of a scandalous chastushka that poked fun at the party,

'The winter's passed,

The summer's here.

For this we thank

Our party dear!'

Lidiya giggled.

'It's true Comrade Admiral, All good things come from the party, the Sun, the moon, the stars, admirals, even dear Leonid Ilyich, especially dear old Leonid Ilyich.'

He put his hand on her shoulder.

'Shush, Kornilova, you're drunk.'

'Niet, Niet, Niet, I am beloved Leonid Ilyich's pillow, and you, beloved Comrade Admiral are my pillow.'

It then got worse, as the girl said in a confidential drunken whisper.

'Comrade Admiral I have a secret to tell you. The leaders of the American CIA, of the Fascist Gestapo and our beloved KGB were having lunch together, and each boasted that theirs was the most efficient service. So, what do you think happened?'

The girl gave a drunken grin, and Petrov tried to shush her, but she went on.

'They decided to release a rabbit into a forest, and each agency had a month to find it. Our American friends used spy planes and satellites, motion sensors and infrared detectors, and after a month, produced a conclusive report that the rabbit had never existed. The Fascist bandits surrounded the forest with tanks and guns and a few hours later there was not a tree, a blade of grass, or even a mouse left. The Fascist general reported, "Der rabbit ist Kaput." '

'The KGB surrounded the forest and sent patrols in to investigate. Twenty-four hours later, a badly beaten bear came out of the forest with his hands up saying, 'I surrender, I surrender, I'm a rabbit'. Are not the guardians of the Rodina wonderful, beloved Comrade Admiral?'

Petrov shook his head in despair. Her earlier remarks had been risky, but to poke fun at the KGB, even if you were drunk, was lunatic. Petrov knew a KGB joke himself, but he did not think it wise to tell the girl.

'There are three kinds of Russian roulette. In the simple game, there is one live round in the chamber; for more adventurous players, there is one chamber without a live round, and for the real thrill seeker, you make a joke about the KGB.'

Kornilova, it appeared, was keen to play the most advanced version of the game.

Under Article 58 of the Penal Code 'propaganda and agitation against the Soviet Union' was a serious offence that could attract up to 25 years imprisonment or even a death sentence. Anyone who failed to report such criminal behaviour would also be liable to prison. Although the later article 70 was less draconian, the girl could still spend the next few years in jail.

Any junior officer who heard a member of the VMF, the Voyenno Morskoy Flot, or Navy, behaving in such a disgraceful way and who failed to report it, would be failing in his Socialist duty. As Commander-in-Chief, he was not excused from that burden, so his duty was clear. He had to report her to Vice Admiral Yevgeniy Novitskiy, Commander of the Black Sea Fleet Political Directorate, who would arrest her at once.

As he looked at the drunken girl, he knew there was no way he could do that. He had stupidly given her a glass of vodka. 'Dear Leonid Ilyich' had plied her with vodka and she had a string of toasts to drink earlier in the day. To his despair, the girl was laughing and started kissing his fingers, for with the vodka she had consumed, she was now flirtatious, cuddling up to him, and resting her head on his shoulder. She gazed into his face.

'Beloved Comrade Admiral, you know about the camel, don't you?'

Petrov put his hand on her shoulder.

'Shush, Kornilova.'

'Lidiya, Lidiya, my beloved comrade admiral, I'm Lidiya.'

'Shush, Lidiya.'

'Niet, Niet, Niet. Comrade Stalin gave orders that all rabbits in the USSR were to be shot. A few days later, a camel walks up to the border guards on the Turkish side of the border with Rossiya and asks for political asylum. The Turkish border guard asks him.'

'Why do you want political asylum?'

'Because Comrade Stalin has given orders that all rabbits are to be shot.'

'But you're not a rabbit, you're a camel.'

'Yes, but how do I prove it?'

'Comrade Admiral, am I a camel or a rabbit?'

It was an old joke that he had heard many times, but that did not make it any safer. Listening to Lidiya babbling away, Petrov realised that he could not send her back to her quarters in the state she was in without her ending up in a cell. If the Fleet Political Directorate got their teeth into her, no one could help her.

The sofa she had been sitting on was too short for the girl to lie on comfortably. Although he had no wish to have a drunken young woman in his quarters overnight, he decided the only thing to do was to carry the slender communications girl to the other longer sofa in his sitting room, and let her sleep it off overnight.

He put his arms round her to lift her up, but Lidiya, misconstruing the situation threw her arms round him, pressed her lips to his, and kissed him passionately. Petrov resisted for a moment or two, but he had been deprived of feminine company ever since his wife died, and with a beautiful girl showering him with kisses, suddenly found he was kissing her back.

Their tongues fought one another for supremacy in the kind of lovers duel that both sides win. With Lydia's arms clasped tightly around him, holding him and caressing him, he realised that instead of carrying her to the sofa, as he had intended, he was caressed her in return. As he ran his hand up and down her back, she arched her back, and moaned.

'Oh god, Yes.'

The two of them broke the kiss that had seemed to go on forever, so their lungs could gasp in some air. Almost by telepathy their mouths moved towards one another again, and they kissed with even more passion, if that were possible.

Within a few seconds, the telepathic bond that had grown up between them meant that Mikhail Aleksandrovich Petrov and Lidiya Mikhailovna Kornilova were frantically tearing at one another's clothes. With Lidiya naked except for her shoes, Petrov swept the young woman up into his arms, and she had just enough sense to throw her arms around his neck.

He carried her into the bedroom and gently laid her down, noticing as he did so that she was still wearing her shoes. Thoughtfully he removed them and put them at the side of the bed. As he slipped into bed beside her, Mikhail Petrov was by no means certain what was the right thing to do.

Plenty of senior officers ran their own harems, and no one would see anything wrong in him bedding one of his communications girls. Seemingly Lidiya had no such doubts, as she reached over, took his face in her hands and kissed him. Their mutual desire was too strong to resist.

PVO Air Defence station, south of Saki, 12.54am Saturday 27 June

Major Pyotr Dobrynin, commanding the duty shift at the PVO air defence control station guarding the southern flanks of the homeland, looked up at the General who had arrived half an hour earlier. The orders he had been given had shocked him. With the directive from Dzerzhinsky Square, and an explanation of the threat to the homeland given to him by a KGB Lieutenant General, his duty was to obey.

'Comrade General, I have them on my surveillance radar. Three large blips and four smaller ones. The large blips will be the bombers. The smaller blips, the fighters. I don't want to paint them just yet with my fire control guidance radars, as it will give them too much warning.'

Lieutenant General Leonid Sukhanov looked at him dispassionately.

'Comrade Major, You know your equipment best, but I must remind you that if you fail, if these traitors get through to attack the General Secretary, you will pay for your negligence with your life. Do you understand me?'

'Yes, certainly, Comrade General, we shall not fail the Motherland.'

Dobrynin looked around the control room, and then stared intently at the panoramic display before him. Maybe the general had thought to sharpen his concentration by his threat. If so it was unnecessary. To Dobrynin, the general's earlier explanation, that traitors were planning to bomb the General Secretary's dacha, was far more potent.

'Soon' he murmured to himself. In his battery he had six operational missiles, but seven targets coming at him. He could reload, but the planes would be out of range. The general had said that the three big blips represented the Tu 16 bombers, which, with their 3000kg bomb load, represented the principal threat to the General Secretary. Dobrynin planned to take out the three bombers and three of the four interceptors.

'Weapons controller, I am designating now.'

'No 1 controller has lock on.'

'No 2 controller has lock on.'

'No 1 fire, No 2 fire.'

A blast of flame erupted from the first pair of the 7 metre long SA10 surface-to-air missiles as they erupted from their launchers. With a speed of Mach 6, 100g acceleration, and continuous-wave pulse-Doppler radar guidance, the SA10 was more than a match for the Tu-16 bombers he had been told to expect.

The SA-10 was the latest in a long line of impressive surface to air missiles developed by the Soviet Union. Its initial deployment, to PVO units along the Baltic coast, had only commenced in 1978. The Black sea fleet bases had not been far behind, but Dobrynin's missile battery was less than six months old.

So far as Dobrynin was concerned, the plane crews were no more than dead men now. He wondered what sort of swine could betray the Motherland, but dismissed the thought as he illuminated the third Tu 16, and one of the accompanying interceptors. It would give the scum something to think about.

'Weapons controller, I am designating now.'

'No 1 controller has lock on.'

'No 2 controller has lock on.'

'No 3 fire, No 4 fire.'

MiG-31 Blue 068 at 5,000 meters, south of Saki, Crimea 12.57am Saturday 27 June

Lieutenant Viktor Seelin, Weapons System Officer in MiG-31 'Blue 068' arched his back. In a few minutes they would be landing at Belbek military airfield, north of Sevastopol, and he could stretch his legs. Seelin was tall by Russian standards, and found the WSO's cockpit cramped. He flicked his eyes over the weapons status, navigation and flight control indicators in the green painted housing in front of him.

Everything was in order, much to his relief, as he knew the high standards demanded by his pilot, Colonel Alexei Romanov. He stiffened, and looked in shocked disbelief at the screen, as his SPO15SL radar homing and warning system indicated that two surface to air missiles had just been fired at the flight. A fraction of a second later he alerted Romanov.

'Sir, two SAMs, three o' clock! Can I institute electronic counter measures?'

'Niet, Niet, Viktor, the transports don't have electronic counter measures, and it will make them more vulnerable. We get down below the operating ceiling fast.'

'Sir, another two SAMs on the screen!'

'Der'mo - Shit.'

Tupolev Tu-134A VIP transport, at 5,000 meters, south of Saki, Crimea 12.57am Saturday 27 June

Major Vladimir Semashko paled as he listened to the orders rapped out by Colonel Romanov. Two SAMs with lock-on were enough to worry any man. If Semashko had not got plenty to do in the few seconds before the missiles arrived, he knew that he would have been more than worried. He would have been petrified.

Semashko hauled the stick of the heavy TU-134A into his left thigh, banked steeply, and dived for the ground as quickly as he dared. Unlike the agile MiG-31s, the big plane was not stressed for violent evasive action, and he was worried that he would tear the plane apart in the manoeuvres he was making. The other two TU-134s, obedient to the orders Romanov had given, moved between Semashko's machine and the SAM battery.

Fifteen seconds later, Romanov cut in with more orders, this time accompanied with a string of profanities. Semashko looked out of the starboard windows of his cockpit. Two hundred metres away, a MiG-31 slid into position beside him. Semashko realised that the pilot had used his missile warning radar to position himself between the SAM battery and Semashko's machine. The pilot raised his hand in salute to him, a salute that the horror stricken Semashko returned, knowing the MiG pilot would be dead within seconds.

The night sky light up with a violent explosion as the first SAM 10, its active radar homing system locked on to one of the other transports, blew it to pieces. Two seconds later, and before the blast wave had even hit Semashko's machine, the second missile smashed into the fuselage of the MiG-31 that was screening him. The MiG simply ceased to exist. Semashko struggled to keep control as the transport rocked from the effects of the explosions.

'Poor Bastards' Semashko muttered.

Fifteen seconds later, the second pair of missiles arrived. One had locked on to the other Tu-134, which turned into a fireball. The second had been targeted on Romanov's wingman. The MiG dissolved into fragments. Once again the Tu-134 rocked in the blast.

'Not so good.' Semashko muttered to himself. Two transports and two MiGs down in less than half a minute. He didn't know the MiG pilots, but the captain of one of the transports had been one of one of his best friends. They had attended flying training school together as young officers. Semashko had no idea of why he was being shot at, but now knew why he had an escort. Somebody did not want his passengers to reach their destination. He just hoped there were no more missiles coming in at them.

Well, that gives you a taste of how the pretty teen from Kazan got into the Navy in the first place, of how women in the Soviet armed forces were so often the plaything of more senior officers and how Lidiya had been selected against her will to 'entertain' the General Secretary. Within hours of her meeting her Commander-in-Chief trouble erupts in the night skies over the Crimea.

Soviet land, sea and aviation forces are soon locked in a struggle as the plotters manipulate loyal units to achieve their ends. Before long, units of Admiral Petrov's command are committed to a desperate struggle to save the life of the ageing General Secretary of the Soviet Union, Leonid Ilyich Brezhnev. Lidiya as a communications rating becomes the mouthpiece of the C-in-C as frantic orders go out.

The NATO commanders in Turkey listen aghast as Soviet Naval units move to combat readiness and a stream of high performance fighters take off. Is the 'plot' camouflage for a move against NATO.

Off the coast, Oreanda 10.50pm Saturday 27 June

With the sound of a pitched battle raging in the vicinity of the dacha, Fedor Ustinov's 170-ton Project 204 Tarantul class Border Guard patrol boat, _PSKR-635_ , had gone to Battle Stations. With 5 officers and 27 men, it could not land a large rescue force, but even a modest force could tip the balance, and Ustinov was seriously considering sending a landing party ashore.

Before doing so, he told his sonar operator, Boris Martov, to go active with the hull mounted Bronza sonar. The sonar immediately painted Vanayev's _B-443 'Rezinki'_ which had slowly closed to within 2000 metres of the beach, to be ready to rescue the General Secretary if he was brought down to the beach.

This was in accordance with the orders that had been given to Captain Vanayev, but he was not happy about it, for it also brought him within detection range of the Border Guard patrol boat. Vanayev would have preferred to take out the Tarantul with a pre-emptive torpedo attack, but knew that if he did so, the loss of the Border Guard boat would bring other patrol boats to the area.

In this he was correct, as the usual coastal patrols had been stepped up, so there was not just Ustinov's boat in the area, but another two PSKRs within 20 kms. Both of them could be on him in half an hour. The readiness boat from Balaklava would have 60 kms to cover but would be there in under two hours, and with all hell breaking loose off Oreanda, 5th Independent Patrol Brigade would have every boat on the base crewed up and out to sea in quick time.

If the General Secretary was brought to the beach, Vanayev planned an immediate torpedo attack on the patrol boat, and as soon as that was out of the way, to surface, launch a collapsible boat and extract the General Secretary, hoping to get deep before an angry BG vessel arrived on the scene.

As it happened, at the moment that Martov went active with his sonar, the figure of eight pattern that Fedor Ustinov had adopted to maintain steerage way, whilst remaining on station, had by sheer chance placed his boat just over 3000 metres from the submarine and at a perfect angle to attack. By an unfortunate chance, the set of the current had caused _B-443_ to swing so that she was almost broadside to the Patrol boat and with her bows facing inshore.

Every so often Vanayev adjusted his position using his electric motors, but the less he used his motors in such close proximity to a patrol boat, the better. The situation could not have been worse for Vanayev's boat, which at 91 metres in length and 3,800 tons was one of the largest conventional submarines ever built.

The sonar missed Anatoli Vlasenko's smaller _B-435,_ as she was further out to sea, partially shielded by differing water conditions, and end-on to the Tarantul, which made her the smallest possible target. Within five seconds of Martov reporting the unknown submarine, Ustinov had cracked open the throttles to pick up from idling speed. He yelled.

'Commence the attack.'

On board _B-435_ , Vlasenko was drinking a cup of coffee.

'Conn, Sonar, The Tarantul went active with her Sonar, Captain, and she painted the _B-443_.'

'Battle Stations; Battle Stations! Prepare Torpedo Attack.'

'Conn, Sonar, the Tarantul is accelerating sir, I think he is going in to attack.'

Vlasenko turned to the junior lieutenant in charge of the Leningrad mechanical analogue torpedo fire-control system.

'Do you have a firing solution?'

'Firing solution locked in, Captain.'

'Prepare to Fire Tubes 1 and 2.'

'Prepare to Fire Tubes 1 and 2.'

'Fire One.'

'One Fired.'

'Fire Two.'

'Two Fired.'

'Take her down fast.'

Sitting in his cramped Sonar compartment next to the bridge of _PSKR-635_ , Boris Martov, the Border Guard sonar operator, looked in disbelief at his sonar console. He had a good sonar fix on a submarine that was lurking unpleasantly close to the General Secretary's dacha, and was feeding attack data to his captain, Senior Lieutenant Ustinov.

Suddenly, the console indicated that there was a pair of Russian SAET-60M acoustical homing torpedoes in the water, but not on the bearings that the submarine contact was on. There were two fucking submarines out there. He screamed into his mike.

'Torpedoes in the water, Torpedoes in the water, bearing 197 and 199.'

Ustinov also realised that were two subs involved. The boat was already picking up speed rapidly, but he slammed the throttles open to deliver the full 15,000 bhp to the triple screws that could drive his Tarantul at up to 35 knots.

Although Vlasenko, on the _B-435_ , which had launched the torpedo attack, could not know it, Ustinov was not a part of the plot, nor was he aware of the rescue plan. If a submarine was lurking in the vicinity of the dacha, his job was to protect the General Secretary by hunting it down, and if need be add his firepower to the defenders of the dacha.

In the control room on _B-435_ , Captain (First Rank) Vlasenko glanced at the Exec.

'Time to Target, Comrade Lieutenant?'

'6 minutes 24 seconds, Captain unless he runs.'

Senior Lieutenant Ustinov had reached a similar conclusion. With a pair of acoustic homing SAET-60s coming at you at 40 knots you did run, but as he was less than 2000 metres off the coast, he had nowhere to run to. Grimly, he decided to continue the attack on the known target. With speed building up to the maximum 35 knots rapidly, the bows were starting to life out of the water.

'Sonar, how far to target?'

'1500 metres captain.'

'We will drop four depth charges.'

At the stern, the crew hurriedly prepared to release a pattern of four charges. With speed building up rapidly, it took less than 3 minutes to cover the distance to the fleeing submarine.

'50 metres captain.'

'Release.'

Four depth charges rolled off the stern racks of _PSKR-635_ in much the same way that depth charge attacks had been made since the dawn of submarine warfare.

Captain (Third Rank) Grigori Vanayev, of the _B-443_ , had been at periscope depth when his boat was painted by the Tarantul. With the Border Guard so close and his boat at an impossible angle, Vanayev did not have time to turn the boat and set up a good firing solution before the BG launch was on them.

His only choice was to dive his 'Sheatfish' patrol submarine, relying on the hit and miss nature of old fashioned depth charge attacks to keep him out of trouble. When the Tarantul came in to attack, Vanayev's boat already had her bows to sea, to give her sea room before taking on her attacker.

She was at sixty metres depth when the first of the depth charges exploded. The record of the Czarist and Soviet navies with depth charges in both World Wars had been derisory, and a successful depth charge attack has always required a mixture of skill and luck, so the odds were strongly with Vanayev.

The first charge that Ustinov dropped was sufficiently far from the sub to do nothing more than give it a good shaking and break a few light bulbs, but the second charge detonated approximately seven metres from the port side of the engine compartment, causing severe damage and starting several leaks.

As _PSKR-635_ had passed obliquely over the top of the rapidly diving boat, the third charge was dropped on the starboard side of the boat, and detonated within four metres of the engine compartment. As the effect of a depth charge varies as to the cube of the distance, the difference between four and seven meters was immense.

The second charge had badly damaged the Sheatfish, but the third charge inflicted fatal damage, rupturing the pressure hull at the worst possible spot. Water started flooding in. As an experienced submariner, Vanayev knew that his boat was badly hit, and there was only one order he could give.

'Surface, Surface, Emergency blow.'

As compressed air roared into the ballast tanks, lightening the 'Sheatfish' to drive her to the surface, water in the engine room reached and shorted the main generators and the buff painted instrument panels, depriving the boat of electrical power. All that was left were the battery powered standby circuits.

Far more seriously, the explosion had distorted the bulkhead between the engine room and the forward compartments. Chief Engineer Maltsev knew that it was only if the engine room could be isolated, that the boat stood a chance of reaching the surface. As the only chance to close the watertight door was from the engine room side, Maltsev made no attempt to escape from the rapidly flooding compartment, but desperately tried to close the forrard door.

In doing so, he was sacrificing his life to save the boat, but was living up to the highest traditions of the submarine service. To his dismay, the door, although nearly shut, was clearly not fully watertight. As water reached chest height in the engine compartment, Maltsev hammered at the reluctant door with a large wrench, trying to shut it even a few millimetres that would decide the fate of the boat.

The rest of the engine room crew had retreated to the after compartment, and dogged the aft watertight door shut. In the dull glow of the emergency lights they stared at one another fearfully. The sounds of Maltsev's desperate assault on the watertight door to the control room persisted for half a minute after the last man had scrambled into the after compartment as the water was pouring over the base of the hatch. Then there was silence. They knew that the engine compartment was now flooded, and the chief had drowned.

In the control room, Vanayev was frantically trying to surface the boat, but with the engine room flooded, water was pouring through the combing to the forward compartments. Vanayev watched the dials with a grim certainty as the ascent slowed and stopped at 20 metres, and then the boat started to sink. He shook his head. His wife, Julia, was about to become a widow, and he would never see his two children again. Their photo was in his cabin. It always went to sea with him.

Anatoli Vlasenko on board the _B-435_ , listened aghast to the sonar reports of what was happening on board the other boat.

'She's been hit bad Captain.'

'We can hear water rushing in.'

'She's trying to blow emergency, Captain.'

'I don't think she's going to make it.'

The attack by the Tarantul had been devastating, and in his sonar compartment on _PSKR-635_ , Boris Martov had relaid the sounds of flooding in the _B-443_ to Lt Ustinov on the bridge. However the Border Guard boat was still in danger. The SAET 60s from B-435 had been closing at 40 knots.

Unlike American or Soviet nuclear submarines with their noisemakers and decoys, the Tarantul had nothing to deflect an incoming torpedo once it had acquired, but the SAET-60s were not comparable to the deadly USN Mk 48s or the Royal Navy Spearfish torpedoes. Within seconds of dropping his depth charge pattern, Ustinov had throttled back his three diesel engine to ticking over.

The hope was that the reduced noise level from his boat and the sound of the explosions as the depth charges reached their depth settings would confuse the SAET-60s. The combined effects of the violent manoeuvring of the Tarantul, the explosion of the depth charges and the sound of water rushing into the doomed _B-443_ achieved Ustinov's goal as both SAET-60s temporarily lost their target.

One torpedo never reacquired a target. In its search for a fresh target, the acoustic sensor on the second torpedo found the stricken Sheatfish, and guided the SAET-60 in to explode against the pressure hull in the vicinity of the Control Room. The submarine was already doomed, and with the mediocre rescue facilities in the Soviet fleet, the chance of getting any of the men out was poor, so a lingering death awaited them.

The explosion of 300 kgs of high explosive in contact with the pressure hull ruptured the hull and destroyed the watertight integrity of the forward compartments of the boat. For the crew in the forward half of the boat it was probably a merciful release.

In the aft compartment, astern of the engine room, the handful of survivors faced a terrible wait as oxygen was gradually used up and the atmosphere became steadily more poisonous. They too would die, but it would be the slow agonising death that no submariner deserves.

One boat might be accounted for, but Ustinov knew they were still in trouble. He bellowed.

'What's the bearing to the other boat?'

'155 degrees Comrade Captain.'

'Come left to 155. We're going in to attack again.'

'Bridge, Sonar, What's the range to the bastard.'

'Less than 5000 metres Captain.'

'Prepare a pattern of four depth charges.'

On the quarterdeck of _PSKR-635_ , the crew hurried to set the 4-charge pattern that the Captain had ordered. Their first attack had been a brilliant success, and they were confident in themselves and the 'boss'.

On _B-435_ , Captain Vlasenko listened in horror as his sonar operator reported that the SAET-60 had acquired the sinking Sheatfish. The sound of the explosion could clearly be heard throughout the boat.

'Conn, Sonar, 'She's breaking up captain. We can hear water rushing in.'

Vlasenko felt sick as the terrible reports came in. It was clear to him that the _B-443_ was already doomed, but it added to the horror, that his own torpedo that had finished off his friend's boat.

An armchair analyst would confirm that Vlasenko had acted correctly, but the armchair analyst had not heard his own torpedo homing on to his friend's boat. That was a big difference. Never in his life had he hated anyone so much as the swine on the Border Guard boat. In an ominously quiet voice, he said.

'I want a firing solution on that damned Tarantul. I want that swine'

The Leningrad mechanical-analogue fire-control system on his Foxtrot class boat was archaic compared to the equipment on the latest nuclear boats, but it was a straightforward tactical situation, well within its capabilities. The junior lieutenant on the 'Leningrad' was calm and professional.

'It's straight down the throat captain, but we have a solution, he's on 335 degrees and coming at us fast.'

'Forward Torpedo Room; Conn. Stand by to Fire Tubes 3 and 4.'

'Conn, Forward Torpedo Room: Stand by to Fire Tubes 3 and 4.'

'Fire 3.'

'Three Fired.'

'Fire 4.'

'Four Fired.'

'Take her down fast. Make you depth 100 metres. Left full rudder. Full ahead.'

'Flood Tubes 5 and 6 and open outer doors.'

With well under 4000 metres separating the Tarantul and the submarine, and with the torpedoes and the patrol boat approaching one another at a combined speed of 75 knots, the time to impact was barely a minute and a quarter.

On the Tarantul, sonar man Martov yelled desperately into his mike.

'Torpedoes in the water, bearing 155.'

Senior Lieutenant Ustinov gripped the throttle controls of his beloved _PSKR-635_. With the deafening roar that the three M-504 diesels were making, there was no way that an acoustic torpedo would not have acquired them by now. Even if he could have turned the boat, and even if he had sea room, he could not hope to outrun the SAET-60s at such a close range.

In his sonar compartment, Boris Martov stared at the sonar display that clicked off the distance between the Tarantul and its approaching doom too quickly and too slowly. So as not to be deafened by the impending explosion, he carefully removed the headphones, although doing so was pointless, as the explosion was going to kill him.

As the SAET-60s approached, Fedor Ustinov mind went back to his wedding day, and to his idle thoughts soon after they sailed of how nice it would have been if he could have taken his Ira with him for the trip. It would have made for a perfect pleasure cruise. He shuddered; glad that rules had prevented such a nightmare.

He knew that he would never see his pretty dark haired wife again, but at least she was safe at home. Fedor Ustinov was far away from the bridge of _PSKR-635_ , and looking into Ira's pretty dark eyes, as the first SAET-60 detonated immediately below the thundering engines of the Tarantul, blasting a gaping hole in the keel and bottom plates and killing everyone in the vicinity.

The second SAET-60, trailing it by less than three seconds, detonated under the bows of the mortally wounded boat, shearing away the bow section as far as the wheelhouse as cleanly as if it had been cut by a knife. The explosion also blew in all the windows on the bridge, sending a lethal storm of slivers of glass across the bridge.

In less than five seconds the Tarantul lay dead in the water, its back broken and bows blasted off, and most of the crew dead in the blast from the two explosions, the sheet of flame that followed, or the hail of splinters. They were the lucky ones. The unlucky ones, including sonar man Boris Martov and the badly wounded Fedor Ustinov, choked to death in the poisonous acrid smoke as the plastic insulation on the cabling burnt freely.

The sonar operator on _B-435_ reported.

'Target is dead in the water Captain.'

'Water is entering. I can hear secondary explosions.'

Captain Vlasenko looked round the control room. Everyone looked shaken. The loss of a boat from the same Submarine Battalion, when you knew many of the people on board, hurt badly. Vlasenko had been joking with Captain (Third Rank) Vanayev just before the _B-443_ had sailed. Julia Vanayeva and his wife, Assol, were close friends. In due course, fresh names would be carved on the submariners' memorial near the submarine base.

As his mind tried to come to terms with the tragedy, Vlasenko realised that not only had Vanayev's _B-443_ come from Balaklava, but the Border Guard marine base was a short distance further up the harbour. It was likely that the Tarantul had come from the same port, although the rigid separation of VMF and KGB sailors meant it was doubtful if any of the crews had known one another.

In less than five minutes, a Sheatfish diesel patrol submarine of the Black Sea Fleet and a Tarantul class patrol boat of the KGB Border Guard had ceased to exist. There were no survivors from either craft. Because the conspirators had compromised communications, there was no way that the Tarantul could be told that the submariners were loyal Russian sailors, serving the Rodina, and when it went in to attack, there was no choice but to destroy it. At the time, the agonising irony that loyal Russian had fought loyal Russian was unknown, which was probably a good thing.

The Exec looked at him.

'I'll get a signal off to Fleet Headquarters, Captain.'

Vlasenko shook his head.

'Niet. There may be more of them out there. I don't want to be caught with our pants down.'

'Conn to Forward Torpedo Room, Reload Tubes 1, 2, 3 and 4 with SAET 60-M torpedoes'

'Come left to 180.'

'Bring her to Periscope depth.'

'Conn, Sonar, Do you have anything on the Feniks?'

_B-435_ had come through the battle unscathed, and was standing away from the coast to give Vlasenko sea room. Obsolete though she might be, _B-435_ was ready in the best traditions of the service.

Headquarters, 6th Allied Tactical Air Force, NATO Southern Europe, Izmir, Turkey 12.08 am, Sunday 28 June 1981

Lieutenant-General Donald A Schrader Jun. USAF, commander of Nato's 6th Allied Tactical Air Force, walked quickly into the control centre. He was responsible for air defence of the soft underbelly of Europe, for liaison with the Turkish Air Force, the Turk Hava Kuvvetleri, and for keeping a friendly eye on Soviet air and sea activity around the Black Sea.

'OK, Tommy, what's up?'

'We've been monitoring Soviet naval and air activity pretty closely with their big Moonlight Waltz exercise, and we thought they had just about wound it up, but in the last twenty minutes, there have been some odd developments.'

'Such as?'

'Moskva, Minsk, Golovko, Tallinn, Tashkent, Zhdanov and all their small stuff were heading for home, when they all suddenly reversed course, and are heading south at high speed towards the Turkish coast. In the last fifteen minutes, there has been a stream of fighters taking off from every VVS and PVO airbase in the Crimea, all of them heading south. At Mach-2, some of these bogeys could be here in less than twenty minutes.'

'Jee-sus H Christ!'

'The other weird thing is that all the activity started after a plain language priority message from Navy HQ in Sevastopol to all Black Sea Fleet ships.'

'Plain language?'

'Yeah, I have it here. It was a girl's voice, but what she said was confirmed by Petrov himself.'

If you would like to read the full story of the 1981 coup and what happened to Lidiya, it's all in "To Kill Our Worthy Comrade".

### Chapter 3 The Admiral's Woman

Motor Yacht _Angara_ , off the Swallow's Nest, west of Yalta, 26 June 1982

The sky was a vivid blue without a cloud from horizon to horizon. The noon sun blazed down, its rays striking 20 year old Lidiya Mikhailovna. She lay in a deckchair wearing a black bikini, and absorbing the sun, but with dark glasses to shade her eyes. Although her body was bronzed from exposure to the sun since the spring, she knew she would need to cover up within the next few minutes. If not, she would look like a boiled lobster, but the decision could be left yet awhile.

If she had been sunbathing on the beach in Sevastopol, the beautiful city at the southern tip of the Crimea, that she now called 'home', it would have been stiflingly hot. Instead, the luxury yacht she was aboard was travelling at 12 knots just off the south coast of the Crimea. There were superb views of the rugged Ai-Petri Mountains that form the backbone of the coast from Sevastopol to beyond Yalta.

Two wine glasses sat on the table near the deckchair. Both were more than half full. One contained a light amber coloured liquid. It was a White Muscat of the Red Stone, which was one of the finest wines produced by the legendary Masandra Winery just outside Yalta. 'Red Stone' was the creation of A A Egorov, a great wine maker of the 1940s. He had added his genius to the rich heritage of wines produced for the Imperial palate by Prince Lev Golitsyn. The prince, who took many of his recipes to the grave, such as his exquisite 'Honey of the Altae Pastures' was truly the 'Prince of wine makers', but Egorov was a worthy successor.

The second glass, which was so well iced that the outside of the glass was frosted with condensation, was closer to Lidiya. It would have been easy to assume that it contained one of the many exquisite wines from the Crimean vineyards. Instead, it contained lemon and lime. Twice in her life, Lidiya had drunk more than was wise, and being a sensible girl, she had no wish to make it three times. She had already relished a glass of Red Stone, and when a refill was offered, had suggesting something non-alcoholic.

The 12-knot breeze took away the stifling heat without chilling her. With glorious sun, a perfect breeze to cool her, the second refreshing drink since they had sailed from Sevastopol, and an ever-changing scene to entertain her, it would be hard to imagine a more idyllic day. She smiled at her companion, picked up her glass, and held it out.

'To us.'

'To us.'

The yacht was much older than Lidiya. It had been laid down by the H C Stulcken shipyard in Hamburg in 1937, when the Third Reich of Adolf Hitler was just four years old. Launched in 1939 as the Hela, the first 'owner' had been Admiral Karl Doenitz, head of the Nazi Submarine Service, and later C-in-C of the Kriegsmarine. On the decks where Lidiya was soaking up the sun, Hermann Goering, Joseph Goebbels, Heinrich Himmler and even Adolf Hitler had once trodden.

Eight years after the Hela had been laid down, and just twelve years after the founding of the 'Thousand Year' Reich, Hitler died in his underground bunker, and the victorious Red Army seized the Hela. After a spell in the Baltic, Hela was sent to the Black Sea, to serve as the yacht of the C-in-C of the Soviet Navy. Most of the time Hela was at the disposal of the C-in-C of the Black Sea Fleet. Joseph Stalin, Nikita Khrushchev, Kliment Voroshilov, Lavrenti Beria and Lazar Kaganovich had sailed on the white painted yacht, which was now known as the _Angara_. This was after the mighty river that flows out of Lake Baikal in Siberia.

A shipbuilder would have noticed many similarities with the warships that were built for the German Navy in the 1930s. There was the same graceful clipper bow and flared forecastle as the battle cruisers Scharnhorst and Gneisenau, whilst the raked smokestack was similar to contemporary destroyers. Turrets housing a 105mm gun fore and aft provided 'teeth', but were primarily for saluting purposes.

Snapping in the breeze was an ensign. The upper quarter of the 'hoist', the part of the flag closest to the flagstaff, was white with a narrow blue band at the base. Displayed on the white ground were a red star and a red hammer and sickle. The remaining three quarters of the ensign were red, each of them decorated with a large white star. The flag indicated the presence on board of the Commander-in-Chief of the Black Sea Fleet.

As Lidiya lay absorbing the sun, she decided that life was perfect, and impossible to predict. If anyone had asked what she would be doing on this glorious day a year earlier, lying in a deck chair on the _Angara_ would not have figured in her answers. Working as a junior communications rating or moryachka at the Black Sea Fleet headquarters would have been one answer. A more likely reply would have placed her in one of the brutal penal battalions operated by the Soviet armed forces. As the thought crossed her mind, she shivered despite the heat.

Admiral Petrov's Day Cabin Motor Yacht _Angara_ Kerch 29 June 1982

General Georgi Mikhailovich Ivanov, the head of the First Chief Directorate of the Komitet Gosudarstennoi Bezopasnosti, or KGB, the Committee for State Security of the USSR, and his wife Ludmila had joined the _Angara_ as the guest of Admiral Petrov. Both men were friends. Over dinner, Ivanov spoke of developments since the traumatic events in June 1981, when they had met. General Sukhanov of the KGB's Ninth Chief Directorate had tried to murder the General Secretary, Leonid Brezhnev, in a way that echoed the demise of Comrade Stalin in 1953. Ivanov and Petrov had both been decorated for their efforts in foiling the 1981 plot.

The head of the Third Chief Directorate, General Ivan Krasin had also been implicated. He had been spying for the British as well, and had been executed for treason. Ivanov had served as acting head of 'Third' from June to December 1981. When Ivanov's boss, General Oleg Kozlov, the head of First Chief Directorate of the KGB, took ill in December, Georgi Ivanov was appointed to succeed him, relinquishing control of 'Third' to a Brezhnev appointee, General Lazar Segachev.

Ivanov knew that Marshal Zsuzin, a Deputy Minister of Defence, and General Markov, a Deputy Director of the GRU, i.e. Soviet Military Intelligence, had also been involved. In Stalin's day, an unsupported allegation would have ensured a bullet in the brain, but things had changed under Khrushchev. As one party member put it, the idea was to make communism safer for leading communists.

Zsuzin and Markov had been careful to avoid any hard evidence linking them with Sukhanov's murder plot, so there was no chance of a conviction. Most comrades would have been demoted or retired, but with Zsuzin's connections, too many leading comrades had a vested interest in avoiding an investigation. Accordingly, both men had escaped any blame.

In January 1982, Mikhail Suslov, the venerable chief ideologue of the Communist Party, and the 'Kingmaker' in Kremlin politics for over twenty years, had died. Yuri Andropov, chairman of the KGB, was already front-runner to become General Secretary when Comrade Brezhnev finally died. Acceding to Suslov's role would virtually guarantee his appointment as the next General Secretary.

In May 1982, Chairman Andropov secured sufficient support to do so, relinquishing control of the KGB at the same time. Oleg Kozlov had been his preferred choice to succeed as chairman of the KGB, but that was no longer possible, so Feliks Razumov was appointed. He was another of the Dnepropetrovsk gang close to the General Secretary, and not a professional intelligence man.

As Lidiya listened to all this, she realised that Ivanov was concerned. Her husband also sensed this.

'You sound worried, Georgi?'

'Da, Da, Zsuzin and Markov survived as they had sufficient friends in the Politburo and the Central Committee to protect them. If Andropov becomes General Secretary, their friends will no longer dare to protect them, and Yuri will kick both of them out. If he gets in, then that's it.'

Petrov caught on fast.

'You think they might have another go?'

'There's not a shred of evidence to support it, but..'

'You've been a professional intelligence officer for what - forty years?'

Ivanov smiled.

'Forty-five.'

'OK, forty-five years, and you have a hunch about it, so why not go to the new boss of Third?'

Ivanov shook his head.

'A gut feeling. I have a hunch that Segachev is close to Markov and that set.'

Ivanov grimaced.

'What about your new chairman?'

'Chairman Razumov has never spent five minutes in intelligence work, and he seems close to Segachev.'

'So what do you think will happen?'

'The General Secretary is failing. If they leave it until he dies, they will not have the time to do anything. They have to move to save their careers and perhaps their necks, but I don't know what they might do. With Segachev close to Markov, and Razumov like he is, I can do nothing.'

After the fraught Stalin years and the unpredictability of the Khrushchev era, the USSR and the Americans had a tacit understanding with Brezhnev. With the invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1968 and Afghanistan in 1979, that was not always apparent to the public, but both sides avoided attacking the fundamental interests of one another.

The USSR provided weapons to kill Americans in Vietnam, and the Americans retaliated in Afghanistan. The Israelis flew US warplanes and her Arab neighbours flew Soviet MiGs. All of these ventures were costly, but did not risk direct US-Soviet conflict. If Zsuzin became General Secretary after Brezhnev died, a new and dangerous chapter would open. Zsuzin headed a faction who believed the USSR could win a sudden decisive attack on the West without the risk of all out nuclear war.

Neither Ivanov nor Petrov believed this, fearing it would trigger the situation described by Marshal Ogarkov, the chief of the general staff. Ogarkov said there was little value in being "the winner" if you were left sitting alone on top of a heap of radioactive ashes. A Zsuzin regime made that a frightening possibility. As Ivanov and Petrov had thwarted the previous coup, their survival under Zsuzin was unlikely, but their main fear was a potential nuclear holocaust.

It was an unsettling conversation for all three of them, but especially for Lidiya. Newly wed and head-over-heels in love with her husband, and hoping that she would be blessed with children, the threat of nuclear Armageddon horrified her, but so did the implications of a Zsuzin Politburo for her husband's freedom.

On the day Lidiya had been selected to entertain Leonid Ilyich, her fairytale world had disintegrated around her, but as perils were about to engulf her, everything came right, as her 'prince' rescued her. As with all the best fairytales, he had then married her, so perpetual bliss was assured.

It was just three days since she and Mikhail had been driven in a motorcade to the Swallow's Nest. This fantastic castle was perched on a pinnacle of rock that fell sheer on three sides to the Black Sea. Created for a German Baron months before the outbreak of the Great War in 1914, it was the ultimate fairytale structure to grace any fantasy. As she and Mikhail gazed at this unbelievable edifice, it was a fitting setting for her own magic world.

From what Georgi Ivanov had just told them, evil had not been banished, but was still present, waiting to pounce. The wonderful world in which she lived was no longer so secure. Lidiya shivered at the thought that evil might yet overwhelm her beloved Mikhail, any children they might have and Lidiya herself.

Admiral Petrov's Quarters, Black Sea Fleet Headquarters 10.50pm Thursday 15 July 1982

Mikhail Petrov was contented. The fortnight long cruise on the _Angara_ had gone well, although the pace had been gruelling. Official visits had been made to Yalta, Feodosia, Kerch, Novorossiysk, Sochi, and Batum, all of which were in the Soviet Union. There was a formal visit to Samsun in Turkey and visits to the fraternal socialist states at Varna and Constanza before a final call at Odessa.

Mikhail was well used to sea time, although his opportunities to put to sea were limited given his current high rank, but for Lidiya, it had been a new experience. Until she joined the VMF, she had never even seen the sea, and after she arrived in Sevastopol her longest 'voyage' had been on the civilian ferry from near the Count's Landing in the heart of town to Inkerman.

A real sea voyage was a novelty to her, and she had been excited about it from the moment Mikhail had first told her. With her husband's guidance on etiquette, she had attended the receptions and banquets at the Soviet, Turkish and fraternal ports they had called at. Although in civilian clothes, as she had been placed on the reserve when she married, the International Department had instructed her to wear her decorations.

The admiral's young wife with her movie star looks and the Order of the Red Star and the Order of [International] Friendship on her bosom had invariably stolen the show. The visit had been a great PR success. Inevitably, the Commander of the Fleet Political Directorate, Admiral Yevgeniy Novitskiy, had been present, but even the professional hatchet man from Moscow was impressed. Lidiya had not once put a toe out of place, let alone a whole foot.

Novitskiy had put this down to Soviet education. Lidiya knew better. Soviet society had once been upwardly mobile, but by the Sixties with an established Nomenclatura, this was no longer so. As it was difficult to leave wealth to their descendants, the Nomenclatura kept the best jobs for their children, so outsiders had little chance of advancement.

A Soviet joke told of a general's son who asked his father if he could become a Lieutenant rather than be conscripted into the army. 'Of course' came the answer. He asked 'Could I be promoted to captain?' to which the answer was yes. The boy asked about each rank up to general, being told yes each time. Greatly daring, he said, 'Could I become a marshal?' His father glared at him. 'Certainly not, that is reserved for the sons of marshals.'

Lidiya, as a track worker's daughter, could expect a job of comparable status with her papa, perhaps exchanging the shovel for the typewriter, as she was a girl. The state saw no need to educate a track worker's daughter in diplomacy and etiquette. When Mikhail had proposed, she knew she was ignorant of what was expected of an admiral's wife.

As a senior naval officer, Mikhail had attended the Naval Academy on Admiral Ushakov Embankment in Leningrad and the Higher Special Officers' Classes, which were also based in Leningrad. Apart from naval subjects, training was given in political, social and diplomatic skills. Even before they were engaged, Lidiya had been careful not to embarrass her 'drook'. With marriage beckoning, she insisted that Mikhail coach her so that she would not let him down.

When Lidiya had given the correct answer to a problem, Petrov had given her an affectionate kiss. He found her to be a keen and diligent student, and a kiss for a getting things right soon became a pleasurable part of their tuition sessions. A mutual acceptance that over-fulfilment of 'the plan' ensured extra rewards made the etiquette lessons a lot of fun.

Media coverage had shown the Admiral's wife being presented with bouquets of flowers, or laying wreaths at memorials to Great Lenin or the dead from the Great Patriotic war. In Turkey, the papers and the TV coverage had concentrated on Lidiya laying a wreath at the memorial to Kemal Ataturk. Contrary to normal protocol, a Turkish reporter had walked up to the Admiral's wife, and had asked her in perfect Russian to say a few words. Her spontaneous reply had enchanted her Turkish hosts.

'Every country has great leaders of which it is proud. In Turkey, you rightly revere Kemal Ataturk. In my own country we can count figures such as Great Lenin, or warriors such as Admiral Kornilov. They are an inspiration to those of us who come after them. We can and should admire great men such as these. Heroism and duty to the State transcend national boundaries. We in the Soviet Union revere the memory of great men from neighbouring friendly states. How could it be otherwise?'

Novitskiy knew of the International Department line on how Lidiya was descended from Admiral Kornilov. He immediately explained that the Admiral's wife was a descendant of the legendary admiral. Lidiya, who doubted the story, and regardless of its veracity had no desire to show off, was embarrassed. The media were enchanted by a superb story that set the graceful and tactful wife of the C-in-C in an historic setting. Kornilov might have fought against Turkey, but his lovely descendant won the hearts of modern day Turks.

Thousands of people turned out to watch the _Angara_ and her escorting missile cruiser, the _Admiral Golovko_ sail at the close of the two-day official visit. Protocol demanded that Petrov and his officers stand to attention and salute, but Lidiya was able to respond to the waves of thousands of well-wishers. As they headed out to sea, they could see a large sign in Turkish and Russian, 'Come Back Soon'.

To millions of Turks, watching on TV, the abiding image was of the lovely young woman who had spoken so movingly of Kemal Ataturk, waving to the enthusiastic crowds. Relations between the two countries were better than at any time in the past two hundred years, and a Soviet naval squadron had never received a warmer send off. Inevitably a few ill intentioned people suggested the send-off was for the Admiral's wife rather than the fleet. They muttered about the cult of personality. The visit had been a success, and that was largely due to Lidiya.

As Mikhail looked up, Lidiya walked into the sitting room carrying two glasses of tea in the usual Russian silver plated holders. She sat down on the sofa, smiled at him, and placed the mug on the table so he could pick it up by the handle. The holder was decorated with numerous ICBMs doing a waltz across the sky. Whenever he used the holders, Petrov wondered at the mental state of the designer. Only a madman would wish to see the damn things ever used in anger. The couple drank the tea, Lidiya smiling at her husband from time to time. It was clear from her smile what she had in mind, and Mikhail had the same thoughts.

Suddenly, the door to the sitting room burst open, and Yevgeniy Novitskiy, accompanied by two of his flunkies and an officer in KGB uniform burst into the room. Petrov stared at them in disbelief.

'What the hell do you think you're doing? Get out of here, and knock before you dare enter my quarters.'

The KGB officer, who Petrov realised was a colonel from his uniform, glanced at him and turned to Novitskiy.

'Is that the fascist imperialist agent, Comrade Admiral?'

Novitskiy nodded.

'Da, that's Petrov.'

Petrov rose to his feet wrathfully.

'It is Admiral Petrov, Vice Admiral Novitskiy. Remember that. Now get out of my quarters and take this rabble with you.'

The KGB colonel walked over and stood in front of the admiral.

'Petrov, I have orders for your arrest, signed by General Segachev, head of the Third Chief Directorate of the KGB for espionage and treason.'

Two more KGB officers had now entered the room, and the Colonel turned to one of them and said.

'Handcuff the fascist pig.'

Petrov snarled at him.

'When Admiral Gorshkov hears of this, he'll cut your balls off.'

One of the younger KGB officers half drew an interrogation cosh.

'You can come with us quietly, traitor, or the other way.'

By his expression, the young thug would relish it being 'the other way.' Petrov shrugged his shoulders and turned to Lidiya. She was standing next to him, a look of horror on her face. He made to take her in his arms, but Novitskiy snapped.

'We don't have all night, whilst you play with your little tart, Citizen traitor.'

Petrov stared at him.

'You bastard.'

The handcuffs were snapped on his wrists and the KGB colonel led the admiral out of his quarters. Novitskiy went with them. Lidiya collapsed on to the sofa in tears. Her life, her hopes and everything that mattered to Lidiya Mikhailovna Petrova had just collapsed around her. Worst of all, she did not have Mikhail to guide her through the maze that had just engulfed her. Beneath the polish, Lidiya knew she was a track worker's daughter from Kazan, and track worker's daughters were not trained to handle a situation like this.

Lieutenant Lebed's flat, Kamyshovaya, Sevastopol, 7.05am Friday 16 July 1982

Leonid Lebed awoke shortly before 7.00am, and dressed. As he left his bedroom a few minutes later he noticed a delicious smell coming from the kitchen. He walked in to the kitchen to find Lidiya starting to transfer food from the stove to a couple of plates. She glanced at him.

'I was just about to knock on your door, Comrade Lieutenant.'

'That smells wonderful.'

'It was the best I could do with what you had.'

After a splendid breakfast, Lebed sat back.

'Lidiya Mikhailovna, has anyone ever told you that you are a wonderful cook?'

She smiled at him.

'Are you married Lieutenant?'

He shook his head.

'Not now, I was, but we broke up. A sailor's life. You know.'

Lebed had been married for four years. His wife had then divorced him to marry a party functionary with better access to shops that sold quality goods that were only available to the Nomenclatura. Lidiya realised that with sea duty and postings to Murmansk or Vladivostok, the divorce rate amongst naval officers was disturbingly high. She smiled softly.

'You need to find a nice girl, Lieutenant.'

She noticed he looked slightly flustered.

'Will she mind me being here, Lieutenant?'

Lebed looked confused, and unsure of what to say.

'We haven't got that far, Lidiya Mikhailovna. She's a widow and it's too soon after what happened to her husband. It would be wrong if I were to even suggest anything at the moment. I don't know if it would ever be right.'

Lidiya smiled gently.

'Go by your feelings, Lieutenant. You'll get it right, and whoever she is, she'll be a very lucky girl.'

'Thank you, but if things should work out, I will be the lucky one.'

Leonid had wondered if it would ever be right to ask, but Lidiya had convinced him that at some time he should do so. He noticed a supportive smile on her face. She spoke softly to him.

'Maybe the best answer would be that both of you will be lucky. From the way you looked after me last night, when most people would have turned away, I know that you would never let her down, and if you think as much of her as you do, she has to be quite something.'

'She is. She's so tiny, so helpless and..'

Lidiya smiled at him as he broke off, unsure how to continue. She continued for him.

'She needs to be looked after, just like I needed someone to look after me last night.'

'Da, Da. Niet. I mean that she needs someone to look after her. I didn't mean that you...'

Leonid Lebed's reply was scarcely more than a whisper.

'I had nowhere to go. No money and no idea what to do, so I did need someone to look after me. Your girl needs you to look after her, Lieutenant, so take it at the pace you think is right. She's lucky to have a friend she can trust and when the two of you marry, I hope you will invite the admiral and myself to your wedding.'

'I would be honoured if you would even consider accepting an invitation.'

To his surprise, Lebed realised he was talking of a wedding, when he had not even considered if he could propose. When he had been in trouble, Admiral Petrov had gone out of his way to help him. He had helped the admiral's wife because he felt it was the right thing to do. He knew it was risky, but was glad that he had done so. Although it would have been presumptuous to say so, he could see why Admiral Petrov was so devoted to Lidiya Mikhailovna.

Lebed thought back to the day he had first noticed the young communications rating. It was on the evening that General Ivanov's flight had been attacked, and he had been forced to wake up his boss in the middle of the night. Although many senior officers used their rank to bed young women in the armed forces, the admiral had never done that. To his astonishment, he found Lidiya Mikhailovna Kornilova asleep in the admiral's bed.

When she had been hurried out of the admiral's quarters wearing nothing more than a pair of shoes, her embarrassment was obvious. When the alarm went off, summoning all staff to duty, she had asked pathetically what she should do. He was more concerned with what he needed to do. His hurried reply that she would have to go on duty as she was, 'for the sake of the Rodina' must have been excruciating.

Within a few minutes, as she sat red faced in the command centre whilst many of the men openly leered at her, he had regretted not finding something for her to wear. By then, it was too late to help, and the girl sat there naked for a couple of hours.

When she had become the admiral's companion and then his wife, Lebed feared that his time as ADC would be cut short. No woman would forget that sort of treatment. He could expect a posting to somewhere unpleasant, as Lidiya took her revenge. As the weeks went by, and the axe did not fall, he realised that Lidiya Mikhailovna had not sought revenge.

Instead, she treated him with a courtesy that the wives of senior officers seldom extended to ADCs. Lebed knew that Captain Viktorov used his position to pressure the communications girls into his bed, and had a hunch that he had tried that with Lidiya. It was clear that she detested Viktorov, but he had never heard her be anything but polite to him. If he and Viktorov had shared a posting to the Bering Straights, he could not have blamed her.

Lebed glanced at his watch.

'The central ticket office should be open. I'll go and get a ticket for you. Are you sure you want to go to Moscow and not Kazan?'

'Da, Da, my parents can do nothing for Mikhail. The only person who can help is General Ivanov, so I have to see him.'

Lebed drove the GAZ-69 to the railway station and parked near the platform face that looped round the buildings. He walked up the steps to the ticket office. He looked at the inscriptions above the various booths, to find the Moscow counter. He groaned as the queue was the longest of all, and stretched more than half way across the booking hall.

An hour later, Lebed had a single ticket made out in Lidiya's name on the afternoon train from Sevastopol to Moscow in five days time. It was the best he could do.

Irina Ustinova's Flat, Kamyshovaya, 11.40am Friday 16 July 1982

When Lebed had met Viktorov, and discovered that the KGB was hunting for Lidiya, he realised they would check train departures. It was possible the ticket seller would remember that a naval officer bought the ticket. He was an obvious suspect, so Lidiya was in danger every moment she was at his flat. Lebed lived at Kamyshovaya, which was on the western side of the city. Lidiya would have to go, but she could not be given a few roubles and a friendly wave, or she would be picked up within hours. He had to find a safe place for her.

Irina Ustinova, the widow of the Border Guard officer who had died off Oreanda during the 1981 coup attempt had become friends with Julia Vanayeva. It was an unlikely friendship, as Ira's husband had commanded the patrol boat that had sunk Vanayev's submarine. The tragedy was that because the plotters had compromised signals that both officers had died believing they were serving the motherland. Within moments, Grigori Vanayev's friend and fellow sub skipper, Anatoli Vlasenko had sunk Ustinov's boat.

The understandable suspicion that both young widows had of one another had evaporated as they realised their shared bond of grief. Shortly after her husband's death, Irina had been compelled to leave the Border Guard flat that she and her husband had shared in Balaklava. Julia had asked Lebed if he could pull any strings to help her. He had managed to find Irina a flat off Ulitsa Borisova, which was not far from where he lived in Kamyshovaya. He drove to the flat, praying Ira would be in.

He rang on the bell and heard bolts being undone. Irina opened the door.

'Leonid, what a pleasant surprise. Come in.'

He walked in and turned to her.

'Ira, I have a hell of a problem. Admiral Petrov has been arrested.'

Although Fedor has called her Irushka, the more intimate version of her name, Leonid did not feel it would be right to do so. Ira came in between the formal Irina and the intimate Irushka. Seeing her about to ask questions, he shook his head.

'Don't talk; listen. Petrov was arrested last night and they threw Lidiya out of Fleet Headquarters.'

Ira burst in.

'What's the poor girl doing?'

'I put her up overnight, but the KGB are after her as well, and I am too obvious. They'll find her.

Ira cut in.

'Bring her here then.'

He shook his head.

'It's too obvious. I'm going back to my flat, and I'll tell her to get out on foot. I'll tell you what. I'll tell her to go to the further of the two jetties at the Omega beach. Will you meet her there?'

'Da, Da.' Ira paused for a moment, 'Take care, Leonid, I. I....'

On the spur of the moment, Leonid reached out, kissed the young widow on the cheek and said.

'You take care, too, Malen'kaya. Bye.'

Ira gasped a hasty 'Pakkah – Bye.'

He ran back to his car.

Ira stood in her flat. Life with Fedor had been wonderful, and since his death her best friends had been Julia, Assol Vlasenko and Leonid. It was too soon to think of anything, but Leonid had helped her without the least suggestion of any return. She was very fond of him, and the kiss was sweet. He had never done anything like that before, nor had he called her 'Malen'kaya' or Little One.

Her Fedor had also called her that because of her diminutive stature, as she was only 1.5m tall and slightly built. From when they had first met, Fedor had protected her and looked after her. Now Leonid had taken on that role. As she was a timid girl, it was reassuring to be looked after. She was scared at the thought of putting up the Admiral's wife, but if Leonid thought it was right, then it was what should be done. Since she had met Leonid, he had only ever done what was right for her. Ira had absolute confidence in him. She got ready to go out.

General Markov's dacha, Foros, Black Sea, Saturday 17 July 1982

Oksana opened the door when Marshal Zsuzin arrived. Unlike Sophia who was allowed to wear panties, Oksana had to do so wearing nothing more than a smile. It was a chore she loathed, as the driver who had been assigned to Zsuzin for the day got a perfect view of her naked charms. She ushered the marshal in to the reception room, with the marshal's hand on her bottom. She attended to the men's needs, pouring drinks etc, before retiring to the swimming pool until she and Sophia were required. Viktor Markov was in a good mood.

'Well, they have that bastard Petrov now, and Segachev said to me that they will have him singing his head off in a few days.'

Marshal Zsuzin laughed.

'That swine was a damn nuisance last year, but Segachev knows they can't afford to beat hell out of him, so how does he expect to get him to say what we want? Ivanov is the real threat, and after last year, he has good connections with dear Leonid Ilyich. When I know that Petrov has compromised him to save his own skin, I will be a lot happier'

Markov stretched and sipped a glass of Masandra.

'Lazar is confident that he can get Petrov singing in the usual way. You know the sort of thing. No sleep, poor food, threats and so on, but it may take a few days. To speed it up, our initial plan was to work on Petrov through that little potascookha - slut - he married a while back. The old fool dotes on the lovely Lidiya. Lazar suggested that they pick her up. Then all they would need to do is to spread her legs in front of Petrov, and after two of three of them have had her, he'll say whatever they want.'

Vladimir Konstantinovich Zsuzin had been looking at Sophia and Oksana through the glass doors of the pool. He had not been paying full attention, but when Markov spoke of spreading Lidiya's legs, he laughed.

'Poor little Lidiya. What if Petrov doesn't care that much and holds out?'

'Novitskiy said he dotes on the bitch, and the pair of them are trying for a brat, so he wouldn't want too many men up his precious wife.'

'From the photos I've seen of that bitch, I should think that Segachev's men will have a good time. Probably, they'll beg Petrov not to talk too soon. I wouldn't mind taking a hand in interrogating her myself, come to think of it. Do you feel like helping out, and doing our socialist duty for the Rodina? Maybe we can even help dear Lidiya with that baby she wants as well?'

Markov realised that the marshal had been paying more attention to the girls than to him.

'That's the only bit of bad news. I knew Segachev had given orders to arrest Petrov and the woman on Thursday, and that was why I suggested coming down here this weekend. Somehow there was a cock-up at the signal centre in Moscow. Segachev's signal to the KGB office in Sevastopol to pick up the bitch was not received until Friday morning.'

'Some fool navy captain threw her out of Navy House on Thursday night, and the damn woman has vanished. Segachev is confident they'll find her, but at present, he does not have a clue where she is. With the train station and the main roads watched, she must be around here. Segachev is confident she doesn't have many friends or much money, so what can she do? Who can she turn to?'

Zsuzin thought for a moment or two.

'Judging by the photos in Pravda, she's pretty, a nice face, good figure, so she can earn her keep on her back. If I were Segachev, I would keep an eye on the local prostitutkas. If she wants to keep out of the way, that's where she'd be unobtrusive.'

'Segachev says the same, Vladimir Konstantinovich. He's confident that he'll pick her up within a day or two. By the way, how did things go with Nosenko?'

'Excellently, Viktor, Before the Sukhanov fuss, he had done some preliminary studies, and I gave him our requirements. He says he can't test fire an R-36 ICBM without a good reason, but they are working on more advanced guidance and propulsion systems. They expect to run a test shortly, so he will add a test payload. In the meanwhile, I need your detailed GRU assessment of Swedish and Norwegian defence capabilities.'

Markov undid the combination looks to his case and took out two bulging files.

'This covers all major Norwegian and Swedish army, navy and aviation bases, and centres where reservists will muster in an alert. If your Novichok weapons can degrade the aviation and reservist forces, it will be a big step. Communications will be important, as are police, ambulance, hospitals and so on. If we can disrupt the rail network that will snarl up movements around Stockholm and Oslo and make it hard for reservists to report in.'

'If we block the road network with a CW attack, they won't be able to move by car. It will help to take out ambulance and fire service centres to make a complete gridlock. To create panic, we should hit some of the schools. Parents will go crazy, and will add to the chaos, so the authorities will need to waste resources there. The legislative buildings and government offices are worth hitting, but with their own CW defences that must be in the first strike. If they react fast, they will retain some capabilities. TV and Radio need to be taken out to create an information melt down.'

Zsuzin listened to Markov's summation.

'Excellent Viktor, that sounds perfect. We will work on targeting schedules right away. I think that covers all we need so shall we join Sophia and Oksana?'

'Those were my thoughts, Comrade Marshal. Which of them would you prefer today.'

'A difficult choice, but I think I'll have the young one.'

Train 26, the 20.43 Sevastopol-Moskva Express Tuesday 20 July 1982

Ira had booked to travel in a four-berth hard class car on train 26, the 20.43 Sevastopol-Moskva express. She walked along the low platform at Sevastopol station, glancing at the car numbers until she found car No 9. She handed her ticket and papers to the Providnitsa and then made her way to the compartment. She had hoped that one at least of her fellow passengers would be a woman, but it turned out that all three were men. Anyone who used Soviet trains would not find that surprising, or the frequency with which wives and husbands were booked not into the same compartment but into adjacent ones.

Promptly to time, the two Czech-built electric locomotives at the head of the train jerked the stock into motion. The start was not gentle, as many drivers had no finer feelings about passenger comfort. With 15 passenger cars and a weight of 850 tons the Moscow express was a formidable challenge to the two engines on the steep climb from Sevastopol to the southern uplands of the Crimea. It was only after the train was beyond Simferopol that the work facing the engines would lessen. Although she was still in her early twenties, Ira could remember the days, less than ten years previously, when two massive steam locomotives would have headed the train.

The Providnitsa came round returning tickets to the passengers and asking if anyone wanted a glass of chai, or tea. Ira decided she would do so. As the three guys had grabbed their places before Ira, they had both of the bottom bunks and one upper bunk, but until they required them for sleeping, they had offered to let the attractive dark haired girl sit on one of their bunks. The Providnitsa brought the tea, which was in the usual glass with a metal holder.

As the three guys and Ira drank tea, one of the men told his companions how a good looking blonde Providnitsa had on one trip offered some very personal services to any of the guys in his compartment. The charges were very reasonable for what she was willing to do, and three of the four guys had taken her up. The guy gave a graphic description of how talented the girl had been, indifferent to the fact that there was a young woman with a wedding ring sharing their compartment.

Ira sat there red faced. She hoped their Providnitsa would not offer similar services to her passengers. If so she would need to sit looking the other way. Unlike some of the other girls at school, who had been popular with the boys for their willingness, Ira had a traditional upbringing and the first and only guy to sleep with her had been her beloved Fedor.

One of the guys tried to chat her up, suggesting they had plenty of vodka and a party with a pretty girl would make the journey pass quicker. It was hinted that if she played her cards right, a lower berth might be available. Ira could work out what cards she might need to play, and coldly declined the invite. As the train rattled through the night, the compartment door opened. Two KGB officers stood in the doorway.

'Dokumenty Please'

The three men and Ira mutely offered their papers. Document checks on trains ex the Crimea had been intensified in case Lidiya tried to escape, and all young women were subjected to especial scrutiny. As the dark-eyed Ira was tiny, just 1.5m tall, and Lidiya was a tall blue-eyed blonde, the precaution was pointless unless Lidiya could change her height and eye colouring. The KGB lieutenant studied her papers for a long time.

'Purpose of your trip to Moscow, Devochka – Girl?'

'A visit to a friend.'

'Be more specific'

'I need some help over my late husband's pension and I was told to let my friend know.'

'The friend's name, Devochka?'

Ira looked at the guard calmly.

'General Georgi Mikhailovich Ivanov, Head of First Chief Directorate of the KGB.'

The guard stared at her and laughed.

'You expect me to believe that?'

Ira opened her bag, pulled out a letter and presented it to the guard. He studied it for a few seconds. He handed it back to her, and saluted punctiliously.

'Esteemed Comrade, I am sorry to have bothered you. If you should require any assistance during the journey, I or my colleagues will deem it an honour to be of assistance.'

The guard closed the door. He looked at his colleague in the corridor.

'Shit, that one had a personal letter from the head of First CD.'

'What, that little mouse?'

His comrade nodded.

'Da, that little mouse.'

There was complete silence in the compartment. One of the three guys said nervously.

'If you want a glass of tea at any time, just tell me and I will be glad to get it for you. I hope you realise that we were joking about the party. It will be my pleasure to give up my lower berth to you. I hope you will accept it.'

Ira smiled and said she was perfectly happy with her upper berth. A pretty girl travelling in an upper berth could expect the guys in the compartment to study her legs when she was climbing in or out of her berth. Ira noticed with amusement that the guys respectfully and conspicuously looked the other way for the rest of the journey. Such was their desire not to offend her that she could have worn the shortest skirt in existence without any threat to her modesty.

Ira thought back to her life with Fedor. Most of her clothes were very respectable, but she did have a couple of ultra short skirts that she would only wear in their flat. Often she would put the skimpiest one on just before Fedor was due home, and he would chase her around the flat. As Fedor was a fast runner, and Ira was not so fast, the chase did not last long, but Ira did not try to run very fast anyway.

Being chased by Fedor was fun, but what happened afterwards, was more fun. As she lay in her berth thinking of the happy times, tears rolled down her cheeks, and she dabbed them dry. From the day of their marriage in 1980 to Fedor being killed in action had been less than a year. Even so, in those eleven months, they had packed enough memories to last a dozen lifetimes.

The train arrived at the Moskva Kurski – or Kursk – station at 19.40 hours the following evening, or should have done so, but was over an hour late, so Ira had spent twenty-four hours on the train. In common with most stations, there was a station hotel, which was basic but acceptable.

KGB headquarters, Lubyanka 9.00am Thursday 22 July 1982

The following morning, Ira ate the remains of the food she had taken with her, and then went to the Lubyanka Ploshchad, or Lubyanka Square. She walked towards the KGB offices, and on the steps was stopped by a uniformed sentry with a Kalashnikov AK47 in his arms. She showed him her letter and was told to go through a specific door and report to the reception desk. She announced her business, showed the letter and was curtly told to wait. Twenty minutes later, a young Lieutenant stepped out of a lift, walked over to her and enquired politely.

'Irina Aleksievna?'

'Da, Da.'

'If you will come with me please, Comrade General Ivanov will be delighted to see you shortly.'

The lieutenant escorted Ira to the executive lift, which whisked her up to the Seventh Floor of the Lubyanka. He showed her to a luxurious waiting room. Twenty minutes later, the lieutenant reappeared.

'Irina Aleksievna, will you come this way please.'

The lieutenant showed her into a large office. General Ivanov stood up.

'Ira, this is a pleasant surprise, I do hope you are well.'

Ivanov nodded to the lieutenant who left the room and closed the door.

'Sit down, what can I do for you?'

Ira walked over, threw her arms round Ivanov and hugged him, whispering as she did so.

'Is this room bugged?'

He stared at her and shook his head.

'Niet, what on earth is the matter?'

The Volga, Wednesday 28 July 1982

It was an early M21 1958 'Second series' Volga Akula or Shark. It was so named from the vertical bars on the chrome radiator grill that were said to resemble a shark's jaws. The paint might have been dark red, but the body seemed to be mostly mud coloured, suggesting regular use on unmade roads. A good deal of the chrome was missing. From the smell, it looked as if it belonged to one of the fruit vendors that could be found at railway stations and by the roadside. By the stench, some of the fruit had been well past its prime. Lidiya noticed a small two-wheel trailer behind the Volga, and that one of the widows in the back of the car had been replaced with plywood.

'Let's go.'

They drove north from the Bolshoi Canyon for a while. Eventually they pulled on to a dirt track and stopped next to a dilapidated wooden shed. T120 smiled at her.

'There were no militsia on that stretch, but we need to prepare for the next section.'

The two men and Lidiya climbed out of the car, and T120 took her arm.

'If you need to pee or do the other thing, I suggest you go behind the shed and do it now.'

Lidiya nodded. A Western girl might protest at being told to go behind a shed and do the other thing, but Russian girls were more down-to-earth. Lidiya went off to do as she was told. She felt there would be a good reason for such instructions. When she returned, the back seat of the Volga had been removed, to reveal a small compartment beneath it. There was also a large stock of watermelons lying in the trailer and a pile of them by the side of the car. T120 smiled apologetically.

'You have to get in there. There's some bread for you, a bottle of water, and another bottle for you to pee in, though as a girl, that may not be easy. There are some ventilation holes, and a slide for you to shut them. I'll let you know if the Militsia or the KGB stops us, but you must shut the ventilators right away. A dog might smell you.'

T120 helped Lidiya into the secret compartment. She realised that the back seat base of the Volga was a cunning metal shell with a very thin layer of padding and then the upholstery on top. As she lay in her tiny compartment Lidiya heard thumps that she could not make out. Finally she realised that the men were hastily loading the watermelons on top of the seat.

The smell of rotting fruit was now even stronger. There were some small pockets in the compartment. They had been filled with fruit that had gone off. This was to overload the noses of any sniffer dogs. T120 called out.

'You OK? If so, we'll be on our way.'

Lidiya gasped out.

'Da, Da, and thank you.'

The Volga bounced along the rough track jolting Lidiya in her tiny cell, and nearly making her vomit. By the time she reached the road, she was getting more used to it, but realised it was not going to be a luxury drive. Since she and Mikhail had been married, she had been pampered with a chauffeured Chaika. Before that, she had been used to the back of a Soviet military truck, or trips with the Pioneers in a crowded and noisy bus. As with most Soviet families, her parents did not own a car. After what seemed like hours, but was less than half an hour, T120 called out urgently.

'Militsia.'

Lidiya closed the ventilation shutters. The vehicle stopped, and she could hear muffled conversation. After what seemed an inordinate wait the vehicle started off again. Lidiya did not speak or touch the ventilation holes, although she was dripping with sweat and the air was stale. She heard T120 speaking.

'It's clear now. You can open the ventilators. Do you hear me?'

Lidiya croaked back.

'Da, Da.'

'Sorry it's not very pleasant in there, but if the Militsia decided to pull out all the watermelons, it still has to look right.'

Lidiya thought to herself, it's bloody ghastly in here, but replied.

'So long as it gets us there safe and sound.'

The man laughed and said she was a good girl. After another interval, T120 called out.

'We will have a longer stop soon, there's a checkpoint at Novopavlovka. There's no way we can avoid it. If you need to pee or take a drink do so now, as the less movement the better. There will be a queue, so it will be stop/start, until we get to the checkpoint. There will be guards with dogs, so you must stay still and keep the shutters closed. Do you understand?'

'Da, Da.'

A few minutes later T120 called out, 'Militsia' and Lidiya closed the ventilators. With all the vehicles ahead of them, and with VIP cars jumping the queue, it was over an hour before the Volga was on the move. Lidiya felt faint in her airless and stifling cell. A couple of minutes after they started, T120 said.

'OK, you can breath again, now. We'll be going through Simferopol next. We may get stopped by roadside patrols. I'll try to tell you, but they can even bounce us when we are stopped in a queue, so you'll have to use your wits.'

With the heat from the exhaust pipe that ran beneath her and the warmth of the sun, now that it was daylight, her tiny cell was like an oven. Lidiya was dripping with sweat. Her only attempt at peeing had not been very successful, so her skirt and panties were sodden with piss as well as sweat. She heard T120 ask her.

'Are you OK, Devochka?'

'Of course I am. It's fine in here. I might even get to like it.'

Lidiya had never told a bigger lie in her life. It was revolting, but she would have accepted much worse to get to Ivanov, so that he could do something to help Mikhail. T120, who was in the front passenger seat, glanced at the driver, and smiled. Neither man had been taken in by Lidiya's comment, but she hadn't uttered a single complaint or even sworn at it. They did not do the run very often, as it was far too dangerous, but neither of them could recall anyone who had been so uncomplaining.

A couple of hours later, the Volga pulled onto a dirt track and parked in the shade of some trees. Lidiya heard thumps and realised the guys were removing the watermelons. They lifted 'the lid' off her compartment, and T120 looked down at her.

'Sorry we had to leave you there so long, but if we stop and unload regularly, it looks suspicious and the fruit bruises too much.'

He put his hand out to help Lidiya sit upright, as she was stiff and could scarcely move. The girl stank of sweat and urine, and as he lifted her out of the compartment, she shook her head.

'God, I must stink.'

He nodded and said.

'There's a stream over there. If you want to wash.'

Lidiya laughed.

'God, do I smell that bad?'

The guy smiled at her and nodded. Lidiya walked across to the stream. She removed her blouse, skirt and sodden panties, and scooped what little water there was over her body. To suggest it was a pleasant wash would be a joke. After she had washed as best she could, she immersed her panties in the stream. She was relieved that they were not Ira's sexy red and black ones, but a pair of plain white ones that Ira had bought for her. She wrung them out. She did the same with her skirt and blouse. Even after prolonged wringing all three garments were still damp. As they had been sodden with sweat and piss before, they were still an improvement. She slipped them on again, and headed back for the Volga.

As she did so, she noticed that the sodden blouse was all but translucent. Lidiya decided it was no time for a false sense of modesty. As she reached the clump of trees, she noticed the guys smoking and having something to eat. T120 glanced at her and tactfully looked away.

'Some bread and sausage for you.'

Lidiya smiled. The coarse black bread and sausage were welcome.

'Thanks, I needed something.'

T120 glanced at his watch.

'We have to move soon. Lidiya, I have a suggestion. When you're in the compartment it gets pretty hot.'

'I had noticed.'

'You might find it more comfortable if you took your clothes off.'

Lidiya had been considering that and whether she could shed her clothes once she was in the cell.

'Why didn't you tell me that before?'

The guy shook his head.

'Until you try it you won't know how bloody awful it is in there, so you might have thought we were just trying to pull a fast one on you.'

She burst out laughing, and glanced at T120.

'You ready?'

'Da.'

'I'll just be a minute.'

Lidiya removed her blouse, skirt and panties and folded them neatly. She noticed to her pleasure that both guys looked the other way. She scrambled into the back of the Volga.

'OK comrades, you don't need to be bashful, now.'

T120 gave her instructions for the next leg of the journey, and said she would be switching to a hidden compartment in a lorry later on. For that stage of the journey there would be a new courier. The journey took four days, and involved several changes of courier and vehicle. Before the end of the journey, Lidiya was puzzled. She and Ira had agreed that the way the KGB were relentlessly hunting for her might mean that it was an attempt to lure Ivanov into an ambush. Even so, she had assumed that Ivanov would use KGB resources to extract her from the Crimea.

Instead, her couriers were as wary of the militsia and KGB as she had become. Unlike Lidiya, whose caution was based on little real knowledge, they seemed to know exactly what they were doing. They called her Lidiya, but apart from that, their only questions related to when she needed to eat, wash, or piss. They seemed indifferent as to why a 20-year-old blonde required to be transported to Moscow. Her couriers never asked for any personal information, nor had she learned the names of any of them.

Lidiya was right that the couriers were wary of the militsia and KGB. They had every reason to be. They were not KGB officers working for Ivanov, as Lidiya assumed. Instead they worked for 'The Underground Railway'. It had been set up in the early Sixties by the British Special Intelligence Service, also known as SIS. Apart from the main line in and out of the USSR, there were branch lines from Moscow to Leningrad, Kiev, Odessa, Sevastopol and several other important centres.

The Underground Railway was used to handle people that the British wished to insert into the USSR or extract to safety. Never before had it been used to move someone at the request of the Director of First Chief Directorate. The reason it was being used for this unique operation was due to Rasputin. In the secret message that had been dispatched by Ivanov to his counterpart using the Rasputin connection, he had explained the circumstances and asked if SIS was in a position to extract the girl to Moscow.

Ivanov knew that SIS would never agree to move Lidiya for her own sake. He had outlined what was known of the Zsuzin/Markov plot and the risks that a Zsuzin Politburo posed to the West. Faced with such an extraordinary request, the Director General briefed selected senior SIS officers on the existence of Rasputin. Despite the Agro Chemical Pesticides cover story, SIS knew of Zsuzin's role as head of chemical weapons development, and of the threat posed by a Politburo led by him.

The DG (SIS) had contacted the Director General Security Service or DG (SS). From the debriefings of one of Markov's girls who had defected to the UK in 1981, MI5 and MI6 understood the broad outlines of the 1981 coup in which Krasin and Sukhanov had planned to murder Leonid Brezhnev. They were also aware of the role played by Ivanov and Petrov in defeating that coup.

Thanks to the intelligence supplied by Tanya Denisova at her debriefings at the secret MI5/MI6 safe house in Portsmouth Dockyard, SIS had evidence of the involvement of Zsuzin and Markov in the 1981 coup attempt. The extent of SIS knowledge was unknown to Ivanov, but was a key factor in the discussions within SIS.

Even with that background knowledge, compliance posed an immense risk to one of the most priceless possessions of SIS. The intelligence war between the KGB and its Western counterparts was replete with entrapment operations by both sides and grave doubts were expressed about the wisdom of meeting Ivanov's request.

That it was approved was due to the confidence that had been built up through the Rasputin link over many years, the gravity of Ivanov's message and the need to block a Zsuzin take-over. The handful of SIS officers who were now in the know agreed that both sides valued Rasputin more than any operational coup. Ivanov's mushrooming trip to Serebryanniy Bor had been to settle some of the details.

The courier on the last stage of Lidiya's trip on the Underground Railway had been puzzled by the orders he received. He was to come in on the Tula road, and drop her in wooded country just short of the Moscow Outer Ring road. Once again, Lidiya was ensconced underneath the back seat of a decrepit Volga. This one was used for potatoes and other root vegetables, so was even dirtier than usual.

After four days on the Underground Railway, Lidiya was not looking her best. Her shoulder length blonde hair was matted, and despite efforts to wash it in muddy streams, was filthy. After she had learned to discard her clothes before she got into the secret compartment, they had not suffered too badly, but they were crumpled and dirty. Most of the couriers had looked the other way as the girl shed her clothing, but Lidiya had discarded any misplaced sense of modesty.

Often when she was stiff and scarcely able to move from prolonged confinement in a small space, she was glad to be lifted out of the cell she had travelled in, regardless of her lack of clothing. Such help was of more value than eyes discretely looking the other way. Lidiya was stiff and bruised from the battering she took as the cars had bounced and jolted over hundreds of kilometres of badly made and worse maintained roads. However the main thing was that she was within 25 kms of the centre of Moscow.

The last courier, who was called K-86 left her as ordered and told her that another car would pick her up. It would park opposite where she was to wait in the forest. A woman wearing a red skirt, a white blouse and a chequered headscarf would get out of the car and walk into the woods to pee. No one who knew the scarcity of toilets in the Russian countryside would find that unusual.

Half an hour after the Volga dropped her, a gleaming black GAZ M13 Chaika Mark 1 pulled up. Production of this magnificent car, which was just one step below the legendary ZIL, had commenced in 1959. It was a near clone of an earlier US Packard design. The car that had just arrived was one of the last M13s to come off the production line before it was discontinued in 1981.

With US influenced front wings and a 1950s chrome visage, the Chaika was a classic car and was powered by a 195hp V8 engine with a pirated automatic transmission. Not available to the public, it was the exclusive preserve of senior officials, ministries and the KGB. Lidiya watched it with irritation. It was not a car that the Underground would have access to, and its presence might frighten off the next courier.

To her surprise, a dark haired girl who was wearing a red skirt, a white blouse and a colourful headscarf got out of the back seat, stretched her back, as per the instructions, and then wandered into the trees, hitching up her skirt to pee. Lidiya had been told to approach the girl. She did so cautiously.

'Any chance you could give me a lift?'

The girl turned round. It was Ira. She stared at Lidiya for three or four seconds.

'God, Lidiya, you look like shit. What in hell has happened to you?'

'Spaseba, Thank you. I feel like shit.'

The two girls hugged one another. When they had finished, Ira looked at her friend.

'I don't want to hurt your feelings, but you stink as well.'

Lidiya smiled wryly.

'Sweetheart, you try spending four days under the backseat of a car, and you would stink.'

Lydia saw someone approaching. To her astonishment, it was General Ivanov. He smiled at her.

'Welcome to Moscow, Lidiya.'

He glanced at her and turned to Ira.

'Can you tidy her up a bit?'

Ira giggled.

'Don't you mean a hell of a lot?'

She was heading for the car and returned with a container of water, a small bag and another larger bag. The two girls went into the woods. The small bag contained some soap, a luxury that Lidiya had missed over the last four days, a comb and a towel. Clean water and soap worked wonders and her hair although still a mess was a marked advance on what it had been. She was able to clean much of the dirt from her body. Finally, and to her relief, Ira delved in the second bag and brought out a clean skirt, and top.

'Thank god, I feel as if I am a human being again.'

'You smell as if you were a human being, and not a nanny goat in heat.'

The two girls walked arm-in-arm to where Ivanov's Chaika was parked by the roadside. Both girls got in the back, and Ivanov headed into Moscow. Lidiya whispered.

'What about papers?'

Ira whispered.

'Wait and see.'

In a few minutes the Chaika approached a checkpoint. Ivanov drove past the queue and was signalled down by a Militsia officer. He pointed to the badge in the window. The Militsia officer saluted respectfully, and signalled the troops to raise the barrier. The Chaika had not even come to a stand.

General Markov's Chaika limousine, Moscow 6.45pm Tuesday 3 August 1982

After his meeting at the Centre, Markov was pleased to see that Ira Volkova was still sitting where he had left her. He told her that by chance he required a housemaid/cook to work in his flat in Moscow. The maid would also accompany him to his dacha in the Lenin Hills and from time to time to his dacha in the Crimea. If she was interested, he would give her a trial, and if she was suitable, she would be taken on.

To his embarrassment, the girl had thrown her arms around him, kissing his hand and thanking him profusely, saying she would clean all day and every day. As he returned home in the back seat of his chauffeur driven Chaika, the girl sat beside him babbling about how grateful she was. Her eyes instead of being red with tears were excited, and she asked him shyly about his dacha in the Crimea. When he told her about it, her eyes were round with excitement.

'You would really take me there, Comrade General?'

'If you are a good girl, and are satisfactory, of course you shall go there.'

'Anything you want me to do general, you just have to say. Anything. I'll do absolutely anything you tell me.'

From the way she said anything, Markov was sure that she understood what was expected of her. He decided there was no need for subterfuge, and her next words confirmed it.

'All my husband and I had was a poky little two room flat, and I never thought about fantastic cars like this one or dacha's. I am so lucky I met you.'

Markov put his hand on her thigh and caressed her leg through the material of her skirt for the rest of the journey. A widow who was truly grief stricken for the loss of a husband less than three months previously should be reluctant to receive such attentions from a complete stranger so soon. This one was a "Theatre Widow".

As this occurred to him, he recalled the popular anecdote about the man who attended a matinee for a prestige concert for which tickets were in short supply. A woman dressed in black was sitting next to him, but the seat next to her was empty. In the intermission, he said he had never seen an empty seat before. The woman turned to him and said.

'It's a sad story, comrade.'

'Really?'

'Da, We booked these tickets over two years ago, but my husband died the other day.'

'How very sad, but why didn't you give the ticket to a relative?'

'I would have, but they're all at the funeral.'

As Markov stroked Ira's thigh, he smiled at the thought. This one really was a theatre widow. The little tramp did not resist, even though it must be obvious to her that the driver could see what was going on. Given that, it was unlikely that she would be silly later on. He chuckled for was tempted to tell her the joke, but decided she might feel compelled to be upset for the sake of appearances. She asked him what he was thinking about and he temporised.

'I was thinking about the 1967 silver rouble.'

'Da?'

'You know, the one with the portrait of Vladimir Ilyich with his hand raised, leading the proletariat to revolution.'

Ira was well aware of the coin showing Lenin with his arm outstretched, and of the rest of the joke, but decided to play along.

'Da?'

'You know what time Great Lenin is pointing to?'

'No, I don't understand.'

'He is pointing to 11.00.'

The girl shrugged her shoulders. As she did so, Markov thought 'This one is dumb'. He laughed.

'He is saying "Forward, Comrade, to the Vodka shops. They open at Eleven." '

The girl burst out laughing. As he caressed her thigh, Markov continued with more amusing anecdotes, including the one about the absent-minded professor who accidentally walked into the women's toilets one day. In Soviet public toilets, instead of a pedestal to sit on, you crouched over a hole in the floor. They were usually dark and smelly, and either had half doors or no doors at all. One of his girl students was attending to the needs of nature. Startled the girl started to scramble to her feet, her hand to her mouth. As students always jumped to their feet when their professor entered the room, the professor waved to her.

'Continue your business Comrade. There is no need to be formal here."

Markov told one of the innumerable "Vovochka" jokes about the obnoxious little boy who delighted in tormenting his newly qualified girl teacher, Maria Ivanovna, otherwise Marivanna.

'Vovochka wanted to slope off school to smoke, but was worried he would be punished.'

Ira asked him.

'What happened?'

'Marivanna was standing with her back to the class as she wrote a problem on the chalkboard, but accidentally she dropped her chalk. Quickly she bent over to pick it up.'

Markov could see an anticipatory smile on Ira's face.

'Vovochka whistles and yells out, "Look at the arse on her" to his teacher's outrage.'

'She yells at him, "Vovochka you filthy little beast, Get out of this classroom now." '

Ira giggled.

'Comrade General, you shouldn't say things like that.'

More Vovochka jokes followed.

'Vovochka's parents are going away and ask the teacher to look after him. Because they are friends of the Director, Marivanna has no choice but to agree. There is a thunder storm and Vovochka comes into her room crying that he's afraid, so the teacher lets him climb into her bed.'

Ira giggled at him.

'She's stupid.'

'Next morning the teacher wakes up to find a strange guy in her bed. "Who the hell are you, and where's Vovochka?" she screams. The guy looks at her for a moment. "Who's Vovochka?" he asks and then adds "Hey was that the kid who was selling the tickets?" '

Ira shook her head.

'Like I said, she's stupid.'

Finally Markov decided the "theatre widow" would go down well. Between sobs of laughter, Ira gasped.

'Comrade General, you must stop.'

Wondering what was wrong, Markov asked.

'Why is that Ira?'

She shook her head.

'You make me laugh so much comrade. Lenin, the Vodka shops, the loo, that little bastard Vovochka, the theatre. Your anecdotes are all so funny. My side hurts with laughing.'

Markov laughed back. Definitely this one was a theatre widow.

Sevastopol, 11.00pm Monday 9 August 1982

When it was dark, Lidiya found a secluded place, stripped off the respectable clothes she had worn in Ternovka, and put on the alternative outfit from her bag. It comprised a sheer white blouse with plunging neckline, an outrageously short black miniskirt, and a skimpy red G-string. With no bra, the outline of her breasts was visible through the sheer material of her top. She applied a sexy red lipstick, and was ready to appear in public.

She looked like a tart, but this was not by chance. Ivanov had asked how she would explain away three weeks on the run with no money without compromising her friends. That was not something Lidiya was prepared to risk. Despite her embarrassment when she had been selected to 'entertain' Leonid Ilyich, she knew there was only one plausible answer. She would have to have earned her keep on her back.

The choice of an outfit that would imply this to her captors was then automatic. When she had dressed, she briefly longed for a mirror. It was a throwback to her childhood, as Lidiya always wanted to look smart even as a child. As the thought formed in her mind, she realised that a whore would need to dress quickly after a client, and attracting the next customer was more important than looking smart. She grimaced, for she remembered how much she hated the outfit when she had tried it on in Moscow.

She hid the unwanted clothes and slowly walked to the boarding house with its shared dormitories where she planned to get arrested. It was a difficult walk, as she desperately wanted to run away. The cover of darkness and dim street lighting concealed her shame, but as she entered the lighted hall of the boarding house, that ended.

She felt degraded as she walked over to the counter and asked for overnight accommodation. She could see the contempt on the babushka's face as they spoke to one another. Instead of the paying with a handful of loose change, she pulled a large denomination rouble note out of her handbag. The babushka looked at her askance.

'Sorry, it's all I've got.'

The babushka went off grumbling to get change, and returned a couple of minutes later. Predictably, she was 5 roubles short. To make herself even more conspicuous, Lidiya complained. Just before midnight, two militsia officers called round on a routine visit.

'Anything to report?'

'A stuck up bitch that wanted a bed and was flashing a big note.'

'Describe her.'

'Tall, blonde, good figure. The way she was dressed you would have thought she was a prostitutka. The way she behaved, you might have thought she was a Grand Duchess.'

The officers glanced at one another. For the past three weeks they had been looking for the Petrova woman who was a tall blonde. If she had avoiding them for that long, she was hardly likely to start behaving like that now. It was obvious that the blonde was some slut who had got on the wrong side of the babushka, but they decided to check it out to be on the safe side. Although it meant some work, searching some cheap slut was never a hardship for the searchers. As for whether the girl enjoyed it, who cared?

'We'll take a look at her.'

The babushka was pleased. If the militsia officers had a look at the blonde, they would see she was a good-looking bitch with more money on her than a girl of her sort should have. It gave them the ideal chance to take a nice bribe out of her in cash terms and in a more personal way as well. If the bitch lost every kopek she had, and was forced to put up for the two militsia men, so what? It would teach her a lesson for throwing her weight about over the 5 roubles earlier on.

Gleefully, she led them to the dormitory where the lights were now out. She threw the door open, switched the lights on, and pointed to the girl who was asleep.

'That's the cheap whore, over there.'

One of the militsia officers strode across the dormitory and roughly shook Lidiya by the shoulder.

'Dokumenty Devochka.'

The girl woke up suddenly, and looked petrified.

'Come on, Devochka, dokumenty. We don't have all night.'

The girl mumbled.

'They were stolen this evening. I was going to report it tomorrow.'

One of the militsia officers saw she was sleeping on her handbag, which was a wise precaution in a place like this.

'The bag, Girl.'

The girl stubbornly clung to her bag, so one of the officers grabbed it from her, eliciting a squeal of surprise. He opened it. There was a large roll of notes. It was more than you would expect of a girl sleeping rough in a public dormitory. He laughed.

'Been busy this evening, have we, Devochka. A couple of profitable customers, was it?'

The girl flushed. He held the bankroll up.

'Looking at that, it must have been more than a couple. How many was it girl?'

She was crimson with shame.

'On your feet, detka - baby.'

She stood up. The senior militsia officer used his prerogative of searching a pretty girl whilst his colleague looked on. He fondled her boobs.

'Definitely something here, Sergey.'

There was a titter from the nearby beds, most of whose occupants were now awake and enjoying the spectacle. The militsia officer ran his hand down the woman's stomach and continued down her skirt, pressing it between her legs.

'Suspicious just here too.'

The officer decided to take pity on his young assistant, who had to stand and watch.

'What do you think, Sergey?'

The younger officer smiled at his good luck. The sergeant was not a bad guy to work for. He ran his hand down over the girl's stomach and skirt.

'I agree sergeant. Very suspicious. Had we better search her more thoroughly do you think?'

'Da, we'll take her in.'

The girl found her voice.

'Niet, please, I'd be so grateful.'

The sergeant had been glancing through her bag, and found a photo of the girl and a man in the uniform of an admiral.

'God' he breathed. 'It's the fucking Petrova woman.'

The other militsia man had not quite worked it out.

'Looks like that's what she has been doing, Sergeant, with a roll of notes like that.'

The sergeant snapped irritably.

'No, you idiot. The admiral's wife. The one that's been hiding for weeks.'

The babushka stared in disbelief. She had hoped that she would get the stuck up little prostitutka into trouble with the militsia. Instead it was some bitch that the authorities had been seeking for weeks.

The two Militsia officers took her to the militsia station, where she was questioned. Once it was clear who she was, she was put in a cell. The MVD was not a part of the KGB, but a separate service, and MVD officers resented how the 'Neighbours', as the KGB was known, looked down on them. The Captain in charge of the Militsia station had a score to settle, as he recalled a KGB officer joking about the Militsia.

'Why do Militsia officers always go about in pairs?

Because one of them can read, and the other one can write.'

He decided this was a chance to show up their arrogant 'Neighbours' in fine style. Instead of telling the local KGB office to come and collect the woman, he contacted the Regional MVD HQ at Simferopol. They in turn were delighted to pass the good news on to Moscow, who in turn contacted the Lubyanka.

The KGB offices, 'The Quarry' Inkerman, the evening of Tuesday 10 August 1982

It was almost three hours before Baykov was ready to start Lidiya's interrogation, as certain arrangements were needed. It was now early evening, and Lidiya was terrified that she might crack and betray her husband. Lidiya did not know it, but this was what the delay had been for.

As the door opened she looked up. Baykov entered, along with the sergeant and the other NCO who had beaten her. This time they were followed by a group of men. Lidiya did not count them, but assumed it was the ten-man squad that Baykov had told the sergeant to collect. Given that three men were ample to control one young woman, another ten seemed a waste of manpower Lidiya was sure they would be there for some reason, and had a hunch what that reason might be. Baykov snapped at her.

'Stand up.'

Lidiya stood up. The Colonel pointed to a white ringed disc of opaque glass in the middle of the room.

'Stand there.'

Lidiya had no choice but to comply. He unlocked the cabinet. She could see a shelf with whips, leather covered coshes of various types, clamps of various sorts and items that she could not identify, but hoped she would not become familiar with. Baykov caught her horrified expression.

'Ah, Lidiya, I see you are interested in our box of toys here. Do let me tell you what some of them are for.'

Baykov picked up a cosh and explained that with an unpadded cosh it required great skill to deliver the right blow. The idea was to cause maximum discomfort without broken limbs that needed to be treated, delaying the interview. With too much force, death could result. He picked up another device, a small glass rod and explained it was only used on male suspects. Lidiya listened in shocked horror at how it was used. Other devices were intended for female suspects, such as the Tean Zu, a Chinese toy that the KGB had improved.

Finally the colonel motioned to her.

'Stand above the circle.'

She did as she was told. She had noticed a small switchboard in the cabinet. Baykov flicked down some switches. Three powerful roof-mounted spotlights bathed her in their glow, the rest of the room seeming dark to her. He flicked another switch and a further spotlight located in the floor beneath her feet illuminated her from beneath. She shuffled her feet instinctively clamping her legs closer together. The move elicited a crude laugh from most of the men staring at her.

Baykov held a sheet of paper in his hand. He studied it for a moment or two.

'Lidiya, I have your confession here. If you wish to sign it now, it will make life so much easier for everyone. The Soviet Union will recognise your devotion to the state despite the difficult circumstances in which you have been placed. A wife's loyalty to her husband is praiseworthy, but her first duty is to the Motherland. All I ask of you is to remember where your duty lies. By doing your socialist duty, you can be a free woman in half an hour.'

Lidiya glared at him.

'My husband serves the Soviet Union. I serve the Soviet Union. I will not lie.'

To her surprise, Baykov and his thugs allowed Lidiya to complete her sentence, the first time she had managed to do so. Baykov sighed and shook his head sadly.

'Please take your clothes off, Lidiya.'

'Niet, I will not.'

'Sergeant Debalyuk will need to assist you then.'

Lidiya remained silent, glaring at the colonel.

'Sergeant, will you help the young lady, please?'

Sergeant Debalyuk stepped forward and stared intently at her blouse. Lidiya flushed, as she was conscious of the see-through top she was wearing and the lack of a bra. The outfit had been selected to imply to her captors how she had earned her keep after her husband was arrested. With the spotlights that were shining on her, and with Debalyuk so close, Lidiya might as well be topless for all the coverage her blouse provided. It was buttoned to just above her cleavage, and Debalyuk took both lapels in his hands, gripping them between his thumbs and fingers.

He gave her an encouraging smile and then tore her blouse open, the buttons flying off as he did so. Without a bra, and her blouse gaping open all the way down to her waist, she was already half naked. Debalyuk stepped back, and looked at her, admiring his handiwork. He shook his head, reached up and eased the blouse partially off her shoulders.

She had looked a whore even before he had torn her blouse open, but with the careful adjustment so that her top was almost but not quite slipping off her shoulders, the impression was even stronger. Lidiya flushed at this further humiliation, aware that most of the men in the room were looking at her intently. Baykov said politely.

'Lidiya?'

He held his hand out. She realised that she was supposed to take off the ruined blouse and hand it to him. If not, it would be ripped off her. There was no point in resisting, but even as a small child, Lidiya could be very stubborn. She was not going to do what the swine wanted. Baykov said once again.

'Sergeant, will you help the young lady do what is necessary please?'

Debalyuk walked round behind her. She felt his take her right arm very gently and move it behind her back. The most loving boyfriend could hardly have been more tender. It seemed very strange. Then he jerked her arm viciously upwards, wrenching it against the joint, until the tendons in her shoulder were on fire. Lidiya screamed with the sudden agony to which she had been subjected. Baykov glanced at her and enquired courteously.

'Lidiya, will you hand me your blouse please?'

She shook her head. Baykov spoke again.

'Sergeant, it seems that the young lady still needs your help.'

Debalyuk released her arm, and she felt his hand on the collar of her blouse and tensed herself. Suddenly he tore the blouse off her back, jerking her right arm behind her back in the process. After the way the joint had been maltreated, this further torment was agonising. Baykov pointed to her short black mini skirt.

'Lidiya, lift your skirt up please.'

She ignored him. Once again, Debalyuk twisted her arm behind her, lifting her off the ground and sending new waves of pain surging through her body. He set her down on her feet. Baykov looked at her sympathetically.

'The skirt, Lidiya, lift it up above your waist for us, please.'

Once again, Lidiya ignored Baykov's politely worded request. She felt Debalyuk put his hands on the hem of her skirt, and lift it up slowly and carefully until the whole of her panties were on show. The slow way in which she had been exposed made it even more embarrassing. The spotlight below the floor bathed her thighs and her red G-string in light. It made her exposure utterly degrading. There were smiles all round the room at her progressive humiliation. Debalyuk twisted her around the room, showing her to every one of the men. He let go of her skirt, and it fell in place again.

'Lidiya, had you lifted your skirt up as I asked you, I would not have had to insist on your removing it. I now have no option, Please remove your skirt.'

Lidiya continued to ignore the colonel. Debalyuk hooked his hands into the waistband of her skirt and jerked it down, ripping the skirt off her hips. He let it go and it fell to the floor lying round her ankles.

'Step out of your skirt please, Lidiya.'

Baykov could not have been surprised when she ignored him. He nodded to the sergeant. He twisted her arm behind her back lifting her against the joint and kicking the skirt away from beneath her. She was afraid now and she was breathing faster than she should do.

She had just one garment left, and could work out what would happen. There would be a polite request and her stubborn refusal. Her arm would be savagely twisted, and the request would come again. She would refuse and the garment would be forcibly removed in the most unpleasant way Debalyuk could imagine.

Common sense told her to co-operate, and not to suffer needless pain. A deeper voice warned her that co-operation was the first step towards surrender. The painless way to remove her G-string would be to pull it down. Tearing it off her so the material cut into her soft flesh until the garment ripped apart, would be more painful. She had no doubts what they would do to her.

'Lidiya, the last garment, please?'

When there was no response, Baykov glanced at Sergeant Debalyuk.

'Sergeant, the young lady would appreciate your assistance.'

Debalyuk yanked the panties upwards, but was careful not to be too violent so all that happened was that the leg bands bit into the inside of Lidiya's thighs.

'Lidiya, I am sure you realise our difficulty. If you co-operate and remove your panties, it will be so much more pleasant for everyone.'

Despite the tone of entreaty, as if Baykov was desperate to save her distress, she ignored him and braced herself. Two of Sergeant Debalyuk men grabbed her legs and the sergeant tore at the panties much more forcefully. With Lidiya now firmly held, the material bit into her flesh and then tore apart. Where the material had dug into her body before it finally tore, her skin was reddened and sore.

The three men let her go. She stood there sullen, naked and defenceless in a room with thirteen men. Once again Debalyuk took hold of her and twisted her around so that all his men had a good look at her. She realised that they were studying her in anticipation. The floodlights shining on her, and in particular the one beneath the floor heightened her vulnerability.

Lidiya was more ashamed than she had ever felt in her life. Even the morning after her seduction when she had to walk home in the remnants of her clothing paled into insignificance. It then got much worse. She had been standing with her legs clamped together. Baykov pointed at her feet.

'Lidiya please place one foot each side of the circle for us'.

Automatically she glanced down, and then shook her head.

'Sergeant, the young lady seems not to understand. If you and your men will assist her.'

Two men knelt down, took hold of her legs and gently parted them until her feet were just outside the painted circle on the floor. Lidiya closed her eyes. She knew where the two men were gazing, and felt sick. They released her legs. Instinctively she started to move but felt the hands restrain her and reposition her legs further apart, exposing her even more. When they released her this time, she stood still. Baykov smiled. She had learned her lesson.

The courteous way in which Baykov's requests that Lidiya should remove her clothes had been phrased could not conceal the insulting nature of such 'requests'. The brutal way that she had been forcibly stripped in a roomful of men emphasised the falsity of the courtesy. Baykov's orders were brutal and degrading, which was what he had intended.

Anyone observing Lidiya's interrogation might have characterised Baykov as a sadist, but they would have been wrong. A sadist enjoys inflicting pain on his victim. Baykov gained no pleasure from how Lidiya had been degraded or hurt. He would have preferred her to sign the confession before a single button had been torn off. His instructions had been to obtain confessions from Lidiya that would compromise the Admiral. That, rather than inflicting any discomfort upon her, was his objective.

The quicker that could be achieved the better. Lidiya's stubborn refusal had forced him to request her to undress. Her refusal to comply had inevitably resulted in her being compulsorily stripped. Whilst Baykov gained no pleasure from the pain she had suffered, he knew that Sergeant Debalyuk had enjoyed it.

The majority of sergeants in the Soviet armed forces were conscripts who were streamed off to special training camps at the start of their military service. After six months they were sent to their intended units as sergeants. Their brutal treatment of recruits was notorious through the armed forces. At the end of their two years compulsory service, the brightest of them were offered officer's commissions. Most returned to civilian life, but some who liked military life, but were too stupid or brutal to be commissioned, remained as sergeants.

Debalyuk came in the latter category. He enjoyed humiliating KGB troopers, but his great joy was interrogating prisoners. Unlike Baykov, who gained no pleasure from inflicting pain, Debalyuk delighted in it. Many capable interrogators found it difficult to interrogate a woman, especially if she was young and pretty. Debalyuk relished it, which made him valuable to Baykov, but he needed to be watched carefully.

One time, when Debalyuk was interrogating a prisoner under Baykov's watchful gaze, a phone call came in, and he took it in his office. When he returned fifteen minutes later, the prisoner had regrettably died.

Whilst Baykov had no wish to hurt Lidiya, pain and degradation were powerful tools he could use. If, through her stubborn conduct, she was hurt, it was her own fault. He would not shrink from doing his duty, whatever the cost to the young woman in front of him.

He looked at her for a moment or two to assess how to soften her up psychologically. His initial assessment when she had been brought to 'The Quarry' was that she would crack quickly. Probably it would only take a garment or two. To his surprise she was still defiant, but was intelligent enough to know what came next. A little time to think about it would help. When the threat became real, she would crack.

'We will leave you for a short while, Lidiya.'

Baykov, the sergeants and the ten men trooped out of the room. Lidiya noticed they had locked the rags that had once been her clothing in the steel cabinet. She could not even put them on, so she would be naked before the start of her next interrogation. With no need to 'keep up appearances', Lidiya slumped on the cold metal bed frame and sobbed hysterically.

Ever since the night her school 'friends' had got her drunk and had seduced her, she had dreaded being sexually degraded. She realised that this was likely even before she had proposed the mission. Her resolute stance when demanding to go on this mission to Ivanov had been play-acting, to disguise her own terror. Even in her worst nightmare, which had haunted her repeatedly ever since, it had never been as bad as this.

Lidiya was unaware, but a concealed camera and microphones recorded everything. As he sipped a glass of chai, and nibbled some biscuits, Baykov looked at the hysterical girl sobbing on the bed frame. He wrote a detailed account of the interrogation to date and added his psychological assessment. He jotted down, 'self conscious, humiliated, afraid, self-pity. Broke down when left alone. Should crack easily during Phase Two.'

General Segachev's Flat, Moscow, the evening of 10 August 1982

General Segachev had been delighted to hear of Lidiya's capture and had instructed Baykov to keep him informed of progress. Baykov saw the fear on her face when she arrived at 'The Quarry', and was confident she would break quickly. Segachev had approved Baykov's plan that she was to be handed a suitable confession implicating her husband, but if she was stubborn she should receive a robust interrogation.

'Robust' meant brutal. Baykov's first success, the woman crane driver some twenty-five years earlier, had been ordered to strip, and had then been raped. Within a few hours he had a confession. As they spoke on the phone, Segachev asked him.

'How has it gone?'

'Like the crane woman, she was stubborn at first, so she needed a little help. At the end, when we ordered her to spread her legs over the light, she got the message that she has to do as we tell her.'

'You were quite right. Are you going to show her the film?'

'Da. It usually frightens the hell out of them.'

'I'm sure you're right. Let me know when she cracks.'

Lidiya had been left alone with her fears and would be left to contemplate her fate for an hour. The KGB found that an educational film showing what could be done to an interviewee was also useful. Although no food was provided for Lidiya, Baykov and his team had a meal in case the interrogation went on longer than expected.

With these extracts from "The Admiral's Woman", things are looking bleak for Lidiya and her husband aren't they? The Admiral has been in the hands of the KGB for some time. As he must be in a presentable condition for a show trial, they can't rough him up.

Lidiya, on the other hand, is not of any importance, so there is no need for a show trial before she is executed or sent to the Gulag. The condition she is in after her 'interrogation' by Colonel Baykov and the sadistic Sergeant Debalyuk doesn't really matter. Baykov is willing to torture and humiliate Lidiya until she signs a confession implicating her husband and General Ivanov.

The KGB net soon widens and Lidiya's friend Julia is brought in for questioning. Here is an extract from what happened

KGB District HQ, Sevastopol 1.30pm, Wednesday 11 August 1982

Julia had hoped she might escape questioning, but was not surprised when a KGB squad came to collect her. She knew that her habit of running her hand through her hair was distracting. She had done it ever since she had been a child, but her mama had curbed it to some extent. For Colonel Sitnikov, she had done so naturally on the first question, but had noticed his eyes following her hand. Thereafter it was intentional.

Maksim Sitnikov was sure that Vanayeva was being evasive, but at first he could not identify it. Baykov would probably have beaten a confession out of her. Sitnikov prided himself in being a professional interrogator, and probed until it all came out. Vanayeva was having a clandestine affair with a married man, and a friend was babysitting her kids. As he heard that, Sitnikov thought of his own nights of passion with Chapayeva.

A few minutes more questioning, and Sitnikov had the whole story. Her inconsistencies now made sense. Vanayeva admitted that the married man was the husband of her best friend, Assol Vlasenko. Sitnikov knew of men who slept with a friend of their wife, but what made Vanayeva unusual was that she had dumped her kids with Assol to do so. From what Vanayeva said, it never occurred to the trusting Assol that the guy her widowed friend was screwing was her own husband.

The more upset she became, the more the bitch fiddled with her hair, until Sitnikov bellowed at her.

'For Christ's sake, Devochka, stop fiddling with your fucking hair.'

'Yes, Comrade Colonel. Certainly, Sir, I'm sorry.'

As she said it, her hand headed convulsively towards her hair and then dropped to her side. Maksim Sitnikov was satisfied that the cheating bitch was telling the truth, but decided to play safe. Vanayeva would be arrested and held for questioning in light of developments. She was accordingly locked in a cell in the basement of the HQ building. After she was taken away from the office, Sitnikov jotted down his impressions.

He summed her up as stupid, an adulteress who would betray her best friend, vain and self-centred. The latter was because she had protested more strongly about being deprived of her make-up than being separated from her kids. Although he was having an affair behind Vera's back, Sitnikov regarded Vanayeva with contempt.

_In far off Uzbekistan, gruesome experiments are taking place at the Chemical Weapons Research Institute_.

The Chemical Weapons Research Institute, No'kis, Uzbekistan, Wednesday 18 August 1982

Colonel Nikolai Safronov flicked down the button on his intercom.

'Ready to commence Test No 12; are your cameras running?'

'Da, Da, Comrade Colonel.'

Colonel Safronov held up a card bearing the numeral '12' so that there could be no confusion at a later date with other films.

He flipped the button down on the intercom.

'Send in No 12.'

Safronov had read through the files on P455,738, Melekhin, Maksim Vladimirovich, earlier that morning. Now in his early thirties, Melekhin had been a student in Moscow in 1968 at the time of the invasion of Czechoslovakia. In common with a handful of other students, he had been sufficiently misguided to demonstrate against the Soviet action in rescuing the Czech comrades from their foolishness. The protest by a few hotheads had lasted less than two minutes before they had been arrested. Melekhin had spent the next fourteen years in the care of the Gulag pondering the wisdom of that action.

From the files in front of him, it appeared that Melekhin was one of the few troublemakers not to understand his error. One of the reports summed him up in a single word, "unrepentant". The door opened. A chemical troops private brought in a gaunt grey haired man who looked twenty years older than the age on his file card.

'Please sit down Comrade Melekhin.'

Maksim Melekhin had never failed to be amazed by the vagaries of the Soviet system. It could punish you viciously, humiliate you one minute, and be polite thirty seconds later. He sat down. The Colonel sitting behind the desk wore the uniform of the Red Army, and not the Gulag. By his branch of service insignia, he was a doctor.

'Comrade Melekhin, you are no doubt wondering why you are here?'

Melekhin shrugged his shoulders.

'I have news that you and your family may be pleased to hear.'

Melekhin had been told "good news" before, so was unimpressed.

'The health of our dear Leonid Ilyich has, as you are perhaps aware, been failing for some time now. I am sorry to say that our beloved comrade passed away last Thursday.'

Dear Leonid Ilyich was the man responsible for the fourteen years that Melekhin had spent in the Gulag, but he showed no emotion.

'On Saturday, Comrade Andropov was appointed General Secretary. He wishes to mark the change in our nation's affairs with an act of clemency. It will apply to those whose only fault was a misguided display of exuberance in their youth. You and at least a thousand other individuals are being considered for early release. There may be a few who would pose a threat to the community so cannot be released. So far as I can see, this would not apply in your case.'

The story that Safronov had told him was devoid of truth, but Melekhin had no way of knowing that. He had assumed that the ability of the system to surprise him was long gone, but now, he was surprised. There was even a hope that he might be released.

'As I am sure you will understand, I do have to ask you a few questions. We will try to keep this as informal as possible. I am sure you want to be on a train back to Moscow, and I want to place an approved stamp on your file to permit that.'

'Thank you, Comrade Colonel.'

'If you are released as an act of clemency, will you repeat your previous conduct by protesting in Red Square?'

Safronov had interviewed eleven prisoners so far. Of them ten had said they would not repeat their offence. The eleventh had refused to do so. That was regrettable, as he could not then be congratulated on his freedom and offered vodka and chocolates. He had been removed to another part of the Institute and shot in the back of the head. Melekhin thought for a moment or two.

'I would not wish to return to the camp, Comrade Colonel, so you have my word that I will not protest again.'

The Colonel beamed at him.

'That is splendid news. There is a slip of paper here to confirm that. If you will sign it, then there are no impediments to your release.'

Safronov handed him the paper and an expensive pen with a gold cap. Melekhin read what he was to sign, and found it was what the Colonel had said. There seemed to be no trap, so he signed it. Safronov carefully placed the paper in the file and sat back.

'Comrade Melekhin, this is a moment for celebration. Over the last two days, I have been able to process eleven of your comrades, and in only one case was there a doubt. He has been returned to his quarters for the moment. I should return him to the camp as incorrigible, but if I can persuade him to change his mind I shall do so. Before you leave, maybe you would care to talk to him.'

'Of course, Comrade Colonel, if you wish that.'

The Colonel pressed a button, and an orderly came in with a tray containing a bottle of vodka, two glasses and a small box. He placed it on the table and retired. Safronov poured out two generous measures of Vodka. He handed one to Melekhin.

'Our beloved Rodina.'

Melekhin, although he was a dissident, was a loyal Russian and gladly drank the toast to the Motherland. Safronov poured another glass and opened the gold coloured box. To Melekhin's surprise it was a small but expensive box of chocolates. Safronov picked one that was wrapped in gold paper and handed the box to Melekhin. He apologised for his bad manners in taking one before his guest.

'I have stomach problems so there are only a few flavours that agree with me. You cannot begin to imagine how I envy you fit young people.'

Melekhin expressed his sympathy and glanced at the chocolates. There was only one other with the gold wrapping. If the Colonel had tummy problems, it might be tactful to leave that for him. Melekhin picked another chocolate and put it in his mouth. It was a peppermint flavour. He savoured the unexpected taste of the chocolate before biting into the centre. A couple of seconds later, he felt a momentary burning sensation in his mouth, as if he had swallowed something much too hot. The discomfort soon passed but his mouth felt numb. Chocolate was not something he had enjoyed in many years, so perhaps he was unused to chocolate and vodka. A few seconds later he felt sick, and groaned to the Colonel.

'I don't feel at all well, Comrade.'

'It must be the excitement. I am actually a military psychologist, but we train as doctors. If you can tell me what you feel, I may be able to prescribe something to help you.'

By now, Maksim Melekhin felt very sick indeed and struggled manfully not to vomit. His breath was coming in gasps, and the room appeared much as the world had seemed to him as a child if he had spun round like a top. The room was going round and round. He wondered if two large glasses of Vodka on an empty stomach after so long without such a treat had been wise.

'I see you are not well, Comrade, do please tell me what is the matter so we can help you?'

Maksim Melekhin's mind was completely clear, but he felt increasingly giddy and when he tried to lift his hand to his head, which was aching, found he could not do so. In fact, his muscular control seemed to be failing. His breath was becoming ragged, and he felt sure he was going to be sick. To his embarrassment he sensed his bowels open of their own volition, and he could smell his own faeces in his trousers.

Colonel Safronov was watching him with sympathy.

'How unfortunate that you should be taken ill, Comrade. I will call the orderly to take you away.'

Maksim Melekhin lost his battle and vomited all over his clothes, but did not have the strength to do anything else. Lying in his own vomit and faeces in front of the colonel who had been so kind, and gasping for every breath, he felt deeply ashamed.

'Comrade Colonel, I do apologise.'

'Think nothing of it, Maksim Vladimirovich.'

Two minutes later, he was dead. Colonel Safronov noted in the file.

"7 mins 35 seconds. Result entirely successful."

He pressed the button on the intercom.

'Bring the trolley.'

The orderly and a major entered the room. The major glanced at the body.

'Less than eight minutes, so it seems we are on the right track, Comrade Colonel'.

One of the early tests with a lower dose had taken more than 35 minutes to die. For much of the time the subject had screamed abuse at them, accusing them of poisoning her. Another test with a much more heavily dosed chocolate had also failed. The taste had been sufficiently unpleasant for the subject to spit the chocolate out. He had died within a few minutes, but the part eaten chocolate was something that a pathologist could examine.

'Do you wish a repeat with the same dose, Comrade Colonel?'

'Probably a good idea, Yevgeniy. We still have plenty of subjects left, don't we?'

'Da, Da. This was No 12, so we still have 18 available for use.'

'Very well, Remove No 12, do the post-mortem and send me the file for No 13. I had better read up his particulars before I interview him.'

'Her particulars, Comrade Colonel, it's a woman.'

Safronov pursed his lips. Subject No 2, the woman who had wasted over half an hour had not been particularly attractive, but No 7 had been a good-looking blonde. Prior to his approving her 'release', when he asked if she wanted to demonstrate her gratitude to the state, she realised what he had in mind. She had been most accommodating. He was shocked to find that the camera crew had kept the camera running throughout that part of the 'interview'.

'I see, I see. What's she like?'

'Redhead, mid twenties, good looking, nice pair of tits.'

'Seems a shame to allow her to go to waste.'

'Leave the cameras on Colonel. It's a bit trying on the operators filming this all the time, and a bit of fun makes it easier for them.'

'You and your cameramen. You're a bunch of damned voyeurs. All right. Leave her file, and I'll buzz you when I am ready to process her.'

Had the Colonel pressed him further, Major Savinkov could have given a good deal more information about No 13. She was a pretty redhead and even five years in the Gulag had not destroyed her good looks. She had been sentenced under Article 58 for Anti-Soviet activity on the recommendation of her commanding office. He had been in charge of the Nurses training school where she was stationed.

No 13 was troublesome, and showed no remorse for her behaviour. It had been decided that she was not ready for release when her seven-year sentence was completed. The Gulag had been considering grounds for extending her sentence when the request arrived for a supply of zeks for test purposes. Some were condemned criminals, but it was a convenient way to lose unwanted Politicals. Her name was added to the draft.

When he had looked the prisoners over, Savinkov had deliberately recorded her as No 23. Later on, he had told her that it was a shame that she had such a low number, and she asked him why. This did not surprise him, as No 7 had been listed as No 27 to start with. Both women had reacted as he had intended. He told No 23 that a maximum of fifteen zeks would be released, but with her low number she had little prospects of early release.

She had begged him to change her number, as her mother was a widow and in poor health. His initial refusal, her desperate pleas, and his suggestion that she would need to convince him of her gratitude, put the girl in the right frame of mind. She voluntarily stripped off her zek's clothing and stepped towards him. After she had shown sufficient gratitude, which had occupied the whole of the previous night, she had been advanced the requisite ten places.

An hour later, the Colonel held up card No 13.

'"No 13", who had been registered as Viktoria Kazakova at birth, entered the Colonel's room. She looked nervous, but even her nervousness and the shapeless uniform of a zek could not hide her good looks.

'Please sit down Comrade Kazakova.'

Viktoria Kazakova sat down as she was ordered.

'Comrade Kazakova, Viktoria, if I may call you that, you are no doubt wondering why you are here?'

'Da, Comrade Colonel.'

'Viktoria, I have news for you that you and your family may be pleased to hear.'

When Viktoria had been nice to Major Savinkov, she had not allowed herself any real hope that she would be released. Life as a zek was too full of disappointments for that. Now she felt a flicker of hope. When the Colonel spoke of her early release that fragile hope flowered into real excitement. When the Colonel suggested she show her gratitude to the state in a suitable way, Viktoria understood what he meant.

The major had expected her to be grateful the previous night, so she would be a fool not to be grateful to the colonel. She made every effort to please him, and she was very good. As she did so, Viktoria felt bitter that the only way she would gain her freedom was by giving to Savinkov and Safronov what she had refused to Mironov.

An hour later, the Colonel waited considerately until she had dressed before summoning the orderly. Being treated as if her feelings and privacy mattered was something she had not known in years. With that courtesy, her resentment towards the Colonel largely disappeared. It was true that he had used his position, but that is what men usually did. What mattered was that he had treated her with respect afterwards, and not as if she was dirt. She was unaware that her entire performance had been filmed.

The vodka and chocolates that the orderly brought were an unheard of treat. They were an added bonus on what was becoming the best day Viktoria had enjoyed since she had refused to obey General Mironov five years previously. As she sipped her second glass of vodka, she smiled at the Colonel.

'Thank you Comrade Colonel.'

'What for, Viktoria?'

'Approving my release, and.. and.'

'And what.'

'Not summoning the orderly until after I'd got dressed.'

She picked up the chocolate and popped it in her mouth. She gave another smile to the Colonel. He noticed that her brown eyes were gleaming with happiness.

'I've not had a treat like this for years.'

Less than twenty minutes after the end of her tryst with Colonel Safronov, Viktoria's still warm body was loaded on to the trolley that had been used to remove Maksim Melekhin. Her file had been noted '6 mins 25 seconds.' With the same dosage, the speedier results implied that body mass might be of relevance.

No 15 completed the interviews for the day. After a gruelling day at work, Colonel Safronov accepted Yevgeniy's suggestion that they screen the interviews with No's 7 and 13. As he and the team watched the films, the Colonel felt proud of his own prowess. Both women had been amenable to his least demands. As he watched No 13, he felt a trifle sad that she would no longer be available to service him or any other man. She had been extremely pretty and it was a waste. Yevgeniy had told him there were some more 'lookers' to process, so it was not too important.

Chemicals weapons experiments on human guinea pigs, and Lidiya and her husband in the hands of the KGB torturers! It looks to be as bad as it can get. Soon a crack Spetsnaz unit moves into action; there is a dramatic manhunt in the rugged Ai Petri Mountains of the Crimea and events move to a head in Moscow, in Uzbekistan and in the Crimea. If you want to read the full story, it can be found in "The Admiral's Woman", but for a final glimpse let's visit the Grand Kremlin Palace a few weeks later.

Colonel Maksim Sitnikov had not been invited to the Kremlin Palace, but decided to watch the ceremony on TV. Sitnikov knew he had been mistaken over Vanayeva, but as the TV crew caught Julia fiddling with her hair, he shook his head.

'Even in the bloody Kremlin.'

As she marched forward, he glowered at the screen. He had dismissed her as a stupid tart who had been screwing her best friend's husband. At the Kremlin Palace, she looked quite different. She had seemed vacant and shallow in his office. As she stood before the C-in-C of the navy, she was proud, composed and clearly intelligent. With a flash of anger, he realised that only thing that had been true was her obsession with her damned hair.

### Chapter 4 Lidiyagate

Object No 1, Zarechye, West of Moscow, Wednesday 15 September 1982

After Sergey Gorshkov had left, Boris Ponomarev escorted Lidiya and her husband to the front of the ID offices where his ZIL-4104 limousine was waiting. The 4104 had only appeared in 1978, and with production limited to fifty cars a year was the current favourite of the Politburo. With armoured glass windows that would stop a rifle bullet and a heavily armoured floor to defeat landmines, the ZIL-4104 was immensely heavy. It was powered by a 7691cc pushrod V-8 engine with a power output of 232 kW. By comparison, the Red Army ZIL-131 truck came with a 6000cc engine.

With exclusive use of the outside lane on the main highways, and with Militsia officers signalling them through all traffic lights, the journey from the centre of Moscow to Zarechye took just a few minutes. Ponomarev had not told them where they were going and Lidiya had assumed it would be some exclusive restaurant reserved for the Nomenclatura. As they approached their destination at Zarechye, Ponomarev pointed to a dacha.

'That dacha belongs to Andrei Andreyevich, that is Comrade Gromyko, our Minister of Foreign Affairs.'

Lidiya gasped. Presumably, Ponomarev was taking them to his own dacha for lunch. The limousine pulled up outside a three story dacha.

'Well, here we are.'

Ponomarev lead them to the front door, which was opened as he approached. A smartly dressed attendant spoke to Ponomarev.

'Zdrastvuite, Boris Nikol'ich. Leonid Ilyich is expecting you.'

Lidiya did not believe what she had just heard. Ponomarev turned to Lidiya and her husband.

'Come with me, comrades.'

He ushered them into a reception room.

Leonid Brezhnev greeted them. He was wearing his grey marshal's uniform with golden shoulder boards with their large star and wreathed globe, his four 'Gold Star, Hero of the Soviet Union' medals and a solid block of medal ribbons, which Lidiya later found out exceeded one hundred.

'Boris Nikol'ich, I welcome you and our honoured guests. Mikhail Aleksandrovich, it was a pleasure to see you and our heroic Lidiya Mikhailovna at the investiture. We were all impressed with how you discarded your walking stick at the ceremony, and at the pain it must have caused you. How is your leg and also your arm? If you require any medical treatment, tell me, and it will be arranged.'

'Esteemed Leonid Ilyich, thank you for your concern. My leg and my arm are much better than a month ago.'

Brezhnev turned to Admiral Petrov.

'Mikhail Aleksandrovich, you are a lucky man to have such a wonderful woman for a wife. I know she is too modest and too self effacing, but if there is anything that will help her, I charge you personally with letting me know.'

'Certainly, and thank you very much, Comrade General Secretary.'

.....

'Leonid Ilyich, You will recall the poster campaign we launched last year featuring Lidiya?'

'Da, Da, excellent.'

'We plan a new poster campaign, exhorting Soviet youth to live up to the qualities that Lidiya has displayed.'

'Excellent, you have my wholehearted support.'

Lidiya shrugged her shoulders.

'But I didn't so anything.'

Ponomarev smiled. The girl's modesty was one of her assets.

'That is for us to decide.'

Ponomarev continued.

'Leonid Ilyich, the Lidiya story is so dramatic that the International Department feels it warrants a full-length film. In Lidiya we have a real Stirlitz to celebrate.'

The reference was to the fictitious Soviet super-spy, Standartenführer von Stirlitz, who penetrated the German High Command and was a counterpart to the Western James Bond. Ponomarev had told the Soviet film agency, Soyuzkino to prepare the script for the as-yet untitled film, using the celebrated Mosfilm studios. He turned to Lidiya.

'Lidiya, I have studied your reports from school and the pioneers and find that you have shown considerable talent in amateur dramatics. I have therefore directed Mosfilm to give you a film test, and if satisfactory, you will play the lead role in the film.'

Lidiya stared at Ponomarev in disbelief. One of the most powerful men in the Soviet Union had studied HER school reports? It did not make any sense to her! She shook her head.

'I'm not an actress. I'm a naval officer and a wife.'

'You will be given the necessary training.'

Lidiya looked at him defiantly.

'Comrade Ponomarev there is one detail you have apparently overlooked. I am going to have a baby.'

'What do you mean?'

'I am pregnant. I am having a baby in the spring, so you will have to find someone else.'

Viktoria Brezhneva cut in.

'My dear, you are going to have a baby?'

'Da, Viktoria Petrovna. I had a test before I went to the Crimea and all the horrible things that happened there.'

Viktoria turned to her husband.

'Lenya, is that not wonderful news?'

A sentimental man, easily moved to tears where children were concerned, Leonid Ilyich nodded.

'Da, Da. Lidiya must have whatever treatment is needed. That must come first.'

Boris Ponomarev thought rapidly. The baby would wreck havoc with his schedules, but to say so was out of the question. He turned to Lidiya.

'Lidiya Mikhailovna, May I add my congratulations to those of our dear Leonid Ilyich and Viktoria Petrovna. As far as the film is concerned, preparing the script, casting and the other technicalities will take months. Mosfilm will not be ready to start shooting before the spring. That means as soon as your baby is born, you will be able to start work.'

'I have to look after my baby, Comrade.'

'We will arrange a nanny for your baby when you are filming. You will also be meeting international delegations and giving talks in different parts of the country, so the nanny will be necessary in any case.'

Lidiya did not want her life filmed. She did not want to be a film star and she did not want to have to hand her baby to a nanny. It seemed that she had no choice over anything. Ponomarev saw her glaring at him. The girl had strength of character, but he realised that if she did not, she would never have had the courage to allow herself to be captured in order to rescue her husband, or to tackle an armed man when she was without a weapon. He smiled back, and decided informality was the answer.

'Lidiya, you are a remarkable young woman, as everyone who meets you discovers. The Soviet Union faces a crisis. The International Department and the Rodina need you. You can say "Niet", but you are a patriotic young woman, as well as a remarkable one. I am content to leave the decision to you, for I know what your answer will be. A lesser person might say "Niet", but I know you will do your duty for our Soviet motherland.'

Lidiya stared at him with frustration. She had been given an opportunity to refuse, but in giving her that right, Comrade Ponomarev had played on her deep love of Mother Russia. Put that way, she knew she could not refuse and she was sure that he understood that.

Ponomarev had taken a chance, for it could backfire, but he was certain it would not. Lidiya and the 77 year old Kremlin grandee who had fought as a teenager in the Civil War, and was old enough to be her grandfather, looked at one another for two or three seconds. Ponomarev held his breath, but noticed the beginning of a smile. He knew she was going to say yes. They were both now smiling.

'Very well, Comrade, you leave me with no choice, but my baby comes first.'

'That goes without saying. You will have my direct phone number, which is otherwise only known to Politburo members, and if you encounter the slightest problems, you will call me. They will be dealt with.'

When he first heard of her pregnancy, Boris Ponomarev resented the interruption to his plans, and had spoken tactfully rather than with sincerity. To his surprise, he realised that he meant what he had just said. He had planned to use Lidiya to improve the image of the USSR, but had just discovered that he had just fallen under her spell himself.

Wryly he grinned. He had been the first 'victim' of his own plot. He wanted her to charm the West, and she had done it to him. To the surprise of Leonid Ilyich, Viktoria Petrovna and Mikhail Aleksandrovich, Ponomarev and Lidiya both burst out laughing.

Captain-Lieutenant Petrova's office, Black Sea Fleet HQ, Sevastopol, Monday 1 November 1982

Lidiya Petrova had been released from hospital in late August, although she needed a stick to walk with and her arm was in a sling. By November she had more use of her arm although it was still very weak and she had dispensed with her stick. In accordance with usual policy, Lidiya had been transferred to the reserve when she had married Mikhail Petrov.

The events in July and August 1982, which led to her Gold Star Hero of the Soviet Union medal, had prompted the VMF to rule that she was an active duty officer again. Despite her injuries and pregnancy, that remained the case. Having reached that decision, the VMF had to decide what duties she should fulfil.

As a rating or junior lieutenant, a communications operator was fine, but with her double promotion to Captain-Lieutenant, she was too senior for such duties. In the end Mikhail Petrov came up with a solution. As he discovered the extent to which Captain (Second Rank) Viktorov had exploited his position in charge of the female staff in Fleet Headquarters, forcing them to sleep with him, Petrov was outraged.

A discovery that Viktorov had often pressured the girls into sleeping with other officers if there was something in it for him disgusted the admiral even more. Petrov decided that better protection was needed for the young women in the fleet. As Lidiya had said, they had volunteered to serve in the navy, not to sleep with anyone on demand.

He suggested to Moscow that Lidiya should be Female Staff Welfare Officer. Moscow was also considering what to do and immediately agreed, as her absences for film or publicity work would not affect combat readiness. As Lidiya's full membership of the CPSU had been approved in less than 48 hours from the discussions at Zarechye, there were no problems about meeting the Nomenclatura list regulations.

Lidiya was excited that she could do something for the girls, but would need an office where female ratings could speak in private. An office was provided for Captain-Lieutenant L M Petrova, and there was a notice on the door giving her name. An hour after Lidiya started work on her first day in her new job, one of the girls who had trained with her in Leningrad knocked on her door.

With a flood of tears, she told Lidiya that a Senior Lieutenant was pressuring her into sex twice a week. Lidiya had two ways to deal with the problem. She could refer the complaint to the C-in-C and request a formal investigation. If successful, it would be a black mark against the lieutenant, but it was the girl's unsupported word against his, as there were no independent witnesses or documentary evidence.

The other option was to take action herself. As a Captain-Lieutenant she outranked a Senior Lieutenant, so could warn him informally. She picked up the Dictaphone.

'Lieutenant Zemskov. This is Captain-Lieutenant Petrova. I wish to see you.'

'I am busy at the moment.'

'When would be convenient?'

'I don't know.'

From Zemskov's tone of voice, Lidiya realised that he was stringing her along.

'Lieutenant, I said I wish to see you, but if you prefer, I will rephrase it, that you will report to me at once.'

'I said I was busy.'

Lidiya had been worried that because she was a woman, her status as an officer might be compromised. She did not worry for herself, but it could not be allowed as it harmed the dignity of the officer corps of the VMF. She said icily.

'Comrade Lieutenant, when I joined the VMF, I swore an oath which went as follows, "I solemnly swear to be an honest, brave, disciplined and vigilant fighter, strictly to keep military and State secrets, to obey unquestioningly the military statutes and the orders of my superior officers". I imagine you swore the same oath. You will therefore obey my orders, or you will be placed under arrest for disobedience of a direct order from your superior officer.'

'I will be there right away Comrade Captain Lieutenant.'

Rodion Zemskov arrived four minutes later.

'Senior Lieutenant Zemskov reporting as ordered to the Comrade Captain Lieutenant.'

'Thank you Comrade Lieutenant. If you will sit down.'

Resentfully Zemskov sat down. Lidiya notices that he crossed his leg in a way that no junior officer would do before his superior officer. It was particularly insulting towards a woman, but she opted to ignore it.

'Comrade Lieutenant. I wished to have a word with you "off-the-record". One of the female communications ratings has told me that you have made improper suggestions to her and pressured her into being intimate with you. This is not in accordance with the norms of Soviet policy and I must insist that anything of this sort should cease. If I should receive a formal complaint, I would have to press charges against you.'

Zemskov shot back.

'Fucking bitch. Who was it?'

Lidiya stared at him glacially.

'Comrade Lieutenant. All of the girl ratings in Fleet HQ are volunteers. They volunteered to serve the Rodina, not to provide sexual services to you. They did not volunteer to be called bitches. From what you say, it would appear that you are pressuring more than one girl. If I receive a second report as to your behaviour, instead of offering a friendly word of advice, I will throw so many charges at you that if you end up at a weather station at the North Pole you will be damn lucky. One more complaint, Lieutenant, just one more. You are dismissed.'

Zemskov stormed out of the office. Lidiya shook her head. She hoped it would not be like this, but there were officers who regarded anything in a skirt as legitimate prey. Lidiya reached for a sheet of paper.

'It has come to my attention that a small minority of officers in Fleet HQ have used their rank to place pressure on junior moryachki to provide sexual services for them. This is contrary to VMF regulations and will not be tolerated. Any moryachka who is subject to such pressures is hereby ordered to report any such conduct to the undersigned. L M Petrova, Captain-Lieutenant, VMF.'

Lidiya buzzed the Dictaphone to summon the secretary she shared with another officer.

'Please type this out, and run off enough copies for every department in Fleet HQ.'

The girl glanced at it and smiled.

'It will be a pleasure, Comrade Captain Lieutenant.'

Lidiya looked at her for a moment.

'You too?'

The girl nodded. Lidiya cursed under her breath. It was better for military discipline that the girl did not hear her swear out loud. Defending 'her girls' was not going to be easy.

'Oksana, A copy to my husband, err the admiral as well please. If you have anything you wish to report...?'

The girl shook her head.

'A copy to..... the Admiral.'

The two women smiled at one another.

Boris Ponomarev's Office, the International Department, Moscow 4.00pm Wednesday 3 November 1982

'Chai, Sergey Georgiyevich?'

'Da, Da, Boris Nikol'ich.'

Boris Ponomarev handed a glass of tea to Admiral Sergey Gorshkov.

'What do you make of it?'

'A damn nuisance, Boris, but Lidiya was given a job to do, and by the look of it, she set about doing it properly. If the girl had the guts to do what she did a few months back, I suppose that we should not be surprised if she took this piece of shit on. I know that little rat, Zemskov, and I would not willingly let him near a stuffed canary, let alone a daughter of mine. From what Petrov tells me, the little swine was blackmailing several women at Fleet Headquarters into letting him screw them. He had invited another officer to join him when Lidiya caught him literally with his pants down.'

Ponomarev smiled at Gorshkov's reference to how Zemskov had been caught.

'The point is, Boris, what do we do? Rodion's old man has raised hell, and knows Kotov at the Main Political Directorate. Lagovskiy at the Central Committee has also been yapping. When you said that Lidiya was to be listed as an active duty officer, we had to do something with her and she is now a hell of a sight too senior to sit on her backside working as a moryachka. Looking after the female staff at Fleet HQ seemed ideal, but now this has blown up and Dimitri Zemskov wants blood as someone dared touch his pride and joy.'

Ponomarev laughed.

'Leonid Ilyich just phoned me, Sergey. Given Petrov's role in saving our General Secretary's neck a year ago, and the business this summer, he said that young Rodion could go.. . Well let me put it this way, his old man would be pissed as hell if the boy did what Leonid Ilyich suggested.'

Gorshkov was well aware of the crudity of some of Russia's obscenities, and without Boris completing the sentence had no doubts as to what Leonid Ilyich had suggested. As Leonid Ilyich had phoned him to tell him much the same, any doubt was removed. Had Leonid Ilyich's suggestion been adopted, young Rodion's mama would find sitting down uncomfortable.

'So, Boris, we look after Lidiya, and if Dimitri Zemskov yaps, we tell him where to go?'

'That's it. Leonid Ilyich did suggest that there is a large colony of penguins in the Antarctic, and that they might benefit from Rodion's services............as a politruk.'

Gorshkov grinned. Ponomarev's delay in saying politruk, and then adding the title of the political officer, a guy that most line officers despised, completed the joke.

'Could be upsetting for the girl penguins?'

'Not being a girl penguin, I wouldn't know.'

'I get the message. Post the little swine to somewhere he can't do any harm and tell his old man that he is bloody lucky not to get a court martial.'

'Da.'

'Is the Turkish visit set up for Lidiya?'

'Da.'

'You're not cancelling it for this nonsense?'

'Niet. Lidiya is a Gold Star Hero of the Soviet Union, decorated for her courage in tackling an armed man when she was unarmed, and with the 'Do as Lidiya Says' line, she is a Turkish national dish as well. We cancel the visit and the sky falls in on us. Before that happens, Leonid Ilyich would send darling Rodion to fuck the penguins.'

'Might mean war with the penguins, Boris?'

The Director's Suite, CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia, Tuesday 9 November 1982

Karen Wallis settled back in the luxurious padded armchair in the director's reception room of the Central Intelligence Agency at Langley, Virginia. The office block was set in wooded grounds outside Washington DC. She had been head of the Soviet desk for just over eighteen months, or around the same length of time that the DCI had been in the job. At that time she knew very little about the Director, Lieutenant General James A Richter, who had been appointed shortly after the Reagan administration took over.

So far as Karen knew, his previous career had been in the military, culminating in a spell with the Defense Intelligence Agency. He was reputed to be a tough 'no nonsense' boss who made up his mind. Initial formality had been replaced by mutual respect and the formal "Mrs Wallis" had given way to the nickname that her husband, a few close friends and Carl Andersen used.

'Anything of interest from our friends birthday party yesterday, Ka?'

The DCI had picked up the in-house joke of referring to the October Revolution Day Parade as 'the birthday party'. It was quite true, as it did commemorate the birth of the Soviet state.

'We taped their live TV broadcast and the re-runs later in the day.'

'What new goodies did the comrades parade before the adoring masses?'

Karen had inserted a tape into the VCR in the Director's office and hit the play button. Unlike domestic videocassette recorders, which were beginning to take off, this was a broadcast quality Sony U-Matic with ¾ inch tape. It had Vertical Interval Time Code, VITC, which was the broadcast industry standard. Unlike home systems such as VHS or Sony Betamax, where a single generation edit was crap, an edited tape was good enough for TV broadcast. It meant that the days of colour film cameras were coming to an end for news work.

The DCI, Anderson and Karen Wallis watched the parade, Karen zipping through the columns of marching troops, as it offered nothing of great significance. The DCI sat back as columns of tanks thundered by.

'Pretty much the usual stuff.'

'Gets more interesting later.'

Karen could have told some of the technical geeks at Langley to edit the tape, but had spent a good deal of her own time playing with the equipment until she was happy that she could do the job herself. The reason was that as a seasoned intelligence analyst, she felt she might pick up what a techno-geek would overlook. She was certain that she had.

'OK, now look here'

The Soviet TV guys had taken a leaf out of the Western TV editors with a close up of real people and not just the geriatrics on top of the Lenin Mausoleum. The camera zoomed in to a pretty blonde standing next to a senior naval officer in one of the VIP enclosures. She paused the tape allowing Richter to quip.

'OK, the Rooskies have some cute looking broads.'

'I didn't think anything much first time I saw it, and I musta gone over it half a dozen times before I picked it up.'

'So, a candidate for Miss Russia perhaps?'

Ka laughed.

'It gets better.'

A few seconds of the decorated floats and columns of marching citizens followed. After the parade, when the crowds were permitted to mill around Red Square, the camera crews got some human interest stuff, and Richter watched as a couple of kids ran over to a drop dead gorgeous blonde and presented her with a couple of bouquets of flowers. He smiled.

'If the Rooskies have broads like that, maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea if we did join the fraternal brotherhood, or sisterhood, Carl, if Karen will forgive that thought?'

'Forgiven, Mr Director, but watch on.'

Unlike most human-interest shots, which lasted two or three seconds but soon switched to something else, this one went on. More kids came over to the blonde, who had to hand some of her growing collection of flowers to a senior naval officer. Richter studied the film with growing interest.

'This gal has a high rank minder. Who the hell is she Ka?'

'It gets better.'

'A girl TV presenter appeared in the picture and spoke to the blonde.

'Lidiya Mikhailovna, I think this is the first time you have attended the parade for the Great October Socialist Revolution in Moscow?'

Richter noted that Karen had provided sub-titles at the foot of the screen in English. The girl replied yes, but as the reporter spoke again, a child pushed in front of the blonde and thrust a bouquet of flowers into her hands. Richter laughed.

'This has to be choreographed. OK Ka, who is the broad with the high rank Navy minder?

Karen smiled.

'He's not a minder. He's her husband.'

Carl Andersen, the Bureau's head of Counter Intelligence, joked.

'Lucky son-of-a-bitch. I wouldn't mind minding her.'

Karen Wallis looked at the two men.

'You have just met the celebrated Lidiya, or to give her full name, Lidiya Mikhailovna Petrova.'

Andersen, as always on the ball, cut it.

'The "Do as Lidiya Says" gal when that guy tried to bump off Brezhnev last year. She got married to the admiral running the Black Sea Fleet, and there was that rumpus a couple of months back with her going under cover and ending up as a Hero of the Soviet Union.'

'Yep, Carl, you got it. That is the lovely Lidiya.'

Karen fished in her file and brought out a miniature print of the latest 'Lidiya' poster. She handed it to the two men. Richter glanced at the gal in the poster and the gal on the tape, which Karen had paused.

'Same dame, all right. So, our friend Lidiya comes up to Moscow with her husband, and just happens to be in the front row of one of the VIP boxes, and a camera crew just happens to zoom in on her in amongst the thousands of folks on Red Square. Then when folks go walkabout, a camera crew just chances on Lidiya when the local kids start handing out the bouquets. Now all this is sheer chance, right?'

Karen burst out laughing.

'Of course, just a fluke.'

Richter, whenever he wanted to wind Karen Wallis up, could be spectacularly formal.

'Mrs Wallis, it is my belief that this is not a fluke. As you are the head of our Soviet Desk, I would welcome a serious assessment of the situation.'

'The Rooskies have had a bellyful of bad news stories of late. Afghanistan goes from bad to worse, and the folks know it, even though Ivan keeps the lid on the story pretty tight. The economy has gone belly up. Poland is a pain in the ass for them. Ever since Comrade Lenin stuck his bald head into the limelight, the Reds have spewed out posters of him, and there comes a time when everybody and their cousin gets bored.'

'The workers joke, "You pretend to pay us; we pretend to work." Worker posters are not exactly a pick me up anymore. They produce posters of heroic border guards who blew themselves to bits taking out ten Afghans who had just surrounded them. The guy was brave but after a few of them, it gets depressing.'

'What you're telling me is that the comrades want a good news story.'

'Yeah, The way they tell it is that when our guys panicked when every ship in the Black Sea suddenly headed for Turkey at high speed and they scrambled every fighter in the area, that Lidiya's calm reassuring tones prevented World War III.'

Andersen cut in.

'Up to a point they are right. Don Schrader down at Izmir thought that way. USAFE at Ramstein did and so did the Pentagon and the White House.'

Karen resumed.

'OK so Lidiya prevents a war, then she has a fairytale marriage to a Fleet C-in-C and a few months later ends up as a female James Bond rescuing her hubby and the world from the baddies. She is one hell of a good story, so they bring her up from Sevastopol for the birthday party. My guess is that she is the Soviet Good News Girl. We already saw, "Do as Lidiya Says" and now a new poster. I think they are gonna run her for all its worth.'

The DCI thought for a few moments, and glanced at Carl Andersen,

'Carl?'

'Figures. I think Ka has got it in one. Too much shit and even the Comrades are gonna get pissed. The question is what do we do?'

Richter leant back in his chair.

'If we behaved as our friends in Hollywood portray, I would growl, "we take her out" at this moment.'

Carl Andersen laughed.

'Every red blooded guy in the Agency would jump at such an assignment, Mr Director, but not in the way your Hollywood counterpart would mean. God Dammit, I would like to take that dame out myself, but if she was gutsy enough to voluntarily get herself caught by the KGB to spring her husband, it suggests she kinda likes the guy. I don't see her falling for the idea.'

Richter nodded.

'Yeah, my guess too. Well, it isn't Hollywood and we are not in that line of business so there is no which way we 'take her out'. We can be bitchy about her, but if she is as cute as she comes across, no one is going to believe us. Ka, what is your take?'

'Just as you suggest, Director. If I had to take a wild guess, and it is a guess, Lidiya is a cutie. She got mixed up in the efforts to deal with the 81 coup, and somehow ended up as Petrov's wife. As another guess, I suspect he realised she was quite a catch and grabbed her. Thereafter, I think we can thank our friend Boris Ponomarev of the ID.'

'He may be an old style Stalinist, but he is a smart operator. I think he has been promoting her, and then Lidiya ended up in the 82 business, this time with the lead role, and she came out of it injured but as a Gold Star Hero of the Soviet Union.'

'I'll tell you something else. That TV crew was no accident and those kids that came running up to her may have been rounded up and told what to do, but there was real chemistry. With that kid, Annitchka, there was no way that was scripted. The Rooskies have got themselves a girl who could make it in Hollywood.'

Richter cut in.

'Ka, thanks for that assessment. I'll add this to it. With that girl's looks, with her record as a guaranteed gold star heroine, and looking at the way she handled those kids, if her husband was eligible to run for the White House, she would be First Lady.'

Boris Ponomarev's Office, the International Department, Moscow 11.00am Thursday 25 November 1982

Boris Ponomarev sipped a glass of chai as he read the translations of Lidiya's speech. Spread across his desk were copies of the leading papers in Turkey, including Milliyet, Sabah, Turkiye and the English Language Turkish Daily News. They had arrived by diplomatic courier from the Soviet Embassy in Ankara. A head of state could hardly have attracted more attention.

Lidiya's speech had received front-page treatment, with extensive quotes. All were favourable. Lidiya's courage in defeating the Zsuzin conspiracy received lavish praise, and photographs of the young officer with her decorations and holding her honorary doctorate appeared. Ponomarev had hoped for good publicity, but the results had exceeded every expectation.

One Turkish paper included a portrait of Admiral Kornilov by the celebrated painter Permyakov. As he looked at the portraits of the Russian admiral with his decorations and Lidiya in Parade uniform with her decorations, Boris was impressed with the flair that the editor had shown.

The International Department had provided detailed instructions on what Lidiya should say, and in one way, she had followed her instructions to the letter. The ID had said she was to speak in Russian, rather than attempt to deliver a speech in Turkish, of which she was ignorant. She had spoken in Russian, as the ID had directed.

The only difference was that her words bore no resemblance to what she had been told to say. There should have been a panegyric about Great Lenin and the march towards Communism, plus a long section on how the USSR was the friend of the oppressed throughout the world.

Instead of that, Lidiya had spoken of war between Russia and Turkey, and of pride in her ancestor who had been an officer in the navy that had fought the Turks. To Ponomarev's mind, saying that to your hosts was suicidal. Not one of his speechwriters had dared to suggest it. Lidiya Mikhailovna Petrova who was wearing the uniform of her country's navy just as her ancestor had done, had bracketed Kornilov with Kemal Ataturk as heroic figures, and the Turks had loved every word of it.

Ponomarev shrugged his shoulders. Clearly the speech had been a spectacular success. He decided that in future the speechwriters at the ID would provide Lidiya with salient facts and leave it to her. As she paid no attention to what they said, there was hardly any point in writing a speech for her, but she seemed to have a golden touch in any case.

Many of the papers also spoke of the heroism of Sonay Demir who had saved the life of the distinguished visitor to Turkey. One paper ran photos of the two girls side by side, the blonde Russian and the dark haired Turkish girl who had died to save her. Ponomarev glanced at his watch. It would soon be time to attend the Politburo meeting. He gathered up the papers, relieved that for once there would be good news for his colleagues.

The Politburo, the Kremlin, Moscow, Thursday, 24 March 1983

The General Secretary was almost incoherent with rage.

'Reagan is inventing new plans on how to unleash a nuclear war in the best way, with the hope of winning it......it is a bid to disarm the Soviet Union in the face of the US nuclear threat.... Such space-based defense would open the floodgates of a runaway race of all types of strategic arms, both offensive and defensive.... Such is the real significance, the seamy side, so to speak, of Washington's 'defensive conception.'

Ponomarev sat through this torrent of invective. Finally he ventured to say.

'Yuri Vladimirovich, it is important that we remain calm. The American proposal is inflammatory...'

'Inflammatory, you say. I tell you that this American program is chush sobachnya – dog shit'

'Yuri, Ostyn – Calm down.'

'Calm Down, Niet, Niet, Niet.'

'Yuri, I spoke to some of my people this morning, and I spoke to Comrade Marshal Ustinov. Our advisers say we need to remain calm.'

'Da, and I can get milk from a Billy goat too, if I want to.'

The General Secretary had used a Russian phrase that expressed contempt for what someone was doing or saying.

'The Soviet Union will never be caught defenceless by any threat.... Engaging in this is not just irresponsible, it is insane.... .'

Another Politburo member asked.

'What is to be done?'

It was a safe comment, and harked back to the days of a famous article by Vladimir Ilyich Lenin. A quote from Lenin could never be wrong.

'We have to respond to this dog shit in the most forcible way we can. The American people must be made to realise that their President has gone mad. He is insane. They must overthrow him.'

The General Secretary's Office, the Kremlin, Moscow, Saturday, 26 March 1983

The General Secretary looked round the room. In 1979, when the invasion of Afghanistan had been discussed, the early meetings were inconclusive. It was only after NATO had announced its decision on 12 December 1979 to station 464 Tomahawk cruise missiles and 108 Pershing II rockets in Western Europe that decisive actions ensued.

On that occasion he had met with Brezhnev, Gromyko and Ustinov. Following their informal meeting, there had been a proper Politburo meeting. To obviate leaks, the usual multitude of aides had been excluded and Konstantin Chernenko, a hardliner and a potential rival for the post of General Secretary, had prepared a handwritten report of the meeting.

The report did not mention Afghanistan by name, but recorded the approval of "measures proposed by Yu V Andropov, D F Ustinov and A A Gromyko". They were ordered to carry out the measures and to report to the Politburo "concerning progress in fulfilment of the Projected measures." If an historian were to find the report, he might liken it to the biggest blank cheque in history, with the payees being the families of the young soldiers sent to Afghanistan to die.

Andropov recalled that Brezhnev's contribution was to shuffle into the meeting part way through, totter round the room embracing everyone present, nearly falling over twice in the process. Then he sat down, listened to the misdeeds of the regime in Kabul, and swore 'Neporyadichnii chekovekr'. It meant "dirty creature". With that, he lurched out of the room.

Once again, the Americans had made a provocative move. Star Wars, as it was being dubbed in Washington, was worse that the Pershing threat. In 1979, it had been Gromyko, Ustinov and himself, with the modest contribution from Leonid Ilyich. Once again, the three of them were round the table, with two additions. Mushni Pavlovich Nikoleishvili was the most junior member of the Politburo, but had given crucial support during the succession battle.

With a thick black moustache reminiscent of his countryman, Joseph Djugashvili, the Georgian seemed to worship Comrade Stalin. Unlike the rest of the Politburo who regularly quoted Lenin, Nikoleishvili recited Stalin. The good thing about Lenin or Stalin was that they had said so much that there was bound to be some remark in favour of what you proposed. The downside was that there would be a quote saying the opposite. The other man present was Dimitri Zemskov. He was only a Central Committee member, but like Nikoleishvili, had played a key role in Andropov's election in November 1982.

Nikoleishvili was speaking.

'Comrades, the General Secretary has asked us to advise on his reply to the provocative American rhetoric about Star Wars. He knows, as we do, that with weaklings in the Politburo we cannot put a sound policy in place. Some Politburo members call for soft words, but this is garbage. When have the Americans ever feared weakness?'

'From the end of the Great Patriotic War to his death in 1953, Great Stalin knew that the Americans had a monopoly of Nuclear Weapons. There were lily-livered traitors who called for compromise. Had it not been for Comrade Stalin, who kept his nerve, we would have been swallowed up by the American Marshall plan which seduced so many from true socialism.'

The Marshall Aid Plan had been offered by the Americans to restore the war torn economies of Europe by a massive injection of US financial aid, but with American aid had come American influence and the disease of human rights and multi-partyism. In Soviet-ruled Eastern Europe, this capitalist provocation had been rejected. The people did not benefit from consumerism, but were kept in the Socialist faith. The chairman looked at him.

'What do you suggest Mushni Pavlovich?'

'A forceful answer as you have said, Comrade General Secretary. Let the Americans pour their billions into this dog shit. There is no reason to suppose it will work. Even their own scientists express doubts, and in any case it will be twenty years before they can do anything. Before then, we will have swept them into the garbage can of history.'

Defence Minister Ustinov, far better informed than the young Georgian hothead, enquired.

'How do you propose to do this?'

'I have been speaking with Marshal Vadim Nosenko, and he has a plan whereby we can bring the comrades of Scandinavia into the Soviet Union.'

Andropov cut in.

'Did not the traitor Zsuzin have some idea about that. Are you a backer of Zsuzin, Comrade?'

Nikoleishvili replied boldly.

'A wise man accepts a good idea, even if it comes from a tainted source. Did not Great Lenin accept NEP with the evil of the debauched Nepmen?'

NEP or the New Economic Policy, which permitted low-level capitalism had been authorised by Lenin when it was clear that control was slipping from his grasp as hatred of the party intensified in the early twenties. To Lenin, it was a marriage of convenience with the devil, but the devil would be slain when he had served his purpose. It was a shrewd remark, as anything that Great Lenin had done was beyond reproach.

'What do you propose?'

'We form a committee to look into the idea, but unlike the idiot Krasin with the obvious RYaN title we do not make that mistake. Our goal is to restructure the Soviet Union so that the comrades in Norway and Sweden are with us. Let us call it the Committee for Restructuring. – KOPER?'

The Russian word for Restructuring was Perestroika. One of the younger members of the Politburo was using it in a very different sense. In his case, he meant restructuring to make the system more responsive and efficient. If a Western spy agency heard of "The Committee for Restructuring", they would probably associate it with those ideas. Chairman Andropov looked around.

'Comrades?'

'Comrades, We agree then? Comrade Zemskov is only a member of the Central Committee, and not of the Politburo but his zeal is clear. The Americans will not expect such a task to be entrusted to such hands. I suggest we entrust the delicate task of minutes secretary to Comrade Zemskov.'

Like the late Mikhail Suslov, Dimitri Zemskov preferred to work behind the scenes. Although not yet a Politburo member, he was in the Secretariat of the Central Committee. He had swung crucial CC support behind Andropov in the November leadership contest, and expected the reward of a Politburo seat as soon as a vacancy arose. Being secretary of KOPER propelled him to the heart of Soviet power. With care, KOPER could become as important as the Defence Council, which was composed of the most influential members of the Politburo.

Admiral Petrov's Reception Room, Black Sea Fleet Headquarters, Sevastopol, Saturday April 9, 1983

Admiral Petrov's Chaika limousine, which was flying his personal flag as C-in-C, Black Sea Fleet, had come from the Naval hospital on the peninsula between the North and South Bays. Although a short distance as the crow flies, it was much further by road. Usually Petrov would have made the trip in the admiral's barge, but did not wish to expose the babies to an early April breeze. His senior officers were grouped at the entrance to Navy House on Ulitsa Voronina to welcome the admiral, his wife and two new daughters to Fleet Headquarters.

Standing in the background were Vera Grishanova, Larisa Melnikova and Maria Grigoriyeva. They were in their late twenties, and were very excited. They had already met little Irushka and little Lidochka at the hospital, but their real work was about to begin. Although Lidiya Petrova wanted to look after her babies by herself, she knew this was not possible.

During the vicious interrogation she had suffered in August 1982 to force her to 'frame' her husband for treason, Lidiya, although already pregnant, had been raped and tortured. Her arm had been twisted behind her back and she had been repeatedly lifted off the ground, causing severe damage to the joint.

Apart from the short-term agony, there was serious long-term damage to the tendons and muscles in her shoulder. Eight months later Lidiya was not free of pain and still had little strength in her right arm. Many tasks that a mother would do for her babies needed two good hands, and as her right hand could give way unexpectedly, Lidiya was terrified that she might drop one of her babies.

When she broached her fears to Mikhail, he suggested that two nannies would give the necessary support, and the couple thought of Vera, Larisa or Maria. The three girls were still staying with General Ivanov and his wife Ludmila, so Mikhail Petrov invited them to Sevastopol for a few days. After a pleasant reunion in February 1983, Petrov told them that he and Lidiya wished to take on two nannies.

Vera smiled and said that she much appreciated the honour but suggested that the couple employ Larisa and Maria, which prompted Larisa to shake her head and disclaim her own fitness for the post, suggesting Vera instead. Sensing that Maria was about to speak, Lidiya cut in.

'Mezhdu nami, devochkami - between us girls, I think we've all been through a hell of a lot together, so I think we ought to stick together. Why don't all three of your join us?'

Petrov glanced at his wife, realised that the shared experience of the zek girls had forged an intense bond. They could not bear the thought that one of them would be left out. He smiled at them.

'That's a splendid idea, Lidushka. Why ever didn't we think of it before? That's what we'll do. Everyone agrees?'

Lidiya's comment that the girls had all been through "a hell of a lot together" related to the horrific treatment they had endured. Lidiya had voluntarily allowed herself to be captured, knowing that the plan was to torture her before her husband to force him to confess. As his whereabouts was unknown, it was the only if she was arrested and taken to him that a rescue plan could be launched.

The three girls had been training as nurses in the late 1970s when they were 'invited' to a party by the head of the nurses training college. Knowing what was expected of 'party girls' they had declined, not realising that within twenty-four hours they would be under arrest for spurious Article 58 anti-Soviet agitation.

They were sentenced to the dreaded Gulag or main camp administration. When some zeks, or prisoners, were required for testing poison weapons, they were added to a group of thirty prisoners sent to the Chemical Weapons development labs at No'kis in Uzbekistan.

Half of the prisoners were expended in tests, and the surviving attractive young women were told they would be gassed or they could become the playthings of the research unit staff. Unknown to the girls, the weapons tests had not been to develop a 'legitimate' weapon for the Soviet Union, but to test a deadly poison with which to assassinate Yuri Andropov, the leading contender as General Secretary when Leonid Brezhnev finally died.

After the plot failed though the heroism of Lidiya and her friend Ira, General Ivanov of the KGB had descended on No'kis, where he had been outraged to find the three young women were being kept as sex slaves. Using the sweeping powers conferred on him to defeat the plot, he had freed them and had their captor shot. Realising what would happen to the girls if he left them at No'kis, he had taken them with him, calling to see Mikhail Petrov and Lidiya en route.

With the rape that Lidiya had been subjected to during her 'Interrogation' she was in shock, trying to come to terms with the common rape syndrome of feeling worthless, when she met the girls. As the women shared their experiences, Lidiya realised that they had been through an equally searing torment. They were not 'bad girls' but victims, and that helped her overcome her own shame. She too was a victim, but not worthless.

In public, the girls were deferential to Lidiya as the admiral's wife. In private, the four women were close friends, united in the way that soldiers who have been through combat are united. With the formal reception over, with the top brass greeting Admiral Petrov and his wife and offering the usual platitudes of how beautiful the two babies were, Vera, Larisa and Maria went into action.

They had been hovering in the background waiting for the great ones to stop being a nuisance. Then they could take over. Larisa and Maria collared the little ones, whilst Vera took Lidiya's undamaged arm and led her to the Admiral's quarters.

'I'm perfectly all right Vera, stop fussing over me.'

'Da, Da, Da, you're fine, but a girl doesn't have a baby every day, and it takes a lot out of you. Why do you think we have a "Mat-Geroinya - Mother Heroine" medal?'

'That's for women who have had ten babies.'

'Well, you've had two in one go, and with five you get the Maternity Medal anyhow.'

'But I haven't had five.'

'Don't argue.'

"Yes, mama.'

Sometimes when Vera had been over-protective of Lidiya in the last weeks of her pregnancy, the mother-to-be would pull her leg, calling her friend "mama."

Lidiya realised that Larisa and Maria were both checking the babies to see if they had poo'ed.

'I can do that.'

Larisa shook her head.

'Not allowed.'

'They're my babies.'

'No they're not. They're our babies. You just had them.'

'Larisa!'

'Sit down and have some chai – tea, then you can breastfeed them, and then we are going to put them and you to bed. We spent two years training to be nurses. You didn't, so don't argue.'

Lidiya sat down. The girls were right. She was more exhausted that she pretended. Carrying Irina from the Chaika to the entrance of Fleet Headquarters had been agonising and her right arm was on fire. She was glad that Mikhail had carried Lidochka, and that he was not one of those husbands who thought it beneath his dignity to do so. She glanced round and smiled.

'Spaseba – thank you, all three of you...

She looked at Mikhail,

'And thank you, Mikhail.'

The three girls and her husband looked at her. She was very special to all of them.

Nikita Tarasov's flat, Lenin Hills, Moscow 8.00am Wednesday 21 September 1983

Svetlana Kulikova brushed her long black hair at the dressing table in Nikita's bedroom. At first, she had hated the idea of dying her blonde locks a dismal black, but the part that was on offer made it worthwhile. After several months, she had got to like her new look and had decided to stick with it for the moment. When the part was first offered to her, she had realised that being friendly with her director, Nikita Tarasov was a part of the deal. It happened in Hollywood and it was certainly a part of the Soviet film industry, so she shrugged her shoulders and accepted it.

At first, it had been a necessity, but gradually Svetlana had come to like Tarasov, and when they were in the Crimea they had spent most of the time they were not working in one another's company. They had now been back in Moscow for a week, and rather than go to her own flat, Svetlana had moved in with Tarasov who had been divorced for a couple of years. The film work would officially end that day, so Svetlana had spent much of the previous evening getting packed ready to return to her own flat.

Several times Tarasov had started to speak to her, and she wondered if he had been going to invite her to stay, but it turned into a routine comment about the film. She heard him come into the bedroom they shared. In case it was easier for him to speak when they were not face-to-face, she did not turn round. Instead she said.

'I'm all packed, Nikita.'

'Fine. Err, you know you don't have to go today if you don't want to.'

'Well, if you'd like me to stay for another day or two, I could manage it.'

'Why not? With the filming done, the heavy pressure is off now, so we could spend a bit more time together, if you would like that.'

'That would be nice. Nikita, now that the filming is over, I need to think about my hair. Do I go back to being blonde, or shall I stop as I am. What would you suggest?'

'I like you just as you are.'

'OK, that settles it.'

She felt Nikita's hand brush through her hair, and then reach for the zip at the back of her dress. She felt him slid the zip down from her neck almost to her waist. She whispered.

'We'll be late.'

'Then we'll be late.'

Over the last month, their lovemaking had become increasingly affectionate. Svetlana decided that she did not mind being very late that morning, if Nikita did not mind.

The Politburo Meeting, the Kremlin, Moscow Thursday 22 September 1983

Since the shooting down of Korean Airlines flight KAL 007 on 1 September off the Island of Sakhalin, the Politburo had been in regular session, trying to extricate the Soviet Union from the mess. It had become an even bigger self-inflicted wound than Afghanistan. A few days after the shoot down which had killed all 269 people on board, President Reagan had called it a crime against humanity. He added.

"This attack was not just against ourselves or the Republic of Korea. This was the Soviet Union against the world and the moral precepts which guide human relations among people everywhere."

At a press conference on 9 September, Marshal Ogarkov presented the Soviet case, but had woefully failed to defuse international criticism. The Kremlin line that the US had used a civilian airliner as a cover for a spy flight cut little ice. An attempt to deflect the blame from the Kremlin by saying that the decision had been taken by an unspecified commander in the Far Eastern Military District had backfired. The world wondered if the Politburo had control over its military, and whether this low level "hair trigger mentality" might provoke a major conflagration.

The situation worsened. On September 15, 1983, President Reagan ordered the US Federal Aviation Authority to deny Aeroflot landing rights in the US. As the USSR felt that this contravened the right of unimpeded access to the UN, the Soviet Union had raised the matter in the General Assembly. The Soviet delegate Igor Yakovlev had said that the landing ban ''raises the question of whether the United Nations should be in the United States.''

Foreign Minister Gromyko was furious about the outcome. He snapped.

'In response to Comrade Yakovlev's reasonable question, Charles Lichtenstein, who is the 'No 2' in the US delegation said that if states were unhappy, they should consider ''removing themselves and this organization from the soil of the United States.'' He said, ''We will put no impediment in your way,'' and, ''The members of the U.S. mission to the United Nations will be down at the dockside waving you a fond farewell as you sail off into the sunset.'' Comrades we cannot be insulted in this way.'

Defence Minister Dimitri Ustinov spoke in similar vein. Finally Boris Ponomarev spoke.

'I share the outrage of Comrades Ustinov and Gromyko at the way the USSR has been treated, but we need to face reality. After his remarks in the UN, Lichtenstein received an ovation from ordinary American citizens. Taxi drivers hooted their horns in his support. The right wing media in America, which is very powerful, eulogised him and have suggested that their President is not doing enough to punish us. That is what ordinary Americans believe.'

'Preposterous.'

'No, Comrade Ustinov, it is true. In shooting down a civilian airliner with 269 people on board, we outraged not just the Americans, but the whole world. Their President and his actions are driven by public opinion in a way that we are not. This was catastrophic, as we all know. The mixture of lies, half lies and truth that we have put out in the past two weeks makes our position worse. If we say we knew it was a civilian airliner we admit we are monsters. If we say we did not know what it was, we show ourselves to be idiots.'

'Comrade Ponomarev, I will not have you call my pilots idiots.'

'Comrade Defence Minister, from the transcripts we have seen, and from what the Americans with their intrusive eavesdropping have published, the world knows of our confusion. Instead of idiots, let me say confused, if that will assuage your feelings. We have to find a way to defuse this situation, otherwise we could drift into an all out war by accident.'

Since taking a chill in August, the General Secretary had been bedridden at the Central Clinical Hospital, and had not attended Politburo meetings. As there was no likelihood of recovery, it would have made sense had he resigned, but instead of that, Yuri Andropov wrote policy notes, which were laid before the Politburo. Boris Ponomarev thought back to the vitriolic abuse heaped on President Reagan by the General Secretary after the SDI speech in March, and was not altogether sorry than he was incapacitated. A similar response now would make a bad situation worse.

Foreign Minister Gromyko was speaking.

'We must respond forcefully to this American, Lichtenstein, and his suggestion that the UN can sail off into the sunset.'

Ponomarev responded.

'Comrades. A powerful section of American opinion regards the UN as a nuisance. They would like to see it destroyed. They feel it adds nothing to American security. If the UN were to collapse, it would be a disaster for us, as we do influence the votes of the Third World and non-aligned countries. America, for all its rhetoric against the UN, is the major financial provider. If the UN leaves America, that support would end. I do not think that other foreign states would step in, and can we afford to? Admiral Gorshkov tells me that he has to turn down vital fleet exercises for lack of money and fuel. If the UN collapses we are the losers.'

'Nonsense.'

'Niet, Comrade, Fact. What Comrade Yakovlev said in the UN was reasonable. The US has infringed international law, but their President is accused of not doing enough, and the hero of the day is Lichtenstein. The Americans right would like nothing more than for us to fall into the trap that Lichtenstein set. The UN is our most powerful ally. We can use it to browbeat the Americans in their own backyard. We have to be careful and restrained.'

Defence Minister Ustinov looked round the Politburo and said icily.

'What do you suggest then Boris Nikol'ich?'

'We need to move from this confrontation carefully, avoiding remarks or actions that the Americans will see as provocative. We must not eulogise the actions of the Far Eastern Military District over this disaster...'

Sensing that Marshal Ustinov was about to erupt, Ponomarev hurriedly added.

'We must not eulogise what the Far Eastern Military District has done, but we must not condemn it, as that would undermine the Soviet Union. Above all we must repair relations with the United States.'

'We cannot grovel to these Imperialist warmongers. That I will never agree to.'

'Comrade Defence Minister, I do not suggest that. Instead I suggest we look at how international relations have developed throughout the world and see where we have succeeded and where we have failed. Our military doctrine is "Feed Success, Starve Failure." A battlefield commander who is succeeding can expect reinforcements from his Front Commander. A battlefield commander whose advance is failing can scream for reinforcements, but will he get them? You can answer that, Comrade Defence Minister.'

'No he will not get reinforcements. That is not the way you succeed in war. Any fool knows that. In Stalin's day, the only reinforcement we would have sent to the idiot who was losing was one man from the Cheka. He would supply the requisite bullet.'

'Comrades, Dimitri Feodorovich, our Uncle Mitya, who has held high office longer than anyone here, has told us the answer. A good strategist knows that you reinforce success. Has our policy in the United States brought success? Niet. Has our policy, moderate though it is in the UN, brought success? Niet. Dimitri Feodorovich, if our people in the US or the UN were soldiers under your command, and they had performed like this, would you say they were successful? Would you reinforce them?'

'Niet, I would not. For all the roubles we waste on them, all our diplomats buy us is failure.'

'Nor would I. What would Great Lenin do? He would reinforce success. What has Uncle Mitya told us to do? He has said we reinforce success. So comrades that is what we do. Where do we have success? Let us be ruthlessly clear, as we cannot afford mistakes. The only country where we have had success in the past year has been Turkey. We must look at what happened there and see if we can use the same tools.'

Defence Minister Ustinov smiled.

'Comrade Ponomarev. Are you suggesting that we unleash your lovely young protégé, Lidiya, on the Americans?'

'Dimitri, think back to the Great October Revolution Day parade last year. What is it that everyone remembers? Is it tens of thousands of our best soldiers, our tanks, our missiles, even your appearance at the opening of the parade?'

Ponomarev looked carefully at Ustinov, and saw a wry smile.

'No, not even that. It was the little girl running up to Lidiya and thrusting flowers at her and wanting to be protected from war. We, in the ID, had told the TV people where Lidiya would be. We had arranged the children, but that child was slow in reacting, and when she did so, her comments were none of our doing. She was scared that there would be war with the imperialists and wanted Lidiya to protect her. You may say I am being sentimental, but it was a heart warming moment, and that is how the Americans think.'

Ustinov could not help laughing.

'Boris Nikol'ich is suggesting that Lidiya would be more appealing to the Americans than I am. Humiliating though this idea is, I am sure he is right.'

The joke, coming from someone as serious as the long serving defence minister lightened the mood.

'What do you want to do Boris?'

'I suggest we send Lidiya to the United States.'

'How do we do this? As I recall, her visit to Turkey was when her husband visited Samsun on a good will tour of the Black Sea. As C-on-C of the Black Sea Fleet, he could do that, but it would require an unusual interpretation of the term 'Black Sea' to include New York or Washington. The Americans might not buy it.'

Ponomarev nodded his head.

'Indeed, Dimitri. Once again you have identified our problem. We cannot claim that the Black Sea extends as far as the Potomac in Washington. You could transfer her husband from the Black Sea to the Northern Fleet, but the most we would achieve with that is a visit of a few days. Lidiya was able to achieve remarkable results in Turkey, but to win over the Americans is a bigger and longer task.'

Before Ponomarev had finished speaking, Ustinov had grasped what he was thinking of.

'Rather than transfer Petrov to the Northern Fleet, are you suggesting we appoint him Naval Attaché, or even Defence Attaché?'

'That is a brilliant idea, Comrade. Then Lidiya and her husband would be in America for months or even years, and could work steadily to our advantage.'

Foreign Minister Gromyko interjected.

'Boris Nikol'ich, if we do so, it could cause problems in the embassy. The Ambassador represents the Soviet Union and the defence attaché, let alone his wife, is well down the scale in the embassy. Your idea necessitates a high profile for the wife of the attaché. What would happen if Lidiya presented one face to the public in America, and the Ambassador presented another face.'

'That is true, and I do not know the answer. Maybe we have to abandon the ideas for that reason, promising though it is.'

Ponomarev had realised that Gromyko, known in the West as "Mr Nyet", would object, and had planned his remarks carefully. The key had been to win over Defence Minister Ustinov first. He was attracted at the idea of one of his people holding high diplomatic status, and took up the fight avidly.

'Comrades there is a simple answer. Boris Nikol'ich is quite right that Lidiya achieved remarkable results with the Turks. He is right that the memorable moment at the October Day Parade was Lidiya and the little girl. Petrov has been a first class C-in-C for the Black Sea Fleet, and we can ill afford to lose an active serving officer of his calibre. In the interests of the Rodina, I would have been willing to release him to serve as defence attaché in Washington, but as the Minister for Foreign Affairs says, we might have the Embassy presenting two faces.'

As Ustinov warmed to his theme, Ponomarev relaxed. He knew that selling the idea would be difficult if both Ustinov and Gromyko were opposed. Ustinov had swallowed the bait and was pushing the idea as his own.

'Comrades, I said that I would be willing to release one of my finest commanders to be naval attaché. What if we were to appoint Petrov as Ambassador to the United States? Then we avoid two separate faces. Boris asked whether my face or Lidiya's face was the one that attracted attention at the October Revolution Day Parade. I am sufficient of a realist to know the correct answer.'

Foreign Minister Gromyko stared at him in shock and anger.

'Petrov is not a professional diplomat. I could not agree for a moment.'

Ponomarev moved in smoothly.

'Comrades, Uncle Mitya is right. We need one face to represent the Soviet Union in America. Should that face be mine, or Mitya's, or even the face of our distinguished foreign minister? We could say yes, but Dimitri had a truly Leninist vision to understand fully what took place in Red Square last November. Through his inspired direction of our military industrial complex in time of war, he gave us the guns and tanks to save the Rodina. He has given us the blueprint to resolve the crisis we face today. If we were to ask Great Lenin "What is to be done", can any of us doubt his answer? Great Lenin would tell us to follow the path indicated by Mitya.'

By invoking Great Lenin and attaching his aura to the idea just 'invented' by the Defence Minister, Ponomarev had seized the moral high ground of Soviet thought. Even to think otherwise, let alone to speak against the Leninist approach was tantamount to treason. As he looked round the table, Foreign Minister Gromyko realised that Ponomarev had just appointed the next ambassador to the United States. There was no way he could oppose.

In theory, Admiral Petrov would be ambassador, but it was clear to every member of the Politburo that the primary role would be played by the admiral's wife. Like Ustinov, Gromyko had learned to study which way policy was shifting and to move as, or even before the goalposts moved. He did so effortlessly.

'Comrades I agree. Once again, Mitya has put forward a brilliant case. It is the Leninist approach. In conjunction with our friends in the ID, we will make the necessary arrangements, if Mitya will agree to release Petrov from his present posting.'

Oko Early Warning System Command Centre, Serpukhov-15 Moscow, Monday 26 September 1983

Lieutenant Colonel Grigori Lobov was standing in for the usual night duty officer in the nuclear hardened command bunker, known as Serpukhov-15. It was the early warning command centre at Kurilovo near Moscow and watched for a surprise American missile attack on the Soviet Union. In the bunker, lighting was low to make the computer screens more easily visible. An engineer in the PVO, Protivo Vozdushnaya Oborona, or Air Defence Forces of the USSR, this was not Lobov's usual job, but he had done it before.

Although he would prefer to be at home with his wife, he accepted night duty with equanimity and even found it peaceful and relaxing. The greatest danger when you looked at a computer screen for hours on end with nothing to break the monotony was drifting off to sleep. A meal helped, but there was another long session before your replacement turned up.

A sleepy or confused man could make ridiculous mistakes, and to keep himself and his team on their toes, Lobov regularly made the rounds of the command centre. Rules demanded there should be no extraneous chatter to distract the men from their job, but a man who was stupid from sleep was a far greater risk.

Lobov would chat to the operators on almost any subject under the sun, although the performance of premier football clubs and women were the main topics. Lobov would not have cared to repeat some of what he had heard in the control room to his wife. If the stories told by one guy were true, he had laid most of the married women in the apartment block he lived in. Of course a lot of what guys said was bullshit, but there was no way of knowing.

The reason Lobov and a team of highly trained operators was sitting in a bomb proof shelter just outside Moscow was the network of satellites which were in the so called Molniya or Lightning orbit. This was a highly elliptical orbit with an inclination of 63.4 degrees and an orbital period of half a sidereal day. When asked by a senior officer without astronomical training to explain a sidereal day to him, the glazed look that came over the officer's face prompted a change of tack, that it was a measure used by astronomers and was fractionally shorter than a normal day. The Major General who had asked him shot him a look of gratitude for the simple explanation.

The benefit of a Molniya orbit is that a satellite spends most of its time over a designated area of the earth. Most were used for communications purposes and for the Orbita television network, but a few satellites codenamed Oko, or US-KS, monitored the USA looking for warning signs of an ICBM launch. To Lobov's mind, the only redeeming feature of an ICBM was that the engine flame was so bright that the US-KS satellites could detect it some 20 to 30 seconds into the flight.

What Grigori Lobov did was top secret, so he couldn't tell his wife or kids about it. The kids had an idea that soldiers drove around in tanks whilst Air Force officers strapped MiGs to their backs. To say that he stared at a blank computer screen for hours on end was something of an anticlimax. Although Grigori did not know it, he was about to have a climax, but it would not be the kind men usually enjoy. One of his operators, a junior lieutenant spat out.

'Tvoyu mat! Comrade Colonel, I have a launch of a missile. The Americans have shot a fucking missile at us.'

'Which Satellite?'

'Kosmos-1382, Comrade Colonel.'

Lobov shook his head. The lunacy they had all hoped to avoid had started. Within seconds there would be dozens and then hundreds of missiles lighting up his consoles and a few minutes after he had alerted the command authority, Soviet missiles would be spearing into the sky. In an hour's time, the majority of the population in Russia, in Western Europe and in the United States would be dead, and the rest of the world would die from radiation sickness or cold as the light of the sun was extinguished with all the debris hurled into the stratosphere and for dozens of other reasons.

Serpukhov-15 was nuclear hardened, so he was safe, but Tamara, who was ten years younger than he was, was not safe in their apartment block. Nor were their kids going to make it through the night. Most people in Moscow would not know they had approximately half an hour before they and their loved ones were incinerated. Grigori Lobov knew that in 30 minutes he would be a husband and father and in thirty-one minutes time he would be a widower with no child to carry his genes on. It was better not to have that sort of forewarning.

He reached out for the red alert button, but paused. He had one missile so far, and the Americans were not going to launch one missile just to say. 'Have a nice day you commie bastards.' He looked around and could sense the fear in the Control room. Casually he ferreted in his pocket, took out a packet of cigarettes, and lit one.

'Comrades, we have one missile launch do we not? Does this make sense? Will our American friends really start World War Three in such a friendly manner? Will they say to us "Hi you Commie Bastards, this is just to wake you up." Personally I do not think so. We will monitor this but we have had plenty of false indications with this abortion. At the moment I am classing this as a false alarm.'

As he smoked the cigarette Lobov could still feel the tension in the air, but it was not as acute as the initial few seconds.

'God Niet!'

With more calmness than he felt, Lobov asked.

'What is it Comrade?'

'Another four launches, Comrade Colonel.'

Lobov's hand instinctively reached for the red button.

General Ivanov's Apartment, Moscow, Friday 7 October 1983

Georgi Ivanov had become head of the First Chief Directorate of the KGB after his friend General Oleg Kozlov took ill in December 1981. A brilliant communications specialist, Ivanov was a much decorated hero of the partisan war of 1941-45, and had played the key role in saving the life of Leonid Brezhnev in 1981. He wore two Gold Star Hero of the Soviet Union medals for his courage in those widely separated periods. His wife, Ludmila Ivanova, was a few years older than Georgi, and they had been married for over forty years.

The flat they lived in was comfortable and spacious by Soviet standards. As well as rescuing the three Zek girls, Vera, Larisa and Maria, who had been sent to the chemical labs at No'kis in Uzbekistan for use as human guinea pigs in poison weapon trials, Georgi had rescued Sophia and Oksana from the clutches of General Markov when the plot to assassinate Yuri Andropov was defeated.

Rather than throw them out to fend for themselves, Georgi and Luda let all five girls stay with them, but in March, Lidiya Petrova had invited Vera, Larisa and Maria to work as nannies, so it was just Sophia and Oksana who were left. Both girls were devoted to the general and his wife, and Sophia had started to call Ludmila Ivanova "Mama". Oksana had quickly followed suit, to the extent that Luda regarded them as honorary daughters.

Oksana was out doing the shopping, but as Ludmila Ivanova walked past Sophia's bedroom, she heard sobbing. She knocked on the door but there was no answer so she went in. Sophia was crying on the bed. Ludmila sat beside the 20-year-old girl.

'What's the matter, Little One?'

'Nothing Mama.'

'Tell me.'

'Niet. It's silly.'

'Sophia...'

'I love it with you and the general. You're real family to me, but sometimes I wish I had someone special for me.'

'Give it time, Little One, and maybe get out a bit more, and you'll find a nice boy.'

'When he asks me about my life, what do I tell him? I got screwed when I was 15 and thereafter my boss handed me round to anyone who wanted me? Any guy is going to say that is just the girl he needs, isn't he?'

She sat up, sobbing, her whole body heaving with emotion.

'You know the only thing I'm fit for, don't you? I'm a great whore, but I want to be someone's wife.'

Ludmila stroked the girl's cheek.

'Sophia, give it time. You have to come to terms with these things for yourself, and then you can face the world. You will find someone, and they're going to care for you.'

'I could pretend. For God's sake I had to with Markov, but sooner or later if I loved the guy and he loved me, I'd have to tell him, and you know what would happen. He'd be in Vladivostok in ten seconds time.'

'Not if he loved you dear. Not if he knew the full story.'

Ludmila realised that Sophia had been deeply scarred by her experiences as Markov's sex toy, and felt disgust at what the swine had done to the girl. She had to face her own demons, but even so, a lot of men, if they knew her past, would walk away from her, as she had said. It was wrong because she was a sweet kid, but there were many wrong things about life. Luda wondered if there were any young men she could introduce Sophia to, but she could not think of anyone that she was certain would not let the girl down.

In the fairy stories Ludmila had been told as a child, the good fairy waved a wand and made everything good for the sweet heroine of the story. Luda did not have such a wand, but wished she did, even for a couple of minutes.

Sverdlov Class 152 mm cruiser _Mikhail Kutuzov_ , off the entrance to Chesapeake Bay Monday 14 November 1983

'We will be off the entrance to Chesapeake Bay shortly Comrade Admiral.'

'Very good, Arkady.'

Petrov glanced round the armoured conning tower.

'Comrade Captain?'

Captain (First Rank) Georgi Malevich, had taken command of the _Mikhail Kutuzov_ in 1980. At first disappointed, as he had hoped for a modern guided missile cruiser, he had fall in love with the old-fashioned all gun cruiser. This was not uncommon amongst officers who were assigned to the magnificent "Sverdlov" class cruisers.

'Comrade Admiral?'

'You have the NOAA chart for the entrance to Chesapeake Bay ready.'

'Da, Da, for more than thirty minutes, Comrade Admiral.'

The 110,000 shp steam turbines drove the 152mm cruiser through the cold grey waters of the Atlantic off the American eastern seaboard. As they did so, Admiral Petrov thought back to the talks with Sergey Gorshkov. Initially the admiral's yacht from the Black Sea, the graceful _Angara_ was discussed, but Mikhail Petrov felt that graceful though the _Angara_ was, he was not a real warship. He lacked 'teeth'. If the Americans had banned Aeroflot flights, and the new Soviet ambassador arrived by warship, it should be a real warship. Nikita Khrushchev had created a precedent in 1956 when he visited England on board one of the Sverdlov class all gun cruisers.

At first, there was opposition, but when Petrov suggested the voyage could double as a training cruise, Gorshkov agreed that the _Mikhail Kutuzov_ could take the Ambassador to his new post. 210 metres in length and grossing 16,640 tons at full load, the graceful cruiser had been launched at the Nikolaev shipyard in November 1952. With a complement of 1250 men, and twelve 152mm guns mounted in four triple turrets, the ship was a reminder of the all gun era. In Western Navies, the 6 inch main armament would class _Mikhail Kutuzov_ as a light cruiser, but the armour protection was equal to most 8 inch heavy cruisers.

On their arrival in Washington, Petrov planned to open the _Mikhail Kutuzov_ to public inspection for three days, giving Americans a rare chance to inspect a Soviet warship at first hand. With the command centre sealed, the American spooks that would flock aboard were welcome to any intelligence they could glean. One of the lookouts called out.

'Warship fine on the Starboard bow, Captain.'

Captain Malevich looked through his glasses.

'Da, Da, I see her. Our welcome no doubt.'

As the ship approached, Admiral Petrov's ADC, Lieutenant Arkady Vanayev spoke.

'Comrade Admiral of the Fleet, She's a "Blue Ridge" Class Amphibious Command ship. She should be the USS _Mount Whitney_. If so, she's the flagship for Commander Second Fleet, and Commander Striking Fleet Atlantic. COMSECONDFLT, is a Vice Admiral. Jane's Fighting Ships says he's Vice Admiral James D Woodford, USN. He's a former submariner. He salutes your flag with a 19 gun salute, as he's a Three Star Admiral.'

'I can see his flag now, Sir, Da, Da, It is blue with three white stars as it should be.'

Admiral Petrov smiled.

'Relax, Arkady. Unless our American friends have had a burst of promotions, they are bound to salute my flag, even if CINCLANT himself comes to meet us. That is a four star appointment of a full admiral. They have never promoted anyone to Fleet Admiral since their wartime admirals. Nimitz was the last of them to die. The strange thing is that in our navy, I wear four stars, but by their reckoning a Fleet Admiral is a five star appointment, so I suppose our Sergey is a six star Admiral. I must tell him that he should put up six stars.'

The Director's Suite, CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia, Tuesday 15 November 1983

As Karen Wallis stopped the tape, the DCI sat back and laughed.

'Our friend the Admiral is quite a showman. Most people come to DC in a plane or a car. He comes in a 17,000 ton cruiser with a 1200 man crew.'

Karen Wallis smiled ruefully.

'Well we did tell the Rooskies that Aeroflot couldn't fly here, and they would hardly be likely to fly Pan Am or TWA would they? What else could they do?'

Karen found it amusing. Back in the fifties, when a VIP arrived by plane it was news. Now it had to be a head of state to attract attention, and an ambassador arriving or departing by plane was not news. An ambassador who turned up in a ship that could flatten everything within 10 miles was news.

'So they park a goddam cruiser in Washington Navy Yard and say come and have a look-see folks.'

Karen nodded her head.

'Well they couldn't be much more open could they? You noticed how they had the crew at quarters when they came up the Potomac and through the Beltway Bridge?'

The Beltway Bridge, or to give its formal title, the Woodrow Wilson Memorial Bridge, connected Virginia with Maryland at the southernmost extremity of the District of Colombia. The "Sverdlov" cruiser had continued up river and into the Anacostia River to tie up at the Navy Yard in Washington DC. The Beltway Bridge had opened in 1961 but had suffered continual maintenance problems, and had to be redecked in 1983.

Although road closures for shipping were unpopular, the sight of a 17,000 ton Russian cruiser was sufficiently unusual to make the TV news. By the time the _Mikhail Kutuzov_ , which was flying the Soviet Naval ensign, had entered the tributary to the Potomac, Anacostia Drive, which takes its name from the river it flanks, was packed with spectators. The TV crews had caught some of the hostile placards that protestors held up condemning the KAL 007 shoot down, but the Russian crew had not reacted.

As Carl had said the crew had been at quarters. Obviously there would be a navigation watch inside the control position, but most of the officers and crew were lining the side of the ship. The TV news teams had caught this, and with their powerful lenses, had been able to zoom in on the pretty blonde in civilian attire who was waving enthusiastically to the people lining the banks of the river.

When Karen pointed this out, the DCI glanced at her.

'Ka, what are the rules about ICBs?'

America lived on initials, SAC, CIA, SLBM, ICBM, SALT II and so on. To outsiders, it must seem as if you were speaking another language, but ICB had her confused.

'Sorry?'

'ICB – our Inter Continental Blonde.'

'I don't think the arms limitation talks ever envisaged anything like her being launched at the United States.'

General Richter nodded.

'Jim Woodford spoke to me last night. Our friend Admiral Petrov has a keen sense of humour. Do you know what he suggested they might have done?'

Karen Wallis shook her head. The DCI outlined the exchange of signals between Woodford and Petrov when the two ships met off the mouth of Chesapeake Bay.

The Jim Warren Show, Wednesday 23 November 1983

James deLacy Warren never used his middle name, as it sounded too upmarket, preferring to be called Jim Warren. His TV debut had been with one of the smaller Mid-West companies, but with a flair for controversial, serious and humorous stories, ratings soared to the point that he was headhunted for the East Coast.

A friendly manner that set guests at ease produced good viewing, but if necessary, Warren could ask devastating questions in a disarming manner. His producer, Ed Budzinski, had watching extracts from the Soviet Embassy press conference, and had rung the embassy to ask if the Ambassador or his wife would appear on the show.

Budzinski had been referred to a Press Attaché called Zemskov who asked who the other guests would be. They would include Leonora Wood, a leading pro-abortionist and John D Groves, an evangelist who represented the opposing viewpoint, to make for a stimulating debate.

Budzinski said they wanted to invite the ambassador or his wife on the programme along with Senator Joe Malone, to provide a lively discussion. Malone had been in the Senate for fifteen years and was a firm believer in the 'Reds under the Bed' ideas of the McCarthy era. Budzinski had seen Malone reduce opponents to shocked silence on live TV more than once.

Budzinski, the son of a Pole who had fought against Hitler in the US army, but could never hope for freedom for his homeland after Stalin's brutal occupation of Poland, had no love for the USSR. He hoped that the Press Attaché might not cotton on to the firefight that he was aiming for.

To his relief, Zemskov seemed oblivious to the risks, and whilst Budzinski would have preferred to see the ambassador demolished in public, the offer of his attractive young wife as a 'human sacrifice' was fine. Budzinski watched the tapes of the press conference. He felt sorry for the hapless young woman whose experience of the controlled way in which government figures were addressed on Soviet TV would not have conditioned her for the brutalities of live TV debate in America.

When discussing the show with Jim Warren, they both hoped the girl would not be demolished too fast. This did not make good viewing or help ratings, but if the Ambassador's wife was out for the count ten seconds after the bell, Wood v Groves would be a lively fight.

'Our next guest comes all the way from Moscow. She is the wife of the newly appointed Soviet ambassador to the United States, Mrs Lydia Petrov.'

Lidiya had been standing just off stage, and had realised that Americans did not understand that her name was not Petrov, but Petrova. It didn't really matter, so she was not offended. As Warren mentioned her name, the girl assistant nodded to her.

'You're on.'

Lidiya's heart was beating as she stepped into view, and received negligible applause compared to the reception given to Leonora Wood or John D Groves. With KAL 007 still in people's minds, the USSR was not 'flavor of the month'. Lidiya walked across the set to shake hands with Warren.

'Mrs Petrov, you've not been here long, so welcome to America.'

'Thank you very much Mr Warren for inviting me on your show. I've never done anything like this before.'

In the control room, Ed Budzinski, the producer thought.

'And you stepped right into the lion's den baby.'

Lidiya was wearing full parade uniform. Zemskov had asked Warren whether they would prefer Lidiya in uniform or in civilian clothes. Warren opted for uniform. The chances of 'blood' were even better, as uniform would act as a red rag to a bull as far as Fighting Joe was concerned. Warren invited Lidiya to take a seat.

'Having never interviewed the wife of the Soviet ambassador before, or someone who is a senior officer in the Soviet Navy, I don't really know how to address you. Do I call you Mrs Petrov, or Lydia, or do I call you by your rank?'

The question was loaded, as Lidiya would seem arrogant if she expected to be addressed by her rank. She smiled at Jim Warren.

'In my country when we address someone, we use their first name and patronymic.'

'What's a patronymic?'

'Children have a first name and a family name, but their middle name comes from their papa's first name with "ovna" added for a girl and "ovich" for a boy. My papa is Mikhail Kornilov, so when I was born I was Lidiya Mikhailovna Kornilova. I don't think you use patronymics here in the USA, so why not just Lidiya?'

'Lidiya, by the four stars in your shoulders, you are a very senior naval officer.

'Niet, Niet. I'm just a Captain-Lieutenant which is similar to a Lieutenant-Commander in your navy.'

'Can you tell me about all the decorations you wear.'

'I'm sorry?'

'Your medals?'

'No-one would be interested.'

Jim Warren had read the embassy press release so knew a little about her medals and that she had been injured in hand to hand combat.

'That one is a Gold Star Hero Medal, and you won that for taking on an armed man when you were unarmed.'

'I just happened to be there and anyone else would have done the same.'

Even with the notes he had been supplied, it was difficult getting Lidiya to speak of her Gold Star. Her disarming modesty won Warren's respect and he felt sorry for what would happen shortly. She pointed to her Gold Star.

'The people who deserved this were the guys who rescued me. There were twelve of them. In the West you say our Spetsnaz are professional killers, but those guys saved Mikhail and me. Within a week, nine of them were dead. They had parents, wives, girlfriends, and they were all volunteers. If I hadn't taken on Milutin, they would all have died for nothing. You asked was I scared? Of course I was scared, but I couldn't let them down after what they did for me, could I?'

Lidiya stared at him, her eyes round and questioning. As the camera zoomed in, a tear trickled down Lidiya's right cheek. Her distress when she thought of the brave men who had died to protect her was apparent. She whispered.

'Nine of them for me. Was that fair?'

Compared to the negligible applause when she walked on set, the audience response was now much warmer. As he watched from the control room, Ed Budzinski felt vaguely sorry. She was rather nice, and it was not going to be pretty seeing Malone tearing her apart.

The Apartment, The Hill, Pittsburgh, Pa. 5.30am Wednesday 30 November 1983

'Please, for God's sake. If it's money you guys want, just ring my wife. Jodie. She can sort everything out. She won't contact the cops.'

Ed Budzinski had no idea why two men had approached him in the parking lot at the studio the night before, had pulled a gun on him and kidnapped him. Money was the obvious answer, so it was sensible to go along with what they were after. Sayeed shook his head.

'It is not money, it's information.'

'What do you want to know?'

'When you spoke to the Soviet embassy to arrange the interview with the Ambassador's wife, who did you speak to?'

'Sorry, a Journalist never speaks about business.'

Ed Budzinski noticed that the other member of the gang who had been waiting for him in the parking lot when he had left the studio turned up the radio. He wondered why. As a third member of the gang slammed a monkey wrench down on his left foot crushing his toe, he knew the reason. It was to drown out his scream.

'Who did you speak to?'

'What the fuck do you guys..'

At that moment, the wrench pulped the next toe on his left foot, causing another scream. After four toes had gone, Ed Budzinski decided that it was wiser to let the guys know whatever they wanted. He gave them Rodion Zemskov's number at the embassy.

As soon as they had the necessary information, Mujahid slipped a garrotte around Budzinski's neck. A minute later he was dead.

Zulfaqar glanced at the corpse.

'We will need to get rid of the unbeliever.'

KOPER (Committee for Restructuring), The Kremlin, Moscow, Tuesday Saturday 7 January 1984

Defence Minister Ustinov looked round the room.

'Thanks to Comrades Nikoleishvili and Zemskov, all targeting details are complete. Our simulations show that targeting missiles on the main train stations and trunk roads will paralyse movement around Oslo, Stockholm and other major cities. Reservists will be unable to reach their duty stations, so mobilisation will be disrupted. We can hit virtually every major military base in both countries.'

'With the "time to target" studies for which Comrades Nikoleishvili and Zemskov are to be congratulated, we can stagger our launch pattern, so that the maximum variation in impact time will be less than 5 seconds. The production of the CW delivery packages was completed in late December. Allowing for charging them with the Novichok agents, and fitting them into the R-36s, we could deliver a full CW strike within six weeks.'

'Last year, our distinguished Minister for Foreign Affairs Andrei Andreyevich suggested we delay the strike until after the American Presidential election in November, but Andrei Andreyevich points out that regardless of the results of the election, Reagan will remain in power until 21 January 1985. Hopefully if Reagan is defeated, we would have a new and inexperienced President, which could be to our advantage. On the other hand, it means we must retain complete secrecy for another year. What does the Committee think of this? Mushni Pavlovich what are your views?'

'Maintaining secrecy for another year will be difficult. In the past year the Americans have called us the Evil Empire. They try to destabilise the world with Star Wars. They created the KAL-007 incident. They threaten us with the Able Archer exercise, if it was really an exercise. I think it was a cover for RYaN, but our vigilance defeated them. We have the chance to bring the Scandinavian comrades into the Socialist fold. We must take it now. In a year the correlation of forces may be weaker.'

Defence Minister Ustinov glanced at Dimitri Zemskov.

"Dimitri Igorovich. What are your thoughts?'

'I agree with Mushni Pavlovich. The American provocations are intolerable, but let us look at what has happened. Reagan insults us repeatedly, but what did he do following KAL? After intense public protest, he banned flights. There is plenty of hot air, but they are afraid of us. We must move soon, as their military build up tips the correlation of forces against us. The West pays great attention to Easter. Military readiness will be at its lowest, and there will be major peace rallies at Easter. These will clog the roads in the vicinity of the missile bases in England and Germany. If we get the Peace protesters to break into the camps, it will preclude a launch.'

Ustinov interrupted.

'When is Easter, Comrade?'

'Easter Sunday is 22 April this year, Comrades.'

Ustinov glanced at Marshal Nosenko, head of the RVSN.

'If we give the orders now, Comrade Marshal, could you have your missiles ready for that date?'

'Da, Da. It will take a month to change the warheads from nuclear to chemical and about ten days to fuel all our R-36UTTh rockets. We could be ready to strike within six weeks. We prepared a new high precision grid for Scandinavia last year, so we just feed the co-ordinates into the guidance systems, and that will take a couple of days. The orders to change the warheads and to retarget the missiles can go out within a week.'

'Comrades, what is your decision?'

'Easter Sunday.'

Defence Minister Ustinov thought quickly.

'Comrades, in order to justify the strike on Scandinavia, we need something like the "Whisky on the Rocks" incident in Swedish territorial waters. Mushni, Dimitri, will you look into how we create this and report back to our next meeting?'

'Da, Da.'

General Ivanov's Apartment, Moscow 8.00pm Thursday 16 February 1984

Lt-Colonel Andrei Mikhailovich Ivanov rang the doorbell to his uncle's flat. It had been two years since he had visited Uncle Georgi and Aunt Luda, and he was looking forward to seeing them again. Had anyone asked why he was in Moscow, visiting the uncle who had brought him up after his papa had died in the Great Patriotic War would have been the reply. It was true, but only up to a point.

The door opened slightly. To his surprise, it was not his uncle or aunt who stood there but a young woman. She was about twenty, slender, and with attractive brunette hair, but Andrei wondered who she was. The girl's expression was neither welcoming nor hostile.

'What is it?'

Because of the reason for his visit, he was cautious. He replied.

'Who are you?'

The girl stared at him.

'I don't know who you are.'

'I called to see my uncle.'

'Well who are you?'

Colonel Ivanov was starting to get irritated with the obstructive cow, but as he was about to snap at her, he heard his Aunt Luda.

'What is it, dear?'

'A man who says he's the general's nephew.'

'I AM the general's nephew.'

His Aunt Ludmila opened the door.

'Andrusha, how pleasant to see you. Come in.'

Andrei Ivanov entered the flat and allowed Aunt Luda to kiss him on the cheek, kissing her back. She smiled at him.

'Sophia was just being careful who she lets in dear.'

Andrei Ivanov nodded.

'She's a very effective guard dog.'

It was not the most flattering description, but accurate. From Sophia's expression she liked him about as much as he liked her, and that was not a lot. Aunt Luda smiled.

'Sophia, this is Georgi's nephew, Andrei.'

Rather like a guard dog that has growled at a visitor and then wags its tail when the owner shows that the visitor is welcome, the girl smiled at him. Even though Andrei felt the smile was forced and was primarily to please Aunt Luda, he decided the girl was quite pretty when she smiled.

'Andrei, this is Sophia, she and another girl who you will meet, Oksana, spend all their time spoiling me.'

'We don't mama.'

The girl coloured.

'I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that.'

Aunt Luda patted the girl's hand.

'That's all right dear, I like it, if you want to know the truth. You go and make some tea. I'll take Andrei to see Georgi.'

'Yes certainly.'

Instead of the affectionate 'mama', the girl was more formal this time.

'Come with me Andrei.'

Aunt Luda took Andrei to his uncle's study. If the girl was fond enough of Aunt Luda to call her 'mama' and his aunt liked it, she might not be quite as unpleasant as he had thought.

Rodion Zemskov's office, the Soviet Embassy, 1125 16th Street N.W. Washington DC, Tuesday 21 February 1984

The news that the Soviet Ambassador had been kidnapped and his driver and chauffeur murdered was headline news at mid-day and remained the lead story throughout the day. Predictably all hell broke loose at the press office, and Rodion Zemskov was worked off his feet.

'No, I am afraid that the embassy does not have any statement to make regarding the kidnapping of His Excellency the Soviet Ambassador. The matter has been reported to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Moscow and as soon as the Ministry has prepared an official response it will be made available to the media. The First Secretary is currently directing the affairs of the Embassy. No, I am sorry, the First Secretary has no statement to make at this time.'

Periodically, Zemskov left the phone off the hook rather than spend his entire time fending off the same question from the media. It was a bore.

General Ivanov's Apartment, Moscow Tuesday 21 February 1984

In the four days since Sophia had twisted her ankle when they were shopping, Andrei Ivanov had looked after her, much to her embarrassment. Although Andrei did not suspect it, Aunt Luda had seen how gentle he was with the young woman and how much she appreciated his care. Luda had known Andrei's wife, and when she and Georgi were getting dressed on Tuesday morning, she glanced at her husband.

'Andrei likes Sophia, you know.'

'I had noticed, and I think she likes him.'

'She'd be a hell of a sight better than that witch Galenka was for him.'

'I'm sure you're right, but you can't drag them down to ZAGS and tell them to fix a date.'

'No, but I can keep out of the way, and let nature take its course.'

Andrei's marriage to Galenka had not been happy, and had left him chary of women. Initially looking after Sophia because it was the right thing to do, Andrei soon realised how sweet natured she was. He was increasingly fond of her. His leave would be up soon, and in his opinion it was much too soon. Sophia, had he known it, felt the same way.

She had been plucked away from home as a child and put through a rigorous Olympic training. When it was clear she was not gold medal material, she was discarded like a worn out sock, except that in her case, she was discarded into Markov's care. 'Care' was hardly the right word, as she was raped and thereafter made to perform to order for Markov and his friends. Because she was a natural survivor, she adapted, but it did not mean she liked it.

When she was rescued by General Ivanov, and accepted into their home, it was the first 'home' she had known since she was nine. Being treated as if she was a human being and not a piece of meat mattered to Sophia. Within a few weeks of joining the Ivanov household, the general and his wife filled the role that parents ordinarily did, and Sophia became devoted to them.

When Colonel Ivanov arrived she was suspicious. This was a result of her time with Markov, when any visitor was bad news. Then she only had herself to worry about but now she was as protective towards 'mama' and the general as she was towards herself. When she had slipped and fallen, 'the colonel' and she corrected that to Andrei in her mind, had been so gentle. He had wiped the blood from her knee and bandaged her as best he could, and had helped her home, giving her a shoulder to lean on to reduce the load on her damaged ankle. It had been very comforting being treated as if she mattered.

He had looked after her in the bathroom, and when she needed him to support her whilst she changed her skirt, had said he would shut his eyes. Knowing what men were like, she knew what that sort of promise was worth. As she did need to change, and Markov and his cronies had seen a hell of a lot more than just her panties, it hardly mattered. Cynically she had looked at his eyes, wondering when he would sneak a look. He hadn't, and it was rather nice.

Afterwards as they had watched TV their hands had by chance been close and somehow an accidental touch had changed into holding hands. With Markov, there had never been a moment of friendship or consideration. With the Colonel, with Andrei, there was consideration. It was very sweet and she liked it.

From what Andrei had told her, he was 42 years old, and had never known his father, as he had died in the Great Patriotic war. Sophia was uncomfortable when talking about her own past, and noticed that Andrei always changed the subject when she asked about his background. It was a barrier and yet a curious bond between them.

Sophia had celebrated her twenty-first birthday in January 1984. She liked Andrei, but felt it was hardly likely that a Red Army Colonel would be interested in her other than in the way Markov had been, and she did not want that, but she did like him a lot. She had noticed that the General and 'Mama' were retiring to bed quite early each evening, as was Oksana. She wondered if they were intentionally leaving them to their own devices.

She was sitting on the sofa with Andrei when 'Mama' came over to her and kissed her on the forehead.

'Night, Little One.'

She smiled back

'Night Mama.'

She was no longer embarrassed about calling Ludmila Ivanova 'Mama' in front of the colonel. She noticed Andrei was smiling.

'You like them a lot, don't you?'

She nodded her head.

'I love them. I haven't had a family since I was nine, until I met the General and Mama.'

Andrei smiled.

'I love them too. I told you that my papa was killed in the war, and I don't know what happened to mama, so they're my mama and papa too.'

Sophia gave him a knowing look.

'We're both lucky then.'

Andrei realised how perceptive she was. They sat together for a while neither saying a word. Sophia could walk now but had not let on to Andrei. She glanced at him.

'Andrei, do you think you could take me to your room.'

He cut in.

'It's your room actually.'

She smiled.

'Could you take me there, as there's something I want to do.'

Andrei effortlessly swept her up into his arms and carried her into the bedroom. She decided that being carried by Andrei was rather nice, and quickly revised it to very nice. He sat her on the convertible sofa-bed.

'Spaseba, Andrei.'

'A pleasure.'

'When you first came to the flat, and I told you I had cleared my stuff out of this room so you could have it, you said I didn't need to move out.'

'I didn't mean it in that way, I didn't understand.'

Sophia smiled at his embarrassment. It was cute that he was embarrassed at what he had said even though it was entirely innocent.

'I decided I would like to move back in tonight, if that would be OK with you, and there's no need for you to use the floor, you know.'

Andrei Ivanov looked at her for two or three seconds.

'Sophia, are you sure that is what you want?'

'Very Sure, Andrei.'

The Mail Room, The Washington Post, 1150 15th St, N.W., Washington DC Thursday 8 March 1984

Kathy Model flipped through the incoming mail, sorting it for the various departments. It included advertising copy, 'Letters to the editor' and complaints. Most were boring. Kathy did not enjoy her job, any more than she liked the way that everyone pronounced her name as if she was Playmate of the Month or a toy train. It was not 'Model', but a Germanic name, with an 'oe' sound. It should be Moedel.

She opened another letter, noticed there was no address, glanced at the contents and yelled out for her supervisor.

'What's up babe?'

She detested the way her boss called her babe, but put up with it.

'Read.'

The supervisor did so.

'Jesus H Christ.'

" _We have now been held by "The Sword" for two weeks. They give us until midday on Tuesday, 13 March for my government to meet their demands._

If this does not happen, a terrible train of thought is rumbling through the minds of the Dushman who hold us. They threaten to cut off Mikhail's khren, if the Soviet Union does not immediately begin to withdraw its infidel troops from Afghanistan. I am so frightened that I shit in my blue panties.

I beg my government to listen carefully to me.

Lidiya Petrova"

The supervisor glanced down at Kathy.

'Do you think it's genuine?'

She held up a small Polaroid photo that had been included in the envelope. It showed a middle-aged man, his face covered with several days' stubble, and a frightened looking blonde who was many years younger. It looked convincing, but the supervisor was still chary.

'Why via a blue box and why us?'

Kathy Model wondered why supervisors often seemed to keep their brains in their butts. She said patiently.

'Simple. The guy delivers it by hand, and maybe there was a CCTV camera, or maybe someone spotted him. He puts it in a mailbox. There are thousands of blue boxes. All you can tell is that it was postmarked at one sort center so it was from god knows how many mailboxes. The guy protects his ass. As to why he sends it to us. We're a newspaper, so we're gonna run the story. He gets publicity.'

The supervisor glared at her. A perfect explanation, but the bitch made it clear she though he was a fool.

'Uhuh. It's genuine. OK get photocopies of it, while I contact the Bureau.'

Airborne Forces headquarters Moscow, Friday 16 March 1984

Unlike other units in the Red Army, the VDV, Vozdushno-Desantniye Voiska or Airborne Forces, were not subordinated to one of the Military Districts but reported directly to the General Staff in Moscow, and had their own Headquarters in the suburbs northeast of the city centre.

They were renowned for their blue berets and naval telnyashka blue and white striped jerseys. The VDV traditions came from their legendary boss, Vassily Fillipovich Margelov, who had served with the naval infantry during the Great Patriotic War. He so admired 'The Black Death" as they were known, that he took the telnyashka to the airborne forces.

The VDV knew it was an elite, but the assembly of the divisional staffs of most of the Guards Airborne Divisions, other than for the 103 Guards, which were engaged in Afghanistan, at VDV headquarters was unprecedented. Lieutenant General Valeriy Ilyich Buneyev gave the briefing.

'Comrades, the cover story for Operation Kirov, will be a major exercise by airborne forces to repel a simulated NATO airborne invasion of the Lithuanian SSR north west of Kaunas. 106 Guards Airborne Division from Tula and 98 Guards from Bolgrad will play the aggressors. 7 Guards from Kaunas will be the initial defending force, to be reinforced by 76 Guards from Pskov. This will explain why we are moving three Guards Airborne Divisions into the Baltic Military District.'

'For the actual operation which will commence shortly after dawn on 22 April, 7 Guards Airborne will take key targets in Bergen, Stavanger, Kristiansand and Oslo. 106 Guards Airborne will do similarly in Goteborg, Helsingborg, Karlskrona and Stockholm. The Helsingborg operation is the most difficult, as it is vital that there is no collateral damage to Denmark.'

'98 Guards Airborne will hit Trondheim, Narvik, Tromso, Gavle, and Lulea. 98 Guards can expect rapid support from the 63rd Guards Kirkenneskaya Naval Infantry Brigade assigned to the Northern Fleet. They will move west along the E06 highway from Kirkenes towards Tromso. With the CW attack on the Norwegian troops, they expect to make good progress.'

'Unlike our own forces, which are limited to light airborne armoured equipment, the Naval Infantry brigades will be reinforced with T-72 main battle tanks. With fuel drums, they can cover 700 km before refuelling.'

'Without the preliminary CW strike to degrade Norwegian and Swedish defences, this operation would be impossible. We cannot expect to take out all the defenders, but preliminary studies suggest that the command and control functions and ability of reservists to move to their units promptly will be disrupted.'

'Pre-positioned Spetsnaz forces will take out reservist pilots and other key personnel. With the CW environment, all operations will take place under NBC protective measures. This will hamper your troops, but the enemy will be equally hampered.'

Major General Pyotr Dudin raised his hand.

'Valeriy Ilyich, what opposition and what support do we expect from the air?'

'From dawn on 22 April, PVO and VVS Frontal aviation will provide fighter cover and close air support. As you know, many of the Royal Swedish Air Force planes are dispersed to small hangers, and take off from roadways. We cannot take all of them out with CW packages. The main air bases should be inoperable, and SAM defences should have been degraded through the CW strike. Air cover will come from the Riga and Leningrad military districts, with additional assets from Moscow and Kiev.'

Pyotr Dudin shook his head.

'Valeriy Ilyich, as 7 Guards Airborne has been tasked to move against Sweden before, I have studied their tactics. Their mobilisation plans are excellent and they will have 15 divisions in the field within 48 hours. We are committing three light airborne divisions, with 106 Guards in reserve. That is a 5-to-1 disadvantage. What other support can we expect?'

'Pyotr Alexeevich, if the Swedes mobilise, this operation is impossible as we all know. This is the reason for the CW strike. We estimate it will degrade their capability by at least 60%. Units will be under strength. They will be slow to reach battle readiness and lack key personnel. We expect to destroy much of the cadre strength of the divisions as their locations are known, and without them, mobilisation will be difficult. We cannot hope to take the whole of cities such as Stockholm, so the targets you have been assigned are key installations, many of them associated with mobilisation points.'

'Without the CW strike, Sweden can have 15 divisions in the field in 48 hours as you say, which is beyond our airlift and sealift capacity. We would not have adequate logistics support to back sustained fire fights in places such as Goteborg or Karlskrona, let alone Stockholm. The CW strike reduces what they can do and the speed at which they can do it. You can regard it as a race in which your opponents will have both legs tied together.'

'As regards other support, 63 naval infantry will strike west through Kirkenes, and tank and motor rifle units will cross northern Finland. Our friends in 36 Naval infantry from Baltijsk will be committed, followed by army units. Our sealift capability is limited, but 76 Guards Airborne is tasked to seize some suitable beachheads. The Ropucha class Bol'shoy Desantnyy Korabl - Large Landing Ships, can then bring in Main Battle Tanks and heavy artillery, so the sooner the 76 Guards achieves those objectives the better.'

'There will be a CW attack on the Island of Gotland. The Swedes base forces there to control the southern Baltic. Our objective is not to take Gotland, but to degrade its ability to interfere with our sealift operations. The navy will use five Ropucha BDKs, which can bring in ten tanks at a time. Baltic Fleet HQ will also deploy several 1171 Tapir class landing ships. They have a 600 ton cargo capacity when beaching and 1750 tons when docking, so early seizure of a harbour is important as it almost trebles our sealift capacity. Under best conditions the Tapirs can handle 20 tanks.'

'The Navy will also deploy the Project 1232.1 air cushion Mal'yy Desantnyy Korabl, MDKs. They can take four PT-76 amphibious light tanks or five BTR-60 armoured personnel carriers with troops. They don't have a big lift capacity, but can maintain 50 knots under load and 70 knots light ship, so can shuttle back and forth. There are various older landing craft. The BDKs and MDKs allocated to the Polish and GDR navies will be operating under our control as well.'

'Returning to Airborne operations, 76 Guards Airborne is in reserve, and as soon as the invasion goes in, 104 Guards will be airlifted from Kirovabad to Kaunas. We expect to commit 76 Guards Airborne to assist 106 Airborne in Southern Sweden as this has the biggest concentration of heavily defended targets, but not until 104 Airborne has arrived at Kaunas to provide a reserve.'

'The airborne assault troops in the Leningrad, Riga, Ural, Volga and North Caucasus Military Districts will also be reassigned to VDV command. As we expect to commit five airborne divisions within four days, an Airborne Forces Army Command Group will control this operation.'

'Unlike the Great Patriotic War when Airborne actions were always a part of a Ground Forces operation and came under Ground Forces Command, this will be an VDV operation, and Land Forces and Naval Infantry will come under VDV direction. Comrades, this operation can only succeed if it is fast and efficient. That is what you have trained for. That is why this will be an Airborne Operation.'

In Washington, the kidnappers threaten to mutilate Lidiya's husband if the Soviet Union does not meet their demands, and the VDV Airborne forces finalise their plans to invade Scandinavia. Colonel Andrei Ivanov has met Sophia at his uncle's flat and mutual dislike has turned to love, but will Ivanov fall foul of the authorities.

RVSN Rocket Test Range, Tyuratam, Kazakhstan SSR, 6.00pm Thursday 5 April 1984

Lieutenant Colonel Andrei Ivanov put the phone down with a sigh. In a fortnight his posting to Tyuratam would end. A godforsaken dump that had once been a coalmine in a wilderness with the highest rodent population in the USSR was a place that no sane man enjoyed. Kuntsevo, in Moscow's dacha-land was a dream. It was close enough to Moscow to be convenient, but not in the city itself. It was close to the country, and now had a new attraction for Andrei. With a sigh, he decided that with Sophia, even Tyuratam would seem great.

He had planned to start packing, but his boss had called him in for an urgent conference. He climbed into his GAZ-69, and drove to the command point. He flashed his identity card and went to Major General Anatoli Nekrasov's office. Although he expected several officers to be there for the conference, the only people present were the general and a colonel, who, by his insignia was KGB. Nekrasov looked at him.

'Colonel Ivanov, I believe you retargeted our R-36UTTh forces some weeks back?'

'Da Comrade General, I was given new co-ordinates and told to retarget the entire force.'

'Did you not find that unusual?'

'The orders came to me in the normal way, Comrade General, and under my oath when I joined the armed forces, I swore to obey the orders of my superiors.'

'I accept that Comrade Colonel, but I just wish to ascertain if you found the orders unusual?'

'I have never had to retarget a Missile Division, let alone what I assume is our entire R-36UTTh force. The order was unprecedented, but there could have been many reasons.'

'Explain?'

'Our grid system has been in use for years. It was designed for rockets that were less accurate than the UTTh. It is not for me to criticise it, but the higher command might decide to update the grid. If so, every rocket in the RVSN would be retargeted, but for security reasons, I would be unaware of this. Maybe our original target assessment was faulty. There have been cases in history where deception measures have convinced commanders that targets are real when they are dummies. Maybe that was a reason.'

'Did you discuss your orders with anyone else?'

'Certainly not Comrade General. If another officer started to tell me of his targeting, my duty would be to report him to the security officer. If I were to start to blab such things, whether I was sober or drunk, I would deserve to be arrested.'

'Did you speak to anyone off the base?'

'The only living creatures around here are the rodents, Comrade General, and I do not think they would be very interested.'

'Have you been on leave?'

Will Lidiya and Mikhail survive in the hands of the kidnappers? Will the VDV launch the airborne assault on Norway and Sweden and what about Colonel Ivanov? If he is suspected of revealing missile data to anyone he will be arrested for treason. For the full story read 'Lidiyagate' and discover what happens when "The Great Communicator" meets the Red Blonde as Senator Malone called her.

### THE END

