Read Online The Avenue of the Dead by Evelyn Anthony - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Evelyn Anthony
Ads: Link
paper.
Four thousand miles away, spring had come early to Moscow, and while Washington slept under the stars, the golden towers of the Kremlin churches gleamed in the afternoon sunshine. The weather was perfect, warm enough to bring the crowds out in cotton dresses and shirt sleeves. The office of the Chairman of State Security was in the KGB complex on Dzjerzinsky Square. From its windows on the third floor, Igor Borisov had a view down Marx Prospekt to Revolution Square. Best of all, he loved the interplay of light and colour on the red-walled palaces, the gilded onion towers of the great cathedral of St Basil, the glittering skyscrapers of the modern city beyond. He had a deep reverence for old Russia; to him her ancient buildings, the monasteries and churches, the eighteenth-century town houses and country palaces of Tsarist days were priceless jewels in the crown of Russian architectural and artistic genius.
He loved the Kremlin, and as a young officer working for Antonyii Volkov he had spent his free hours wandering round the museums, learning about his countryâs past. He had found in the dark painted halls of the Tsarâs palace a history of Russia which was not in the state history books. He had a secret affinity with that past, its glories and its mysteries, which no one suspected.
He was a Russian who saw his political ideology in terms of a fanatical nationalism. No one suspected that either. After he became Kaledinâs assistant his ambition had burgeoned from a bud to a flower, but the flower was a fierce carnivore, devouring whatever came in reach. He knew that the old director wanted to propose his own successor. He knew that his chances of being elected by the Politburo were stronger as time passed, and he worked more and more closely with Kaledin. He also knew that a spectacular intelligence coup would tip the balance in his favour.
It had taken a long time and infinite patience to bring the traitor Ivan Sasanov to justice. The need to punish him became more urgent as Soviet policy in the Middle East was frustrated by his betrayal. Years of careful planning, of positioning agents, millions spent on bribes and sophisticated networks were wasted as the West moved ahead of them on Sasanovâs information. And not just information. For two years he had guided and interpreted for London and Washington, and he had been beyond their reach. The Politburo waited, smouldering with rage, and the killers of the KGB stood poised like dogs straining at the leash for the order to speed off in pursuit. The director had given his candidate the task of finding and punishing the arch-traitor. That was how the Secretary General Brezhnev spoke of him. Not by name, but by that epithet. If Igor failed, his chance of succeeding Kaledin was gone for ever. Success would secure him the office on the third floor, and the second most powerful position in Russia. And so the bomb had exploded in the neat little surburban street in Perth. Sasanovâs crime was punished, and the direction of Soviet intelligence operations throughout the world would undergo a subtle change.
Borisov worked a twelve-hour day. He had inherited Kaledinâs palatial dacha in the Zhukova complex reserved for Russiaâs ruling elite. His wife and children were revelling in the cars, the Western clothes and luxury goods available, and the lovely retreat in the forests outside Moscow. There would be a discreet villa on the Black Sea for summer holidays; life for his family was rich with privilege. Borisov reorganized his departments by replacing some of the more entrenched Kaledin men with young, ambitious officers, preferably with some foreign service behind them. Then he set himself to travel the tortuous and complex routes through international espionage and internal security initiated by his predecessor. He attended the weekly meetings of the Politburo, and wisely listened more than he spoke. And he learned. He learned about the men who
Four thousand miles away, spring had come early to Moscow, and while Washington slept under the stars, the golden towers of the Kremlin churches gleamed in the afternoon sunshine. The weather was perfect, warm enough to bring the crowds out in cotton dresses and shirt sleeves. The office of the Chairman of State Security was in the KGB complex on Dzjerzinsky Square. From its windows on the third floor, Igor Borisov had a view down Marx Prospekt to Revolution Square. Best of all, he loved the interplay of light and colour on the red-walled palaces, the gilded onion towers of the great cathedral of St Basil, the glittering skyscrapers of the modern city beyond. He had a deep reverence for old Russia; to him her ancient buildings, the monasteries and churches, the eighteenth-century town houses and country palaces of Tsarist days were priceless jewels in the crown of Russian architectural and artistic genius.
He loved the Kremlin, and as a young officer working for Antonyii Volkov he had spent his free hours wandering round the museums, learning about his countryâs past. He had found in the dark painted halls of the Tsarâs palace a history of Russia which was not in the state history books. He had a secret affinity with that past, its glories and its mysteries, which no one suspected.
He was a Russian who saw his political ideology in terms of a fanatical nationalism. No one suspected that either. After he became Kaledinâs assistant his ambition had burgeoned from a bud to a flower, but the flower was a fierce carnivore, devouring whatever came in reach. He knew that the old director wanted to propose his own successor. He knew that his chances of being elected by the Politburo were stronger as time passed, and he worked more and more closely with Kaledin. He also knew that a spectacular intelligence coup would tip the balance in his favour.
It had taken a long time and infinite patience to bring the traitor Ivan Sasanov to justice. The need to punish him became more urgent as Soviet policy in the Middle East was frustrated by his betrayal. Years of careful planning, of positioning agents, millions spent on bribes and sophisticated networks were wasted as the West moved ahead of them on Sasanovâs information. And not just information. For two years he had guided and interpreted for London and Washington, and he had been beyond their reach. The Politburo waited, smouldering with rage, and the killers of the KGB stood poised like dogs straining at the leash for the order to speed off in pursuit. The director had given his candidate the task of finding and punishing the arch-traitor. That was how the Secretary General Brezhnev spoke of him. Not by name, but by that epithet. If Igor failed, his chance of succeeding Kaledin was gone for ever. Success would secure him the office on the third floor, and the second most powerful position in Russia. And so the bomb had exploded in the neat little surburban street in Perth. Sasanovâs crime was punished, and the direction of Soviet intelligence operations throughout the world would undergo a subtle change.
Borisov worked a twelve-hour day. He had inherited Kaledinâs palatial dacha in the Zhukova complex reserved for Russiaâs ruling elite. His wife and children were revelling in the cars, the Western clothes and luxury goods available, and the lovely retreat in the forests outside Moscow. There would be a discreet villa on the Black Sea for summer holidays; life for his family was rich with privilege. Borisov reorganized his departments by replacing some of the more entrenched Kaledin men with young, ambitious officers, preferably with some foreign service behind them. Then he set himself to travel the tortuous and complex routes through international espionage and internal security initiated by his predecessor. He attended the weekly meetings of the Politburo, and wisely listened more than he spoke. And he learned. He learned about the men who
Similar Books
