On Getting to the Bottom of this "Equestrian" Business

by McPoodle

Interlude: Toy Plane (Part One)

Interlude: Toy Plane (Part One)

Minister for Defense Ustinov pulled his black VAZ-2101 automobile into an improvised parking spot behind the brick apartment building in the early Moscow evening. He had exchanged his pea-green army coat for a plain woolen coat of the same color. After reaching up to adjust a hat that wasn’t there, he used the key provided for him to unlock the back door and walk in.

After climbing two flights of rickety stairs, he walked down a short corridor to room 305 and knocked: KNOCK…KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK.

The door opened to the extent allowed by its chain, to reveal Viktor Chebrikov, head of the KGB. Chebrikov looked around for a moment to be sure nobody else was around before unchaining and opening the door.

Ustinov removed his heavy coat, folding it carefully and resting it on the back of a couch, before taking in the dark and dank apartment. The most prominent aspect was the smell: Chinese take-out. Sitting before the lone window of the apartment was a woman dressed all in black. A few feet away from her, a man also dressed in black was seated at a desk, transcribing everything the woman said to him on an old typewriter. The woman was equipped with a telescope on a stand. The telescope was pointed at the apartment building across the street, where a family was loading their belongings into a battered truck. A couple of armed men were there to ensure that the move went as planned, and that the family being forced to move didn’t skip out on their last rent check.

“Welcome, Comrade,” said Chebrikov, speaking quietly so not to disturb the work of his two subordinates.

Ustinov walked over to the window and peered down. He easily recognized the head of the family doing the moving as Stanislov Petrov, the man he had been forced to humiliate as punishment for how he saved the world. “What are you doing here?” Ustinov asked Chebrikov. “I didn’t think an operation like this would interest you.”

“On the contrary,” Chebrikov replied. “The psychological aspects are why I got into the business in the first place.” He joined Ustinov at the window. “Petrov down there was a perfect example of a loyal Party member. Now he’s labeled as a traitor by everyone around him, with no explanation available as to what he did wrong. How long before he breaks, and becomes the traitor everyone tells him he is? And what of his wife and son?”

With a frown, Ustinov turned back to the window. He could see Petrov being berated by his wife, in front of a small crowd of witnesses, yet the man did not strike her down and put her in her place, as any proper Russian of his generation would. After a few seconds, he walked away from her, and kneeled down next to a young boy.

“‘There, there,’ said Stanislav,” the woman in black said, reading Petrov’s lips through the telescope. “‘We can get you another plane.’ ‘But that one was special’, answered Yuri, pointing at the house. ‘That one won the war.’”

Ustinov walked over to the desk and reached out for the pile of what had been transcribed so far. “May I?” he asked.

Chebrikov instead gave him a manila folder. “Here,” he said. “Konstantin wrote up this summary while the family was sleeping.”

Ustinov looked over the report, detailing the steady disintegration of the Petrov household since he was denounced. He had already been fired from the job he had taken after losing his position with the bunker, a result of his employer finally finding out how he had lost his last job. His wife was the one pushing him to strike back against his masters, but he had always quietly resisted her suggestions. The boy had retreated into playing war against the Americans with his toys.

At least in that particular struggle the Soviets always emerged victorious.

Ustinov glanced from the report over to the current transcript. Its current last line was “‘But that one was special,’ answered Yuri, pointing at the house. ‘That one won the war.’”

Stanislav Petrov had named his son after the Secretary General.

As he was finishing the report, Ustinov heard the squelch of tires scraping over cobblestones. He got up to see that Stanislav Petrov was speaking with a man in a brand-new car who had pulled up beside them. Stanislav briefly hugged the man then summoned his family to join him inside the car. At the same time, a man emerged from the car to pay off the landlord’s thugs, plant an envelope on the steps, and to finally climb into the cab of the truck.

“‘Thank you, thank you,’” the woman in black said, reading Stanislav’s lips as he spoke to the driver. To his wife and son, he explained that “‘Comrade Mikhail is going to take care of everything.’”

Ustinov grabbed control of the telescope to get a good look at the car’s driver as the two vehicles set out, a driver who looked right at him and winked before setting off. “Impossible!” he cried, but it was not: the family had just been rescued from poverty by none other than fellow Politburo member Mikhail Gorbachev.

Chebrikov had pulled out a pair of binoculars to make the same observation. “Well, that will change the conclusion of the report,” he observed dryly. According to that document, the family was on their way to a smaller apartment that they might be able to afford for a few more months before their meager savings finally ran out.

He looked up to see that Chebrikov was putting on his coat. “You’re going to tell me to drop the case, aren’t you?” he asked. “Politics always gets in the way of the good cases. And by the way, there’s nothing in Petrov’s file that said he had any connection to anyone in power. I want you to know that I wouldn’t make a mistake that basic.”

“I believe you,” Ustinov said, as he picked up his own coat.

---

The envelope on the porch step was addressed to Marshal Ustinov personally. It contained a typewritten document.

“Could I please do one thing before we close this?” Chebrikov asked, standing carefully so that he didn’t have a line of sight to Gorbachev’s document.

Ustinov said nothing, tucking the document back into the envelope and following Chebrikov into the apartment building.

---

Empty apartments always looked so small. There didn’t seem to be enough room for a single man to live comfortably, much less a family that included a rambunctious little boy.

“Happy?” Ustinov asked, gesturing at the bare walls around him. “There’s nothing really to see here.”

“You’d be surprised,” Chebrikov replied, his attention focused on a smudge on one wall. He started walking a circuit around the small living room, his hand dragging along just under the level of the apartment’s window. “A phone number written down because you didn’t happen to have anything nearby to write on, a hole punched through plaster or glass in anger…” He stopped with a smile as the wooden floorboard under his shoe squeaked. “Or a loose floorboard used to hide something too important to have on your person in broad daylight.” He used a pocket knife to dislodge the piece of wood and remove it. With a frown he removed a small toy made out of aluminum. “Or maybe you find out why that boy was crying so much,” he said, turning and offering the object to Ustinov. “Here—give it to Gorbachev the next time you see him. Maybe even mention that I found it, so that this mess doesn’t lose me my job.”

Ustinov looked the toy over—it was a model of a Mikoyan MiG-31 combat jet plane. The toy had obviously seen much use, as the painted insignia had all been rubbed off.

The silence in the room began to build. “Does your son have any toys like that?” Chebrikov finally asked.

“All I have is a niece,” Ustinov replied.

“So? Maybe she’ll grow up to be a fighter pilot.”

With a shrug, Ustinov put the toy in his pocket, where it rested against the copy of The Elements of Harmony that he had only recently completed reading. “I’ll clear things up with Comrade Gorbachev.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, and you might as well send me the only copy of the final report. To properly dispose of.”

“Of course, Comrade Ustinov.” A minute later, Chebrikov chuckled. “I had an arms dealer lined up.”

“What?”

“An arms dealer. In case you wanted to see how far this case could have gone. To see if we could have gotten Petrov into a gulag.”

“We don’t send people to gulags anymore,” Ustinov replied wearily.

“If you say so.”

The marshal was met by an official Soviet Army vehicle outside. It turned out that he had been needed for the past few hours.

The Americans were at it again.

---

Marshal Ustinov spent the drive over reading and re-reading the document Mikhail Gorbachev had left for him.

I am aware that you’re having Comrade Petrov watched. He was a friend of mine from primary school.

I understand why you have acted the way you have against him, and like you, I consider the needs and reputation of the Soviet Union to be paramount. It is therefore my intention that the Petrovs disappear from public attention. They will move back to Vladivostok, a town with many Petrovs. I know Stanislav, and I vouch that he will never again speak of his actions, until such time as the government sees fit to reveal them. But you may disagree with me.

I therefore give you the power with this document to act against me. You are an honorable man, Marshal. If you honestly believe that my actions are disloyal to the cause of Communism, then you have a document with my signature, my seal, written on my stationary with my typewriter. Make whatever changes you see fit to convict me of treason. But I am confident that you will do no such thing.

I trust in your kindness, in your generosity. This is the right thing to do.

Yours, hopefully in friendship,

~Mikhail

P.S. I requested an hour on Programme 1 at midnight tonight. Why not stay up and watch? It should be good for some laughter, at least.

Ustinov put down the letter with a frown. Not only had Gorbachev left the decision in his hands, but thanks to his readings of The Elements of Harmony over the last few days, it was also obvious that he was outing himself as a secret Markist.

What Gorbachev had done was a direct challenge to his authority, to the authority and reputation of the Soviet Union itself. And by all appearances, he had put his career on the line for no higher cause…than friendship.

Comments

[Ms_Fruit_Bat]

Okay, that is a twist I did not see coming.

[Jordan179]

What Gorbachev had done was a direct challenge to his authority, to the authority and reputation of the Soviet Union itself. And by all appearances, he had put his career on the line for no higher cause…than friendship.

Ah. But Friendship ... is Magic.

[Teraunce]

Well that sure was a twist.