“Young man, don’t think for one minute that I have fallen for that phoney patriotism crap Komarov keeps churning out. I’ve seen patriotism, boy. Seen men bleed for it, seen good men die for it. Got to recognize the real thing, don’t you see? This man Komarov is no patriot, it’s all bullshit and catcrap.”
“I see,” said the reporter, who did not see at all and was completely bewildered. “But surely there are many people who feel his plans for Russia …”
“His plans for Russia are bloodshed,” snarled Uncle Kolya. “Think we haven’t had enough bloodshed in this land already? I’ve had to wade through the damn stuff, and I don’t want to see anymore. The man’s a Fascist. Look, boy, I’ve fought Fascists all my life. Fought ‘em at Kursk, fought ‘em at Bagration, across the Vistula, right to the bloody bunker. German or Russian, a Fascist’s a Fascist, and they’re all …”
He could have used any of forty words that in Russian refer to private parts, but as there was a woman present he settled for merzavtsi—villains.
“But surely,” protested the journalist, who was completely out of his depth, “Russia needs to be cleaned up of all the filth?”
“Oh, there’s filth all right. But a lot of it is not ethnic minority filth, it’s home-grown Russian crap. What about the crooked politicians, the corrupt bureaucrats hand in hand with the gangsters?”
“But Mr. Komarov is going to clean out the gangsters.”
“Mr. bloody Komarov is financed by the gangsters, can’t you see that? Where do you think the tidal wave of his money is coming from? The tooth fairy? With him in charge this country is bought and paid for by the gangsters. I tell you, boy, no man who ever wore the uniform of his country and wore it with pride should ever put those black-uniformed thugs of his guard in charge of the Motherland.”
“Then what should we do?”
The old general reached for a copy of the day’s paper and gestured at the back page.
“Did you see that priest fella on the box last night?”
“Father Gregor, the preacher? No, why?”
“I think he may have got it right. And we may have got it wrong all these years. Bring back God and the czar.”
The interview caused a sensation, but not for what it said. It was thee source that caused the furor. Russia’s most famous old soldier had delivered a denunciation that would be read by every officer and trooper in the land and a large number of the twenty million veterans.
The interview was syndicated in its entirety in the weekly Our Army, successor to the Red Star, which went into every barracks in Russia. Extracts were included in the TV national news and repeated on the radio. After that the general declined to give any more interviews.
In the dacha off Kiselny Boulevard, Kuznetsov was almost in tears as he confronted a stony-faced Igor Komarov.
“I don’t understand, Mr. President, I just don’t understand. If there was one figure in the entire country whom I would have assumed to be a staunch supporter of the UPF and of yourself, it would have been General Nikolayev.”
Igor Komarov, and Anatoli Grishin who was standing staring out of the window onto the snowy forecourt, heard him out in bleak silence. Then the young propaganda chief returned to his office to continue calling the media to try to limit the damage.
It was not an easy task. He could hardly denounce Uncle Kolya as a geriatric who had lost his wits, for this was clearly not true. His only plea was that the general had got it all wrong. But the questions about where the UPF’s funding was coming from were getting harder and harder to handle.
A fuller restoration of the UPF position would have been made easier by devoting the whole next issue of Awake to the topic, along with the monthly edition of Motherland. Unfortunately they had been silenced and the new presses were only now leaving Baltimore.
Back in the president’s office the silence was finally broken by Komarov.
“He saw my manifesto, didn’t he?”
“I believe so,” said Grishin.
“First the presses, then the secret meetings with the Patriarch, now this. What the hell is going on?”
“We’re being sabotaged, Mr. President.”
Igor Komarov’s voice remained deceptively quiet, too quiet. But his face was deathly pale and bright spots burned red on each cheek. Like the late secretary Akopov, Anatoli Grishin too had seen the rages of which his leader was capable and even he feared them. When Komarov spoke again, his voice had dropped to a whisper.
“You are retained, Anatoli, at my side, the closest man to me, the man destined to have more power in Russia than any save me, to prevent me from being sabotaged. Who is doing this?”
“An Englishman called Irvine, and an American called Monk.”
“Two of them? Is that all?”
“They obviously have backing, Mr. President, and they have the manifesto. They are showing it around.”