A Trivial Matter

Just like in any previous year, no matter what organization he headed Boris Kotelnikov; the heartless cold blooded new boss of the Soviet union biggest intelligence service the KGB, threw a party on the eve of October the 17th. The event and it was quite an event, commenced in his spacious dacha at the outskirts of Moscow - that was its first phase. Just some hundred and twenty guests were invited, the organization's most prominent functioneries and their female partners. The next phase was a hunting party in the nearby forest, hunting the few bears left in it and a human hunt on top of it; or should it be put in more accurate terms: hunting your inferiors's partner, particularly if a certain female partner is pretty enough and the one that brought her along is blind drunk. The party of course was a smashing hit, it wasn't just the victuals and drinks, which did not consist on vodka alone, but of an abundant assortment of foreign imported drinks, scotch whisky, gin, rum, whatever one could have wished for. It was Kotelnikov's first party as the head of that mighty organization, he was assigned to that supreme post just some nine months earlier. Thus he was in fact a newcomer, with hardly any background in clandestine matters, except a short experience ages ago with the military intellegence the GRU. It was not an era he could have been proud of, but thank goodness several decades have passed since then... As a devoute party member he was promoted rather quickly to the post of a prominent Politburo member; and from there he was kicked up to that craved job quite unexpectedly; the most rellevant candidates, veterans of that famous organization were simply pushed aside. He had no trouble at all to ensure their loyalty, it was a Politburo decision and nobody could have objected to it, and would not have dared to. Vasili Komerenko who was the rightful heir to that job and was appointed as such by Kotelnikov's predecessor, was the one who did his utmost to pave the way to his new boss, and surprisingly enough became his right hand.
All that was history already as far as Kotelnikov was concerned, particularly after half a bottle of vodka and a few more drinks of scotch on top of it. Wiping the tears from his eyes among his loyal inferiors, in an unexpected wave of emotions - Kotelnikov noticed with sudden alarm, a scornful smile on comrade's Komerenko's lips. I'm cherishing a snake in my bossom. That was the first thought that crossed his brain. Ketelnikov moved on with a forced smile through his feasting guests, exchanging a few words here and there, good naturedly - but deep inside he was burning with suspicions, fear and a terrible urge to put an end as fast as possible to that imminent threat. For imminent it was and that's exactly what Kotelnikov felt - Komerenko is undermining his authority, stealthily, behind his back; the more he thought of it the more convinced he became. Why not shoot him in the forest while hunting. "a loaded man" with a loaded rifle, might take someone else for a bear. a tragic accident indeed, it could happen... But no, it could have happened several years ago not now. I can't even detain him, say for treason, and make him confess against his will with the old methods. There must be some way. He kept thinking quite frustrated.
During the party's second phase, in the forest Kemerenko clinged to Ketelnikov's side, he did not carry a gun but a pair of binoculars.
He wasn't born yesterday. Even if I'd the gutts to shoot him I wouldn't have the slightest chance to do it. He's a sly fox, the bastard. Concluded desperately his boss. No, he has no intention to run after, be it bears or much more exciting prey; and expose his butt to the cold weather, or worse to a stray bullet... Right at that moment Komerenko glanced at him smiling benevolently, expressing his good feelings no doubt - letting his boss know how much he enjoys himself. But Kotelnikov took it as an insult, he was sure now that Komerenko is mocking him. With much effort he smiled back to his former "right hand", whom he considered now as his worst enemy. I must get rid of him in some way. He kept thinking strolling on amid his entourage with comrade Komerenko at his side. The afternoon dragged on endlessly, the shooting, the excited shouts, the jokes and laughter, hardly penetrated Kotelnikov's conscience; he was buried in his thoughts. Flashes of imaginary visions mixed with bits of rational reflections crossed his mind. He would have thrown Komerenko into a Lubianka dungeon, if he just could; brainwash him, make him confess some dubious guilt, crucify him as a traitor. But times have changed and such efficient and useful methods were not at any individual or whatever body's disposal anymore, not even to him. So how am I going to solve that problem of mine? He kept on pondering in vain, but could not find a feasible answer.
His successful party was over, the weekend passed, but he had no answer yet to his acute problem that kept tormenting him. On Monday morning at ten o'clock he sat at the head of a prearranged meeting according to a routine schedule with his departments' heads, Komerenko included of couse. No decisions were made and three hours of blabering as far as he was concerned finaly passed; he was left at last with his most trusted man, Valery Smolinkin his personal aid and consultant.
'Something must be bothering you boss,' remarked his aid, clearing his throat nervously.
'Oh just a trivial matter,' replied Kotelnikov after a short pause. 'I say, when is comrade Komerenko bound to retire, could you find it out for me?'
'Oh, I'll find it out, but may I remind you boss that he's quite a backing and he's recommended for.'
'Yes I know, and it isn't relevant at all.' Retorted Kotelnikov impatiently. 'If is wasn't for Trotsky we'd be a monarchy to this very day, with one of Tsar Nikolai's descendants to head it - and I don't have to tell you what was Trotsky's fate.'
Smolinkin cleared his throat, noded obediently his head, got to his feet and left - he knew quite well what he is supposed to do.
On that evening Smolinkin arrived to pay his boss a visit, he had no trouble to pass the gate, though he very rarely visited his boss's lodgings. The guards eyed him with a hint of scorn, as if he was some temporary hired hand - he didn't have a chauffeur to drive him around, and that must have been the cause to that unpleasant attitude. It didn't trouble him even then, when he crossed at the first time that gate under several pairs of suspicious and contemptuous eyes - he got used to it
As he passed the gate he noticed five limousins that were parked already next to his boss's dacha, their chauffeurs were having a cup of tea no doubt in the kitchen, or in some other remote quarter. He was ushered amost stealthily in by the dacha's head of security, who knew very well what was Smolnikin's worth, as far as the mighty boss was concerned. Kotelnikov's five guests Komerenko included, were huddled round a square table, rather busy in game of poker. Being an outsider who was brought along by his boss, Smolinkin joined the small group of five prominent organization members rather humbly, took the tumbler of vodka offered to him by the house agent and sat apart in the wide living room, lisening attentively - and waiting patiently to the comaredly meeting's end.
As soon as the round was over, Kotelnikov asked his inferiors how much money each one of them lost, and reimboursed each one them his loss - smiling benevolenty, he had no intention to bankrupt them, he added laughing. He did not have to pretend, he was in a good mood; comrade Komerenko was taken care of, and Smolinkin was bringing him good tidings no doubt - he never let him down.
The game was over, everything was settled in good spirits, thus he stood up and all his inferiors followed suit. they took their leave with throbbing hearts no doubts, for they could have guessed that something was amiss, having seen their boss loyal snoop's arrival. The scenario was well staged. Let them shake with fear, thought Kotelnikov quite pleased, while exchanging greetings with each one of them.
'Let's have a breath of fresh air in the garden.' He told Smolnikin as the latter approached him. Smolnikin was caught in a sudden fit of coughs. In the old times it could have had just one meaning, the last thing he would ever hear.
'Oh come'on,' his boss muttered with a short laugh, slapping his most trusted man on his bent back.
'Well,' Kotelnikov turned to his loyal aid with a hint of impatience. They were strolling in his vast garden in semi darkness. A group of four armed guards led the way on the broad path right behind Kotelnikov's dacha; and a second group of four kept their rear some twenty yards behind them.
'I've discussed the matter with Maxim...' Smolinkin managed to mutter. He was in a state of panic almost. 'With whom?' The boss raised his voice. 'With Niazov, the Uzbek, Komerenko's deputy.' He hastened to explain. 'I see, is everything settled?'
'That's why I've come, it's a bit complicated. Niazov is about to retire in six months time if no drastic changes would take place. He expects a miracle.' Smolinkin added with a slight chuckle. He collected his wits after a few silent moments of fright, having realized at last that he has nothing to fear of.
'He'll have his miracle. What else?'
'Uhm, they've two running projects as you know, several local residents at the west and east coasts; seven all in all, most of them were recruited just recently by the Estonian.' He made a short pause inhaling the cool night air into his lungs. '...And there's our main source in the U.N. Peter... We have snatched him from the GRU - he's our best man.'
'So that's what troubles Niazov. I've seen their department's star reports, and some are still on my desk. He's fed with disinformation and the few bits he does gather are worthless. Tell Niazov their star can be disposed of, and that I expect him to fold his sleeves and do a much better job than Komerenko ever did.'
'Very well sir, I'll send our consulate in N.Y.C the documents and comrade's Pasholnikov's authentic personal details.' Smolinkin said hardly audible with a sunken heart.