Moscow – 12th June 1991 – The die is cast.
Aleksandra’s warning turned out to be fully justified. Fraser sat there waiting for them wearing ‘that face’. No words could describe it and Douglas heard his Uncle John mouth “Oh fuck!” in his head.
Douglas thought in unison, “Oh fuck is right! Here we go!” He knew this was bad and his gut rumbled in anticipation and the hair prickled on his neck.
Many had perished after seeing Fraser with a similar countenance for the one and only time they would ever behold it, and his associates came to joke about it as the ‘FDS” – the Fraser death Stare. It had become folklore in the whispering hallways of the British intelligence community.
But Douglas knew this face was worse than that. It took the heat out of the air and then sucked the air out of the room. He had seen it only twice before in his dealings with the man.
One such look had come following what proved to be a Russian attempt on Bill’s life in Majorca back in 1973, and the untimely death of an innocent friend of Bill’s, Heather Doyle. Douglas vanished from sight and contact for several weeks after this and Fraser had simmered over this assassination attempt for years. Indeed the current operation he was directing would, as a side benefit, give Douglas the closure of cold revenge. Or at least that had been the intention.
The second time followed Douglas’ reappearance from a second unpredicted and unapproved vanishing act following his friend Lynda’s death and funeral back in 1974. On that occasion the French Police and Interpol came in for the full extent of his fury for daring to re open an old murder inquiry into the death of some German scum back in 1966.
On both occasions the common factor was that rage had consumed Fraser so that his entire focus and that of his power was exhorted on the enemy as he perceived them to be. These had been hard days in Douglas’ life, but Fraser’s response was not borne out of sympathy. The depths that forged this visceral reaction were somehow entwined in the man’s DNA and in that of the Douglas clan.
Today though, no one to Douglas’ knowledge had died and so in some ways he felt sorry for the new Prime Minister, Joe Minor who, as far as Douglas was aware, had caused them all to be here in the room today. Fraser had without doubt set the ripples in motion that would in time destroy the perpetrator.
But that did nothing at this moment to lessen the glare that awaited the two erstwhile tourists as they walked through the door.
Expecting the worst possible reaction, Douglas did not even say ‘hello’. Fraser in fact never raised his eyes in their direction as they entered. He was for sure in a ‘mind, no mind’ state, so deep in focus and concentration that he was in some ways unaware of the interruption their entrance caused. On another level altogether however his mind was tracking them like a hidden camera.
Aleksandra glanced at Douglas and indicated with a subtle head movement that they should retreat to the upper levels and wait the storms passing. She knew much of the root cause of the predicament they were in, but not all of the specific detail. This made her unsure if it was better to hold her limited information to herself or begin to slide the thin end of the wedge of truth and actuality into Douglas’ consciousness.
Wrestling with the version of events he had told her versus the actual clusterfuck the politicians had set in motion was excruciating for her because she knew that Douglas himself, trained and honed under Fraser’s tutelage was capable of just as vehement a reaction as her lover. He was much younger though and she was nervous that his reaction would be less considered and he’d take action of some sort without thinking things through.
Upstairs was a surprise to Douglas. On previous visits he’d never bothered to climb the marble stairs and take a look. His private and little off shoot of the main building was inviting and well appointed, so retreating in there following discussions and planning sessions was all he felt he needed.
The late afternoon light glanced down through Velux roof windows and was tinted an almost rose pink by the sun screening glass. The circular hallway that opened up before him seemed to stretch back too far and he realized that it was not circular at all. It was an illusion and was more easily described as an elongated rugby ball. Mirrors from floor to ceiling made this even more alluring to the eye and the space seemed to be much larger than it actually was.
Several doors were available and beckoning but Aleksandra took his arm and guided him into an area of unassuming but well appointed furniture. Comfort had been first priority for this particular room and the carpets were thick and lush. A full wall to wall window faced south west towards the setting sun, which even now was sliding down towards the spires and domes of the Kremlin and the City.
She opened two huge cans of Sapporo beer. Chilled to perfection in the recessed refrigerator they were a sight for sore eyes to Douglas and his mouth watered in anticipation. The crack then whoosh of her popping each can was a familiar sound but amplified up here by the high cathedral ceiling and acoustics.
The noise must have carried further than the room because within a minute the air in the room changed and chilled as Fraser walked in, gave each of them a hard and cold glare. The death stare was gone now though and Douglas breathed a silent sigh and he gave Fraser his most concerned look and said, “Well boss, you looked fair out of it down there. I was a wee bit worried so I was. But I’m glad to see that the sound of Sapporo opening brought ye’ back from the dead.”
“Aye, I’ll admit I wasn’t quite myself, Bill, and I will enjoy joining you two in a drink. What I am going to be telling you will see us down several of these I’m sure. Purely for medicinal reasons… of course.” And for the first time gave a wry and lopsided grin.
He glanced at Aleksandra and threw in, “I always like it when you wear Maggie’s clothes. It makes me feel like I’m with a different woman,” and he winked at her suggestively, “But this time I wonder what you too got up to that made a change necessary.” And he gave a ‘huff’ and ‘hmm’ of mocking disapproval.
She was glad to see some humor in his tone and face and simply raised her middle finger and scratched her nose from forehead to tip. The message was cheeky and unmistakable.
Fraser sat down cross legged on the floor and chugged at the beer. He smiled at Douglas and shook his head in a resigned but exasperated gesture and said, “Well you’ve gone and surpassed yourself again Bill. This man Gorbie is as cool as a cucumber; as gruff a bastard as ever ruled the Soviet Union and as smooth as a shithouse door. Nothing bloody sticks to him and nobody ever gets into the same cubicle as him.
But there you are. You’re sniffing around Foros on your normal touchy feely, been there done that walk about, and you end up his fucking bosom buddy. You drink wi’ him, eat wi’ him and damn near move in wi’ them right there underneath the KGB’s constant eye.
He’s told you things he’s no shared wi’ anybody – no even his wife – and he brings you back wi’ him right into the den of lions that this fucking place has become again the day!”
Douglas and Aleksandra said not a word, not sure of where this was going. Fraser continued,
“An’ I’ll bet that you are more convinced than ever that our decision to save his arse next month is the right one; and nothing, absolutely fucking nothing that I say or do will prevent ye from doing what you’ve set up and put in motion. Am I right?”
It was rhetorical and he continued, “Then so be it an’ good luck to you, because yer gonna need it!
Here’s the story.” A pause ensued with a long sigh, a pull at the beer can and a shrug of the shoulders before he carried on once more.
“This is so fucked up and confusing that yer’ not going to believe it or get your head around it. It has more twists in it that a fucking tornado and it is every bit as damaging to your plans.
‘Queen’ Maggie Thatcher’s pal, Ronnie Regan was behind so much of what has become the ‘new’ Gorbachev an’ between the two of them they have created a man hell bent on destroying the evil that has survived in the power halls of Moscow for decades. God knows how they pulled it off. Witchcraft has crossed my mind on more than one occasion.
He feels empowered by their support and with today’s elections going his way, which by the way they have not, he’d be well on his way to achieving that. The coup coming next month was a certainty and now that Yelstin has claimed the Russian Presidency today then it is even more set in concrete.
Georgie boy Bush, who has come on the scene and is overshadowed by his predecessor, had the foreknowledge of upcoming events – my fault for sharing with the agency – and has decided to have his Ambassador Matlock go give Gorbachev the head’s up sometime next week.
Joe Minor another upstart trying to make a fucking name for himself decided to try and kiss Gorbachev’s ass by beating Bush to it and phoning your new friend just a week ago. Probably not long before you took the underwater holiday.”
Fraser actually paused at this moment, shook his head again but the death stare was back on his face and he did not take a drink. He continued.
“But I bore you now no doubt, because you know all about this one and have heard his nice wee story about how he rebuffed Joe Minor.
It is all the talk of the town in the cheesy bars and restaurants of Chelsea and Soho. Minor’s cronies are licking his backside and fawning down around him like he’s a bitch in heat. Thatcher is swallowing bile and seething like I’ve never seen her before. Minor is just that in her mind, a bug for swatting; a minor skin irritant that needs removal. She fucking hates him from before and now she’s looking for his balls.” Fraser looked up to the ceiling and crossed himself for effect.
“But anyway, no doubt Gorbie’ll do exactly the same wi’ Matlock, and here’s hoping he’ll do just that!” And this time he raised his can and took a swig in a silent toast a prayer before carrying on. The room had grown cold with his anger.
"Do these fucking people not realize that this coup attempt MUST actually take place and be publically and visibly thwarted to bring this dinosaur of a nation to its knees? For fuck’s sake you’ve been at it for months now. Aleksandra’s been parked under the Kremlin for weeks on end and now they decide to blow it all away.
Fraser fell silent at this moment, and Douglas heard big John murmur in his mind, “Jesus laddie, this man is beat. He’s gone beyond the end o’ his rope. You better be ready for what’s coming next, because it is for sure no’ gonna be good!”
Douglas thought, “Ye’re right Uncle John. I know ye’re gonna be right as usual. You’ll tell me that this is history repeating itself and we’ve been betrayed by a weak Englishman.” Outwardly he shook his head in disbelief and said, “I think it is time for another beer.”
As was his usual thought when under stress, the cause of which he had zero control, he resorted to humor and the ubiquitous ‘beer’ moment. Aleksandra had beaten him to it though and was approaching with two more beers.
Two beers, not three, Douglas noticed and he tensed almost certain what was going to happen next. He had come to respect this Russian woman and he could read her like an open book.
Fraser looked up and rose off the floor for the first time since his Macbeth moment had begun. Douglas was waiting for an inevitable ‘To be or not to be’ segment to begin, such had been the intensity of the monologue so far.
Fraser accepted the proffered beer, and kissed Aleksandra lightly but with telling affection. She nodded her head in silence, crossed to Douglas and kissed him on both cheeks.
“It is time for you two to speak alone. I sense it and respect your need for it. What he is holding inside is breaking his heart Bill… and he needs to be with you and you alone to discuss the end game.”
Douglas embraced her and felt the hug in return reach deep into his psyche. The weight of almost twenty years working together with Fraser now hung heavy on his back.
“What the fuck is coming now?” He asked himself. Again a rhetorical question had inserted itself in the proceedings. His Uncle John had already predicted the outcome and the words were reverberating in his head. ‘He’s cuttin’ ye loose laddie. Ye’re on yer own.” …
To be continued…