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politically aware . . .’ Feliks stalled.
    â€˜Yes, but you know I’m talking of more than awareness, Comrade. I’m talking of
commitment
.’
    Astashenkov looked blank. Savkin would need to be more explicit.
    â€˜The changes on the farms and in the factories, and in the public services – making our people more responsible for their labour, and rewarding them individually – is a process I believe you support in principal, Feliks. But that process, as you know, is now at its nadir. People’s lives have become harder, but not yet better. Faith in the policy has crumbled. It’s no secret that the Zhiguli car factory has been on strike for two weeks because the enforcement of new quality standards has cut the workers’ bonuses. What
is
still a secret, however, is how fast the strikes are spreading. Within two weeks, fifty per cent of our industrial production may be at a standstill.’
    Astashenkov let out an involuntary low whistle.
    â€˜Yes. It’s as bad as that,’ Savkin was pleased he’d been able to startle the Admiral. ‘And the strikers are supported by the majority of the Party. The
Nomenklatura
can hear the death-rattle of
perestroika,
and plan to finish it off!’
    â€˜But then what? A return to the old ways? They must know that’s impossible now.’
    â€˜Is it? Are you sure?’
    Astashenkov sensed he had been trapped.
    â€˜Well . . .I’m only a submariner. I’ve no real understanding of economics . . .’
    Savkin was not satisfied with that answer. He waited for Astashenkov to continue.
    â€˜It seems impossible to me. If we’re not to be at an economic disadvantage for ever, we must produce at a price and to a standard that will enable us to compete worldwide. To return to a system of quotas without accountability . . .’
    He knew he sounded if he were parrotting one of Savkin’s own speeches. But it was what he believed.
    â€˜So you think we must continue with the policy?
Perestroika
at any price?’
    Astashenkov breathed in deeply and let out a sigh. He sensed a noose tightening.
    â€˜It’s what they accuse
me
of,’ the General Secretary persisted. ‘The
Nomenklatura
. They say it’s my vanity, that I can’t admit the policy is a failure.’
    â€˜Not all the
Nomenklatura
, Comrade General Secretary.’ Feliks himself held one of those appointments which had to be approved by the Party.
    Savkin frowned. Impatiently he pushed his fingers through the straggling white tufts at his temples.
    â€˜Feliks, I need to know how far you yourself will go, in supporting me?’
    * * *
    An hour later, Feliks Astashenkov stood outside one of those slab-sided apartment blocks that fill much of Moscow’s suburbs. Savkin’s courier had dropped him at the end of the road, as he’d asked, and he’d walked the last few hundred metres to Tatiana’s flat. He was badly in need of the fresh air, which was cold enough to numb the end of his nose. What Savkin was planning had shaken him to the core.
    He’d telephoned Tatiana the day before, to check she would be at home that evening. Opportunities to see her were so infrequent nowadays, he seized them whenever they arose. But now, as he stood looking up at the lighted windows, trying to remember which one was hers, he regretted making the rendezvous. Solitude was what he needed, not the distracting company of his mistress. He wanted time alone, to consider what Savkin had askedhim to do. Not a word of his meeting would he be able to share with Tatiana. No one must ever learn from him what had been said that day.
    She’d sounded edgy on the telephone, affecting indifference to his proposal to visit her. Feliks knew what that meant. His affair with her had started when he had been posted to Moscow three years earlier but since his transfer to the Kola Peninsula eighteen months ago, they’d not spent more than a dozen days