Kitabı oku: «The Spy», sayfa 2
2
Gogki Tokaty Akhmaty fyrt was born in 1913 on the southern fringes of the Russian Empire, in the impoverished Ossetian village Novourukhskoye, Vladikavkaz District, Terek Oblast. His father died in 1917, and by 1920, the family had been resettled to new lands in northwestern Ossetia, near the Kabardino-Balkarian border. It was there, in the village of Stavd-Dort, that he spent his childhood. Young Gogki never set foot in a schoolhouse. From the time he could walk, he worked—herding goats, gathering firewood and dung for fuel. As he grew older, he labored alongside adults in the cornfields. There was no time for formal education, but his innate curiosity burned bright: he taught himself to read and write, devouring anything printed—books, newspapers, even pre-revolutionary magazines.
Like all his peers, he came of age under Soviet rule. The promise of a radiant future, one that would replace their hardscrabble existence, resonated deeply with him. He joined the Komsomol early and became a member of the All-Union Communist Party (Bolsheviks) in 1928. By then, he’d already mastered the Fordson—one of the first tractors in the North Caucasus, and the only one in the region—learning to repair it himself. His sharp mind and imposing stature caught the attention of local officials, who secured him a spot at the workers’ faculty (rabfak) of the Leningrad Mining Institute in 1928. He excelled, particularly in mathematics, earning a transfer to Moscow’s prestigious Bauman Higher Technical School. After graduation, he enlisted in the Red Army and was assigned to the Zhukovsky Air Force Academy. Within a year, he was leading one of the academy’s laboratories. By 1941, he had passed PhD defence and become dean of the aeronautical engineering faculty.
Yet he never returned home. The Ossetia of his memories—its mountains, forests, and icy rivers—remained etched in his mind. In 1989, at 76, the now-renowned Professor Tokaty was nominated for a British knighthood in recognition of his scientific contributions. But the honorific “Sir” would never precede his name. To accept, he would have had to swear an oath of allegiance to Her Majesty the Queen—a step he refused. “I, Gogki Tokaty, an Ossetian, was included in that list,” he later explained. “But it required a declaration of loyalty to the English Crown. A foreigner cannot become a ‘Sir’ without this oath. I declined. Why? I am not English—I am Ossetian. Though I am endlessly grateful to this country for the honor, I am a son of the Caucasus. It is there I first drew breath. No title or award could ever make me less Ossetian.”
By 1941, Grigori Tokayev—as he was now known—had firmly established himself in Moscow. He married Aza Baeva, a Vladikavkaz native studying at the Mendeleev Chemical-Technological Institute, and they were allotted a room in a sparsely populated communal apartment on Furmanny Lane. Their daughter, Bella, was born in 1938. Life was full: exhilarating work at the Zhukovsky Academy’s aerodynamics lab, a happy young family, a promising academic career ahead.
All of it ended on June 22, 1941.
3
From the interrogation transcript of Lieutenant Colonel Tokayev by Major Hopkins, December 14, 1947:
“Go on, Grigori. What happened to you after the war began?”
“First, explain the two-week gap in our sessions. Don’t tell me you were occupied with other matters. You have only one case now. Me.”
“You provided extensive details about your work at the Air Force Academy and the research conducted there. I couldn’t verify their accuracy. Your statements were sent to our military specialists. I only received their assessment today.”
“And?”
“No evidence of disinformation was found in your account.”
“Does that convince you of my sincerity?” “Not entirely. Everything you described was already known to our experts. Don’t ask how. London watches Soviet military developments very closely. The only novelty was your claim about aviation rocket-engine research. Our experts doubt the Russians have made significant progress there.”
“What would dispel their doubts? A squadron of Soviet jet bombers over London?”
“Your view of the political situation is overly grim.”
“It’s realistic. You still don’t grasp why I defected, George. Let me clarify. First, a question: Does your intelligence know which Red Army units are stationed in Germany?”
“I assume so.”
“Write this down. Under Marshal Sokolovsky’s command: the 3rd Shock Army (Magdeburg), 8th Guards Army (Weimar), 2nd and 1st Guards Mechanized Armies (Dresden), and the 16th Air Army (Wünsdorf)—nine fighter divisions, three ground-attack, six bomber, one night-bomber, over 2,000 aircraft total. Support troops: four artillery divisions, two tank brigades, five anti-aircraft divisions. Add the forces in Austria and Poland. Does this mean nothing to you?”
“Are you suggesting Stalin might attempt to seize all of Europe?”
“You think he wouldn’t?”
“In 1945, Churchill believed it possible. The Allies couldn’t have stopped the Red Army then. That’s why Wehrmacht units surrendering to us were held in camps along the demarcation line—kept in uniform, drilling, weapons stored nearby. They’d have absorbed the first Soviet strike. Later, when Churchill decided Stalin wouldn’t attack, the prisoners were moved inland for denazification.”
“What changed his mind?”
“The American atomic bomb.”
“Churchill was hasty. A bomb won’t deter Stalin. He knows the U.S. won’t risk using it in Central Europe—this isn’t Japan. Nothing would stop Soviet tanks. They could reach the Channel in 48 hours. They’re only waiting for the order.”
“Why do you believe such an order might come?”
“I know the state of those forces. They’re at full readiness. Meanwhile, the U.S. and Britain are demobilizing. This imbalance is dangerous. Insist your superiors heed this, George.”
“I will. Now, let’s resume.”
“Ask your questions…”
4
War, like a force of nature, rewrites destinies in a single day. A schoolteacher becomes an infantryman, a university professor turns militiaman, a medical graduate is now a combat surgeon, and a lathe operator an artillery gunner. So too, in the span of 24 hours, did Grigori Tokayev—PhD, dean of aeronautical engineering at the Zhukovsky Academy—shed his title for the rank of Military Technician 1st Class and depart for a heavy bomber regiment, barely pausing to kiss his young wife goodbye.
The regiment, part of the Special-Purpose Heavy Bomber Group, was stationed at Nikiforovka Airfield near Michurinsk, a forward base. Through the summer and autumn of 1941, its squadrons of Tupolev SB and TB-3 aircraft supported General Kuznetsov’s 51st Army, defending Crimea against Manstein’s 11th Army. The lumbering bombers hauled fuel, engines, and searchlight equipment to Kerch and Bagherovo, dropped paratroopers behind German lines, and raided rail yards at Dzhankoy and Simferopol. Stormy autumn weather grounded the Luftwaffe; fog clung to the Crimean coast like a shroud, allowing most sorties to return unscathed.
The moment the engines coughed silent and crews clambered out, ground teams swarmed the aircraft. Tokayev’s unit draped camouflage nets over the giants, refueled them, slung bombs into bays, and restocked ammunition. By dawn, the squadrons were airborne again.
A loudspeaker hung in the mess hall. When the metronome’s ticking ceased, all eyes turned to Levitan’s voice reciting Sovinformburo bulletins. The vagueness of “successfully repelled enemy attacks, inflicting significant losses” needed no decoding for the men here. It meant the Germans kept advancing. Smolensk had fallen. Leningrad was besieged. Moscow’s outskirts burned. By October, Kerch was lost, and Red Army units retreated to the Taman Peninsula.
Twenty-five bombers of the Special-Purpose Group relocated to Grabtsevo Airfield near Kaluga, preparing for the Vyazma airborne operation. But camouflage failed. On 27 January 1942, Ju-88s and He-111s struck in waves. Four aircraft from the 1st Regiment, three from the 3rd, two TB-3s each from the 14th Regiment and 4th Independent Squadron—all gone. A follow-up raid on 3 February incinerated two more bombers under repair.
The Vyazma drop was postponed; forward airfields abandoned. When the operation finally launched in late February 1942, the sorties originated from Monino outside Moscow.
In February’s final days, Tokayev secured leave. Hitchhiking on military trucks, he reached a Moscow stripped bare—balloon barrages floating over parks, windows crisscrossed with tape against blast waves. Half the apartments in his building stood empty after panicked evacuations. His own room was a shell. Aza’s last letter, months old, mentioned her research institute’s evacuation to the Urals. No word since. He sat amid the ghosts of hasty packing, then returned to Monino.
Three months later, a runner found Tokayev’s crew on the tarmac at night: “The commander wants you—now.” At HQ, orders awaited. Grigori Tokayev was to report to the Zhukovsky Air Force Academy’s command. Not in Moscow. In Sverdlovsk, where the academy had relocated. By morning, he was airborne again.
Grigori Tokayev never returned to his interrupted work on jet engines. The Air Force was desperately short of specialists, and the academy’s priority had shifted entirely to training aviation engineers. Hundreds of cadets graduated and departed for the front, while hundreds more cycled through accelerated refresher courses. The faculty worked on degaussing techniques for attack aircraft armor, designed new high-explosive and shaped-charge munitions, and developed manuals to improve bombing accuracy and optimize flight ranges. Only in rare moments of respite could Tokayev revisit his calculations for turbojet and liquid-fueled rocket engines—the inevitable successors to piston-powered aviation. The pursuit of ever-more-powerful piston engines had hit a wall: beyond 700 kilometers per hour, gains became negligible. The future lay elsewhere.
Intelligence reports at the academy tracked aviation developments in Germany, its allies, and even the USSR’s own partners. As early as 1940, Italy’s Campini-Caproni had conducted test flights. Britain’s Gloster jet took to the skies in 1941, followed by America’s Airacomet in 1942. Soon, Britain’s Meteor would see combat. By mid-war, the Luftwaffe fielded the Me-262, Me-163, and He-162—jets that outclassed Soviet Ilyushins and Lavochkins in speed and agility. Only Germany’s crippled industrial capacity prevented these machines from dominating the skies.
The USSR, too, had its jet programs—in the design bureaus of Korolev and Tsander. In early 1942, test pilot Bakhchivandhi made the first flight of the BI-1, a rocket-powered interceptor. His subsequent death during testing froze progress until war’s end, when captured German engines birthed the Yak-15 and MiG-9.
Grigori Tokayev repeatedly petitioned the academy to prioritize jet research. Each proposal was rejected. More pressing needs demanded attention.
In 1943, the academy returned from Sverdlovsk to Moscow. Later, Aza’s research institute followed. Reuniting with his wife and daughter—alive, unharmed—felt like a miracle. He learned her institute had been mere blocks from the academy in Sverdlovsk all along. She’d kept every letter he’d sent. Why none of hers reached him remained a mystery.
Victory Day found Grigory Tokaev and his family among the thousands thronging Moscow’s Red Square. At two in the morning, the radio crackled with promises of an urgent broadcast. Ten minutes later, Levitan’s baritone boomed through the static—the Act of Nazi Germany’s Surrender read aloud, followed by the Supreme Soviet’s decree: May 9th now etched into history as Victory Day. Doors flung open; strangers embraced beneath the Kremlin’s shadow, laughter and tears mingling in the cold spring air. That evening, thirty artillery salvos shook the city, their echoes giving way to fireworks that bloomed crimson and gold over the Moskva. Grigory and Aza watched in silence from their apartment window, their daughter asleep nearby. A new life was beginning. What shape it might take, neither dared voice—but for that moment, they let themselves believe it could be untainted by war.
Two weeks later, Major Tokayev was summoned by Deputy NKVD Chief General Serov.
5
The summons to Serov, delivered by an NKVD courier, unsettled Grigori Tokayev. He had never before crossed paths with state security, now folded into the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs. At the academy, as in all institutions, there existed a First Department – guardians against leaks of state secrets, perpetually surveilling staff. Grigori knew they kept a file on him. But as far as he could deduce, it contained nothing incriminating; had it otherwise, his fate would already have taken a darker turn. Yet this afforded little comfort. Grigori could recall numerous cases of academy staff – decorated, irreproachable – vanishing without trace. None dared enquire after their fates; such curiosity itself spelled danger. After soothing his wife, shaken by the abrupt summons, Grigori set out for Lubyanka.
The deputy commissar had summoned him for fourteen hundred hours. At half-past one, he entered the fourth entrance of the Lubyanka Square complex, presenting his orders to the duty officer at the pass bureau. A pass had been prearranged for Major Tokayev. The officer filled out the permit but withheld it, murmuring into an internal telephone before instructing him to wait. Ten minutes later, a junior lieutenant appeared, scrutinised Grigori’s papers, collected the pass and barked: “Follow me.”
They took the lift to the fifth floor. Grigori’s gaze swept the surroundings. The corridors struck him first – endless, coiling about the building like a serpent. Oak doors, unmarked save for numbers, lined the passageways. The halls stood deserted save for the occasional officer clutching files, faces granite. At one door, the escort halted: “Inside.”
The antechamber was cavernous, dimly lit. The lieutenant handed Tokayev’s summons and pass to a duty colonel, who snapped: “Wait to be called.”
The wait stretched forty minutes. At last, a muted buzzer sounded. The colonel heaved open a weighty door: “Come in.”
At the far end of an expansive study, behind a desk cluttered with secure-line telephones, sat a squat man of about forty. The Colonel General’s uniform hung on a frame both unremarkable and unsettling – a peasant’s face beneath thinning hair. The file spread before him left little doubt: Grigori’s life lay splayed across that desk. He reported:
“Comrade Colonel General, Major Tokayev reporting as ordered.”
“I see that,” Serov replied coldly. “Sit down, Major. It says here you’re Ossetian. Correct?”
“Correct, Comrade Colonel General.”
“Your father’s name?”
“Akhmat.”
“Then why ‘Alexandrovich’?”
“That’s what they wrote.”
“Married?”
“Yes. My wife’s a chemical engineer.”
“Children?”
“A daughter. Seven years old.”
“Good. Parents living?”
“No.”
“Relatives?”
“A sister, Nina. Cousins: Timur Begazaevich in Moscow, Khagudi Gedoevich in Nalchik. A nephew, Khariton Dzybaevich, in Mizur, Ossetia.”
“You understand, Tokayev, their fates hinge on you? They’ll answer for your mistakes.”
“What am I accused of?”
“Nothing. Yet. Consider this… foresight. Continue.” Serov flipped pages. “Decorations: ‘Excellent Worker of the Red Army’, medals for ‘Combat Service’ and ‘Victory Over Germany’. Common enough. But this Order of the Red Star – for what? You never saw combat. Here: ‘No frontline service. No wounds or shell-shock.’”
“I served in bomber aviation – airfield operations. Those were frontline airfields. That I wasn’t wounded? Luck. Many weren’t.”
“You’ve been recommended as a rocket specialist,” Serov pressed.
“Aviation jet engines,” Grigori corrected. “Years of research. The future of our air force.”
“Records show you submitted three proposals to the academy. All rejected. Did they not grasp their significance?”
“They understood. Don’t mistake caution for sabotage. The academy had other priorities.”
Serov’s brow darkened.
“What constitutes sabotage isn’t yours to judge. We decide. It notes German fluency. How?”
“The Germans outpaced us in jet technology. I studied their papers. Began with Eugen Sänger’s pre-war articles – his ‘Silbervogel’ bomber concept. His book outlined radical designs.”
“Eugen Sänger,” Serov echoed. “Intelligence suggests he fled to France. We need him extracted.”
“Comrade Colonel General, why tell me this?”
“Because you’ll handle it. Under my command. You’re prepared. Dismissed, Major. Await orders.”
Escorted back through Lubyanka’s labyrinth, Grigori emerged onto the square. A dreary, drizzly day. Outside Detsky Mir, queues snaked for rationed goods. He sensed the ground shifting beneath his life.
The orders arrived fortnight later. Major Tokayev was to fly to Berlin, where Serov now served as deputy to Marshal Zhukov – head of the Soviet Military Administration in Germany – and NKVD plenipotentiary for the Occupation Forces. His mission: secure German archives and scientists linked to Wernher von Braun.
