Echoes of Red Square: The Day the KGB Came for Me

It was the winter of 1991, a time when the old Soviet Union was cracking apart like thin ice on the Moskva River. Only weeks earlier, Boris Yeltsin had climbed onto a tank outside the Russian White House, rallying a restless nation against the crumbling grip of the Communist Party.
The USSR was dying—though no one yet dared say it aloud.

Back in Edinburgh, I was preparing for another long, grey Scottish winter. I’d recently begun coaching a promising young sprinter named Ken Campbell, and quickly realised that coaching demanded as much study as sweat. I needed to learn—fast—and from the best.

That’s when Bill Walker, manager of Meadowbank Stadium, extended an invitation that would change everything. He was taking a small delegation of coaches to Moscow to study Soviet training systems—the same machine that had produced Olympic champions with unnerving regularity.
How could I say no?

We left behind the drizzle of Edinburgh for the bone-deep chill of Moscow. After a four-hour flight, we landed in a city of snow and shadow, our breath crystallising as we stepped off the plane. Our hosts—a polite but watchful group of sports officials—ushered us into a rattling minibus bound for our accommodation: student apartments, half an hour from the city centre by metro.

By the second day, the Russian winter arrived in full command. Snow began to fall, soft at first, then thick and unrelenting. Within hours, the streets vanished beneath a white silence. Temperatures plunged to minus 30 degrees. The air itself seemed to crack when you spoke.

Midway through our second week, word spread that we’d secured tickets to the Bolshoi Ballet—Giselle, no less. There were seven of us, so we split the nights. My roommate Neil went the first evening; I was to go the next.

That night, as I made tea in our small, dimly lit room, there was a knock at the door.
When I opened it, she was standing there.

Tall. Elegant. Rust-red hair, sharp cheekbones, and eyes that missed nothing.
“Are you Mr Stuart?” she asked, her English precise but accented.

I smiled. “Yes—but please, call me Stuart. You must be one of Neil’s friends?”
She nodded. “Yes. My name is Tatiana. You will take me to McDonald’s, yes?”

McDonald’s had just opened in Moscow—a Western novelty that drew queues longer than most bread lines. The Soviets were curious; to them, it was a taste of the forbidden world beyond the Iron Curtain.

We caught the trolleybus to the metro terminus, then descended into Moscow’s underground palaces. I’d never seen anything like it: marble pillars, golden mosaics, grand chandeliers. It felt more like a cathedral than a subway.
“Beautiful,” I said.
Tatiana smiled. “It is our pride,” she replied.

At McDonald’s, I ordered what seemed normal—a burger, fries, and a Coke.
Tatiana hesitated, then mirrored my order. When the tray arrived, piled high, I noticed the stares. Around us, everyone else clutched a single coffee. Some didn’t even eat—just sat, observing.

I glanced at my white ski jacket, suddenly realising what it symbolised here: wealth. In a country where most couldn’t afford Western luxuries, I might as well have been flashing a gold crown.

We ate quickly and quietly. The air felt charged. Something in the way people looked at us made me uneasy—not hostile, but curious, suspicious even. When we finished, Tatiana suggested we head back.
Outside, the temperature bit like broken glass.

We waited for the trolleybus beneath a flickering streetlight. The snow fell sideways now, driven by a bitter wind. That’s when I saw him—an imposing figure moving steadily toward us through the crowd. Broad shoulders, heavy coat, fur hat pulled low. His eyes were fixed on Tatiana.

He stopped directly in front of us.
A brief exchange in Russian followed—short, sharp, clipped. Tatiana’s posture stiffened; her voice dropped. The man’s expression was unreadable, his tone firm but quiet.
Then he looked at me.

For a moment, the street seemed to fall silent except for the wind.
Something in his gaze told me this was no random encounter.

I had just walked into the KGB’s shadow.

Part Two — Coming Soon.