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

So—who was this guy?
“Do you know him?” I asked Tatiana quietly.
“No,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve never seen him before.”

He was tall, broad-shouldered, with the heavy stillness of someone used to command. Judging by his manner, I doubted he spoke a word of English—perhaps a small mercy in what was fast becoming a dangerous situation.

Just then, the trolley bus screeched to a halt. We stepped aboard, pressed into a sea of thick coats and fur hats. I reached up to grab the overhead rail; so did Tatiana. But the stranger slid between us—and then, without warning, his hand clamped down on mine.

A vise-like grip.
I felt the blood drain from my knuckles. In a mix of Scots and French I barked, “Let go!”
He didn’t. His stare was cold, deliberate.

“Tatiana, what’s his game?” I muttered through gritted teeth. She didn’t answer. Her eyes were wide with fear. I realised then this wasn’t random intimidation—something else was unfolding. We had been warned that the KGB often monitored foreign visitors. Our hosts had to report our movements, our itineraries… even our names.

Suddenly, Tatiana whispered, “Next stop.”

We jumped off—and so did he. Not only him, but two more men from the back of the carriage. Now it was three against two.

“Which way?” I hissed.
“This way,” she said, pointing down a narrow slope blanketed in snow.

We walked fast. They followed faster. Then we ran. Our boots crunched in rhythm with our hearts. We were almost clear when Tatiana slipped, falling hard. I turned back to help her—just in time to feel the crushing impact of a size-12 Russian boot smashing into my face.

Everything went black.

When I came to, he was on top of me, fists pounding. Blood streamed from my nose, staining my white ski jacket crimson. Through the blur, I saw the other two dragging Tatiana away—one holding each arm. I staggered forward, but the big one swung again, forcing me back.

We were in the open—cars passing, people watching—but no one stopped. No police, no help. Just the silent Moscow night and the snow thickening around us.

Then headlights cut through the darkness—a Lada police car. I stumbled into the road, waving frantically. They stopped. I pointed to the apartment block across the street, gesturing wildly—“There! They’ve taken her!”

The officer opened the rear door and motioned me inside. The driver spun the wheel, the car fishtailing on the icy road as we sped toward the building.

A sudden skid, a shout, and we stopped. The passenger officer leapt out, weapon drawn, and I followed him into the dark courtyard. Then—gunfire.

The crack of bullets tore through the night air. The officer fired back. I hit the ground instinctively, snow biting into my face. The sound of ricochets filled the courtyard—metal, glass, stone. For a moment, I thought this is it.

Then silence.

The officer sprinted past me, chasing someone through the shadows—the big man. I followed, slipping, lungs burning. He caught him with the precision of a rugby flanker, tackling him hard onto the frozen ground.

The suspect was thrown into the back of the Lada, the officer beside him still clutching his gun. I climbed into the front. The car roared off again, engine whining, tyres skidding. In the back, the struggle continued—the gun waving dangerously close to my head. I ducked down until my forehead brushed the dashboard.

We sped through the frozen Moscow streets, no seatbelts, no plan.

Finally, we pulled into a gated courtyard surrounded by flashing blue lights—a police station.

The big man was dragged away. I was led in another direction—alone—into a small, bare room. No words. Just four white walls and the hum of a radiator. I waited. Ten minutes. Twenty. Forty.

Then, the door opened.

A thickset officer gestured for me to follow. We went upstairs, down a dim corridor, and into a plain office. Behind a desk sat a man in a dark suit, his expression unreadable.

He reached into his coat pocket, withdrew a maroon and gold identification card, and placed it carefully on the desk between us.

It bore three letters that made my stomach drop: KGB.

 

Stuart Dempster