The Dark Forces

By JAMES CARNEY MOSCOW

Somewhere in Moscow, a group of men sit around a table, their faces grim and / resolute as they conspire to launch a coup. That, at least, is what many Russians fear. Warnings of an imminent overthrow of the Yeltsin government come almost daily in the capital, from all sides of the political spectrum. Whether the messenger is a top government official, a parliamentary leader, a member of an opposition party or an ordinary Russian with a gut instinct, the message is always the same: dark forces are at work devising a scheme to take power and install a dictatorship.

Even Boris Yeltsin joined the chorus of doom when he told the British Parliament in early November that right-wing opponents were hatching plans to sweep away his government and forcibly return Russia to its unhappy past. Yeltsin's opponents claim it is the President himself who aspires to the dictator's throne with a plan to dissolve Russia's legislative bodies and rule by decree. In a country with a 500-year history of autocracy, such warnings resonate deep within the psyche of a public that is experimenting with democratic government for the first time.

There are certainly those on the political fringe who openly advocate taking power by force. But Russians' predilection for the rhetoric of impending apocalypse and unfamiliarity with the concept of loyal opposition or healthy difference of opinion tend to exaggerate the risk of a putsch. They also obscure both the complexity of the country's evolving political culture and the frequent back-room negotiating that leads to shifts in allegiance among political forces and personalities. Short of being ousted himself, and perhaps as a means to avoid it, Yeltsin may decide to share power with some of his less radical opponents.

Yet the fact is that a collection of unrepentant communists, disgruntled military men, ultranationalists and Old Guard apparatchiks is gathering strength. Some of them are thoroughgoing extremists who want to turn back the clock; some are more moderate opponents who want to slow down economic change. Some are acting under the wings of the parliament. Some are regrouping in the provinces, in old trade unions and local government councils. Some are in the government itself, like conservative Vice President Alexander Rutskoi, or the outspoken parliamentarian Ruslan Khasbulatov, who was elected speaker as Yeltsin's ally but now spearheads the charge to reduce the power of the presidency. So far, none has emerged as an alternative center of power, but together they act as a substantial drag on the parlous progress of reform.

No figure is mentioned more often as the man with whom Yeltsin must compromise than Arkadi Volsky. He is not the most extreme opponent, but he is the most powerful. A former Communist Party apparatchik and adviser to each of the past three Soviet leaders, Volsky, 60, has the assured air of a man who has walked the corridors of the Kremlin many times. Holding only a nominal party office at the time of the August 1991 coup, he escaped the guilt by association that taints other former high party officials. Many observers now consider him a future Prime Minister -- a post he has repeatedly denied seeking. "I have said 29 times I don't want the job, but every day the press says otherwise," he complains, waving his hand as though to sweep away the rumors.

The press has cause to be skeptical. In the past year Volsky has built up a lobby of the country's economic elite, the directors of Russia's gargantuan state-run industries, many of them part of the once powerful military- industrial complex. The industrial generals, as these men are called, stand to lose much, including their livelihoods, if the reform government of acting Prime Minister Yegor Gaidar succeeds in privatizing the more efficient state factories and forcing the rest into bankruptcy.

To add political clout to his standing with the industrialists, Volsky created Civic Union, a coalition that includes the party led by Rutskoi, a frequent critic of Yeltsin's government. In a recent harangue, Rutskoi labeled Russia "a political and economic dump," and called for sweeping changes in top government personnel. Volsky says he has "no problem with the government as a whole," only with some of its members. He hasn't revealed publicly, however, which ministers he opposes.

Though Volsky has cultivated an image of a pragmatist who favors reform at a less traumatic pace, his critics claim his true goal is to restore state control over the economy. And Civic Union's economic program does read like a primer in Soviet-style management. Among other measures, it calls for state production quotas, price controls on some goods and government management of the energy sector. That sets the stage for a showdown with Volsky, who has said he will only support the government if it meets Civic Union "halfway."

While that kind of compromise might slow reforms, the alternative to cooperation with Volsky could be something worse. Civic Union occupies the center ground in Russian politics; most other opposition groups demand + Yeltsin's resignation and a virtual halt to reform. And some don't even bother to pay lip service to notions of democracy.

In late October, many of the most radical opposition organizations united to form the National Salvation Front, a coalition of militarists, far-right nationalists and diehard communists. At their first public meeting, paramilitary guards dressed in black shirts and jack boots flanked the crowd as front leaders vowed to remove Yeltsin from office. One speaker, Colonel Stanislav Terekhov, who claims to lead a 10,000-strong Officers' Union opposed to Yeltsin, hinted that extralegal "preparations are being made" to bring the front to power. Three days later, Yeltsin banned the front for advocating the overthrow of the lawful government. And Terekhov has been discharged from the army.

But front leaders have defied the ban, and many led demonstrations through Moscow to celebrate the 75th anniversary of the Bolshevik Revolution on Nov. 7. "Let Americans entertain themselves with democracy," Terekhov declared. "We don't need it. We need a dictatorship of law." Though the country's top general has assured Yeltsin of the army's support, the military remains a wild card.

The front has no coherent program -- except to undo what Yeltsin has done -- only skill at demagoguery. Nationalists like Nikolai Lysenko shift the blame to old enemies: "The U.S. planned and engineered the collapse of the Soviet Union." Front leaders call on the citizenry to "rise in defense of the Russian state" and force the President out. "Their strategy," says a U.S. official, "is to invoke slogans in an attempt to excite the baser political instincts." But in championing causes like the troubles of Russian nationals in the other republics, front leaders have potent emotional issues with which to stir up anger against Yeltsin.

Furthest on the fringe is Pamyat, a rabidly nationalist, anti-Semitic group espousing a return to the czarist monarchy and unabashedly proud of its fascist symbolism. Its members blame most of the country's ills on "people of alien ethnic origin," and refuse to ally themselves with any communists. Declares Pamyat president Dmitri Vasiliev: "No democratic, no communist system or any other ism will be able to stop this irresistible drive toward purification and freedom."

The forces of opposition will test their strength during this week's session of the Congress of People's Deputies. Yeltsin has signaled he will fight for his government at the Congress, but his success could depend on what alliances are formed between warring political factions and how strong the extremists really prove to be. In the end, the balance of power between the President at one end and the front at the other may be decided by the man in the middle -- Volsky. If neither Yeltsin nor Volsky can achieve some kind of consensus, the Congress could embolden the most radical opponents of reform. Then the fear that dark forces are secretly planning a coup could become a reality.