Angel of Darkness

by Christopher Nicole

  Now, the Kremlin was behind them and they were in the heart of the city. In front of them were the lights in the windows of another huge building, also a relic of a bygone age – in the Tsarist days it had been the home of Russia’s leading insurance company. It was entered by a gated archway in the surrounding walls. The car rolled through, and the gates clanged shut behind it.

  After twelve years, she was back in the Lubianka.

  *

  How familiar it all seemed. Her last visit could have been yesterday. But there was a difference. Twelve years ago, in the eyes of the arresting officers she had simply been a criminal, undoubtedly deranged, who had been caught breaking into the Kremlin; as she had been unarmed, they had not even considered her to be dangerous. Now they were regarding her as if she were a keg of dynamite with a burning fuse. Then they had pushed her and kicked her with the careless brutality they inflicted upon all their prisoners. Now they were afraid to touch her. When she got out of the car, although she was handcuffed, she was surrounded by men with drawn pistols pointing at her. It would have been amusing, had she not been growing increasingly conscious that she was running out of time and, therefore, of room to manoeuvre.

  Hamilton indicated the open door. ‘I believe you know the way, Countess.’

  Anna went into the lighted hallway, which she remembered so clearly. There were stairs leading up, and doors opening to either side. She turned automatically to her left, where a door was guarded by an armed sentry.

  ‘You do know the way!’ Hamilton commented. ‘Inform Colonel Berisova,’ he told the guard. ‘She is expecting us.’

  The sentry took the phone from its wall bracket. ‘There is a prisoner for you, Comrade Colonel.’

  Anna could not hear the reply, but a few moments later the door swung inwards.

  The woman standing there was surprisingly small, in contrast to the last commandant of the Women’s Section she had encountered. This one was almost attractive, with her neat features and soft black hair, worn short. In her perfectly tailored green uniform and brown boots, she was almost chic.

  ‘The Countess von Widerstand.’ Hamilton introduced her.

  Colonel Berisova merely nodded.

  ‘You understand . . .’

  ‘I have read the file, Comrade Terpolov. Besides, I remember her.’

  Anna raised her eyebrows in mystification.

  ‘We must say goodbye, Countess,’ Hamilton said. ‘But I hope to see you again. At least once.’

  Anna merely looked at him.

  ‘Come,’ Colonel Berisova said, indicating the doorway.

  Anna stepped inside, her memory now stimulated by the smells and sounds. Even in the middle of the night, she could hear sighs and groans, even the occasional shriek.

  ‘They never cease,’ Colonel Berisova remarked. ‘But one gets used to it. The office is the door on the right – but you no doubt remember that.’

  Anna went into the office. The last time she had been in here she had killed two people.

  Berisova went behind the desk and sat down. ‘You may sit,’ she invited.

  Anna lowered herself into the chair before the desk.

  ‘I do not suppose you remember me,’ the colonel suggested.

  Anna was under no illusions that the apparent pleasantness was meaningless; it cost nothing to be pleasant to people who were absolutely in your power and to be treated entirely as you chose. But she also knew that her chances of survival, at least until she could be extricated, would not be enhanced by continued antagonism on her part. On the other hand, she sensed, and indeed remembered, that these people would treat her best if she met them on their own ground; to cringe, or reveal fear of any sort, would be fatal. So she spoke, for the first time in seven days. ‘I must apologize, Comrade Colonel, but I do not remember ever having seen you before.’

  ‘There is no reason why you should,’ Berisova agreed. ‘I was very junior in 1941, but I did see you – and as I remember, you were very chic. But now of course . . .’

  She got up and came round the desk. Anna braced herself for whatever was coming, but the colonel merely jerked the bandanna from her head, allowing her hair to flood past her shoulders. ‘That is better. Now you look more like the beautiful woman I remember. And I am sure that beneath those rags you are even more beautiful. Sadly, in 1941, Colonel Tsherchenka considered you her private property. I am sure that you remember her, Countess. Dear Ludmilla.’

  ‘I remember her very well,’ Anna conceded.

  ‘Well, you should, of course. Did you not break her neck in the act of escaping, with your American accomplice, Andrews?’

  ‘It seemed a good idea at the time,’ Anna agreed. ‘She was trying to prevent my departure.’

  ‘I was not on duty that day,’ Berisova remarked.

  ‘Which may have been fortunate for you.’

  ‘Or you would have broken my neck as well?’

  ‘If it had been necessary, yes.’

  ‘Then I assume you also remember Olga Morosawa.’

  ‘I remember her.’

  ‘You shot and killed her in Germany in 1945.’

  ‘I did not.’

  The colonel raised her eyebrows. ‘You deny killing her?’

  ‘I have never denied killing anyone, Comrade Colonel. And I would certainly have killed Olga Morosawa, had I been given the opportunity: she tortured me, when I was last here. But an associate of mine beat me to it.’

  Berisova gazed at her. ‘Olga Morosawa was my best friend.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ Anna agreed.

  ‘So, if I now torture you, would you then kill me?’

  ‘If you ever gave me the opportunity, yes.’

  ‘You do not lack courage. But that fits with what I have been told of you. Sadly, I am forbidden to torture you at the moment. But perhaps, when he is finished with you, Commissar Beria will give you back to me. He will see you in the morning. Until then . . .’

  She pressed a button on her desk, and a moment later the door behind Anna opened.

  ‘I want four of you.’

  Anna did not turn her head, but from the sounds of movement behind her she gathered that the colonel was being obeyed.

  ‘Now,’ Berisova said, ‘place this prisoner in Number 47.’

  ‘I need to go to the toilet,’ Anna said.

  ‘Up to your tricks already?’

  ‘I genuinely need to go. It has been several hours. I have also not eaten for that time.’

  ‘There is a bucket in your cell, and you will be fed tomorrow morning . . . Now listen to me very carefully, comrades. When you have conducted the prisoner to her cell, you may remove her handcuffs. Here is the key. However, before you do that, you will draw your pistols and be prepared to use them. And for the remainder of her time with us, whenever it is necessary to open the cell door it must be in the presence of four of you, and you will always have your pistols drawn.’

  ‘Is this woman really that dangerous, Comrade Colonel?’

  ‘This woman,’ Berisova said, ‘is the most dangerous creature in the world.’

  ‘You do,’ said Anna, ‘say the sweetest things.’

  THE PRISONER

  Anna was desperately tired, even more so than she was hungry. She had been travelling all day and half the night, in some discomfort; and if the narrow bunk on which she found herself was equally uncomfortable, she was too exhausted to care. As for what tomorrow would bring, there was no point in concerning herself with that at the moment. The thought that it might be her last day on earth was unacceptable. This was not because she was afraid of death – she had faced it so often in the past – but because in the past she had always managed to survive, by using all of her assets and all of her skills, and by being ready to take advantage of the slightest window of opportunity, the slightest lapse in concentration on the part of her enemies.

  But, for all her refusal to surrender, she had always known deep within herself that, as the Good Book had it, those that live by t
he sword also die by the sword. That her death might, in her present circumstances, be preceded by a prolonged agony was no longer an issue. If it happened, it would be because of her own carelessness. Her hubris. And because of a perverse desire to experience everything that life had to offer before taking leave of it. From her very first assignment for the SD, she had been provided with a cyanide capsule, with the assurance that it would act in ten seconds; but however dire the situation, it had never once occurred to her to use it. Nor, she knew, would she have done so now.

  *

  She woke when her door opened. ‘Breakfast,’ said the guard, who was, as commanded, backed up by three other powerful young women, each equipped with a drawn pistol. In view of what had been let slip on board the boat, Anna felt quite sure that they would not actually kill her; and she equally had no doubt that if she could get hold of just one of their guns, she could do for all of them. But she could see no way further. She knew that every cell and each corridor was overseen by constantly monitored CCTV, and she would be surrounded and overwhelmed long before she could reach the door, while the door itself could only be opened by instructions from the commandant or orders from the commissar.

  So, more patience. Besides, she was so very hungry, and the thick soup and bread were by no means unpalatable, even though she would have preferred coffee rather than unsweetened tea. And after the meal, she would have liked a hot bath; but she knew that was not on. She knew from her previous experience here that there were no baths, only showers; and that these were used as instruments of torture, powerful wafer-thin jets of water being directed at the victim’s naked body. The jets could kill if concentrated on the face for more than a few seconds, and they could ruin the victim for life if inserted into either of the two private orifices of the body.

  She had undergone this treatment, briefly, during her previous incarceration, and that had been June. What it might be like at the beginning of March did not bear contemplation.

  In any event, no sooner had she finished her meal than Berisova arrived.

  ‘Stand up.’

  Anna obeyed, and was immediately surrounded by guards.

  ‘Handcuff her.’

  Her arms were pulled behind her back, and the steel bracelets clipped on to her wrists.

  Satisfied, Berisova tied Anna’s hair up in the bandanna. ‘Come along. Two of you will accompany us.’

  The guards fell into place at her shoulders. They proceeded along the corridors, then the outer door was opened for them and they were in the lobby, being stared at by the curious guards. Berisova indicated the stairs, and they climbed up to the next floor, on which all the doors were closed. Then there was another flight of stairs, to the second floor, where there were only two doors. Berisova knocked on one of these and then opened it. They were in an outer office, containing several men and women. All wore uniform, and all were hard at work typing or on the telephone, or studying papers. But all of them stopped work to look at the colonel and her prisoner.

  ‘For the commissar,’ Berisova announced.

  One of the secretaries got up, went to an inner door, and knocked. ‘Colonel Berisova is here, Comrade Commissar, with a prisoner.’

  ‘Ah, Vera. Come in, Vera.’

  Berisova went into the inner room. ‘Good morning, Commissar Beria! May I present the Countess von Widerstand.’

  *

  Anna was for a moment blinded. In contrast to the gloomy interior of the prison, and even to the lighted but still dull outer office, this large room was illuminated by several windows, through which the winter sunlight streamed. Then she got her eyes into focus and gazed at the big, heavy man standing before her, his huge pale face seeming to glow as the light reflected off his hairless head. He wore a pince-nez, which was the only positive feature between his chin and his forehead; even his eyebrows seemed non-existent, and his eyes themselves were no more than pinpricks in their pale surroundings. Like Berisova, he wore a perfectly cut green uniform, and highly polished brown boots.

  Beria was studying her with equal interest. ‘Countess!’ he said. ‘Countess, what on earth are you wearing?’

  ‘What I was given to wear, Your Excellency.’

  ‘Cretins! Colonel Berisova, I wish a dressmaker here within the hour. And send to GUM for a selection of underwear and clothes, both casual and formal.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Clothes, Vera, clothes. The countess must be properly dressed.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Berisova was in a fog. So was Anna. She could only suppose that this man liked dressing up his victims before destroying them.

  ‘And why is she handcuffed? Get rid of them.’

  ‘Your Excellency! This woman is highly dangerous.’

  ‘This I know. But she is not going to be dangerous to me. Are you, Countess?’

  For one of the very few occasions in her life, Anna was speechless without meaning to be.

  ‘Well, come on,’ said Beria, ‘remove those cuffs.’

  Fingers stroked Anna’s wrists, and she heard the click of the key. She brought her arms round in front to massage her hands and get her circulation going.

  ‘Now leave us,’ Beria commanded.

  ‘But . . . Your Excellency . . .’

  ‘Leave us. And carry out your instructions. Close the door.’

  A last hesitation, then Berisova waved her people from the room and left. The door closed.

  ‘I am surrounded by cretins,’ Beria grumbled, and indicated the chair before his desk. ‘Sit down.’

  Cautiously, Anna obeyed. She was still trying to determine exactly what was going on.

  ‘And take off that terrible kerchief.’

  Anna freed her hair.

  ‘Now, that is better. Your crowning glory, eh? Although I am sure that beneath those rags there are other glories still to be revealed.’ Beria sat down behind the desk. ‘I can see that you are a little confused. Let me clarify the situation. There are two reasons why I know that you are too intelligent to wish to attack me. One is this . . .’ He moved a document on his desk to reveal an automatic pistol. ‘I would not dare to claim that I am as proficient as you are, but I am perfectly capable of shooting straight; and if you attempt to leave that chair until I invite you to do so, I will shoot you, much as I would hate to destroy so much beauty. The other reason is that, while you may consider that to attack me and die from a bullet wound is preferable to suffering hours of torture with execution at the end of it, it is even more preferable to live, without being tortured at all. And I am the only person who is in a position to grant you that preferable ending.’

  Anna could keep quiet no longer; she could not believe what she was hearing, unless it was some ghastly mental torture. ‘You are offering me my life, Your Excellency? After . . .’

  ‘I know. After nearly twelve years of trying to lay my hands on you. At a cost of . . . Do you know, I have quite lost track of how many lives you have cost.’

  ‘So have I,’ Anna admitted.

  ‘You mean you do not carve notches on the butt of your pistol?’ With his left hand he picked up the Walther, which was also lying on his desk. ‘There would scarcely be sufficient room, would there? And this intriguing belt . . .’ He held it to his nose. ‘Do you know, it still carries your scent. You must show me how you wear it.’

  ‘I wear it round my waist, under my clothes, Comrade Commissar.’

  ‘You mean, next to your skin? What a fortunate piece of leather. However, the point is that throughout those twelve years I have been acting under orders. Oh, I wanted you here in my office. Make no mistake about that. But I have always felt that killing you would be a sad waste of some very valuable material.’

  Anna had a sudden surge of mixed emotions as she began to understand what he was driving at.

  ‘With respect, Comrade Commissar,’ she commented, ‘you have tried to have that done often enough to convince me.’

  Beria chuckled. ‘And the fact that all of those men and women failed has even more
convinced me that my original judgement was correct. Tell me what happened three years ago. You know, employing the Mafia, after so many failures on the part of our people, was Premier Stalin’s idea. He felt it could not fail. While our people have always stood out like sore thumbs in the West – you could see us coming a mile off – the Mafia, being an American organization, would simply meld into the background until they were ready to reveal themselves.’

  He paused, and Anna gave a slight shrug. ‘It’s a valid point.’

  ‘And we understood that they were attending to the matter, that it was all settled and was about to be completed . . . and then heard nothing more. Not even from our agent who had organized the matter.’

  ‘May I ask, sir, who this agent was?’

  ‘A man called Botten.’

  ‘I have never heard of him.’

  ‘But how did you cope? I know you shot up a lot of our people in Germany in 1946, but then I understood that you were backed up by both the American and the British Secret Services. Botten told us he had ascertained that you lived alone on your island, with just your aged parents and a couple of black servants. And the Mafia, Botten assured us, were sending twenty men to complete the job.’

  ‘Well, you see,’ Anna explained, ‘they did rather broadcast the fact that they were coming, by sending an advance party that was totally incompetent to reconnoitre the cay.’

  ‘Of whom, I assume, you disposed?’

  ‘Yes, I did. But I also received a great deal of help from the weather. The idiots tried to land on the cay in a hurricane. Maybe they thought this was a good idea because the storm would obliterate the fact that they had ever been there. But unluckily for them, their plan backfired. The storm certainly obliterated their presence on the cay – but by then I had already sunk their boat.’

  ‘You sank a boat carrying twenty men, with that little pistol?’

  ‘Oh, good lord, no, Comrade Commissar. I used a bazooka.’

  Beria looked as if he was about to scratch his head, then changed his mind. ‘You, have a bazooka?’