Death of a Tyrant

by Christopher Nicole

  Not for the first time. For the preceding ten years Charles had dominated Eastern Europe, so feared by his enemies that he had captured cities by walking up to their gates and tapping the wood with his cane, so much a natural genius at the art of warfare that he had repeatedly destroyed armies five and six times the size of his own. At Narva in 1700, with 8,000 men, he had put 40,000 Russians to flight, and at the head of the running Russians had been their Tsar. Outside Poltava, seven years later, the odds had been smaller, 20,000 Swedes against 60,000 Russians, and no sooner had the Swedish assault begun than Peter’s staff had with difficulty restrained their master from again fleeing the field. Had Charles gained another of his habitual victories, Russia would have relapsed back into barbarism, unable to become a threat to the rest of Europe, much less the rest of the world, for another several hundred years.

  But at Poltava, Charles had been wounded, the Swedish onslaught had for the first time in history faltered, Peter had recovered his nerve, and it was the Swedish army that had been destroyed. Charles had escaped the field, and continued his berserking ways for another eleven years. That was neither here nor there. The power of Sweden had been broken — forever, as it turned out — and the power of Russia had been launched, on its way not only to the conquest of half Asia, but into the centre of European affairs, for the next three centuries. And now into the centre of the world.

  But there had been more traumatic events in this neighbourhood since then. “Can we go closer?” he asked.

  “Of course.” Tatiana engaged gear, and the automobile moved down the hillside. To their left now was the village of the cooperative; a single tractor droned in the field, groups of women followed it, sowing the corn.

  “Is there only one tractor?” Morgan asked.

  Tatiana raised her eyebrows. “It is only one cooperative. We do not have tractors to spare. It is only a few thousand acres, you know.” Morgan made no reply, as the car bumped its way over the uneven surface to the foot of the hill. “My father created this,” Tatiana said, dreamily. Morgan turned his head, sharply. “Of course, to persuade the kulaks…you know this term?”

  Morgan was also well read in as much recent Russian history as he had been able to unearth. “It was the word used for wealthy peasants,” he suggested.

  “The kulaks were fat cats who grew rich while those around them grew poor,” Tatiana said vehemently. “As I say, it was necessary to persuade them to hand over their ill-gotten wealth and join the cooperatives. This cost a few lives.”

  “I have heard the figure put as high as ten million,” Morgan murmured.

  Tatiana glanced at him. “Well…their families had to be disposed of as well.”

  “Is that how you look at it?”

  “My father did what was necessary.”

  And was shot for it, Morgan thought. But he didn’t say it. It was certainly not part of his plan to quarrel with this gorgeous creature, whatever her antecedents. It was at least part of her antecedents that had drawn him to this spot.

  The car was stopping before a field of very green grass, in some contrast to the corn that was sprouting all around them. “Don’t tell me this is hallowed ground,” he said.

  “Not in the sense you speak of,” Tatiana said. “But it has been preserved as being historically important. You must know that the Bolugayevskis were the premier princely family in all Russia, short of royalty.”

  “This was your family,” Morgan ventured.

  “Yes,” Tatiana agreed, unselfconsciously. “My grandmother’s brother, and her parents. Well, this was where the family was finally destroyed.”

  “But not entirely. You are here. And you have cousins in America, have you not?”

  “They were destroyed as a princely force,” Tatiana said. She got out of the car, and Morgan followed her to the edge of the grass. “The gates would have been about here. This is where my grandmother was crucified.”

  “You can speak of it, as calmly as that?”

  Tatiana shrugged. “She was an enemy of the State.” She led the way across the grass. “The drive curved, towards the house.” Morgan could see that the grass was discoloured in a vast swathe. “And then, the house.” Here the discoloration was more extreme, in a vast square. “It was a big house,” Tatiana said. “There are no houses like it in Russia any more, except for the museums. The Red forces broke down the front door and took the house by storm.” She walked a few feet further, on to the deep discoloration. “There were steps, of course. Say about here. I believe your father was defending the front doors, when they were forced. So, he would have been standing about here. This is where he would have died.”

  “Do you know what happened to his body?”

  “I think it was left where it lay. When the Red soldiers broke in, they were after the women.” She made a moue. “And destruction, to be sure. They were not interested in dead bodies. When they had had the women, they killed those they did not wish to keep, and took the others to the village. Those included both the princesses. You say you have met the Princess Priscilla.” Morgan nodded. “And she is still beautiful? After living as a sexual slave for a year? That is remarkable. Anyway, after they took the women, they burned the house, with all the bodies still inside. I do not think they moved any of them.”

  “So my father’s bones could be exactly underneath where you are standing.”

  “Perhaps. But it is unlikely. When it was decided to turn Bolugayen into a collective, while the decision was taken then not to sow on the site of the house, the area was still bulldozed and turned over, to a depth of several feet, in order to plant the grass. I imagine what bones are down there are no more than splinters, now. If you dug them up, you would have no means of knowing whether they belonged to your father.” She glanced at him. “Does this distress you?”

  Morgan shook his head. “My father’s bones have long mouldered into dust. They would have done so even had he been buried with full military honours and a huge stone erected over his grave. This grass is as good a monument as any.”

  Tatiana linked her arm through his. “But nonetheless, you are sad. Let us go back to the hotel in Poltava, have a good dinner, get drunk on vodka, and then make wild, passionate love all night. Would you like that?”

  “Yes, I would.” He held her hand. “Do you really love me, Tatiana?”

  A shadow crossed her face. “You are a man with whom it is easy to fall in love.”

  “Well, then… I have really seen all there is to see, have I not? I should be returning to England. Will you come with me?”

  “To England?”

  “I mean, as my wife. I would obtain British nationality for you. You would be the mother of my children.” A woman who could speak of people being ‘disposed of’, as if they were sacks of garbage. But that was her upbringing, he was certain. He would wean her away from such attitudes. “And we would be very happy.”

  The shadow, which had faded, returned. “You make it sound very attractive. But I cannot do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well…my mother, for one thing.”

  “We could take her with us. For Heaven’s sake, she is English, herself.”

  “Mother would never leave Russia. This is her home. As it is my home.” She kissed him. “Do not let us think of the future, tonight, my Andrew. We are going to make love.” She led him back to the waiting car. “And then,” she said, as she started the engine. “We will think of something to do, tomorrow. I know what we shall do. Did you know that there is an atomic research plant, not far from Poltava?” She glanced at him. “You know about this atom.”

  “You mean the Bomb? I know about it. Everyone knows about it. But I did not know you were trying to make one, in Russia.” She giggled as she turned the car to drive back up the hill. “Do you not think we should? If America has the Bomb, should not Russia have it also?”

  “I hadn’t really considered that. Yes, I suppose you’re right. It would be a great temptation to ride roughshod ove
r the rest of the world if you were the only country with such power.”

  “So, you see, we need to make a bomb of our own,” Tatiana said. “Thus there is a great deal of research going on, and as I say, one of these research centres is not far from here. Would you like to visit it?”

  “You mean, we can? In America, and in England, such establishments are top secret.”

  “Oh, this is top secret too. But I have a cousin who works there. He would be able to get us inside for a visit. I know this.” She gave him another glance. “Would you like to do this?”

  “Why…yes. I think it might be interesting.”

  “Ah!” Tatiana commented.

  *

  The nights were so bright, in Moscow, in the spring. Soon it would hardly be dark at all. This made surreptitious movement very difficult, Smith considered.

  He had had to wait until nearly midnight before he had ventured from his hotel, and that was risky. There were not many people about, in Moscow, at midnight; the Muscovites believed in the good life, in so far as they could — if there was not sufficient good food, and if there were no consumer goods available, there were unlimited supplies of vodka, and they did not need state permission to play music and dance. They danced, and drank themselves insensible, every night. But they did these things early. The hotel restaurant was packed every afternoon, from four until about seven. Then everyone went home. Or was carried home. And Moscow settled for the night. Thus people who were abroad a few hours later were necessarily suspicious; there was a large black market in Moscow, as well as considerable organised crime. But Smith was an expert, and he had gained this apartment block without being stopped by a single policeman.

  He opened the door, sidled into the hall, closed the door behind him, waited. These apartment buildings had paper-thin walls, and any movement was likely to disturb a light sleeper. But there was no sound. He climbed the stairs, slowly and carefully; a creaking floorboard could be equally disastrous. But by sticking against the bannister, he made his way up three floors without a sound. Then he could lean against the door as he drew his knuckles across the panel, once, twice, three times.

  One of them, he knew, was always awake, and in the front room; the apartment only had two rooms. Thus within seconds he heard movement, and then the latch was drawn. Smith could see the gleam of the automatic pistol even in the darkness. “I sell typewriters,” he whispered.

  The gun muzzle ceased to be aimed at his chest, and the door swung in. The man stepped aside to allow him to enter, and then closed the door again. In the darkness Smith could not see him very well, but he knew who he was. “We expected you before this,” the man said.

  “Getting about isn’t easy,” Smith said. “When I saw Antonina I gave her a query.”

  “It has been answered.” The man switched on a night light, above the desk, sat down, riffled through some papers. He was a surprisingly young man. This always disturbed Smith, the youth of the people with whom he had to deal. But perhaps only the young were prepared to take such risks. The man selected a sheet of paper. “It reads: ‘Andrew Morgan is journalist. Has links with Bolugayevski family. Visit probably Bolugayevski business.’” The man raised his head. “Is that good for you?”

  “It pays to be careful,” Smith said. “Now, I need to send a message.”

  “Do you realise how dangerous it is, every time we send a message?” the man asked.

  “This is a dangerous business,” Smith said. “And are you not well paid?”

  “If we can ever get to the money,” the man grumbled. “Give me your message.”

  Smith handed him a sheet of paper, and he frowned at it. “They will understand this?”

  “It is in code,” Smith said. “They will decipher it.”

  “Very well. I will bid you goodnight, Comrade.”

  “When will it go?”

  “As soon as we are sure it is safe. Within twenty-four hours.”

  Smith knew he would have to be satisfied with that. “Then I will bid you goodnight.”

  The man nodded in assent. Clearly he wanted to see the back of him. But as Smith turned to the door, the landing outside creaked. He looked back at the man. His face was the picture of dismay, as he drew his revolver. “Kill yourself,” he said.

  Smith stared at him in consternation; he had been in this business for some years, but he had never been faced with such a stark proposition. There was a crash, and the door thudded open, almost ripped from its hinges before the impact of the two burly shoulders hurled against it.

  There was an explosion. Smith had turned to the door, now he looked back at the man, this time in horror. He had placed the muzzle of the revolver in his mouth and squeezed the trigger; his head had disintegrated into blood and brains and shattered bone as he fell from the chair. The inner door opened and a woman stood there. She was younger than her husband, her light brown hair tousled and untidy, her eyes heavy with sleep, but widening in horror at what she saw. She was a pretty woman, with a full, plump figure. But there was no beauty it her face at that moment. Smith turned back again, looked into two gun muzzles.

  *

  Morgan rolled, luxuriously, as he awoke. The woman was still in his arms, as she had been in his arms most of the night, warm and sexual. Then what had awakened him?

  It had been a tap on the door. Now it came again, and this time it awoke Tatiana. “Tell him to go away,” Andrew suggested, looking at his watch. “It is only six.”

  “It may be important.” She switched on the light, rolled out of bed, pulled on her dressing gown. She went to the door, unlocked it. Andrew listened to a mumbled conversation. “It is a telephone call, for me,” Tatiana said. “I will not be long.” There was no telephone in the room.

  Andrew sat up. “Who on earth would be ringing you at this hour?”

  “Probably my mother,” she said, and left the room.

  Andrew scratched his head. If Jennie Ligachevna had started worrying about her daughter’s habits at this odd time…he lay back with a sigh. He did not suppose he had ever spent a happier fortnight. When he remembered with what apprehensions he had begun his project — it had been a great adventure but he had anticipated nothing but obstruction and difficulty, even from Jennie herself, and despite the Princess Priscilla’s letter. Instead he had met with nothing but cooperation and friendship…and love. The most remarkable love he could ever have envisaged. He inhaled her scent as he rolled over, waiting for her return. He heard the door open, and rolled onto his back again. Tatiana closed the door behind herself, went to the wardrobe, and took out her clothes. “Going someplace?” he asked, lazily.

  “We must leave.”

  “At this hour?”

  “Yes.” She was dressing herself rapidly. Andrew frowned. This was quite unlike her. Her day had always begun with a bath and a leisurely cup of tea. “Get dressed,” she said.

  “Surely we have time for a bath?”

  “There is no time,” Tatiana said. “If you do not get dressed, you will regret it.”

  Andrew threw back the covers. “I don’t understand. What’s happened? Was that your mother? Is there something wrong?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Will you please get dressed.” Andrew went to the bathroom, checked as he heard the door open again. He turned, gazed at two men who had suddenly appeared there. He didn’t like the look of them. “I asked you to get dressed,” Tatiana said. “Give him time,” she told the men.

  “There is no time, Comrade Gosykinya,” one of the men replied.

  “He is not armed,” Tatiana said, as the men came into the room.

  “That makes it easier for us,” the first man said, seizing Andrew by the shoulder and half throwing him across the room.

  Andrew, taken entirely by surprise, landed on his hands and knees. His reaction was entirely outrage and anger, that he should have been so treated, and in front of his mistress. He made to get up, fists doubled, and was struck a paralysing blow in the back which stretched him on the flo
or. Only half conscious, he looked at Tatiana’s boots. “I am most terribly sorry about this,” Tatiana said, and kicked him in the ribs.

  Part Two: The Pit

  He that diggeth a pit shall fall into it.

  Ecclesiastes x. 8.

  Chapter Five: The Question

  Andrew Morgan stared at Tatiana in total consternation. “Is this some kind of a joke?” he asked.

  “Get dressed,” Tatiana said again. “Or my men will take you out of here, naked.”

  Andrew licked his lips; he had never seen her looking like this, her face like flint, and her eyes too. She meant what she was saying. He pulled on his clothes, trying to ignore the pain where he had been kicked, watched by the three people. “Am I allowed to ask what this is about?” he ventured.

  “You are being arrested for espionage against the Soviet Union,” Tatiana said.

  “Espionage? What espionage? You have been with me every moment of my time in Russia, just about, Tattie. You know I am guilty of nothing except loving you.” Had he made an impression? Had her face softened at all? Before he could decide that, one of the men stepped forward and hit him in the stomach. Andrew gasped, and fell to his knees. Then the man kicked him, again in the stomach. Andrew struck the floor with a crash, his brain and his nerves paralysed by the sudden tremendous pain. He saw boots beside his head, and tried to tense himself for the next kick, then realised these boots belonged to Tatiana. Did that make any difference, he wondered? She had already kicked him once.

  “You will address me only in reply to a question,” Tatiana explained. “Or my men will beat you again. Now get up.” Slowly, painfully, Andrew pulled himself to his feet, staggering to and fro. But the pain was receding. “To save you a question,” Tatiana said. “I am an officer in the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti. Do you know what that means?”