Death of a Tyrant

by Christopher Nicole

  “Same difference.”

  “Our information is that Morgan was a totally innocent bystander who went to Russia to research a book and asked the Princess for letters of introduction.”

  “He asked an old-style Tsarist aristocrat, as she claims to be, for letters of introduction to Communists? And the moment he gets to Russia he sets up house with the Princess’s Red cousin, Tatiana Gosykinya. Now there is a toughie.”

  “Mr Eldridge, Morgan was arrested by the KGB and savagely tortured, by this same Tatiana Gosykinya. So was the Princess Bolugayevska.”

  “You believe that? You were there?”

  Halstead frowned. Atya had been there. Or so she claimed. “They were heard screaming,” he said, half to himself.

  “Big deal. If I started hollering now, don’t you think your secretary would think you guys were knocking me about?”

  “So, Mr Eldridge, your theory is that the Princess Bolugayevska is, and has been for some time, a Red agent, that she has betrayed atomic secrets, that she sacrificed her husband and her son to escape America when she felt she was about to be found out, and that she is now living on caviar and champagne somewhere inside Russia. Am I right so far?”

  “You got it.”

  “What possible connection can she have had with any atomic secrets?”

  Eldridge gave a thin smile. “We’re hoping she’s gonna tell us that, when we get her back.”

  “And that’s what you want us to do?”

  “Hell, no, this is our baby. All we want you guys to do is pinpoint her for us. We’ll do the rest.”

  Halstead rubbed his nose. “You don’t think it might be a good idea just to let things lie? She can’t harm you any more, now that she’s in Russia, even if she is a spy.”

  “We reckon she can put the finger on every Red agent in the States,” Eldridge said. “According to the lists McCarthy has given us, most of the people who attended her soirees in Boston were Reds. Or at least Pinks. Come along, guys, all we’re looking for is a little cooperation.”

  “Mr Halstead will give you all the cooperation you require, Mr Eldridge,” Lawrence promised.

  “Right. Well, we look forward to hearing from you, some time soon.” He shook hands, did not appear to notice Halstead’s slight hesitation.

  Halstead waited until the door had closed, then he remarked, “That man is as mad as a March Hare.”

  “I agree that he is drawing a very long bow.” Lawrence sat down again. “The Americans are going through one of their periods of hysteria. I’m afraid this happens from time to time. Down to ten years ago it didn’t matter all that much, although their hysterics in 1929 wrecked the world economy. But then they were playing no political part of any significance. Now they are the most powerful nation the world has ever seen, well, us lesser mortals need to go along with their moods. The fact is, James, while I do not know this chap McCarthy, and have no idea whether he is a genuine investigatory politician or a publicity-seeking demagogue, there have been some disquieting aspects of American government over the past few years. I’m not talking about the atomic secrets right now. But Roosevelt certainly felt that he was the only Western statesman who could handle Stalin and the Reds. To do this, he needed around him men who knew Stalin and the Reds, spoke their language, literally and metaphorically. A lot of these people obtained posts in the State Department, or worked for them at some time or other. Joseph Cromb is a case in point. Some of them rose quite high. I am not saying that all of these people were Communist sympathisers. But it seems certain that some of them were. Now, we became aware of these goings-on as early as anyone, and we even tried to warn Roosevelt of the possible risks. He wouldn’t be warned. Truman of course has no illusions about the Reds, so I suppose it was inevitable that some kind of backlash had to follow. The point I’m making is that while there seems to be one hell of a lot of smoke, there could actually be a little fire down below. I’m sure you’ll agree that the possibility of some high-ranking American official with access to God knows what secrets being a card-carrying Communist is just too horrifying to contemplate. And now we’re coming up to a moment of crunch. I told you the Yanks are developing something really big, based on the hydrogen atom, and we are told that one bomb made on this system will deliver a payload a hundred times more devastating than the atomic bomb dropped on Hiroshima. That one atom bomb laid a big city flat, and is supposed to have killed more than fifty thousand people outright, with God alone knows how many dead since from radiation sickness. Multiply that by a hundred and see if you can sleep nights. You can understand that the idea of the Reds getting hold of that formula is causing a few ulcers. If the Princess Bolugayevska is the mastermind behind the Red system in the States, then you can understand that the State Department would like to talk with her, desperately.”

  “And if I told you that I am perfectly sure the Princess is entirely innocent of any crime other than hating the Reds more than your friend McCarthy?”

  “That would be a great pity. It does not alter what we are being asked to do by our allies.”

  Halstead put his hand up to his left lapel, as if he would have plucked out his buttonhole and thrown it away, realised he wasn’t wearing one, and left the office.

  *

  “Jimmy!” Atya positively squealed, and then hurled herself across the room at her lover. “I did not expect you back. Not so soon, anyway. Is it not terribly dangerous?”

  Halstead kissed her several times. “Not more so than usual.”

  “But, with your people arrested…”

  “More than a year ago. The fuss has died down. Are you not pleased to see me?”

  “Oh, Jimmy…” she squirmed against him. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

  “Presents.” He indicated the box on the table.

  Atya tore it open, pulled out the silk stockings. She could only wear them when off duty, or questions would be asked, but she still loved to feel the silk against her skin. “Oh, Jimmy!”

  “I can’t stay very long,” Halstead said, “I need information.”

  “Information. Always information. Sometimes I think you come to me only for information.”

  “Strip off and I’ll prove you wrong,” Halstead said. When she was satisfied, he lay on his back and smoked a cigarette. “Tell me about the Princess Bolugayevska,” he said.

  Atya also smoked. “What about her?”

  “You said she had been placed in Gulag Number One. That you were with Captain Gosykinya when she was transferred there from the Lyubyanka.”

  “I went with her. And the man, Morgan. We took him to Gulag Number Seventeen.”

  “That was last year. Is the Princess still there?”

  “People do not leave Gulag Number One, Johnny. They also do not stay there very long, above the ground. I would suppose the Princess is dead by now.”

  “Can you find out for me?”

  Atya rose on her elbow. “Why is this woman so important?”

  “Just take my word for it that she is. There must be lists about, in the Lyubyanka, as to who is where, who is dead, who is still alive.”

  “It would be very dangerous for me to attempt to see any of the lists. I am a gaoler, not a clerk. My business is in the cells, not the offices and filing cabinets. Anyway, it would do no good. The Princess was top secret. Her identity is known to very few people. She is, or was, Prisoner Number Seven Hundred and Six. Nothing more. I should not think she is on any list.”

  “You are telling me she is only the seven hundred and sixth prisoner to be sent to Gulag Number One?”

  Atya grinned. “Of course not. She is Special Prisoner Number Seven Hundred and Six. Those are the ones for whom there can be no identity. They have been condemned to death, but the State has decided to keep them alive for the time being, just in case they may be useful.”

  Halstead stroked his chin, thoughtfully. “I still need to find out if she is alive, and if she is still in Gulag Number One.”

  “Men,” A
tya grumbled.

  *

  Lawrence slid the sheet of paper across his desk, and Eldridge picked it up. He had waited a year for this report, and now he was suspicious. “You trust this guy, Halstead?” he asked.

  “Halstead is just about our most reliable source of news inside Russia,” Lawrence said.

  “And he says the Princess Bolugayevska is still inside this Gulag Number One. I find that hard to credit.”

  “If she were, as you suspect, a Russian agent, I would agree with you. Although even Russian agents fall out with their masters, from time to time. However, if she were not a Russian agent, but someone suspected by them of being a Western agent, or merely a maverick aristocrat who has spent her life causing trouble for the Soviets, it entirely makes sense that she should be locked up for life in the most unpleasant circumstances. I feel very sorry for her.”

  “You do, huh? Well, how about another scenario: that she is just what we think she is, and that she has been honourably retired by the Soviets?”

  “Into a gulag?” Lawrence asked incredulously. “That has to be absurd.”

  “You reckon? Do you, does anyone, know what really goes on in those so-called prisons? There aren’t too many people about who have been in, and come out.”

  “Joseph Cromb did it.”

  “Joseph Cromb says he did it. But even if they are prisons, where safer could a retired agent be? I can see her now, in some private apartment, living on that champagne and caviar you were talking about…but she’s not going to get away with it. No, sir.”

  Lawrence’s stare was even more incredulous. “You’re going to try to get her out? With respect, Mr Eldridge, that has got to be madness.”

  “So it’ll be tough. It can be done.”

  Lawrence laid his hands flat on his desk. “I will have nothing to do with it. And neither will any of my people. Especially Halstead.”

  Eldridge grinned. “Like I told you, Mr Lawrence, this is our pigeon. I’ll see you around.”

  *

  Lavrenty Beria hummed as his aircraft settled onto the runway outside Astrakhan. He always enjoyed visiting his dacha. Quite apart from being so far removed from the constant intrigue of Moscow, the constant stress of having to cope with Stalin’s progressive paranoia, he always enjoyed being with Sonia, and now, with her daughter; the pair of them were so obviously happy together. It warmed the heart. Even if he knew they both hated him. But they were the symbols of what he would one day achieve. Would he? Had he waited so long that his entire plan had dwindled to the status of a dream? He kept telling himself, certainly not. But his plan was so immense it could not be risked by any premature action. He intended to inherit the mastership of Russia, which, now that it too possessed the Atom Bomb, was one of the two most powerful nations on earth. He was well aware that the Americans were experimenting with something new, or so his agents told him, but he took that with a pinch of salt. Anyway, if the Americans did build a more destructive version of the Bomb, his people would simply have to get hold of that secret as well.

  It was Russia he wanted. And he had to have it, legitimately, certainly in the eyes of his fellow members of the inner circle. There could be no doubts. All of those men, who like himself were responsible for thousands of deaths, baulked at the idea of murder amongst themselves. Without that mutual trust they could never function. Stalin himself could never have functioned had not Lenin died, virtually before the eyes of the world, as a result of a series of strokes. And Stalin himself had never dared murder his arch-enemy Trotsky for some fifteen years after he had been expelled from Russia. Thus the pattern had been set. But Beria had never envisaged that it could go on this long. Lenin had been only fifty-four when he died. Stalin was now past seventy! It was incredible that a man who had lived such a life, suffered so much stress, was overweight, ate and drank more than was good for him, and had a sexual problem, could have survived so long. Beria still believed that the introduction of a spectre from his past — or even two as he now had two available — might induce the fatal heart attack he so desperately sought. The question was, when. To attempt it and not induce a heart attack could be catastrophic. When!

  *

  Polkov was agitated. “There is a message for you, Comrade Commissar. To call Captain Gosykinya the moment you arrive.” Beria frowned at him. The little witch was presuming, commanding him to call her. She could have contacted him on the plane by radio. But had she done that, their conversation could have been overheard. He tapped his chin as they drove into the courtyard before the dacha.

  “Lavrenty Pavlovich!” Sonia’s expression belied the apparent warmth of her greeting. Every time he came here she had to expect it to be the moment she both anticipated and dreaded.

  “Sonia!” Beria embraced her, regarded Anna, who gave a little bob. She had filled out very well, but her hair was dead white and the years of suffering, firstly at the hands of the Germans and then the Soviets, remained etched on her face. Beria presumed Sonia had confided in her the truth of their seclusion. But if that were so, then she would at least feel secure in her future, as he had promised Sonia her daughter would survive, and be allowed to leave Russia, provided she fulfilled her part of the bargain. “It is good to see you both looking so well,” he said. “Now I must make a call.”

  He went into his office and used his private line. “I understand Captain Gosykinya wishes to speak with me, Maria,” he told his secretary.

  “She is waiting now, Comrade Commissar.”

  “Well?” Beria demanded as Tatiana came on the line. Tatiana’s voice was strained. “Comrade Commissar…there has been an assault on Gulag Number One.”

  “What? What did you say?” Beria could not believe his ears. No one had ever attacked a gulag. No one outside the KGB and the prison guards even knew where they were. “Are you mad?”

  “I have received a call, from the Commandant, Comrade Karpova. She states that an assault force of masked men attempted to force the gates this morning.”

  “Masked men? That is ridiculous. From where?”

  “She does not know. They must have come across the Afghan border.”

  “You are telling me, Tatiana Andreievna, that one of our prisons has been attacked by Afghans?”

  “No, Comrade Commissar. These were not Afghans. They were Caucasians.”

  “From where?”

  “Comrade Karpova does not know. They carried no identification. But she is sure they were westerners.”

  “You keep using the past tense.”

  “They are all dead, Comrade Commissar.”

  There was a relief. “Did any succeed in entering the prison?”

  “Yes, Comrade Commissar. But they were all shot down before they could reach their objective.”

  “Ah! Their objective. What was that?”

  “Comrade Karpova thinks they were seeking the Princess; several of them were carrying photographs of her. She only knows her as Number Seven Hundred and Six, but she knows she is very important. That is why she called me.”

  Beria did some very rapid thinking. “Who else knows about this?”

  “Only the people at the gulag.”

  “It must be hushed up. Tell Karpova to have the bodies buried and forgotten. You are sure none of them survived long enough to be interrogated?”

  “Comrade Karpova says they all died instantly.”

  “Very good. Carry out my instructions.”

  “And the Princess?”

  “What about the Princess?”

  “I merely wondered, Comrade Commissar, if you wished her disposed of. After all, if some Western group can be so concerned as to wish to take her out of a gulag…out of Gulag Number One…”

  “They have to be demented,” Beria said.

  “Yes. But that means someone, somewhere, knows where she is.”

  “If they were after the Princess, Tatiana Andreievna, I think you need to think very carefully about that. Because only you and I know where she is, am I right?”


  “Well…are you accusing me of treason, Comrade Commissar?”

  Beria chuckled over the phone. “Of course I am not, Tatiana. Of all the people in my employ, I trust you the most. I do not believe they were after the Princess. But if they were, well, perhaps they will try again. And the next time, perhaps Comrade Karpova will remember to take one of them alive, so that we may learn some more about them. Good day to you, Tatiana.”

  *

  Tatiana slowly replaced the phone. Maria, a brilliant blonde, who, apart from her buck teeth, was a handsome woman, hovered anxiously. “There is nothing wrong?”

  “Nothing is ever wrong, Maria Feodorovna,” Tatiana said. “Some days are just more interesting than others.” Beria had not made the point, or had forgotten, that there was a third party privy to their secret. She had never supposed that Atya would ever dare betray them. Yet Atya was a woman of secrets. That boyfriend of hers was a secret. Who would ever have supposed that Atya would possess a boyfriend. Which was no doubt why she had kept him a secret. But her investigations had indicated that he had been nothing more than what he claimed, a low-grade civil servant to do with the railways, by name of Romanowski. In any event, the romance appeared to be over; he had not been to see Atya, to her knowledge, for more than a year.

  Anyway, Atya, who was not very bright, spoke no language but Russian, and was a devoted Communist, could not possibly have any contacts with the outside world powerful enough to launch an attempt at rescuing the Princess Bolugayevska. Who on earth would want to do that anyway? Priscilla’s family was shattered, she had few real friends outside the family…

  As Beria had said, perhaps whoever it was would try again. And this time…she picked up the phone again, and called for the private line to Gulag Number One.

  *

  Lawrence had never been so angry in his life. “Do you realise just what you were risking?” he demanded.

  Even Eldridge managed to look embarrassed. “Sure. And we’ve lost eight of our best people.”

  “And my people? When your agents are made to talk…”

  “Look,” Eldridge said. “None of my agents had ever heard your name or Halstead’s, or had the slightest idea where we obtained our information from. They were merely told to go in and get the dame. They failed. We failed. It has nothing to do with you.”