Death of a Tyrant

by Christopher Nicole

  “I do not know, yet. But I am in command,” Tatiana said. “We are perfectly safe here, because this building is the last place anyone will think of looking for us. As for my being a proscribed traitor, that is also something we shall have to discover.” She smiled at Galina.

  *

  As usual, Polkov was waiting when Beria’s aircraft touched down. It was hardly less cold in Astrakhan than in Moscow, and there had been a recent snowstorm. “I had not expected you at this time, Comrade Commissar,” he admitted.

  “Why not?” Beria asked.

  “Well…is not today Premier Stalin’s birthday?”

  “Indeed it is. I have come to collect his birthday present.”

  The car swung into the dacha’s grounds, stopped before the steps. “The ladies are walking,” Polkov said.

  “Have them brought in,” Beria said.

  He went upstairs, from where he could overlook the gardens and the walks by the shore; the shrubs and trees were covered in the light dusting of snow. And he could make out the two women, wearing fur coats and hats, strolling along one of the paths, two guards walking behind them. Polkov returned to stand beside him. “I have sent for them, Comrade Commissar.”

  Beria nodded, as he watched another guard hurry up to Sonia; the women immediately turned and walked back to the house. “Now listen to me very carefully, Polkov. I am taking Madame Cohen out of here today, back to Moscow. The daughter will remain here. At some time over the next day or so I will telephone you with a message, a single word, Dispose. At that time you will dispose of the daughter. I do not wish her body ever to be found. But until you get my message, she is to be treated with every courtesy, as she is now. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Comrade Commissar.”

  “And should her mother telephone, they are to be allowed to speak.”

  “I understand, Comrade Commissar.”

  Beria looked down at the steps beneath him, where the two women were just mounting. “Now leave me.”

  He went inside, opened a bottle of champagne, and filled three glasses. Then he faced the door as Sonia and Anna came in, pulling off their gloves; they had left their hats and coats downstairs. Over the five years she had spent here with her mother, Anna had filled out and regained much of her strength. Her face remained haggard, but that was because of the treatment she had received, first of all in a Nazi concentration camp, and then in a Russian ‘rehabilitation centre’, places hardly better than the gulags. But it had become a happy face, as Sonia also radiated happiness. Mother and daughter, reunited after a lifetime of separation and enmity. He had brought Anna here as an added safeguard that Sonia would never let him down, and he would use her as that to the end. But he was pleased that they had had these happy four years together. If he was totally amoral, ethically as well as sexually, he enjoyed dropping crumbs to those who hovered about his table. “Comrade Commissar,” Sonia said, and frowned, as he handed her a glass; he was not usually so generous.

  But he was giving a glass to Anna, as well. Sonia had a sudden quite painful stab of indigestion. She had now been in this man’s custody for eleven years, waiting for him to require her to sacrifice her life. But eleven years is a long time. She was in the position of someone told they have six months to live because of an incurable disease, and yet continuing to live, month after month and year after year, until the realisation that one is a condemned woman ceases to have importance — one is no more condemned than any other human being, however apparently healthy. Even so, the realisation that the moment has finally come can be a considerable shock. “What are we celebrating?” Anna asked. “Is Premier Stalin dead?”

  She was a woman who would never be the slightest bit cautious, even when she might be uttering treason. But after four years she no longer feared even Beria. Sonia held her breath as Beria stared at her for several seconds, then he laughed. “Ha ha. Ha ha ha.”

  “Ha ha ha,” the women echoed.

  “We are celebrating…the end of winter,” Beria said. “It will not be long now.” Anna looked at her mother. They had never celebrated the coming of spring before. “I am leaving again this afternoon,” Beria said. “I wish you to accompany me, Sonia.”

  Sonia’s limbs felt weak. But she could control her voice. “Then I need to pack.”

  “No,” he said. “That is not necessary. There will be a change of clothing for you in Moscow.”

  “Moscow?” Anna asked. “You are taking us to Moscow?”

  “I am taking your mother to Moscow,” Beria said. “Just for a day or two. You will remain here.”

  Anna stared at her mother with her mouth open. Was it possible that Sonia had never told her the truth of why they were both alive? “I’m sure you’ll be all right here without me,” Sonia said. “For a day or two.”

  *

  “Is she going to be all right?” Sonia asked, as she and Beria sat together in his private jet to fly west. She would not attempt to bargain for her daughter’s life, but Beria had no doubt that if he did not guarantee Anna’s safety Sonia would reserve her right to act as she thought fit, when she thought fit. She was about the most cold-blooded woman he had ever met, beneath that mask of yielding femininity. Well, in view of the life she had led he supposed that was an inevitable result.

  But he could not help wondering if that other softly yielding female, the Princess Priscilla, was similarly ruthless when the chips were down? Her life had hardly been less demanding. But she too was coming to the end of that life: Kagan would undoubtedly have both her and Tatiana under lock and key by now. “Of course she is going to be all right,” he told Sonia. “I have told Polkov that, on receipt of a code word from me, he is to see her across the border into Afghanistan. She will be supplied with a passport and sufficient money to reach her family in the States.”

  “She has no family in the States.”

  “She is Joseph Cromb’s cousin, and the Princess Priscilla’s stepchild as well as cousin, is she not? They will certainly look after her.”

  Sonia couldn’t argue with that. Priscilla and Joseph had certainly looked after her, when she had fled to them following Trotsky’s murder. “Thank you,” she said. “I am very grateful.”

  “Who knows,” Beria said jocularly. “If all goes well, you may be accompanying her.”

  Sonia’s head turned, sharply. “I do not understand.”

  Beria chuckled. “What, did you suppose I intended to introduce you in Stalin’s company with a bomb concealed beneath your dress? Or a revolver? Or even…” he chuckled again, “an ice-pick? My dear Sonia, it is essential that Josef dies of natural causes. A heart attack. That is all we need. And then you can be on your way back to Astrakhan, to Anna, Afghanistan, and safety.”

  “Do you seriously suppose that the sight of me will give Stalin a heart attack?”

  “The sight of you, appropriately dressed, and at the appropriate moment, will I think prove sufficient to reduce him to the condition I desire.”

  *

  They landed in Moscow at six o’clock. It was already dark, and snowing. Before they landed, Beria had Sonia put on a thick veil. His car was waiting for him and they were whisked through the almost empty streets to Lyubyanka. Here Beria, acknowledging the salutes of his people, took Sonia directly upstairs to his office. By the time they reached there she was breathing hard. It was not merely the fact that she was an old woman and the stairs were steep, he knew; she had nothing but unpleasant memories of this office. Maria was waiting for them, frowning at the veiled woman. “General Kagan has been asking for you all day, Comrade Commissar.”

  “Get hold of him and tell him to come directly to me,” Beria said. “And take this lady to my private apartment. Keep her there, Maria, until I come for her.”

  “I would like to telephone Astrakhan,” Sonia said.

  Beria grinned. “One would suppose you do not trust me, Sonia. But of course you may telephone Astrakhan. Do it from my apartment; Maria will get it for you.” She was behaving e
xactly as he had anticipated; once she had reassured herself as to Anna’s safety she would obey him without question.

  Kagan arrived a few minutes later. “May I ask where you have been, Comrade Commissar?”

  “I went to Astrakhan to collect my birthday present for the Premier,” Beria explained. “Have you arrested Tatiana?”

  “I have not, Comrade Commissar. I have no idea where she is.”

  “That is very serious,” Beria remarked. “I had counted on you, Comrade.”

  “As I had assumed you would deal with the matter yourself, Comrade Commissar,” Kagan said equably.

  “Well, you get out there and find her,” Beria said. “I am going to dress now to attend the Premier’s birthday party. When I return to this office tomorrow morning I expect Captain Gosykinya, and her accomplices, to be downstairs in the cells. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Comrade Commissar. Is it to be a large party? At the Premier’s dacha?”

  “No,” Beria said. “There will just be Comrade Malenkov, Comrade Kruschev, and myself.” He grinned. “And presumably Comrade Istomina, as well as the guards.”

  “Enjoy yourself,” Kagan said, and left.

  *

  Beria hurried to his apartment, where Sonia and Maria were sitting, chatting, like two old friends. Maria had only become his secretary after the end of the Great Patriotic War, and thus could never have seen Sonia in her life — Sonia had been arrested during the War, and secreted away. But the sight of them together… “What are you talking about?” Beria demanded.

  “This and that,” Sonia said equably.

  He glared from one face to the other, but Maria merely looked bewildered. “Leave us, now, Maria Feodorovna,” he said. “And do not mention to anyone that you have met this lady. Do you understand me?”

  “Of course, Comrade Commissar.” Maria was clearly more confused than ever. She had worked with Beria long enough to know that he was a man of the most perverted tastes, but that he should have brought in a woman well over seventy…the stranger was well-educated, well spoken, and very refined, but she could hardly be a very exciting sexual companion, in Maria’s youthful opinion. She closed the door behind her. “She is devoted to you,” Sonia said.

  “I pay her well,” Beria said. “Now listen very carefully to what you have to do.”

  Sonia listened. “Is that all?” she asked.

  “That is all.”

  “And afterwards?”

  “I will return you to Astrakhan, to join Anna, and you will leave Russia together.”

  “With the story of what has happened here?”

  Beria grinned. “No one will ever believe you, my dear Sonia. And if they do ever decide to do so, by that time I shall be premier, so it will not matter. Have you spoken with Anna?”

  She nodded. “Very good. Prepare yourself as I have instructed. You will find all the necessary make-up in the bathroom. I will be back as soon as I have dressed.”

  He watched her go into the bathroom, then he returned to his office, picked up the phone, dialled his private number in Astrakhan. “Polkov.”

  “Dispose,” Beria said.

  *

  It was snowing as Beria’s limousine reached the gates of the Premier’s dacha, where guards peered at him, seated in the back, and then the veiled woman at his side. “My birthday present, to the Premier,” Beria said.

  The guard grinned. Beneath the veil, there were no means of telling how old, or how young, Sonia might be; she had always kept her figure slim. The gates were opened, and they drove in. The two other limousines were already there. “The lady will remain here until she is summoned,” Beria told his driver. “You are forbidden to speak with her.”

  “I understand Comrade Commissar.”

  Beria squeezed Sonia’s gloved hand, and to his surprise, she squeezed back. But she was trembling. Then he went into the house.

  *

  Had it been a game, in which he was the referee, Beria did not think it could have gone better. As had to be expected, Stalin wanted to know the situation with Tatiana and the Princess, which meant that Malenkov and Kruschev had to be taken into their confidence, to Malenkov’s alarm, certainly. But Beria was able to reassure them that all was in hand, and that the criminals would be in custody by morning. Whatever blame had to be apportioned he laid squarely on Kagan’s incompetence. Then, again as he had anticipated, the four of them drank bottle after bottle of wine as they ate, while swapping stories of the old days, as Stalin liked to do. Equally as he had anticipated, Stalin had clearly not fully recovered from his last attack; his eyes were bloodshot before the evening began, and his movements clumsy, his breathing stertorous.

  The only one of them who was not his usual cheery self was Nikita Kruschev, who drank less than usual, and spent a good deal of his time staring from face to face. At his face in particular, Beria realised. But Kruschev, in his opinion, was a nonentity. He found an opportunity to take Istomina aside. “Did the Premier see a doctor, as I wished?”

  “He would not do so.”

  “And now he is drinking too heavily.”

  “Well, Comrade Commissar, if you think that, why do you not tell him to stop.”

  “Have you no concern for him?”

  “I have every concern for him, Comrade. But I know better than to attempt to stop him enjoying himself.”

  Perhaps there would be no need for Sonia at all. Beria rejoined the party. “Josef Vissarionovich,” he said. “It is late, you are not well, and you are drunk. It is time for you to go to bed.”

  “What?” Stalin shouted. “Me, drunk? Me, unwell?” Malenkov and Kruschev gazed at the throbbing purple veins in dismay. “You…” Stalin pointed. “You concern yourself with matters that are not your province, Lavrenty Pavlovich. Ha ha. You…” he sat down very suddenly, almost missing the settee, leaning back, head lolling.

  “He has passed out,” Malenkov said.

  “He has had a stroke, you mean,” Beria said. “He had one only yesterday. I begged him to see a doctor, but he would not. Now…”

  Istomina pushed her way past them. “He has had too much to drink,” she said. “That is all. Help me take him to bed, comrades.” The four of them carried the inert dictator into his bedroom, laid him on the bed.

  “We should send for the doctor,” Beria reiterated.

  “That will not be necessary, unless Comrade Stalin wishes it,” Istomina said. “Do not fret, Comrade, soon he will wake up and call for a cup of tea. Then he will sleep peacefully.”

  “Well,” Kruschev said. “Then we had best leave him.”

  Beria followed them into the night, bade them goodnight, watched their limousines drive away. Then he went to his own car. “It is time.”

  Sonia got out. Beria led her back into the dacha, where the guards came to attention. “For the Premier,” Beria said.

  The guards allowed Sonia through. “Should they not have searched me?” she whispered.

  “They should,” Beria agreed. “They will undoubtedly be punished. But Istomina will certainly search you.’”

  “What’s this?” Istomina emerged from the kitchen. “I thought you had gone home, Comrade Commissar.”

  “I could not mention it in front of the others,” Beria explained. “But Josef Vissarionovich expressly requested a woman tonight.” Istomina gazed at him in astonishment. She knew, probably better than anyone, just how incapable her master was of having sex. Beria grinned. “He just wishes to look, and touch. Do not worry, she understands this.”

  “The Premier is asleep, as you know, Comrade Commissar.”

  “But he will wake up, as you yourself have said,” Beria pointed out. “I would like his present to be waiting for him when he does. If he no longer wishes her, he has merely to send her away.”

  Istomina hesitated, then shrugged. “I must search her.”

  “Do so.”

  Istomina stepped up to Sonia, ran her hands up and down her body. “Scrawny,” she commented. “Raise
the dress.”

  Sonia glanced at Beria, who nodded. She lifted her dress and allowed Istomina to check between her legs. Obviously Istomina would realise that she was not a young woman, but Sonia was amazingly well preserved. When Istomina made to lift the veil, Beria checked her. “The lady’s identity is to be known only to the Premier and myself,” he said.

  Istomina raised her eyebrows, but shrugged. “Well, sit down, comrade,” she suggested. “Make yourself comfortable. We will know when he wakes up, because he will ring his bell.”

  “Then I will bid you goodnight, again,” Beria said. “Make him happy, Comrade,” he told Sonia.

  *

  The door closed behind him. “Would you like a cup of tea?” Istomina asked. Sonia shook her head. “Can you not speak?” Again Sonia shook her head.

  Istomina snorted, and went into the kitchen. She made herself a cup of tea. Sonia sat absolutely still. The heavy make-up was beginning to itch. But she dared not scratch, and now her heart, which had been pounding wildly when she had entered the dacha, was slowing. This was far better, far simpler, than she had ever expected. And if Beria’s plan did not work, and Stalin merely awoke and savaged her, and then, having recognised her, handed her over to his guards, well, what had she lost? What a life she had led, beginning with her arrest in St Petersburg in 1893, through her exile to Siberia, her escape, with Lenin and Krupskaya and Patricia and Joseph Fine — poor Joseph had been the only one of them not to make it; then, she and Priscilla smiling at each other as they had prostituted themselves to live until they could regain Bolugayen. Prince Alexei, lifting her emaciated, tortured body to bed, and then wooing her. The happy years! The catastrophe of Stolypin’s murder. The War and her rearrest by the Okrana. Rasputin, who had used her as a servant. The Tsarina and the Grand Duchesses, who had used her as a friend. Trotsky! Always Trotsky. And now the man who had ordered Trotsky’s death. No, she thought, if Beria’s plan does not work, I will strangle Stalin with my bare hands and die happy.

  She was alerted by a snore. Istomina had finished her tea and had nodded off — as Beria had said she would. It was time. Sonia got up, tiptoed to the inner door, her boots soft on the carpet. She pushed it in, closed it behind her, stood above the bed. A light burned on the far side of the room, and Stalin slept half on his back, mouth open. He was not a pretty sight, but his breathing was shallow and quick. Sonia took off her veil, and sat beside him. Gently she shook his shoulder. “Josef,” she said. “It is I.”