by Glenn Meade
The president called his successor by his nickname, the one that had stuck with him since West Point as a young cadet. Eisenhower ran a hand over his almost bald head. His shoulders tensed as he sat forward and looked out at the White House gardens.
“You mean as a military adversary?”
Truman shook his head. “I meant as a man.”
Eisenhower shrugged and laughed bitterly. “I don’t think you need to ask me that question. I’m on the record in that regard. The man’s a despot and a dictator. Shrewd and cunning as they come. You could say he’s the cause of all our present problems, or certainly most of them. I wouldn’t trust the man an inch.”
Truman leaned forward, his voice firm. “Heck, Ike, that’s my point. He is the whole darned problem. Forget about the Chinese. We don’t have to worry about them for at least another ten years down the road. But the way the Russians are moving so fast with their nuclear research they’re going to be way ahead of us militarily. And you know as well as I do they’ve got some pretty good technical minds working for them—the top ex-Nazi scientists. We’ve exploded a hydrogen device, but they’re working on the actual bomb, for heaven’s sakes. And they’ll make it, Ike, you mark my words, and sooner than we think. And when that happens, old Joe Stalin knows he can do pretty much as he likes.”
“What do our intelligence people say?”
“About the Russian hydrogen program? Six months. Maybe sooner. But six months at the outside. The word is, Stalin’s authorized unlimited funds. And our latest intelligence reports say they’ve built a test site at a place near Omsk, in Siberia.”
Eisenhower frowned. The sun was still warm on his face as he glanced toward the Washington Monument half a mile away. He looked back as Truman put down his cigar and spoke again.
“Ike, this is the first real opportunity we’ve had to talk in private, and no doubt the CIA will be briefing you in the coming weeks, but there’s something else you ought to know. Something pretty disturbing.”
Eisenhower studied the small, dapper-dressed man. “You mean about the Russian bomb program?”
Truman shook his head, and his face appeared suddenly grim. “No. What I’m talking about is a report. A highly classified report. It was sent to me by the special Soviet Department we have over near the Potomac. I want you to read it. The source is a highly placed contact who has links to the Kremlin. And to tell you the truth, the report has me scared. More scared than I’ve been in a long time. And you’re looking at a man who’s come through two world wars, like yourself. But this—” Truman broke off and shook his head. “Heck, to be honest, this worries me even more than the Germans or the Japs did.”
There was a look of surprise on Eisenhower’s face. “You mean the source of the report is a Russian?”
“An émigré Russian, to be precise.”
“Who?”
“Ike, even I can’t tell you that. That’s a matter for the CIA. But you’ll know the first day you’re sitting in the Oval Office.”
“Then why let me read this report now?”
Truman took a deep breath, then stood up slowly. “Because, Ike, I’d like you to be prepared before you come into office. What you’re going to be privy to doesn’t make for pleasant reading. There are some pretty disturbing things in there, like I said, that scare the pants off me. And whether you like it or not, the contents of the report are going to determine not only your presidency but a lot else besides. Certainly the future course of this country, maybe even the future course of the entire darned world.”
Eisenhower frowned. “It’s that serious?”
“Ike, believe me, it’s that serious.”
• • •
The two men sat in the silence of the Oval Office, Eisenhower reading from the manila-colored file, the cover and each page marked in red lettering: FOR PRESIDENT’S EYES ONLY.
Truman sat opposite, not in the president’s chair, but on the small floral couch by the window that faced the Washington Monument. His hands were resting on his cane as he looked over at Eisenhower’s rubbery face. It was grave and the generous wide lips were pursed.
Finally, Eisenhower placed the report gently on the coffee table. He stood and crossed restlessly to the window, hands behind his back. In another five weeks he would inhabit the president’s chair, but suddenly the prospect seemed to hold less appeal for him. He put a hand to his forehead and massaged his temples. Truman’s voice brought him back.
“Well, what do you think?”
Eisenhower turned. Truman stared at him, his glasses glinting in the strong light from the window.
For a long time Eisenhower said nothing, his face drawn. Then he shook his head in a kind of despair. “Harry, I don’t know what to think.” He paused. “You trust the source of the report?”
Truman nodded firmly. “I do. No question. And I’ve had some independent experts brought in on this. Non-CIA and all top-class people in their field. I wanted them to verify everything you just read. They all agreed with the facts.”
Eisenhower took a deep breath. “Then with respect, sir, the day I become president I’m pretty much walking into a minefield.”
“I guess you are, Ike,” Truman replied matter-of-factly. “And heck, I’m not being flippant. Just scared. Darned scared.”
Truman stood and went over to the window. There were dark rings under his eyes and his soft face looked troubled in the harsh light, as if the strain of eight years in office was finally taking its toll. Suddenly Harry Truman looked very old and very tired.
“To tell the truth, maybe even more scared than I was when I made the decision to drop the bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. This has even wider implications. Greater dangers.”
When he saw Eisenhower stare back at him, Truman nodded gravely over toward the desk.
“I really mean it, Ike. I’m glad it’s going to be a former five-star general sitting in that president’s chair and not me. Florida’s going to be hot enough. Who the heck needs Washington?”
FRANCE
While the two men talked in the Oval Office, four thousand miles away in Paris another man lay in the darkened bedroom of a hotel on the Boulevard St.-Germain.
Rain drummed against the windows, a downpour falling beyond the drawn curtains.
The telephone rang beside the bed. He picked it up. When he spoke he recognized the voice that answered.
“It’s Konstantine. It happens Monday in Berlin. Everything’s arranged. I want no mistakes.”
“There won’t be.” There was a pause, and then the man heard the bitterness in the caller’s voice.
“Send him to hell, Alex. Send the butcher to hell.”
4
* * *
SOVIET-FINNISH BORDER
OCTOBER 23
Just after midnight the snow had stopped, and she lay in the cottony silence of the woods, listening to her heart beating in her ears like the flutter of wild wings.
She was cold. Her clothes were soaked through and her hair was damp and she was aware of the icy sweat on her face. She was more tired than she had ever been in her life, and suddenly she wanted it to be over.
For the past hour now she had watched the sentry hut beside the narrow metal bridge that ran across the frozen river. Every now and then she rubbed her limbs, trying to get warm, but it was no use, she was chilled to her bones, and she longed for warmth and for a final end to the exhaustion. Her uniform coat was covered in frost and snow, and as she waited in the narrow gully behind the bank of fir trees she tried not to think of the past, only the future that lay beyond the narrow metal bridge.
She could see the two guards on the Russian side, standing by the small wooden sentry hut, their breaths fogging in the freezing air as they paced up and down. One of them had a rifle slung over his shoulder, the other a machine pistol draped across his chest. The two men were talking, but she couldn’t hear their words, only a soft babble of voices.
There was a wooden guardhouse off to the left, forty yards away
, a bank of fir trees beside it, the branches sugared with snow. A light was on inside, a plume of wood smoke curling into the freezing air. She knew that was where the other guards would be resting off duty, but for more than half an hour now no one had moved in or out of the warmth of the guardhouse, only shadows flitting in and out of the yellow light behind the frosted glass. On the metal bridge, electric light blazed from arc lamps in the trees overhead, and the red-and-white barrier poles were down at both ends.
She thought she could see the lights of Finland through the trees but she wasn’t sure, for there was a flood of light on the Finnish side of the border, and more guards, but this time in gray overcoats and uniforms.
She saw a sudden movement and her eyes went back to the Russian side. The guard with the rifle stepped into the tiny sentry hut while the other moved into the trees, unbuttoning his fly to relieve himself.
Her body shivered now, as she realized what she had to do, knowing that if she didn’t move soon she would freeze to death, the icy cold gnawing deep. She rolled over in the snow and her gloved hand searched in the leather holster, and she found the cold butt of the Nagant revolver.
She rolled back slowly and looked over at the guard urinating. She knew this was her moment, and she took a deep breath. She stood, and her legs trembled with fear. As she came out from behind the cover of the trees, she slipped the weapon into the pocket of her overcoat.
She was down at the sentry hut before she knew it, and she saw the guard with the machine pistol button his trousers and turn abruptly. He stared at her as if she were a ghost.
What he saw was a young woman coming toward him. Her captain’s overcoat with green epaulettes and her officer’s winter hat looked a size too big, her clothes covered in a rime of frost and snow. Her dark eyes were sunk in their sockets, and her lips were cracked from the cold.
For a moment he seemed unsure of himself, as if sensing something was wrong, and then he said, “I’m sorry, Captain, but this is a restricted area. Your papers, comrade.”
As the guard unslung his machine gun, he stared suspiciously at the young woman’s face, but he didn’t see the Nagant revolver and that was his mistake.
It exploded twice, hitting him in the chest, sending him flying backward. The air came alive with the noise, and birds shrieked as they flew from the forest branches. Moments later the second guard came running out of the sentry hut.
The woman fired, hitting him in the shoulder, spinning him around, and then she started to run toward the bridge.
There was mayhem behind her on the Russian side, sirens going off and voices raised, as the soldiers came rushing out of the guardhouse. She was barely aware of a voice behind her screaming for her to stop as she ran toward the Finnish barrier fifty yards away, dropping the revolver as she ran, her breath rising in panting bursts, her lungs on fire.
Up ahead, Finnish guards in gray uniforms appeared out of nowhere, lifting their rifles, one of them pointing over her shoulder, screaming something at her.
She didn’t see the Russian guard thirty yards behind her take aim, but she heard the crack of a weapon and saw the frosty cloud explode in the snow off to her right before the bullet ricocheted off the metal bridge.
And then another rifle cracked and she was suddenly punched forward, losing her balance, a terrible pain blossoming in her side, but she kept running, weaving across the bridge.
As she collapsed in front of the Finnish barrier she cried out in agony. Strong hands suddenly grasped her and pulled her aside.
A young officer, his face pale, barked orders at his men, but she didn’t understand the words. Other men fumbled at her bloodied clothes and carried her toward the guardhouse.
There were sirens going off now, but she was aware only of the flood of pain in her side and a terrible feeling of tiredness, as if a dam had burst inside her head and all the pent-up fear and exhaustion had come spilling out. She was crying now, and then everything seemed to go at once, vision fading, sounds muted.
The young officer was looking down at her face, and she heard the urgency in his voice as he screamed at one of his men to fetch a doctor.
She closed her eyes.
All she remembered after that was darkness.
Sweet, surrendering, painless darkness.
5
* * *
HELSINKI
OCTOBER 25
A man with gray cropped hair sat beside Anna Khorev’s bed.
She looked at him. The rugged face that stared back at her was pitted with fleshy skin and broken veins, and his mouth looked set in a grim impression of aggression. It was the face of a man who had seen a lot of unpleasant things in life, cautious and wary and full of secrets, but the light gray eyes were not without feeling and she guessed they missed nothing.
One of the Finnish intelligence officers had told her the American was coming and that he wanted to talk with her. The Finns had questioned her, going over and over her story, but she hadn’t told them everything. Not because she hadn’t wanted to but because the memories seemed too painful just then, and the anesthetic had made her feel sensitive. And besides, she had the feeling they were only going through the motions of something that really wasn’t their concern.
But the man seated beside her bed seemed different. She could tell that simple answers were not going to satisfy him.
He looked to be in his early forties, and as he sat back in the chair his big hands rested on his knees. His Russian was fluent and his voice soft as he smiled over at her. “My name is Jake Massey. They tell me you’re going to make a full recovery.”
When she didn’t reply the man leaned forward and said, “I’m here to try and fill in some of the gaps in your story. Your name is Anna Khorev, is that right?”
“Yes.”
She saw the sincerity in his eyes as he said, “I realize you’ve been through a difficult time, Anna, but you must understand one thing. Finland gets a considerable number of people escaping over the Russian border.” He smiled again. “Not all so dramatically as you did, perhaps. Some of them are genuinely trying to flee Russia. But others, well, let’s just say their intentions are not entirely honorable. Your countrymen send people over here to spy. You understand what I’m saying, Anna? I need to make certain you’re not one of those people.”
She nodded, and the man said, “You feel well enough to talk?”
“Yes.”
“The doctors say they hope to have you up and walking by tomorrow.” He hesitated, then studied her face again, the gray eyes gentle but probing, his voice suddenly soft. “Why did you shoot the two guards on the bridge?”
She saw the man was watching her eyes intently. “To escape.”
“Escape what exactly?”
“From the Gulag.”
“Where?”
“Near Ukhta.”
“Do you know the name of the camp?”
“Nicochka.”
“The Soviet Embassy in Helsinki says you murdered an officer at the camp. Is that true?”
She hesitated, then nodded.
“Why did you kill the man, Anna?”
She had answered the question before when the Finns had interrogated her, but she could sense the American was going to be even more thorough. She went to open her mouth to speak but somehow, the words wouldn’t come.
Massey looked at her. “Anna, I think I had better be completely honest and tell you the situation. I work for the American Embassy. Your people are making all kinds of diplomatic noises to have you sent back to face a trial. There’s no extradition agreement between Finland and Russia, but if your authorities put pressure on the Finns then they may have to agree to return you. The only way they can avoid that is to hand you over to the American Embassy. Once the Finns say you requested political asylum in America, the matter is out of their hands. They want to do that. They want to help you. Russia is not exactly their best friend. That’s why I’m here. I was asked to talk with you and help decide if my embassy can be of help
. I’m assuming you don’t want to go back to Russia and that you would like to request asylum in America. However, I think you ought to know that under the terms of the Soviet-Finnish Treaty, there are grounds sufficient for your return to Russia on a charge of murder.”
Massey paused. He must have seen the look of raw fear in her eyes because he shook his head quickly and said, “Anna, that’s not something we want to happen, but it partly depends on you.”
“How?”
“On how cooperative you are. The people who interrogated you think you haven’t told them everything. You see, at least if I know the full story of your background my embassy can best judge if you’re a suitable case for political asylum. You understand what I’m saying?”
She nodded. Massey leaned forward in his chair. “So, you’ll help me?”
“What is it you want to know?”
Massey said quietly, “Everything you can tell me. About your background. Your parents. Your life. How you ended up at the border crossing. Why you killed the officer at the camp. Anything you can remember that might be important.”
Suddenly she felt as if a terrible grief flooded her mind, as if to remember was too painful. She closed her eyes and turned away, unaware that the man noticed the bruises on her neck, the pink patches of skin that showed through her tightly cropped hair. He said softly, “Take your time, Anna. Just start at the beginning.”
• • •
When the German army Panzers under Field Marshal von Leeb’s command swept into the Baltic States in the summer of 1941, many inhabitants were pleased to see them.
On Stalin’s orders only a year before, the Red Army had swiftly and brutally annexed each of the tiny independent Baltic countries of Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania. Thousands were tortured, executed, or shipped off to labor camps by the invading Russians. And so the German troops arriving in the summer of 1941 were seen as an army of liberation by many of the citizens of the occupied states. People lined the streets to welcome the crack Wehrmacht soldiers. Women threw garlands of flowers at their feet, while every road north and east was clogged with a defeated Soviet army retreating from the mighty German blitzkrieg.