by Glenn Meade
Slanski switched on his flashlight and opened the folder. Lebel turned to Anna. “You must be one of my intended passengers. I’m afraid after tonight we’ll be lucky to get out of Moscow, let alone make it to Finland. It looks hopeless.”
Before Anna could speak, Massey groaned, and she turned to him. He was losing blood fast. She put a hand on his fevered brow, leaned closer, and whispered, “Don’t die on me, Jake.”
Suddenly Massey’s eyelids flickered and his voice gurgled. “Anna . . .”
“Don’t move or talk, Jake.”
“Anna . . .forgive me . . .”
“No talk, Jake. Please.”
Massey coughed up blood, and it dribbled down his chin. His eyes closed, and his head slumped to one side. There were tears in Anna’s eyes as she turned to Slanski. “Can’t you do something?”
But he wasn’t listening. As he stood holding the file there was an odd look on his face, which was dazed and suddenly very pale, paler than she had ever seen it before, and he was very still. He held a photograph in his hand, and he stared at it silently.
Anna screamed at Lebel, “Do something!”
Lebel moved closer and felt Massey’s pulse just as Irena came in carrying a battered zinc bucket slopping with liquid. “It’s all I could find, some ice water from an overflow barrel.”
Lebel looked up and let Massey’s limp wrist fall. “I’m afraid we’re wasting our time. He’s dead.”
• • •
Snow started to drift down, and the icy river looked ghostly white in the darkness. Beyond the silver birch trees on the far bank, Lukin could see the lights of Moscow. In the distance the red star on top of the Kremlin winked on and off like a beacon through the mist of lightly falling snow.
Slanski sat beside him. There was an air of unreality to it all both men were conscious of. The look of shock hadn’t left Slanski, and he still held the file in his hand. He had made his way down to the riverbank, warily at first, until he had seen the trauma on Lukin’s face when their eyes met, a look that told him he had nothing to fear. For a long time the two men sat, neither speaking, and then, as if to break the tension and silence, Lukin said, “Your friend—will he make it?”
“He’s dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It comes to us all. Nothing could be done.”
Lukin looked at Slanski intently. “You read all of the file?”
“Yes.”
“And you believed everything you read?”
“I had my doubts, but now . . .now I see you up close, yes, I believe it. And from what Lebel tells me you saved his life and ours. You wouldn’t have gone to that trouble if you weren’t serious.”
Lukin looked out at the darkness. “Who would have imagined it? Now you know why I was picked to track you down and kill you. A sick joke of Stalin’s: pit brother against brother. Blood against blood.” He sucked in a deep breath and blew a cloud of steam into the air and shook his head. “I still can’t believe it.”
Slanski’s voice was soft. “Tell me what happened the night I left the orphanage. Tell me what happened afterward.”
Lukin looked at him. There were tears at the edges of his eyes, and his voice was thick with emotion. “Do I have to?”
“I need to know, Petya.”
“It’s a long time since anyone called me by that name. It seems strange, from another life. So much of what happened in my past I’ve locked away. It seemed such a terrible nightmare. Until I read the file, I thought I’d managed to bury it all.”
“You have to tell me.”
Lukin shook his head. “It won’t help. For over twenty years I’ve tried to forget. And maybe it’s better you don’t know.”
For some reason, Slanski reached over and touched Lukin’s hand. And then Lukin was overcome with emotion. Slanski put his hand gently on his brother’s shoulder and said, “Take it easy, Petya.”
They sat for several moments, then Slanski said, “Being with you and Katya seemed like the only reality I knew. When I left you both behind that night at the orphanage I felt as if I’d lost everything. I never knew what had happened to you both. And afterward that pain seemed worse than knowing you were dead. It was as if someone cut my heart out, and there was a hollow where both of you used to be. I need to know.”
Lukin looked away. Toward the city he saw the lights of traffic moving beyond the mist of snow. The scene seemed so normal, and yet the turmoil in his own soul was so extraordinary. He felt a stab of anguish in his chest and turned back. “The night you escaped, Katya and I watched you from the window. It was like losing Mama and Papa all over again. The same grief, the same pain. Katya was inconsolable. She loved you, Mischa. You were father and mother to her.
“It must have been about four in the morning when you escaped. Katya was brokenhearted; she was shaking with convulsions. I couldn’t stop her. One of the wardens came to the dormitory and found us. When she discovered you were gone she raised the alarm and put us both in one of the basement cells. Two men came from the secret police. They demanded we tell them where you had gone. They threatened to kill us if we didn’t.” His voice shook with anger. “Katya was five years old, but they beat her, tormented her, just as they did me.
“After three or four days went by they told us you were never coming back. Your body had been found on a railway track near the Kiev Station, crushed by a train. Something happened to Katya after that. It was like a light went out inside her. When I looked in her face her eyes were empty. She wouldn’t eat or drink. A doctor was sent for, but the doctors who came to the orphanage couldn’t have cared less if we lived or died. There were so many orphans, one less didn’t matter.”
He hesitated. “The next day they sent me to a correction school. From that institution the secret police often picked their recruits. Katya they sent to an orphanage in Minsk, and I never saw her again.” He looked up. “Only it wasn’t an orphanage. It was a special hospital. For special children.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was a home for the retarded. The really bad ones were kept in locked cells, chained to their beds like animals. Katya had become so withdrawn they locked her in a cell on her own. But there was nothing really wrong with her except her heart was overcome with grief and no one could reach her.” Lukin paused. “When the war came and the Germans advanced, Stalin ordered that the inmates of all special hospitals were to be liquidated to conserve food supplies. They took the patients out in batches to the woods and shot them. Katya was one of them.”
After a long silence Slanski said palely, “So Katya died because of me.”
“No, not because of you. Don’t blame yourself. You did what you had to.”
“If I’d stayed she would have survived.”
“No matter what you think, you were right to escape. To have stayed would have destroyed you, too. Just as it destroyed me. Not physically, but in spirit. Me, I became the one thing our parents would never have wanted me to become.”
Slanski stood. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes tightly, as if the pain of what he had heard was too much to bear. After a long time he looked down. “Tell me what happened to you. Tell me how you learned the truth. How your people knew about my mission.”
Lukin told him. Slanski stood listening, not speaking. Finally, Lukin said, “You must know now it’s impossible to kill Stalin.”
“Maybe the impossible appeals to me. Besides, it can still be done.”
“How?”
Slanski said warily, “First, I need your word you won’t betray me. I need to know I can trust you.”
“I’d never betray you, Mischa. Not ever. You have my word. And you trusted me by coming out here. So trust me now.”
Slanski thought for a moment. “One of the tsar’s old escape tunnels leads from the Bolshoi Theater to the third floor of the Kremlin and comes out near Stalin’s quarters. That’s my way in.”
Lukin shook his head. “Stalin has moved to his dacha at Kuntsevo because
of the threat to his life. And because of this threat it’s even more tightly guarded than the Kremlin. Besides, all the secret Kremlin tunnels are also under extra guard. You’d be a corpse before you got near the place.”
Slanski half smiled. “When the cards are stacked against you, reshuffle the deck. There’s an alternative plan. A secret underground train line runs from the Kremlin to the Kuntsevo villa. The line is only ever used when Stalin needs to travel in haste or in an emergency. It can be breached near the Kremlin and leads right under the villa.”
“I know about the underground train, but you can be sure the line is also heavily guarded, especially now. So will Stalin’s villa. Besides, there are armed guards everywhere, and the woods around it are mined.”
“It’s a chance I’m going to have to take.”
“And even if you got close enough, how would you kill him?”
“I’m afraid even you can’t know that, brother. But if I do get close enough, I’ll make certain Stalin’s punishment fits his crimes.”
Lukin thought for a moment, his brow creased in concentration. “Maybe there’s another way into the dacha that stands some chance. Only there’s a price to pay.”
“What price?”
“Both our lives.”
Slanski hesitated, then shook his head. “I figured on dying anyway. But this isn’t your battle.”
“You’re wrong. It’s as much mine as yours. You and I, we’re two sides of the same coin. We can both repay everything that happened to us. Stalin has an appointment with death. It’s an appointment long overdue. I’m going to make sure he keeps it.”
“What about your wife? The child she’s carrying? You can’t do that.”
“I must. And you can’t do what I have in mind without me. Your friends might still make it to the border with Lebel. The colonel I told you about, Romulka, may suspect that Lebel’s train will be used and try to stop it. But if things go the way I plan, the entire Moscow KGB will be in chaos, and your friends just may get away in the confusion. It’s the only chance they have, however small. I’ll see to it they get on board safely. Nadia can go with them. After tonight, I’m dead anyway. Staying in Russia, Nadia stands no chance. Going with Lebel, she may make it over the border.”
Slanski looked at him intently. “You’re sure about this?”
“I’ve never been more certain about anything in my life.” Lukin paused. His voice became firm. “But one condition: it’s best Nadia doesn’t know what we’re going to do. Or why we’re doing it. She’ll be confused enough as it is. As far as she’s concerned, I caught you, but we’ve come to a mutual understanding. I’ve allowed Anna and your friends to escape, and you’ve agreed in return for her to go with them because of the risk to her life. You make sure your friends tell her I’ll be joining her later in Finland. Make sure they tell her that. She’ll worry less. But you don’t tell any of them about our past. They’d never believe it, and things are confusing enough for them as it is.”
“So what do I tell them?”
“That I’ve failed Beria and my life is at risk. And now we’ve reached an accommodation in return for letting your friends escape.”
“You think they’ll believe it?”
“I don’t see why not. Anna and Lebel know I’m finished after releasing them. They know what Beria’s capable of and that Nadia’s life would be in danger because of what I’ve done.” He hesitated. “There’s something else I want to do before the train leaves. Something important.”
“What?”
Lukin told him. Slanski’s forehead creased in thought as he sat there in the cold night, as if trying to take it all in. Lukin said finally, “So, brother, do you agree?”
“You know, I never thought I’d be glad I didn’t kill you when I had the chance.”
Lukin smiled, a sad smile. “Maybe it was fate.”
Suddenly Slanski seemed to crumple and his shoulders sagged, a lifetime of hardened anguish peeled away, as if his soul were exposed. He said, “Petya . . .it’s so good to see you again.”
Lukin put a hand on his shoulder, then embraced him. As they sat together the snow started to fall more heavily, drifting against the silver birch trees. Beyond the far bank of the frozen river the lights of Moscow were dying slowly. The whole city seemed to be growing still in the cottony silence.
After a long time Slanski seemed to compose himself, wiped his face, looked across at Lukin, and said, “So tell me, how do we kill Stalin?”
• • •
Henri Lebel sat uncomfortably at the window of the deserted station house outside Moscow, smoking a cigarette and staring worriedly beyond the thickly falling snow. The man who stood beside Lebel was painfully thin and had a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. He wore a greasy cap and a train driver’s overalls under a filthy overcoat, and there was a troubled expression on his face as he wiped his hands with an oily rag. A train stood waiting on the tracks outside, its black paintwork muddied, a limp plume of smoke rising from its funnel.
The man said, “For a while there you had me worried, Henri. When I didn’t get your call yesterday as we arranged I phoned your hotel. They said you hadn’t arrived in Moscow. Then you call me at the last minute and tell me everything’s still on as we agreed. And now I find you hobbling about like you need crutches. Mind telling me what’s going on?”
Lebel was trying to enjoy his first smoke in three days. Lukin had given him another shot of morphine, and the pain in his crotch had subsided, replaced by a feeling of numbness. But he was barely able to walk, and really he needed rest and a decent doctor. But both would have to wait for now. He brushed a fleck of ash from his sable coat and turned to the man. “Forget it, Nicolai. Let’s just say I had a rather unpleasant experience, but I’m here now.” He looked at the cheap makhorka cigarette with distaste. “You could have found me something better than this Bolshevik firecracker.”
“They’re good enough for me.”
“With the money you earn from me you ought to be smoking Havanas. What time is it?”
The man consulted his watch. “Almost one. Your friends are cutting it a bit fine. You’re sure they’ll come? If they don’t they’ll save us both a lot of bother.”
Lebel fixed him with a stare. “They’ll come. Just don’t forget our agreement.”
“Hey, have I ever let you down? But whether they appear or not, I still get my money—that was what we agreed.”
“You’ll get your reward, Nicolai. Just as soon as the goods are delivered.”
At that moment the headlights of a car swept up to the right of the station house, and Lebel’s heart skipped. Slanski stepped out of the BMW, followed by Lukin, still wearing his KGB uniform.
When Nicolai saw the uniform the cigarette dropped from his mouth and he said with horror, “On Lenin’s life . . .what the . . .what’s going on?”
“Nothing for you to worry about. Relax, Nicolai, your passengers have arrived.”
“Relax? In case you hadn’t noticed, that’s a KGB uniform your friend’s wearing.”
Lebel said wearily, “Help me up.” Nicolai eased him to his feet and the Frenchman said, “Wait here.” He opened the station house door and hobbled out. He hadn’t gone very far when Slanski crossed the platform to meet him and said, “Everything’s in order?”
“I haven’t told the driver about our new arrangement yet. I thought it best to wait until you came. Something tells me Nicolai isn’t going to like it. How has Major Lukin’s wife taken the news?”
Slanski glanced back toward the car, where Lukin was helping the other passengers out. His wife took his arm shakily as she stepped from the car clutching a single small suitcase, looking totally lost. “She’s bewildered to say the least, and upset. But that’s to be expected.”
At that moment they heard a door bang, and the train driver came marching across the platform toward Lebel. “Henri, how about you tell me quick what’s going on here?”
Slanski said briskly, “A c
hange of plan. You have two extra passengers.”
The driver’s face turned red with anger, and he glared at Lebel. “This wasn’t our agreement. Two was the limit. You want to get me put up against a wall?”
“Nicolai, I’m afraid the situation’s changed.”
“You can say that again. The deal’s off. No way do I go along with this.”
Lebel said, “Listen to me, Nicolai. The only way you’re going to get your money is to take the extra people along. Besides, I’ll see there’s a bonus in it for you.”
“It wasn’t what we agreed! And our lives are on the line quite enough as it is. I may never get to spend the money. Don’t get clever with me, Henri. I haven’t got the time or the patience. The train’s already behind schedule. I take two people, no more, take it or leave it. What do you think I’m running here, the wooden horse of Troy?”
“Ten thousand rubles more as soon as everyone’s safely over the border. I guarantee it. That’s a lot of champagne and underwear for your girlfriend in Karelia.”
Nicolai seemed to hesitate, then looked over at the green BMW as the uniformed KGB major ushered more passengers out of the back. In the slanting snow the driver couldn’t see their faces. “Who are they?”
“Your passengers, that’s all you need to know. Three women and a child.”
“This is starting to sound like a widows and orphans outing. Children are trouble. What happens if the border guards decide to take a look at the carriage and the kid starts crying?”
“If you’ve done your job and bribed them as usual, they shouldn’t. Besides, the child will be given a sedative. She’ll sleep all the way through.”
Nicolai looked doubtful and shook his head. “It’s still too big a risk.” He jerked his chin at Slanski. “And who might this be?”
Slanski produced a KGB identity card from his pocket and flashed it at the driver. “Someone who’s about to save your life, comrade.” He looked over toward the BMW as Lukin led the others toward the platform. “The man you see over there is a colleague of mine, Major Lukin.” Slanski paused for effect. “He knows all about your smuggling operation. In fact, until Monsieur Lebel and I intervened, he wanted to arrest you.”