by Glenn Meade
“But—”
“We only get one chance to get this right. Let’s go over the plan again. I want no mistakes. Pull in.”
Lukin swung the wheel and pulled over in front of the shelter. The flat roof was covered in snow, and steps led down beyond the dark mouth of the entrance, the door hanging off its hinges. As Lukin switched off the engine, he saw the silenced Nagant appear in Slanski’s hand. Before he could speak, Slanski pointed the weapon at him.
Alarmed, Lukin said, “What’s going on?”
“Listen to me, Petya. I can do this alone. You have a wife and child to think of. There’s no need for you to throw away your life. I want you to live. At least one of us should live. Do it for me. Do it for Katya and our parents.”
Lukin saw it then. Saw everything. His face drained of color as he stared at Slanski. “You never intended for us to do this together, did you?”
“I guess not.”
“Mischa, please . . .you’ll never get inside the villa alone.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. You made the call, and you’re expected. I can get in with your identity card.”
“But you don’t even look like me!”
“Apart from hair color we’re pretty much the same build. As for the rest, let me worry about that.”
Lukin shook his head fiercely. “Mischa, this is crazy. Together we stand some chance. Alone you have none.”
“It’s a better chance than having you explain I’m one of your fellow officers. With security so tight they may not even let me inside.” He shook his head. “As I said, I don’t want you to die. If you come with me he’ll have killed all of us in the end. I won’t let him kill you. I won’t let him destroy us all. If there was time, I’d tell you about all the times I missed you. How much I loved you and Katya. How much I longed to be with you both again. But there isn’t.”
Suddenly there was a hint of tears in Slanski’s eyes. He quickly removed a set of keys from his pocket. Then he nodded toward the bomb shelter. “I’m going to leave you here. Lebel’s waiting with the train at a station called Klin, northwest of Moscow. There’s a blue Emka van we passed half a mile back down the road, parked and waiting with a full tank of fuel. Here are the keys. You can make it if you hurry.” He stuffed the keys into Lukin’s breast pocket. “Live your life, brother. Live it for all our family.”
“Mischa, no!”
“Goodbye, brother.” Slanski’s fingers came up quickly and closed around Lukin’s neck like a vise, the thumb pressing hard into the point below his ear. Lukin struggled and fought back, his arms flailing and his body bucking wildly, but Slanski was stronger.
It was only a matter of seconds before Lukin slumped in the seat and blacked out. Slanski stepped out of the car into the freezing night and went down the steps into the shelter. The building was in darkness and smelled foul. He had to go back to the car and get the flashlight, then he flicked it around the walls and saw that the place was strewn with garbage. He cleared a corner and then quickly carried Lukin down from the car and propped him against a wall.
It took him another five minutes to do everything he had to do, moving briskly, then prying the interior mirror from the car and using it to apply the engine oil to his hair. Only when he had finished did he pull on the single leather uniform glove. He found the identity card with the photograph in Lukin’s breast pocket. Everything else he needed was already in the car.
When he had checked himself in the mirror he shone the flashlight at the unconscious figure propped against the shelter wall. In the cold, he wouldn’t be out for more than another five minutes. Slanski stared at Lukin’s face until he was almost overcome with emotion, then he knelt down and kissed him hard on the cheek, suddenly aware of his struggle to keep back the tears, before he tore himself away and went out and up the steps.
As he climbed back into the BMW, he glanced over his shoulder at Massey’s corpse lying across the backseat. “Well, I guess you got to see it through to the end after all, Jake. If there’s a heaven, and you’re already there, wish us both luck. We’re going to need it.”
He checked his watch. It was 1:15 a.m. He started the car.
• • •
The guards heard the car long before they saw it. One of them pulled back a shutter in the green-painted metal gate and peered out into the falling snow. Headlights blazed through the veil of white, and when the BMW drew up in front and its lights were extinguished, searchlights in the watchtower above the gate suddenly sprang on, flooding the area with intense white light.
The man carefully checked the license plate number against his list before he stepped out through a gate and approached the car. He didn’t fail to notice the bullet holes in the bodywork, and that part of the rear window was shattered. “Papers.”
The uniformed KGB major with the gloved hand rolled down the window and smiled as he handed them over. “Major Lukin. I’m expected.”
“This vehicle looks like it’s been through the wars.”
“I think you could say that.”
The guard examined the identity card, then studied the major’s face closely. “Your car keys, comrade.”
When the major handed them over the guard flicked on a flashlight and went around the back and unlocked the trunk. Moments later he slammed it shut and shone the flashlight inside the car. When he saw the body lying across the backseat he recoiled in horror and said, “What the—”
The major grinned. “I think if you check with the duty watch officer you’ll find everything is in order.” He glanced back at the corpse with obvious disgust. “An enemy American agent apprehended by the Second Directorate. Comrade Stalin wishes to see the body personally, so don’t take too long.”
When the shaken guard had regained his composure he said sternly, “Wait here.” He stepped back inside the gate, and Slanski heard the jangle of a field telephone. Moments later he reappeared, flicking a distasteful look at the body in the back as he handed Slanski his papers.
“Looks like you’re in business, Comrade Major. Follow the road for half a mile until you reach the dacha. No stopping until you get to the main entrance.”
As the guard stepped back inside the gate, Slanski switched on the ignition, and the BMW’s headlights sprang to life. The green metal gates yawned open. Half a dozen elite Kremlin Guards with blue bands on their caps stood inside the entrance, fingering their weapons. The woods beyond the gate were illuminated by the car’s headlights, the shafts of light probing the snowy darkness. A narrow road wound around through the trees, the snow cleared away and raised in high banks on either side, and here and there the shadowy figures of more armed Kremlin Guards patrolled the forest with leashed Alsatians.
Slanski shifted into gear and released the clutch, sweat rising on his forehead. He noticed the Kremlin Guards stare curiously at the corpse in the back as the car rolled forward. As he drew up outside the dacha entrance he saw a massive two-story building of pale granite stone that looked like a Boston manor house. The walls were covered in creeping vines, their leafless tendrils like bleached bones. Lights were on in the downstairs rooms and the white lawns were lit up in front. A miniature wooden pavilion stood off to the left, its onion dome encrusted with huge hanging icicles.
Slanski wiped the sweat from his brow before he switched off the engine and climbed out of the BMW. As he did so, two Kremlin Guards stepped out from behind the double-fronted oak doors of the dacha entrance. Behind them in the lighted doorway appeared a massive Guards colonel. He stood well over six feet and was ruggedly built, his uniform immaculate, his boots brightly polished. He stood with his hands on his hips and stared at Slanski suspiciously before he strode down the pathway to the car. “Major Lukin, I believe.”
Slanski saluted, and the colonel returned the salute smartly. He looked at the damaged BMW, then stared into Slanski’s face. “Colonel Zinyatin, Head of Security. Your papers, Major.”
“They’ve already been checked at the gate, sir.”
The colonel smiled coldly. “And now they’re being checked again. We can’t be too careful, can we? I’m the duty officer responsible for Comrade Stalin’s personal safety. No one goes inside without my permission.” He held out his hand stiffly, and Slanski handed over his papers.
The colonel examined them thoroughly, looking from the photograph to Slanski’s face, checking the stamp on the identity card and rubbing his thumb vigorously on the print. Then he glanced at the black leather glove on Slanski’s hand. He seemed to hesitate, as if uncertain of something, before he slowly handed the papers back and peered into the back of the car.
Slanski said, “Not a pleasant sight, Comrade Colonel. An American agent.” He gestured to the bullet holes in the BMW. “He proved to be quite an adversary. Unfortunately, I was unable to capture him alive.”
“So I heard.”
“Then no doubt you know Comrade Stalin wishes to see the body personally.”
The colonel glanced back at Slanski with no expression, then he opened the rear door and examined the body, gripping Massey’s stiff jaw and looking into the lifeless white face.
“Definitely dead, I think you’ll find, sir,” Slanski offered.
“Don’t be smart, Lukin. I’m not blind.”
The colonel stared down at the corpse before turning back. “I’m certain it won’t be necessary to take the body inside. Comrade Stalin will take my word for it the American’s dead.” The colonel smiled without humor. “If he’s in doubt, I’ll have the corpse delivered to him. I believe congratulations are in order, Lukin.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The colonel’s smile was replaced by a cold stare. “One more thing.”
“Comrade?”
“Your sidearm. Procedure forbids visitors to Kuntsevo to carry weapons.” The colonel thrust out his hand. Slanski hesitated, then unholstered the Tokarev and handed it over. “Now, if you’ll follow me, Comrade Stalin is expecting you.”
• • •
The polished double oak doors opened silently on their hinges, and the colonel went in first.
Slanski followed him into a dazzling room. A log fire blazed in one corner, and a long walnut table stood in the center, a dozen or more chairs set around it. An ornate crystal chandelier hung overhead, its light flooding the entire room. Bokhara rugs were set around the floor, and rich tapestries draped the gilded walls.
Josef Vissarionovich Djugashvili—Joseph Stalin—General Secretary of the Communist Party, Generalissimo of the Soviet Union, stood at the end of the table. He smoked a pipe and held a glass in his hand, a half-full bottle of vodka on the table beside him. He was dressed in a simple gray smock tunic, and his thick graying hair was swept back off a pockmarked face, his mouth half hidden under a bushy gray mustache. Hooded, watery gray eyes stared cautiously at his visitors.
The colonel crossed the room and whispered something into his ear. After a few moments the colonel stepped back. Stalin put down his pipe and glass and crooked a finger. “Comrade Major Lukin, come here.”
As Slanski stepped forward, Stalin turned to the colonel. “Leave us, Zinyatin.” The colonel seemed to hesitate, his cautious eyes flicking to Slanski, then he saluted and left, closing the double doors softly after him.
A thin smile played across Stalin’s lips, but the gray eyes regarded Lukin coldly. “Step closer, Major. Let me see you.”
His voice sounded slurred. He motioned with the fingers of his right hand, and Slanski noticed the stiff and withered left arm. He stepped closer, enough to smell the man’s body odor. A strong mixture of alcohol and stale tobacco. He had been drinking heavily, that much was obvious.
Suddenly Stalin leaned forward and kissed Slanski on both cheeks. As he stepped back, he studied Slanski’s face. His eyes clouded for a moment in doubtful recognition, then he said, “So, you brought me the American’s body.”
“Yes, Comrade Stalin.”
“And what about the woman?”
“Under lock and key in Lefortovo prison.”
The gray eyes smiled faintly. “You have surpassed my expectations, Major Lukin. My congratulations. You will have a drink.”
“No thank you, comrade.”
Stalin frowned. “I insist. No one refuses a drink with Stalin.” The old man shuffled to the drinks cart and poured vodka into a tumbler. He came back, handed it to Slanski, and raised his own glass. “I drink to your success, Comrade Lukin. And to your promotion. You have my thanks and my promised reward. As of now, you are a full colonel.”
“I don’t know what to say, Comrade Stalin.”
“Perhaps, but I do. If only all my officers were as capable. Drink, Lukin. It’s good Armenian vodka.”
Slanski raised his glass and sipped. Stalin swallowed his drink in one gulp, put the glass down, and moved around the table. He looked over at Lukin suspiciously. “But you know, something bothers me.”
“Comrade Stalin?”
“A small matter, but an important one. You didn’t see fit to follow protocol and inform Comrade Beria of your visit here, or of the American’s capture. I’ve just been on the phone to him. He’s as surprised as I am by your success. According to him, you’ve been avoiding answering his calls and deliberately obstructing one of his officers, Colonel Romulka, in his duty. Your behavior has been somewhat unusual and unorthodox, Comrade Beria thinks. And I agree. In fact, before I informed him of your call, he wanted you arrested. He’s on his way here now, to confront you. He claims you have kept the woman from him.”
Icy eyes stared into Slanski’s face. “Why is that, Lukin? Did you want all the glory for yourself? Or are you keeping a secret? Comrade Stalin doesn’t like secrets kept from him.”
Slanski put his glass down carefully on the table. “There is a matter I needed to discuss in private. It concerns the American plot. I have information of vital importance for your ears only.”
The bushy eyebrows rose slightly. “And what information is that?”
Slanski slipped off the black leather glove, and the small Nagant appeared in his hand. There was the softest of clicks as he cocked the hammer and aimed the weapon at Stalin’s head.
Horror shone like torchlight in the old man’s eyes as Slanski leaned in closer and whispered, “Not something you’re going to enjoy. But you’ll listen, or I’ll take your head off. Sit down. The chair to your right. Make a sound, and I kill you.”
Stalin’s face turned an angry red. “What is the meaning of this—”
“Sit. Or I put a bullet in you here and now.”
Stalin lowered himself shakily into the chair. Slanski removed his officer’s cap. Stalin stared in shock at the face, then at the ungloved hand. “You . . .you’re not Lukin. Who are you? What do you want?”
“I’m sure the answer to the first two questions should be obvious by now. As for the last, I want you.”
There was a terrible look of fear on Stalin’s face, as if the alcoholic haze had suddenly lifted, everything becoming perfectly clear.
Slanski smiled chillingly. “But first, comrade, I’m going to tell you a story.”
• • •
Lukin opened his eyes in the freezing blackness of the air-raid shelter and shivered violently. His brain throbbed. He shook his head, and a million stars exploded inside his skull.
Lukin sat groggily for several moments, rubbing his neck, before he found the strength to stagger to his feet. He found a damp, cold wall to support him, and as he stood shakily he smelled the garbage and saw the snow falling beyond an open door. It took several moments before the throbbing in his skull ebbed away, and then he staggered out of the door and up the steps of the shelter, blinking in pain and taking deep breaths, the air steaming in front of his face.
He realized where he was and what had happened. Then panic raged inside his head, and his heart raced wildly. How long had he been unconscious? He looked at his watch and tried to focus in the poor light. One twenty a.m. He must have been out cold for over five minutes.
He sudden
ly remembered the van. A half mile away. Five minutes if he ran. Nadia’s face flashed before his eyes. His grief returned, but he forced the image and the emotion away, letting in only anger, a powerful rage and a terrible lust for revenge, knowing what he had to do, that he wasn’t going to be cheated of this moment.
He could still make it to Stalin’s villa.
He fumbled madly for the keys, found them, then staggered through the trees toward the road.
• • •
“My father’s name was Illia Ivan Stefanovitch. Do you remember him?”
Stalin shook his head.
“No.”
“Think again.”
A clock ticked softly somewhere, and beyond the oak doors came faint sounds, distant voices. The click of heels on wood approached and faded. Stalin’s nervous eyes flicked to the door, then back. “I don’t remember him.”
Slanski pressed the Nagant hard into his temple. “Think.”
“I . . .I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Yuri Lukin is my brother. Illia Ivan Stefanovitch was our father. You killed him. You killed his wife. And his daughter. Our sister. You killed them all. Our family.” Slanski stared hard into Stalin’s frightened eyes. “And you haven’t stopped trying to kill us. You pitted my brother against me.”
“No . . .you’re mistaken. Who told you this? Who told you I was responsible? Lies!”
The old man ran a trembling hand around his tunic collar.
Slanski wrenched it away. “Move again, and I’ll tear your heart out.”
A wind gusted flurries of snow outside, rattling the windows. Beads of sweat glistened on Stalin’s face. His breathing came in short gasps. “Please, some water . . .”
A crystal water decanter stood on the drinks cart opposite, but Slanski ignored it. “Then let me remind you of the lies you speak of. My father was a village doctor. We lived near Smolensk. One day the secret police came to our village. They demanded the summer harvest. It was the time of the kulak wars, and there was a famine raging. A famine deliberately caused by you. The villagers barely had enough to feed their children. Already they were starving. Men, women, and children thin as corpses and dying by the dozens. So the people refused. Half the men of the village were shot in reprisal and their grain stolen. There was nothing to eat. Women and children starved. My father was spared, but he couldn’t believe Comrade Stalin would allow such a thing to happen to his village. So he decided to do something.”