by Glenn Meade
Slanski removed the file from his tunic and placed it on the table. “Open it. Look and read.” When Stalin hesitated, Slanski said again, “Open it!”
Stalin opened the file with shaking hands. He glanced at the pages, the photographs, then looked up. “I don’t remember this man.”
“What you see was in my file. You read all this before you sent my brother to find me.”
Stalin swallowed, ashen-faced.
Slanski said, “I want you to remember what happened to my family. Illia Ivan Stefanovitch, my father, called on the local commissar and told him he wanted to speak to Stalin, to condemn what had happened in his village in Stalin’s name. It was his right as a citizen. He was given a pen and paper and told to write his grievance, and it would be passed to Moscow. He wrote about what had happened in his village. He expressed his revulsion and resigned from the Party. You read the letter, but the reply wasn’t what my father expected.
“You sentenced him to death as a traitor. The secret police came to his surgery. They thought they’d make this troublesome doctor’s death a little more interesting than merely shooting him. So they made his wife watch while they held him down and injected him with a lethal dose of one of his drugs, adrenaline. Do you know the effect such an amount of adrenaline has on a body? It’s not a pleasant way to die. The heart races, the body weakens and trembles, the lungs swell, the stomach vomits. A fatal dosage can cause the blood vessels in the brain to burst, but death may still come slowly. My father’s did.
“They made my mother watch every moment. And then they raped her. All of them raped her. Until one of them had the pity to put a bullet in her head. Only it didn’t kill her. They left her lying there, bleeding to death, slowly, for hours. I heard it happen, because one of the men held me in the next room. I heard her screams, and later I saw her die.
“Everything that happened after that is in the file. But then you know that, don’t you? You knew when you selected Yuri Lukin. You chose him, because having him kill me would be another of your sick jokes. One more laugh at your victims’ expense.”
Slanski leaned in close, his eyes wet, his voice almost a whisper. “You say you don’t remember my father, but you will. Illia Ivan Stefanovitch. Remember that name. It’s the last name you’re going to hear.”
Slanski placed the Nagant on the table and removed a hypodermic from his pocket. With one finger he flipped off the metal sheath and exposed the needle. The glass was full of clear liquid. “Pure adrenaline. And now I’m going to kill you the way you killed my father.”
As Slanski moved in, the old man rose and lunged at him like a bull. “No!”
Stalin grabbed at the Nagant, and the weapon exploded. As the shot rang around the room Slanski struck him a hard blow to the neck, and he slumped back in the chair.
Then everything seemed to happen at once.
The dacha went mad, screams and voices everywhere.
The doors burst open, and the big colonel was the first in, crashing into the room like an enraged animal, staring at the scene in horror.
Slanski stabbed the needle into Stalin’s neck, and the plunger sank. “For my father.”
Then the Nagant came up smartly and pressed against Stalin’s temple. “And this for my mother . . .and sister . . .”
The Nagant exploded, and Stalin’s head was flung back.
As the colonel frantically wrenched out his weapon, he watched in disbelief as the major smiled in certain death, turning the Nagant toward himself, slipping the barrel into his mouth.
The weapon exploded again.
• • •
The Emka’s wipers brushed away the snow, but it was ceaseless.
A hundred yards from the dacha entrance Lukin heard the sirens going off, and his heart jolted. The shrill noise erupted through the woodland air like the shrieks of a thousand wild animals in pain.
Klieg lamps sprang to life, illuminating the woods, beams of powerful light sweeping through the darkness, casting a silver wash over the snowy birch trees. Dogs barked and voices screamed orders. The forest seemed to come alive with light and noise.
Through the windshield, in the distance, Lukin could make out the dacha’s green-painted gates, searchlights sweeping wildly through the trees as the sirens wailed ceaselessly. He slowed the Emka. There was a rutted lane off to the right, and he pulled in and switched off the engine. His body was shaking violently, and his heart was racing.
He was too late. He felt a lump rise in his throat, and it almost choked him. He stumbled out of the car and filled his lungs with air, then he fell to his knees and vomited.
For a long time Lukin knelt in the frozen woods, no longer hearing the wailing sirens and the noises in the forest, only his own sobbing and the wild thumping of his heart in his ears as a painful anguish flooded him, almost physical in its intensity.
There was a timelessness to everything, and then it seemed as if a dam burst inside his head and when the scream finally came, it came from deep inside him. “Mischa!”
The scream seemed to go on forever in the white darkness.
THE PRESENT
50
* * *
It had started to rain again.
The sky over Moscow darkened like twilight, then a flash of forked lightning lit up the clouds and thunder cracked and the heavens opened. Anna Khorev stood at the window and stared out through the sheeting rain toward the distant red walls of the Kremlin. When she finally turned back she smiled, a brief sad smile. “And there you have your story, Mr. Massey. Not entirely a happy ending, but then life rarely surprises us with happy endings.”
“It’s a remarkable story.”
She lit a cigarette. “Not only remarkable, but true. You’re one of the few people to know what happened that night at Kuntsevo. It took almost four days for Stalin to die, but die he did. The drug caused him to have a hemorrhage, the bullet made sure he’d die. And there was nothing his doctors could do to save him. Of course, the irony was they were too afraid to lift a finger after what happened to their Kremlin colleagues.”
“So the official version of how Stalin died was a lie.”
“The Kremlin claimed he died naturally, of a cerebral hemorrhage. But you’ll also read in some history books that the bodies of two men were taken from the dacha grounds the night Stalin fell fatally ill. It’s not a widely known fact, but it’s the one small grain of truth that hints at something unusual happening that night. The bodies were those of Alex and your father. But of course, there was never any mention of that. Some secrets are best kept just that—secret.”
I didn’t answer for a moment, then I said, “Why did you tell me your story? Was it because you had to?”
Anna Khorev smiled back. “Partly that, I suppose. But perhaps I needed to tell someone, and I’m glad we finally met. What happened all those years ago has been such a secret part of my life. Perhaps too big a secret to keep all to myself until the day I die. And to be honest, now that I’ve told you I feel quite relieved.” She smiled again, and then a distant, sad look appeared on her face.
“What about afterward?” I said.
She sat down. “You mean what happened to everyone? Oh, Beria I’m sure you know about. After Stalin’s death he made his play for power and failed. He was accused, ironically, of having been an agent for the West. But really he had made too many enemies who wanted him dead. He was arrested in the Kremlin and shot soon after. So he got his just reward in the end. Some even said he was killed because he knew what had really happened to Stalin, and his comrades in the Kremlin wanted to cover it up.”
“And after you escaped from Moscow?”
“Russia was in chaos for days afterwards. With Romulka dead, our escape wasn’t that difficult. We made it to Finland, but there were problems, of course. The CIA, naturally, thought the others and I might be an embarrassment if the mission was ever leaked or discovered. And Henri Lebel was fearful for his life when he realized he had been in a small way party to Stalin’s de
ath. But Henri had been rather clever. After your father had first struck a deal with him in Paris, he had transcribed all the details and sent them in a sealed envelope to his lawyer, with instructions that the contents be made public if Henri ordered it, or if he or Irena was ever harmed. That way, he was insuring himself against the CIA ever trying to blackmail him into working for them again, or double-crossing him. So the CIA kept your father’s promise. They arranged secretly through Mossad for myself and Sasha, along with Henri and Irena, to live in Israel under new identities. They thought we’d all be safer there and out of harm’s way if ever the KGB wanted to exact revenge on us. Thankfully that never happened.”
She looked away, toward the window. “Mossad was quite happy with things as they turned out. With Stalin dead, the purge of the Jews stopped, the camps were never completed, and the surviving doctors were released. The Americans arranged a nice apartment for Sasha and me in Tel Aviv and looked after us financially. I was warned never to disclose my real identity or divulge anything about the mission, because it might put our lives in danger. But the new rulers in the Kremlin never made public the fact that the mission succeeded, or even that it had ever existed. That would have been an embarrassment for them and would perhaps have caused a war nobody really wanted, least of all the Soviets, who were without a leader, and that suited Washington completely. Khrushchev eventually succeeded Stalin and later denounced him for his crimes.
“No one went entirely unpunished for his death, however. Not long after, the KGB systematically and brutally assassinated a number of extremist Russian and Ukrainian émigré leaders in Europe, probably in the mistaken belief that they were in some way partly responsible. But whether the CIA pointed a finger at them or not, I’ve no way of knowing.”
“Why did the CIA claim my father killed himself?”
“At the time your father’s death was a problem for Washington. They had to cover it up somehow and without any of his colleagues becoming suspicious. The official explanation given was that he had committed suicide while traveling in Europe. They said that after he had been recalled to Washington from Munich he had been put on leave for health reasons. They claimed that he was depressed and unstable. The date they gave for his death was before our mission began so that no one might ever connect him to what subsequently happened. It wasn’t fair to the character of your father, of course, but it had to be done for the sake of security. And, of course, no body was buried, just a coffin full of stones.”
“What happened to Lebel and Irena?”
Anna Khorev smiled. “Henri opened a clothing business in Tel Aviv, and they married and lived happily together until Henri died ten years ago. Irena followed him soon after.”
“And Yuri Lukin?”
For a long time Anna Khorev stared out silently at the rain. There was a look of grief on her face. Then she looked back. “He made it to the train that night, much to the relief of his wife, but he was distraught, as you can imagine. He had found his brother after all those years and then lost him again. When we arrived in Helsinki we were all debriefed for several days by Branigan. I never saw Yuri Lukin again after that. I would have liked to very much. He was a remarkable man, Mr. Massey.”
“Do you know what became of him?”
She crushed out her cigarette and said, “Do you really want to know?”
“He’s the final part of the puzzle,” I offered.
“I can only tell you what I heard from the CIA. After Helsinki, he and his wife were flown to America. They were given new identities and settled in California, where his wife gave birth to a son. Then three months later they told me Yuri was killed in an automobile accident.”
“You think the KGB had him killed?”
“No, I don’t believe they did. It was definitely a freak accident, Mr. Massey. And I’m certain the CIA didn’t kill him, for that matter. In many ways, had it not been for him, the mission wouldn’t have been so successful. But I suppose his death was probably convenient for both the Kremlin and Washington. There was one less person alive who knew the real truth.”
“What happened to his wife and son?”
“I have no idea, I’m afraid.”
I sat for several moments, taking it all in. Beyond the glass the rain had stopped. The sun appeared from behind the sullen Moscow clouds, glinting off the Kremlin’s golden domes and the bright, candy-colored whorls of St. Basil’s. I looked back. “May I ask you a personal question?”
She smiled. “That depends on how personal.”
“Did you ever remarry?”
She laughed gently. “Good heavens, what an odd question. But the answer is no. Sasha eventually married a nice Russian émigré in Israel. They have a son they named Ivan Alexei Yuri. And a daughter, Rachel, whom you met when you arrived.” She smiled. “I loved two remarkable men in my life, Mr. Massey. My husband and Alex. And that’s really been quite enough.”
“So you really did love Alex Slanski?”
“Yes. Not in the way I loved Ivan, but I loved him. It was never destined to have a happy ending; I think we both knew that. What is it they say? A lost soul. That summed up Alex perfectly. I think he knew he’d die on the mission, perhaps even wanted to. I think he always knew his destiny was to die in Moscow. To kill Stalin was worth the sacrifice of his life and the ultimate revenge for what had happened to his family. And in paying that price Alex did the world a great service, Mr. Massey. There were as many sighs of relief in Moscow as in Washington when Stalin died.”
The door opened softly. The dark-haired girl stood there. She had changed into a blouse and skirt, and she looked remarkably beautiful, her long legs tanned and her hair down about her shoulders. “Nana, the embassy car is here for the airport.”
The girl smiled at me, and I smiled back. She had the same features as her grandmother. The same brown eyes and presence. I guessed she must have looked much like Anna Khorev had over forty years before. I could understand Alex Slanski, and even my father, falling in love with her.
“Thank you, Rachel. We’re almost finished. Tell the driver we’ll be with him in a minute.”
The girl smiled at me again. “Promise me you won’t keep my grandmother much longer?”
“I promise.”
She left, closing the door after her.
Anna Khorev stood. “So there you have it, Mr. Massey. I’ve told you everything I can. I’m afraid you must excuse me now. Rachel and I have a flight to Israel to catch. I hope you understand. It’s been a brief visit, but one I’ve wanted to make for a long time.”
“May I ask one more question?”
“And what’s that?”
“Do you think my father would have killed you and Alex?”
She thought for several moments, then she said, “No, I don’t believe he would have. Though heaven knows what the outcome would have been if Yuri Lukin hadn’t done what he did. Your father came to Moscow because he was ordered. But I think if it had come down to it, he wouldn’t have killed us. He would have stopped us, certainly, but figured some way of getting us out of Moscow. He was a fine man, Mr. Massey. He was a father you would have been proud of. And to be honest, maybe I was a little in love with him, too.”
Finally, Anna glanced at her watch before picking up the bunch of white orchids I had brought. “We have some time, so why don’t you ride with us in the car, Mr. Massey? We can drop you at your hotel on the way to the airport. And if you don’t mind I’d like to pay a visit to Novodevichy on the way.”
• • •
The sun came out as we walked together to the graves. Rachel waited in the car, and as the sunlight washed down through the chestnut trees the graveyard hardly seemed like the same place. The sky was clear and blue, and the dry heat of the afternoon lingered under the trees. Old women walked among the shaded pathways with bunches of flowers and bottles of vodka, come to sit and talk and drink with their departed.
When we came to the two gravestones, Anna Khorev placed a spray of orchids on each of the
m. I stood back then, to let her say her final prayer. She wasn’t crying, but I saw the pain in her eyes when she finally turned back. “I decided a long time ago that this will be my final resting place when my day comes, Mr. Massey. I know Ivan, my husband, would have understood.”
“I’m certain he would have.” I looked at her, stuck for something to say, seeing the faraway look in her brown eyes. “Everything that happened that night must seem like a dream.” It was all I could offer.
“Sometimes I wonder, did it really happen? And wonder who would believe it.”
“I do.”
She half smiled and went to say something, glancing at the two graves as if there was something else I should know, but then she seemed to change her mind and shivered. “Are you ready, Mr. Massey? I’m afraid graveyards are not one of my favorite places. Even on a warm, sunny Moscow day.”
I nodded and took her arm, and we walked back to the car.
• • •
I heard that Anna Khorev died six months later.
There was nothing in the newspapers, but Bob Vitali called from Langley and said he thought I’d want to know she had passed away in the Sharet Hospital in Jerusalem. She had suffered from lung cancer. The funeral was to be in Moscow four days later.
I ordered plane tickets, for some reason wanting to be part of the end of things.
It was snowing when I landed at Sheremetyevo, the fields and steppes of Russia frozen like some vast ghostly tapestry, flurries of snow sweeping the Moscow streets, the country in the harsh grip of another bitter winter, and I thought it must have been like this all those years ago when Alex Slanski and Anna made their way across Russia.