by Simon Boxall
Contact was made and a meeting was arranged. The young man, at first, was initially shocked. But once both sides had sounded each other out and liked what each had told the other, the enthusiastic young man swore the oath of allegiance to his new Mentor, he had the tattoo and became an apprentice Kevshor.
The old man had been kind to him, but he remembered two pieces of advice that he gave. 'Keep your friends close and your enemies even closer'; the other was, 'He who sits on the riverbank the longest, will see the bodies of his enemies go floating past'. These titbits would serve him well in the future!
The following years had been hard; they had consisted of arrest, detainment, and re-arrest, imprisonment and marriage. His brief had been to infiltrate local Georgian revolutionary groups and get them under the control of 'The Kevshors'. In the pursuit of this, he more than proved himself to his political masters. So the years were spent robbing banks and criss-crossing between the Black and Caspian seas. It was during those 'Outlaw' years that his 'Mentor' had suggested to him that infiltrating 'The Bolsheviks' might not be such a bad idea. He gave him a copy of Lenin's 'What Is To Be Done'. Although fundamental flawed, the young man liked what he read. The young revolutionary eventually found a wife and got married, but despite the occasional setbacks, (spells of imprisonment followed by internal exile), the young man worked hard, to further the ends of this most secret of organisations.
Steadily he rose up through 'The Kevshor' ranks. 1905 came and went and, afterwards, Russia enjoyed its first spell of 'limited' democracy. But the clouds of war began to muster on the horizon. If 1905 had taught the young man anything, it was, Russia always seemed nearer to 'real' political change during prolonged periods of unrest. Others had noticed this to; the foundations of the 'Autocracy' were always at their weakest when the unrest was concentrated from the grassroots level upwards. He reckoned that if there was enough pressure from down below the aristocratic cork would fly off the top of the bottle. So he and his revolutionary confederates went out of their way to destabilise, 'The always volatile Caucasus', even further. In the pursuit of this they were very successful. They organised robberies, kidnappings, assassinations and industrial unrest. Unease spread throughout the area. As with the Kevshors, his star steadily ascended towards the upper echelons of 'The Bolshevik Party'.
However there had been two major setbacks. These happened almost back to back. His wife had died in 1907; the feeling of loss and grief was like nothing the young man had ever experienced before. He had genuinely loved her. He felt that the 'The Voice', and not for the first time, as he had sometimes had his doubts, had let him down. For a while, complete disillusion had set in; the voice went silent. He felt abandoned. Slowly he came to terms with his loss, but he had changed, from that day onwards he felt almost nothing.
The second blow, coming hard on the back of the first, was the sudden, unexplained, death of his 'Kevshor' mentor. The circumstances surrounding 'The Priests' death were never made that clear[15]; but it seemed that the Okhrana, or certain elements within it, had had a hand in it.
Apparently, so the story went, the priest was on a train going to Baku when, and the facts of this last trip were, at best, somewhat sketchy; in short, the 'Old Man' did not arrive at his destination. Retracing the 'Old Priests' footsteps, a badly decomposed body of an old man vaguely fitting the description of the priest, was later found by a shepherd lying by the railway line, but it was in no state to be properly identified. The young acolyte when he heard knew in an instant that this was the body of his friend and mentor.
When, the cold harsh realisation, slowly at first, sank in that, apart from the voice, he was all alone. Wherever he went, and whatever he did from now on, he was going to be doing it on his own; but that was not so great a problem, infact it was actually a blessing, nobody could get in the way of the task inhand. He reasoned now that he had, like 'The Lone Wolf' before him, learned enough to survive, out there, in the forest.
All of this had served to strengthen the young man's resolve. Whatever few feelings that had still remained after his wife's death, left him the day he learned of the old man's death. Looking back on it, that second day was to prove, amongst others, to be one of the most significant days of his life. Many years later he privately confided to a visiting diplomat that, on that first day, his life irrevocably had changed; he didn't mention the second. But those two days set in motion a chain of events, which would affect every living person in that twentieth century world.
From that second day on, he felt nothing for anyone or anything anymore. The 'Voice of God' eventually returned, so he vowed that he would carry on, 'Fight the Good Fight', but with greater determination than ever before. If not for 'The Voice', he would do it for dead wife and mentor.
After their deaths, and really to take his mind off things, he had fallen in with some Lithuanian 'Ne`er-Do-Wells'. They had been hounded, by agents of 'The Okhrana' from one European city to another. After an incident, best forgotten, in London; the young trail-blazer gave up on them and headed home.
When 'Revolution' broke out in Petrograd in February 1917, and the cork did finally fly off the bottle, he had been exiled in Siberia. Whilst soldiers had been slaughtered in their millions on the Eastern and Western fronts; he had spent the time fishing and hunting, out in the Siberian wilderness. Even though he had kept himself to himself, this was not going to stop him entering the fray; even if he was stuck out in the back-end butt of nowhere. He knew that the best opportunity for change had come. So he walked out of the camp gates and three days later arrived at the nearest railway. Shortly afterwards he started out on the long journey back to Petrograd.
No longer a young boy, the thirty-nine year-old man was one of the first leading Bolsheviks to enter the city. Lenin was already there, so he set about courting the 'Favour' of someone he truly admired. In turn Lenin recognised that here was a man who could be relied upon to get the job done. An informal but unlikely alliance had been struck.
Even now, two years on, he could not stop himself smiling nostalgically at those naive days. One minute you were on the run, the next you were in power; 'July Days' came and went ...
Aah, it was so different now! Yes times had moved on, but only just. In the good old days there was a sense of camaraderie and derring-do. Sadly all of that had been lost. The trappings of 'Position and Power' had taken the romance out of Revolution. You couldn't exactly go out and rob a bank, keep half and give the rest to the party, like you could back then. Well you could, but you'd be wasting your time. Money was worthless!
Then Leon Trotsky had arrived; this had really upset the apple cart. The moment he entered the room was the moment that the 'Georgian Revolutionary' felt that he had been sidelined. Dislike and suspicion between the two was instantaneous; but this time it was Trotsky that got the upper hand. As far as the young revolutionary from Tbilisi was concerned, there would not be another. But Trotsky not only had upset him, ridiculing him in public was one thing, but the haughty 'Jew' had also upset most of the other 'Senior' Bolsheviks, with his snide comments, arrogance and general condescension.
Give him enough time, he thought, and surely Trotsky would hang himself. All he had to do was sit on the riverbank and wait. But at the moment there was no likelihood of that eventuality, because Trotsky had the unbending ear of Lenin.
So, for the time being, he would keep his head down and wait for the right moment. There were no doubts in his mind that this moment would arrive. God had told him that it would! All things, God had said, come to those that wait. So he waited.
The most recent setback had occurred only the week before. Stalin had known for a long-time that the Kremlin was riddled with secret tunnels, all the palaces were, and many hours were spent wandering through the labyrinth of tunnels. He could discretely wander about, watching and listening-in on the private conversations, and the secret meetings of, the 'Nomenclatura'.
As the uninvited guest, he had been privy to many a secret briefing. He had list
ened in to the conversations of wives, children and the asides of visiting dignitaries. On one such occasion he had watched one of the wives, of the 'Great and the Good', drinking her tea from cups still adorned with the crests of the 'Two Headed Eagle'. It made his stomach turn, such hypocrites he thought. At another afternoon soiree the 'Wives of The Great and The Good', he had discovered just how unpopular he was, with the wives of those 'Ivory Tower' revolutionaries. From now on he made a special point of eavesdropping on their tea parties. Another time, found him watching Lenin's wife undress, when he was in the full knowledge that Vladimir Illyvich was screwing his whore in one of the Kremlins adjacent wings. Returning to his office he found himself meticulously recording the information. If ever there was to be a day of reckoning, he would have all of the information at hand and it would include all of their personal likes and dislikes and all of their indiscretions. He reasoned quietly to himself, that all this information would come in handy at some point in the future.
On one such tour he found himself listening in on a conversation between Leon Trotsky, Lenin and a mystery guest. He later found out, via contacts in the guardroom, that this third party was none other than Auguste Gerhardt. This worried him. Before the 'Great War' Gerhardt had been the star detective of 'The Okhrana'. By rights he should be enjoying his retirement in the salons of Paris. What was he doing here, and why was he talking to those two? The answer to those questions soon became clear and, when they did, the unfeeling Georgian found himself gripped in near panic. They were talking about him; from now on, 'The Commissar for The Nationalities' eavesdropped on nearly all of their meetings.
The gist of their conversations was this, that acting on Trotsky's request, with the full endorsement of Lenin, Yakov Sverdlov was conducting an undercover investigation into the activities of the Kevshors and the 'Commissar For The Nationalities'. At the moment there was no direct link between the two but, if one could be found, and it appeared that it had; then it, the secret dossier Sverdlov was compiling was going to be submitted, unannounced, at an extraordinary meeting of The Central Committee.
Sverdlov had conveniently removed himself to Oryol to write up the report. On his return the Commissar would be denounced and then summarily executed. The problem at the moment was the dossier was not complete. The main source of information came from an unreliable associate of Gerhardt's, a low life named Anatoly Goldstein. But Trotsky and his confederate had told Lenin that direct confrontation with 'The Commissar ...' was not advised; an irrefutable case had to be built against him, all holes were to be plugged and, the case, Lenin insisted, was to be watertight, before the decisive blow could be struck.
If the middle-aged Commissar had had any feelings left, he might have felt betrayed by Lenin's complicity in all of this, but he did not in-fact he understood. Was it not a fact that during the 'July Days' Lenin had owed his political survival to him, when through his Kevshor contacts, they had spirited the great man away to the safety of Finland? Was it not a fact that because of him, the same network had passed on communiqués from Finland to the 'Central Committee? Was it not he, despite frequent interruptions from Kerensky's thugs and bully-boys, who had kept the printing presses going throughout the shaky summer of 1917? So, if this was gratitude, then Vladimir Ilyvich could also expect something, a little present, in return. But then Fanya Kaplan[16], God bless her, beat him to it!
Kaplan had been a God-send. The subsequent aftermath of the assassination attempt had been somewhat chaotic. The Sverdlov investigation had been temporarily derailed by subsequent events and the confusion had bought 'The Georgian' time. 'The Terror' was in full swing and the Bolshevik rump state was gripped in panic; also, the outcome of the 'Civil War' now seemed to be hanging in the balance.
One minute, 'White Armies' were marching on Moscow; then the next they seemed to march south into the Ukraine to join up with nationalists there. Nevertheless this was the least of the Georgian's problems. Yes he knew that the 'White' snake had too many heads, but that beast could be dealt with at a later date.
But the interesting thing was the rapid decline in Lenin health. As he spied on Vladimir Iilyvich, the 'Great Man' appeared to be sinking right before his eyes. Some days he would chair meetings holding his head in his hands; in others he would fall asleep, or appear confused as to what he should be doing. Other times he appeared perfectly normal, but it was becoming apparently, all too clear, that the real seat of power was slowly shifting in the direction of Leon Trotsky. This he knew was a situation well worth exploiting; he knew that there were others in the party who could never stomach the idea of Leon Trotsky taking over the reins of power. The wily Georgian knew that here was a situation that could, if properly stage managed, work out in his favour.
After watching in on another of Gerhardt and Trotsky meetings, he had been intrigued to find out that it was now considered a matter of the utmost urgency to remove the bullet from the base of Vladimir Iilyvich's neck. The problem was that no surgeons could be found to do so, or knew how to, or would even conduct the operation on Lenin. They were left with no alternative, but to get two eminent German doctors to come to Moscow. But this presented all kinds of problems. Were they to come to Russia via Finland or Poland? And even if they took the Polish route could they get through the White lines to the west.
The young Georgian suddenly realised that he had been getting rather complacent; it was time for more of a 'Hands On' approach. He had wrongly placed too much trust in Vladimir Iilyvich. It was obvious Trotsky was pulling the strings, and had successfully poisoned the great mans mind against him. Both would pay dearly for this, but he would have to move fast. He would have to get a hold of that dossier, and then, in that order, deal with the other two. There was no alternative; he would have to bring his plans forward. The germ of an idea was already beginning to take shape in his mind. He would deal with the sickly Lenin first and then with the arrogant Jew at a later date; both in that order.
He put the crucifix, the icon and the rosary beads away. After all when all was said and done, he was here to do 'Gods' work in Russia, that was understood. If he had to sell his grandmother, then so-be-it, and if he had to walk over ALL of the 'Ivory-Tower Bolshevik Philosophers', then it would be done as a matter of expedience. Make no mistake 'God's' work in Russia would be done! The other thing was he knew that his spiritual master liked to test him. Aaaah yes; he liked to play his little games with all things earthly.
An extraordinary meeting of 'The Kevshor Council' had been called. He knew exactly what to do. No one was going to stitch him up like this, too much time had been invested in getting here. No one was going to get one over on Joseph Djugashvilli, latterly known as Stalin, no one was going to get the better of him.
He lit up his pipe and then walked over to the coat stand. He put on his coat and left the building.
Chapter Twelve
Sergo Ordzhonikidze replaced the receiver. He thought long and hard for a moment, and then put on his coat. The journey was routine, the driver picked him up and they then drove across town. The drive passed without incident.
The car pulled up outside a block of flats. The passenger spoke to the driver and entered the building. Sergo Ordzhonikidze climbed the stairs up to the third floor. He knocked on the door and waited. A moment later a bolt on the inside was undone and he walked into the flat. He took off his coat and walked in to a large dining room. He took his place and waited.
One by one they entered and took their seats. In front of him was 'The Little Worm' Yagoda. Every time the dwarfs steely gaze fixed on him it made his stomach turn. He never understood what 'The Boss' saw in him. Steadily the seats filled, all that remained now was for 'The Boss' to arrive.
Finally the door flew open and he entered, eschewing the usual understated sense of modesty. But Sergo Ordzhonikidze could feel the charge of electricity pass through the room. Here was a man of destiny with a thousand and one things on his mind. He watched him fling his coat off and waited for him to address t
his extraordinary meeting. He started with the preliminaries.
Right from the beginning of their acquaintance, this sense of understated modesty had been one of the things that had endeared Sergo Ordzhonikidze to Joseph Stalin.
They had known each other since their Baku days; they had always got on well. There they had been young idealists whose raison d'être had been to spread mischief, revolution and line their own pockets; this they had excelled at. In the Caucasus their activities had involved the publishing of anti Tsarist propaganda; the robbing of banks and the running of guns to anyone who wanted them.
One thing that had struck him about 'The Boss' was his never ending reserves of cunning and resourcefulness. He was as Tolstoy might have said a cross between a hedgehog and a fox. Grigoriy Ordzhonikidze, better known to his friends as Sergo, mused with his thoughts. He slowly became aware of a knocking on the table and it was getting louder by the moment. He looked up and looked across to where the noise was coming from. Stalin was fixing him with a firm stare; he knew it was time to concentrate.
'Comrades, we now have to bring our plans forward, if we don't we risk exposure. Somehow our organisation has been infiltrated. I won't go into the details, but the situation is serious, so I will give each of you a brown envelope, inside it will be your instructions of what I want you to do! Once you have read it and committed it to memory. You will throw your instructions into the grate over there'
Ordzhonikidze and the others watched as 'The Boss' gave out the envelopes. Stalin then sat down, whilst those present read their orders. Once all of the letters had been placed in the grate, Stalin signalled to those present that the meeting was over. They were all, except Mikoyan and himself, free to go.