The Margin of Evil!

by Simon Boxall

Mikoyan left and Stalin was left alone. He lit his pipe and looked out of the window. Down below he could see Zinoviev and Kamenev talking to the young good-looking Bukharin. He watched for a minute and then turned away from the window. He opened the file and looked at the page. Someone, or persons unknown had obviously got there first. He had not noticed at first, but when two pages appeared to not make any sense and fast-forward; was clear, even to his meticulous eye, what had happened. Some of the files contents had been removed.

  He thought on. The people that he had left behind to oversee Sverdlov's flat, had told him on the nights second visit, that a different doctor had called that very morning. Also they had reported that this doctor had stayed an unusually long time. So much so that they had made the excuse of interrupting the doctor, just to see exactly what he was up to. But who was this mysterious 'Locum' doctor, if he was a doctor. What was this person up to, that was what he needed to know? There was a knock on the door.

  'Comrade Lenin wants to see you right now. He's in his study.' The messenger left, Stalin wondered why he had been summoned to his quarters. His inner voice, 'The Voice of God', was telling him to tread carefully.

  The voice inside his head was saying, 'Beware of 'Bourgeois Editors', dressed up in 'Revolutionaries' clothing.'

  In the hallway, his secretary called over, 'This arrived for you, it was left for you at the 'Troitskie Gate'. Stalin looked at it momentarily and then stuffed it without a seconds thought into his coat pocket.

  He knocked on the door and waited. The voice on the other side bade him to enter. The 'Great Man' was sitting at his desk. Trotsky and Dzerzhinsky were flanking him.

  'Take a seat Joseph.' Lenin said.

  He looked at Vladimir Iilyvich. He could see that 'The Leader of All the Russian Soviets' was looking tired and haggard. He could also see that the colour had drained out of his body, the face now looked sallow, the knuckles were white and the lines on the brow were long and drawn. From where the Georgian sat it looked to him that the 'Leader of The Revolution' was not long of this world. Deep within it was very hard for him to suppress the feeling of satisfaction that the 'Botched' operation had been a great success.

  'Joseph, I have some bad news to tell you. I'm afraid that Comrade Sverdlov is dead. He died last night in Oryol.'

  'What are we going to do? Yakov Mikhaylovich was, and is, irreplaceable. I was exiled with him during the war at Turukhansk. I knew him well.'

  'I know Joseph, I know. It is a tragic loss for all of us. But the revolution must go on, we have so much more to achieve. We haven't even scratched the surface yet off all we need to achieve. This brings me to why I have asked you to come here.' Lenin cleared his throat; his voice had descended into little more than a hoarse whisper. 'I want you to organise Comrade Sverdlov's funeral for me. But it will be a funeral with a difference; it will be a state funeral,' Lenin said.

  Stalin looked around him. Trotsky and Dzerzhinsky just stared at him, both said nothing.

  'If there is anything more that I can do, just let me know,' Stalin said.

  With that he got up and made to leave Lenin's office. He picked up his coat and was halfway to the door, when Trotsky's voice spoke.

  'Funny you should say Comrade 'Koba', there is. You can stop listening in on other peoples telephone calls; you can stop all your subterfuges, you can stop all you're ...'

  Stalin turned around and faced the three of them. Lenin was holding his head in his hands. Suddenly he looked up.

  'Comrades please! This is neither the time, nor the place to talk of such things. Please show some respect for the dead! Please!!'

  'But I think it is Comrade. This man has accused me of subterfuge. What subterfuges, tell me? Surely an accused man has the right of reply?'

  Stalin realised, since Lenin had tried to defuse the situation, the initiative had passed to him.

  'Yes it is true that I listen in on some conversations; but not ALL! You want to know the reason! Then I will tell you! There are so called Bolsheviks, Revolutionaries that are known to all of us, that are no more than bourgeois scum. People like you Trotsky, who claim to serve the revolution, but only serve themselves!'

  'Enough, I will not have dissent in the party. Remember at this moment Comrades are fighting for the very survival of socialism! I will not let dissenters within the party throw away all that we have achieved,' Vladimir Iilyvich said.

  'Then I propose comrade Lenin that we all speak with one voice. Here and now we outlaw all dissent and factionalism within the party! But can Comrade Trotsky prove that everything that I have done has been to the detriment of the revolution? I think he cannot and he knows that he cannot! Gentlemen if you don't mind, I will now take my leave.'

  With that he left Lenin's study and hurried back to his own office. Locking the door behind him and, disappearing into the wall, he scurried like a rat right back to Lenin's study. He had a feeling that there was going to be a lot more fallout from this meeting. He was pretty sure that he had only heard the half of it. He was right, but this time he would listen in on the conversation from the safe vantage point on the inside of the wall.

  Lenin was sitting there. He looked even more tired than he did ten minutes previously. The other two had repositioned themselves around the desk. They were facing him.

  'Look he's loyal; he does everything I ask of him ... I've told you he gets things done!' Lenin said.

  'I don't trust him, that's all! His eaves dropping, is only the latest in a whole host of, shall we say, remarkable coincidences,' Trotsky said.

  'We agreed that if your suspicions were founded, then we had to build a case. I agree with Comrade Lenin that Koba is a good man. He is reliable. If he is rotten, as you say, Comrade Trotsky, then bring me the evidence so I can deal with him.'

  'The man gives me the creeps. Sometimes you get the feeling that he knows what is about to happen, before it actually happens!'

  'Come on Trotsky, this is pure paranoia. He's Georgian, they`re all like that, what's the word I'm looking for, I know inscrutable. Trotsky, as I've said to you and Sverdlov, when he was alive, produce the evidence; so far you have failed to do so! I will not victimise a good servant of the revolution! I simply will not do this!' There was a moment's silence after Lenin had said this.

  Then Dzerzhinsky spoke. 'Don't you think it's more than a coincidence that Sverdlov dies at this point in time?'

  'Look, don't read anymore into this than it is; pure and simple, he died of Spanish Flu. And that is all there is of it!'

  'And that is all there is to it', Stalin thought as he quietly retraced his footsteps back to his quarters. Back at his office he searched through his 'Trench Coat' pockets for his pipe. His hand came across the small letter that he had been given by his secretary when he had been on his way to the meeting in Lenin's office. He opened it and could not believe what he saw. That feeling of quiet satisfaction that had been there a moment before had completely evaporated in an instant as he read the short letter. It read:

  Dearest Koba,

  I can tell you right now that writing this note has been eight years, and one World War, and two Revolution's, in the making. They say that time tempers the soul; I can profoundly tell you that it does not! I'm back in Moscow to make good my promise, the promise I made to you in Sidney Street, remember, that promise? Yes, the one I made to you before you ran out on me ... That I take 'good' care of my friends and enemies! I am here to kill you Koba. Enjoy whatever time you have left, because the hourglass, for you my friend, is almost empty.

  Yours sincerely

  Peter P

  P.S. Nina sends her love!

  Stalin read the letter, sat down, and read it again. He had completely forgotten about the events of 1910 and 1911. Now how long had it been, he thought, yes, all of that had happened, in the East London of nineteen ten and eleven. So much water had gone under the bridge since those desperately exciting December, January days. The cataclysmic events that had taken place in the world during the inte
rvening years had nearly erased 'Sidney Street' from his mind.

  The hope was, and had been, that Peter Piaktow and his associates, had long before acquainted themselves with the hangmen's noose; or, better still, had stopped a policeman's bullet. But this was not the case and this time he knew something had to be done, and quickly, about it. Time was of the essence now, no room for error, once again he must act fast and this time decisively.

  As well he knew, Peter P, was both a ruthless and determined adversary. He was much more than any backstreet adversary. He knew from bitter experience that he was up against the best, any mistakes would exact a very high price.

  He drew on his pipe and smiled. 'The Good Lord' loved to test him, and test him dearly he did and, with Peter, 'The Almighty', had pitted him against the best. He sighed again, so Nina was still alive, he felt something stir deep down inside.

  He wondered if she had ever betrayed him to Gardstein. The letter made no mention of Gardstein still being alive. No he was dead, he must`ve died in London. If word was to get out, about his involvement with these Latvians, it could ruin everything.

  There was nothing else for it, this time he would have to do it on his own. This time he would have to kill the Latvians once and for all. History would be rewritten here; quite simply it had to be. But this was, and he knew only too well, a mammoth task. Rewriting history was only a minor detail, which could, under the present circumstances, wait a little while longer.

  But before that could be done, he - Joseph Stalin - had to take stock of recent events. The first had been this Goldstein fly in the ointment. How much did this petty criminal find out; and before he had him intercepted and eliminated, whom did he communicate it to? Yes that weasel was working for the slippery Auguste Gerhardt. Now it turned out that Auguste Gerhardt, was in cahoots with Trotsky and Lenin. This was worrying because, irascible old Lev had got Vladimir Illyvich half onside. It was clear that the great man was sitting on the fence, but had instructed Sverdlov to investigate. He got up and opened his office window and then tipped the contents of his pipe out into the night. He shut the window and stuffed some tobacco into the pipe. Stalin then lit the pipe and lent back into his chair and thought.

  There was no doubt in his mind that his problems were one by one multiplying but he had faced much worse before. What was it that the old mentor back at the Seminary had said? Yes, that was it, 'Crisis, Strengthens Character', and the emphasis was definitely on, 'Strengthens'.

  His mind rewound back to Trotsky and Lenin. The plan was to deal with Lenin first and then to deal with Trotsky second. Also there was, 'The Bitch,' Krupskaya, she would have to be dealt with; she could, and had, caused a lot of problems. But she was not yet a priority; yes she was a nuisance, but she would, like the rest of them the so called intellectuals, have to wait their turn. His mind was running away with itself, he must slow it down, so that he could get a firm grip on the situation. The danger was, if the devil got in the detail, he would end up missing something, as well he knew; in these situations every angle had to be covered, but he could not deal with Peter the 'P' and his cronies on his own.

  This would require the services of someone special. He knew that his 'Kevshor' associates were not up to the task. This would require someone special. But whom? Molotov couldn't do anything like that, he was a loyal servant and that was it; Sergo could do many things, but did not possess the necessary cunning to take Peter on; Mikoyan, had nearly botched the Lenin operation and caused an international incident with the two German doctors. Sending him after the Latvian would be sending a lamb to the slaughter. It had to be someone else; a someone-else that none of his inner-circle knew about.

  His mind turned to Gerhardt, but he was not the person he wanted, it was someone else. What the name of this long term, ex Okhrana officer he was looking for now working for 'The Cheka', he couldn't remember; but he had seen something, when browsing through the file, that had given him good cause to think that the answer to his present problems lay with this man. There were others like this man, but damn it for the life of him he could not remember his name. But he knew that this man possessed all the qualities that he was looking for.

  Those qualities were, in no particular order: Selfless, completely devoted to duty and the task in hand; a patriot; this person also wholeheartedly believed that Bolshevism was only a means to a better end.

  So he went over to one of the filing cabinets and pulled out the file he held on Gerhardt and his associates. Yes, that was the name, Georgii Radetzky. He walked over to another cabinet, and withdrew Radetzky's file, then returned to his desk. He opened the file and flicked through the pages, there was something else as well. Gerhardt had noticed it as well, of course, that was why he had always used him. Flicking through the file, it became immediately obvious why in the autumn of nineteen fourteen Gerhardt had tried to use every delaying tactic in the book to stop this man joining the army.

  Stalin had lost all track of time it was now four o' clock in the morning; but one thing was for certain; this man Georgii Radetzky might be, no definitely was, the answer to his prayers.

  He picked up Peter's letter and looked at it again. Another thing had occurred to him and this had obviously not yet occurred to the murdering Latvian. And this was why he needed to secure the services of Georgii Radetzky. Everybody believed that the wily Georgian had been internally exiled during nineteen ten and eleven. If any of this was to get out, beyond any doubt, he was finished. But if he could use Gerhardt's man to good effect, he could deal decisively with Trotsky and the others.

  Stalin poured himself vodka, thought again, and went through the available options. After every single avenue had been explored; all roads brought him back and converged on Georgii Radetzky. But as he well knew Radetzky was a patriot, there was always the danger that he might associate Joseph Stalin with the decadent socialist transition, and not necessarily with the future wellbeing of Russia.

  He picked up the phone, and barked, 'Get me Yezhov ... I don't care if it's the middle of the night ... Yes, yes ... Turf him out of bed, and bring him to me.' He slammed the receiver down and then lent back in his chair. Things were definitely better than they had been a few hours previous. Maybe he could now rest easy for a while and excise the Peter P from his mind. If the Latvian wanted confrontation, 'then bring it on', if his hunch was right, he would this time be getting more than he bargained for if he chose to mess with Joseph Stalin and his new, and yet to be briefed, associate Georgii Radetzky.

  He wondered how Radetzky would take it, if he didn't like it, maybe a little bit of gentle persuasion would be required. But either way Georgii Radetzky was his man.

  Part Three

  Chapter Fifteen

  To the untrained eye the man walking down the gangplank, one hand on the rail, the other firmly gripped on a large gunny bag, looked like any other paid-off 'Salty Dog'. He was anything but ...

  Halfway down the man stopped. He breathed in the air. The stench from the river was as foul as it ever had been. It caused the bile, momentarily, to rise up in the sailor's stomach.

  He walked towards the shed at the other end of the jetty. Just before he went in, he turned to take one last look at the 'Bangkok Star', the rusted old tramp steamer that had been home for the last six months. For a moment he stood there, sighed and took everything in; the deck rails; the long funnel; the masts; the black rusted sides and the portholes. For a minute he felt a tinge of sadness and then the man turned around and entered the shed. Like all port immigration facilities the shed's insides were shabby. A couple of officials, dressed in uniform sat behind a table. Like all petty officials they liked to impress and be impressed. He walked up to them.

  'Papers,' one of them said.

  He handed them over. The official took it and then flicked through them. He looked up and said, 'So you're a subject of, 'The Empire of 'All' The Russia's', eh. Leave, Mr Piaktow[17], to stay for one year.' After a moment or two, he stamped it and then handed them back.

>   'Actually, I'm a Latvian,' Peter replied. He could have kicked himself, but it just came out; really he didn't know why he'd said it but he had and the officer had failed to pick up on the significance of what had just been said.

  'Anything to declare,' the other official said ignoring his comments.

  Piaktow shook his head.

  'Then you don't mind if we look through it.'

  He handed over the large gunny bag. The official emptied the contents out onto the table. There was a change of clothing, some soiled underwear, a picture of an older woman. He said it was his mother. In actual fact it was a picture of a Swedish girlfriend, but he said it was his mother hoping to draw some sympathy from the expressionless guard. There was also a cutthroat razor, a bar of whale soap, some stale tobacco, some tatty letters and a very large padlocked Orthodox bible. Peter nervously watched the official pick it up, shake it, eye it up and down and then put it back down.

  Still holding onto the bag the customs man said, 'Rather large to be carrying around?'

  'My late Mother's', he said pointing to her photograph. 'It's all I have of hers,' he said.

  After he had put everything back in the bag, ensuring that the bible was where he could easily access it, Peter made off for the city. He thought to himself, so this was London, the epicentre of the known universe. This was the place where he had heard and read so much about.

  As far as he was concerned it was one thing to read about it, but it was another to personally experience it. To Peter, the East End of London, had never looked, or smelt, so good; yes he thought, London was like a whore, you paid for your pleasures, and then you rode her all night long! Peter felt pleased with himself and the foul air on his lips had never tasted so good.

  From Surrey docks he headed off in a Westerly direction. He followed the bend of the river around towards the Isle of Dogs. As he walked, Peter marvelled at things he had never seen before. There were overland and underground railways. Trains frequently moved in both directions, some bore freight, others ferried passengers to and from unknown destinations. Horse carts laboured in the streets, people hurried, children played in the street, people shouted and went everywhere about their business. Every now and then a policeman walked past. Whistles blew, klaxons sounded, horns honked and clock's regularly struck the quarter, half, and the hour.