The Big Cats were in Serpukhov, and the Fat Cats in Moscow were not going to stay and wait for them to get there. Well off families of factory directors, managers, doctors, university professors, and businessmen were all on the move. Politburo ministers were nervously emptying their files and throwing them into fireplaces, then having the ashes thrown out the windows of the tall brick buildings as a freezing rain set in on the beleaguered city.
The following morning that rain had frozen to a hard frost on the streets, soiled by the dark char and soot of everything that had burned the previous night—black snow—not the code word, but the reality now. Then in the midst of all this turmoil, with thousands on the streets streaming out of every hovel and home in the southern districts, a fire started. It swept out of Kutuzova, leapt over the tortuous bends of the Moscow River, burned through the famous Monastery of the Sacred Virgin, the underground railway station, the Telegraph Central Relay Station, Academy of Arts, and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and Trade on Smolenskaja Street.
Chaos reigned, and though there was no more than that single German motorcycle company anywhere near the sector, the people saw the fire as the burning edge of the invading army, if not the work of the German soldiers themselves. But they had nothing to do with it. All the while, the men of the 61st Company, realizing that they were not going to push through that inner defense ring alone, simply rounded up a stray pig and were holed up in a few outlying houses having the best meal they had in several days.
It was fear that now swept through the city like the flames and smoke of that fire, and Beria knew that the only thing that would stop it was greater fear. He resolved to go to the Kremlin himself, and make a direct appeal to Kirov under the guise of delivering an important report on the status of the outlying defenses. It was now or never, he thought.
The long black armored limousine rolled through Red Square, the red flag pennants marking it as Beria’s personal car flapping stiffly in the cold wind. Beria was out in a huff, pulling the collar of his greatcoat high around his neck, with four tough looking security men at his side. He tramped off through the gates, gaining easy entry, as he was the head of the NKVD itself, the man responsible for all internal security.
In through the labyrinthine outer offices of the Kremlin he went, climbing one staircase after another, up and up, to the guarded alcoves of Sergei Kirov’s inner sanctum near the secret Red Archives. He made his boisterous presence known as he passed through one security checkpoint after another, and though his guards had to leave their submachine guns behind, no one dared to search Beria himself. One look of those beady eyes behind cold round eyeglasses was enough to freeze the blood of any man.
Kirov was at his map table, reading over the radio address he intended to deliver that night to try and bolster the morale of the defense. A visit from Beria at that hour was the farthest thing from his mind, but when the aid appeared at the door, saying the security man had come with an urgent report, he set down his speech and told the man to show him in. Moments later the short man entered alone, still bundled in that thick trench coat, his face grim and features seemingly frozen in a sneer.
“The city is burning,” he said to Kirov. “The fire is burning through the museum district.”
“I’ve seen it from the window,” said Kirov.
“A pity,” said Beria. “At least the Russian State Library is on that side of the Kremlin. Those books will take a good long while to burn through, all the seedy history of our republic, the revolution, and all that came before it. Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, Pushkin and all the rest—up in smoke.”
“Those books cannot be destroyed by fire,” said Kirov. “Nor can this republic be destroyed that way, or by the fire from that German artillery.”
“Something from your speech?” said Beria, a mocking grin on his face. “Going to play like Churchill now and rally the peasants? Believe me, they won’t be out there huddled around their radio sets listening to you when you give your little speech—even if the electricity does manage to stay on tonight. The people you really need to convince are already on the roads leading north, off to their winter villas. Yes, the rich have fled, and the poor will now follow them. Panic has started and it will soon become a riot. Unless you allow me and my men to restore order, the city will collapse into utter chaos!”
“I will address the people within the hour,” said Kirov.
“And say what?” Beria had a strange look on his face, his eyes glazed and distant. “You think you can pull this city together with a radio speech? It will take my men three days to restore order west of the river, and by that time the Germans will be there.”
“And by that time we will have the Siberians,” said Kirov.
“Karpov’s men? That conniving bastard. You think those troops will remain loyal to anyone else but him?”
Kirov gave Beria a strange look. “Compose yourself,” he said calmly. “You are chief of the NKVD, and the last man I would think to be spouting defeatist talk at a time like this.”
“I know who I am,” said Beria, “but do you? Berzin told me the government was all set to move to Leningrad. I made all the arrangements, organized the security, commandeered all the necessary trains. It was going to be a very long train ride from here to Leningrad, with plenty of time for any dirty business that needed doing. And it would look as if the Germans were to blame. Then, all of a sudden, you get a hankering to make speeches and you want to turn the defense of the capital over to foreign troops! You should have allowed me to carry out Black Snow three days ago. This is what you get for that hesitation, and these foolish thoughts of fighting it out here to the bitter end… Well, I’m sorry to say it will be the bitter end, Mister General Secretary, at least for you.”
“What are you talking about?” Kirov was suddenly angry.
“Yes,” said Beria. “You should have gone to Leningrad, but I heard you were warned to stay away from that place. It twists your guts a bit to know that was where you were supposed to die…”
Beria’s words struck Kirov like a hammer. How could he know that? What was this man saying now? What was going on here? “Explain yourself,” he said in a low voice, “before I call in the guards and have your sorry ass hauled out of here to a firing squad.”
“Not likely,” said Beria with a thin smile. “No, not likely. I’ve brought all three of my NKVD Battalions back from the front with me. No use leaving them there. I’ll need every man I can get to manage the evacuation when this is finally over.”
“There isn’t going to be an evacuation!” Kirov raised his voice. “This is what you came here to report to me tonight, your vacillation and fear, this insulting defeatist nonsense? You are relieved of your post! I’ll hand the job over to Berzin if you can’t learn to follow orders.”
“Oh, there will be an evacuation,” said Beria, “but not a speech. No. You are mistaken Mister General Secretary. I have not failed to follow my orders at all—just not your orders. And now, I have a present to deliver to you, from Ivan Volkov.”
His hand had been in his greatcoat pocket all along, and now he pulled out a dull black pistol, aiming it right at the General Secretary’s heart. For Lavrentiy Beria was never quite the man he seemed to be, not since he had met that Lieutenant in Armavir when Denikin’s Whites caught him there. He learned a great deal from that young man, fantastic things that he was amazed to see happening before his own eyes over the years. He soon knew why they called that young Lieutenant the Prophet, and why he was able to outmaneuver Denikin so easily. For the Lieutenant was, of course, none other than Ivan Volkov, and Lavrentiy Beria was one of his men, deeply infiltrated into the Soviet security apparatus over the decades, and now finally ready to deliver the master stroke that Volkov hoped would win the war.
*
At that moment Sergei Kirov realized all of this in a single heartbeat. Volkov! He must have gotten to Beria somehow, who knows when? My God, to think that man has been in his camp all these years as head of the NKVD!
His
eyes were riveted on that pistol, and for the briefest moment all he could think of was that dark, awful moment in the prison cell at Baku when he called on young Josef Stalin, and held a pistol very much like that one in his trembling hand. Then it had been his finger on the trigger, his hand on the throat of fate and time itself. And when he clenched his fist, all history died, the decades collapsed, along with everything Stalin built in his sad Red Socialist State. All the terror and misery and fear he brought into the world vanished in that single moment—the Gulags, the Great Purge, and all the rest. In its place there now yawned an enormous vacuum, seemingly endless, interminable, a well of uncertainty so deep that Kirov despaired to think that it was now incumbent upon him alone to fill that void.
And this had been his life’s work, laboring through the revolution, finally seizing control of the Bolshevik movement, toppling Denikin and his Whites, holding the remnant of those forces back in Orenburg, and dueling endlessly with the very man who sent this demon here tonight to pull that pistol from his coat pocket. Now it would be Beria’s finger on the trigger, and by extension, the hand of Ivan Volkov on the throat of fate. What terrible chasm might open here in the next instant, should that bullet ever find his heart?
Beria’s eyes were dark, lifeless, unfeeling and cold. His hand was firm and steady, with not the slightest tremor of fear or hesitation. The smile faded from his face, which was now dull and slack, no passion, no feeling, simply fate.
Outside the room, the two guards by the high wooden doors were jolted by the sharp sound of three pistol shots coming from within. The moved with urgent quickness, quickly unsoldering their submachine guns and bursting in through the doors, eyes wide and every muscle taught with the tension of that moment.
Part VIII
The Devil’s Adjutant
“Those who play with the devil's toys will be brought by degrees to wield his sword.”
― Buckminster Fuller
Chapter 22
Ivan Volkov had been a very busy man of late. After nervous hours and days, restlessly marking the progress of his cross Volga offensive, he relented, in utter frustration, and left the matter to his Generals. He knew the war was now reaching at critical point, where the success of failure of the German offensive was now hanging in the balance. With this in mind, he took it upon himself to take a very long airship ride to Germany, to meet with the one man he knew who would decide the fate of the war, Adolf Hitler.
Now the broad grey shape of the airship Baku gleamed in the sun above the stony ramparts of Wolfsschanze, the Wolf’s Lair, high in the Bavarian Alps. It was so named for the nickname adopted by Hitler himself, used only by his closest associates and confidants, for he called himself the “Wolf.” The name was, in fact, an old German form for Adolf, and so it suited him well.
Like the object of his Army’s efforts near Moscow at that moment, his lair was defended by three concentric circles of defense, but Volkov had floated effortlessly above them all, much to the chagrin of the chief security officer, who frowned when he saw the guns bristling from the gondolas overhead. Even though Hitler was well protected behind nearly 7 feet of steel reinforced concrete, nothing the small recoilless rifles on the airship could have bothered, he was still compelled to order three 88mm flak guns to keep the ship under close observation, their barrels not directly aimed at it out of diplomatic courtesy, but rounds chambered and crews at the ready nonetheless.
It was here that the men who built and ran the Third Reich would meet to plan and plot their ongoing campaigns. Key officers like Hermann Goering, Wilhelm Keitel, Alfred Jodl, and other vital ministers like Speer, Todt, and Ribbentrop all took the measure of one another, the apostles of doom seated at the long wooden table where the Wolf himself presided over long strategy sessions, and often dull rambling over the machinations of industry and the wartime economy.
Now, however, Volkov would be granted a rare private conference with the Führer, only the second time he had actually met the man face to face since the Orenburg Federation declared its support for the Reich. Unlike the other adjutants who called, men like Mussolini, and ministers from prostrate republics in Germany’s sphere of influence, Ivan Volkov was determined to make a real difference with this valuable session. He was not called “the Prophet” without good reason, and he had been watching the rapid onslaught of German forces with increasing anxiety as this critical campaign developed like a darkening winter storm.
The two men shook hands warmly, seated at the large map table beneath a massive banner adorned with the German Swastika, and two golden eagles to either side, the symbols of power and prestige that now cast their long shadows over Europe.
“Herr Hitler,” said Volkov, avoiding the more common salute that used his name, and not wishing to call the man ‘my Führer’ just yet. Volkov was a head of state, and saw himself as an equal in every respect. The two men smiled as they seated themselves, Hitler in his plain brown suit, Volkov in grey.
“I suppose you are here to ask how soon you can expect a visit from General Manstein,” said Hitler.
“He is just east of Boguchar,” said Volkov, knowing exactly where the German SS Korps was now operating, for he had poured over daily reports on their progress for many weeks. They were speaking in German, a language Volkov had studied as a young man, and one he had deliberately cultivated after that, knowing it would serve him well given the future course of events, of which he was well aware.
“And your own offensive?” Hitler’s dark eyes glittered as he spoke, soulless eyes that seemed endless pits when he stared at a man; eyes that could kindle and burn with utter rage that might border on insanity when he was disturbed, though those moments had not been frequent at this point in the war.
“Our troops are nearing Serafimovich, a vital crossing point on the Don bend.” It was Volkov’s first lie, for his divisions had only recently suffered a considerable setback near that place, thrown back seven kilometers by a sudden counterattack mounted by fresh Soviet troops. But Hitler would not know that yet, and so the little white lie would serve to get him through these inevitable opening rounds in their discussion.
They talked of divisions, and generals, and objectives and timetables, agreeing that it seemed possible, even likely, that the SS would continue moving east and reach a point where the two sides could join hands and cut the Soviet Union in two by so doing.
“You will see,” said Hitler. “By winter we will have isolated the entire southern region, and by then we should also have Moscow. That should make an end of this Sergei Kirov, and the collapse of his Soviet Republic should follow in short order.”
“I would hope so,” said Volkov, “but that may be much more difficult than you think, Herr Hitler.”
“The Soviets can be stubborn,” said Hitler dismissively. “Yet when my Generals are planning our next moves from the stateroom in the Kremlin, all that will count for little.”
“Your operation Typhoon is making good progress?” Volkov asked, finally getting round to the heart of the matter at hand.”
“Good progress? My 4th Panzergruppe is twenty kilometers from the Kremlin as we speak, and it has just been reinforced with a fresh division transferred from France, our 2nd Panzer Division. I would have sent Hoepner another, but it was necessary to pay lip service to Rommel in North Africa. That little theater has produced dismal results, but we are finally getting him some of the new tanks he has been needing. We shall see if they make any difference. The British have stolen a march on us with this new heavy tank they deployed there.”
“Indeed,” said Volkov, for he had raked through all the intelligence he could find on that question, and found the matter very unsettling.
“They do not have these tanks in any great numbers,” said Hitler, “but from all accounts, they were too much for our older panzers to handle. But we have taken a lesson, and now have several new medium and heavy tank designs, most already in production, a few others still in the design phase.” He gestured to a sheaf o
f papers and diagrams that had been laid out for review, and Volkov nodded as he took his appraisal.
“This one looks very interesting,” he said, singling out a design that he knew would be among Germany’s very best, if not the best medium tank ever designed in the war once it got past its early teething troubles. What do you call it?”
“Ah, that is our Panzerkamfwagen V, the Panther, one of the Big Cats. At 45 tons, it will be nearly twice as heavy as our PzKfw IV models, but still considered a medium tank given the plans we have. Look here,” Hitler shoved another diagram towards his guest. “This is our new Lion, but he is only a cub at this point at 55 tons. This tank is only now starting to reach selected front line units, but we are ramping up production with the full weight of our industrial base now. Soon the real Lion will appear, our 70 ton model, though considering our progress to date, we may not even need many to conclude this matter.”
Somehow reducing the greatest conflagration the world would ever see to the status of a simple ‘matter’ seemed to unnerve Volkov. He knew he needed to impress upon Hitler the gravity of this moment, and the decisions he would need to take in the months ahead.
“They look wonderful,” he said. “Perhaps I might even persuade you to sell me a few. We are still struggling with older designs, though I have something new in the works. I trust that your missile programs are also receiving considerable resources?”
“Of course. That was another surprise the British had for us, though it appears they only managed to mount their early prototypes on a few ships. Their new anti aircraft rocket has been somewhat troublesome, and we are attempting to discover how they are managing to guide and direct these missiles—most likely by using a new type of radar. Well, have no worries, we were not given an invitation to the ball, but we will soon crash the party in any wise. I have several new designs testing now, and we have found the information you have shared with us most useful. I suppose a battalion of new Lions would be the least we could do to thank you for your assistance.”
Winter Storm Page 18