by Ben Bova
Beria was the first to move. He knelt by the fallen man and took one wrist in his hand, feeling for a pulse.
"Is he dead?" Molotov asked in a whisper.
Beria shook his head. "Not yet. Gagarin! Call the doctors. Quickly."
Grigori picked up the phone and dialed the medical office.
"The General Secretary has collapsed!" he shouted, surprised at the strength of his own voice. "Send his doctors immediately to the conference room!"
Khrushchev had come around the table. He bent over the prostrate form of Stalin. "He looks in a bad way."
"Yes," said Beria.
"Perhaps the doctors can save him," Molotov said.
"I doubt it," Beria replied. Gagarin realized that although Khrushchev had strong ties with the Red Army, the Kremlin medical unit reported to Lavrentii Beria.
No one in the Kremlin slept that night. The rest of Moscow knew nothing of Stalin's collapse. The army commanders, the soldiers in the field, the rest of the world were not told.
There were rumors, of course. But in the wartime capital, blacked out on the information front almost as totally as the streets were blacked out against enemy bombers each night, rumors could move only slowly. Even the rumor of Stalin's death.
At two in the morning Beria called a meeting of the full Council in the big ministers' meeting chamber. Weak, shaking inside, racked with pain, Grigori Gagarin took his customary place at the long side table among the other sleepy-eyed and grumbling secretaries who each took down the minutes for their various ministers.
The meeting was very brief. Beria took the chair at the head of the polished conference table and announced that Josef Stalin had died of a stroke. Shocked silence, absolute and complete. It seemed to stretch for hours. Beria finally resumed speaking, assuring the ministers that the Party and the government would go on without the Great One. If there was any suspicion of foul play, none was mentioned.
The government would be run by a committee of four:
Beria, Molotov, Khrushchev and Malenkov. Each of the ministers expressed shock, grief, unending sorrow. Each went home, so Gagarin thought, wrapped in a whirlpool of fear and uncertainty—yet he thought he sensed relief, also, that the tyrant was dead.
More likely it was his own feelings that he was projecting onto the others.
If Beria or the others suspected anything, they gave no hint of it. Grigori felt no triumph in his success, no sense of exhilaration. Perhaps I've saved Yuri, he thought. That was the best he could hope for. He knew he was dying, too. He felt sick at heart, unclean, as if something was eating his body and soul from within. He knew he had been used as a weapon against the leader of his country, but used by whom? The English, or Beria, or one of the others? More likely all of them, acting together. What did it matter? He had just murdered a man; a monstrous man, perhaps, but a human being nonetheless. Now it was time to finish the job.
He went back to Stalin's office after the Council of Ministers meeting. Two of Beria's uniformed guards were at the door, but they let Gagarin through after he showed his identification and explained that he had to sort out the Great One's papers.
He dared not lock the door for fear that the click of the bolt would alert the guards and make them suspicious. But once the door was shut behind him Grigori went straight to the desk. Wrapping his blistered hand in his handkerchief, he removed the heavy dark wafer from the drawer and replaced it in the cylindrical lead container inside the Sword's hilt. The wafer seemed hot to the touch, almost glowing, even through the handkerchief. As he hung the Sword back on the wall he thought. That's the most I can do to protect you, Yuri. Unless they take the Sword apart and examine it, they will never know what I did. Even after I'm dead, they'll have no reason to arrest you. My final act, little brother. May you live long and in peace, Yuri.
Then Grigori Gagarin left Stalin's office for the final time. Bundled in his fur-lined coat against the night cold, he left the Kremlin through the gate he always used and headed home toward his apartment block.
Tanks were rumbling through the streets. Taking up positions on Red Square, Grigori thought. But no. As he walked out onto the square he saw that they were clanking past Lenin's Tomb and heading off into the district where the ministers' apartment buildings stood. For protection?
Why would the ministers need the Army's protection?
Grigori felt a shudder of confusion wash through his pain-racked body.
A few flakes of snow were sifting down through the pools of light from the street lamps. There was virtually no wind.
Dawn would be breaking in another hour. Grigori walked out onto the Moskvoretskii Bridge and stared down at the dark swirling ice-cold water. For long minutes he stood there gazing into the empty darkness, his body racked with pain, his soul in even worse torment. But then he thought of Yuri again and knew there was one final act he had to accomplish.
Chapter 16
Berlin, 13 April
Josef Goebbels rushed so fast through the dank concrete corridors that he almost tripped himself on his club foot. He was a little man, gauntly thin, cheekbones protruding, eyes gleaming as though fevered. As Minister of Information for the Third Reich, he had not been able to bring good news to his Führer for many, many months.
Today was very different.
Hitler was in his situation room, as usual, sitting on a high stool bending over the relief map of the city. General Heinrici was with him and a few of Himmler's SS dolts. Eva Braun had apparently just stepped into the room from the door that led to the Führer's private quarters. She was an odd one, Goebbels thought: not bright at all, yet she seemed to have some sixth sense about her. She always managed to be present when there was momentous news.
"My Führer!" Goebbels fairly shouted as he hurried toward the map table.
Hitler turned, his face as gray as the uniform he wore, his eyes bleary.
"My Führer, Stalin is dead! The monster has died! Rejoice!"
"Stalin, you say?"
"Yes! Yes!" Goebbels was almost prancing with joy.
"The Bolshevik devil is roasting in hell."
Hitler climbed down stiffly from his stool. He seemed more shaken by the news than elated. "Stalin. Dead."
"Yes, my Führer," said Goebbels. "The Russians have not released the news to their own people yet, but our agents have gotten the word to us and the Swedish embassy has confirmed it. He died last night, of a stroke."
"Strange," mused Hitler, stepping toward Goebbels almost as if sleepwalking. "Of the three of them, I would have thought Roosevelt would be the first to die. Cripples don't live as long as healthy men."
General Heinrici had come around the map table, his hard-bitten features looking wary, distrustful. "Is this report reliable?" he asked.
"Completely," said Goebbels. "The man is dead. I would think that there will be considerable confusion in the Russian ranks, at least for the next few days, perhaps even longer."
Heinrici nodded. "It is possible."
"After all," Goebbels prattled on, "imagine how chaotic our situation would be if the Führer should suddenly . . ."
He stopped himself, realizing where he was heading.
But Hitler gave him a weak smile. "Stalin is really dead. What a wonderful birthday present." He brightened, saw his mistress standing in the doorway on the other side of the room. "Eva!" he called. "Did you hear? My astrologer was correct! He said that good news would come before my birthday."
She smiled prettily.
Hitler suddenly clapped his hands together with something of his old vigor. He turned to Heinrici. "Now we will deal with these mongrel hordes, eh, General? While they are confused and without a leader to give them orders we will drive them from the sacred soil of Germany!"
The expression on Heinrici's face was quite clear to Goebbels.
Drive the Russians out of Germany? the general seemed to be saying. With what? We don't have enough troops to defend Berlin, let alone go over to the attack.
But Hein
rici said nothing as Hitler marched back to the map and began dictating orders to move army units that may or may not still exist.
Goebbels beamed at his Führer. It's going to be all right, he told himself. Last night he was so gloomy that I thought he was contemplating suicide. But now he is invigorated again. He will pull us through this crisis, just as he's done so often in the past. The astrologer was right; the darkest days have passed. Now we will triumph!
Washington, D.C., April 13
It was mid-morning when the news reached the White House. Roosevelt happened to be meeting with a delegation of farmers from Missouri, led by the Vice President, peppery little Harry Truman.
Grace Tully stepped into the office while the President was in the middle of one his stories about campaigning in the midwest.
"Excuse me, Mr. President. Pardon the interruption, gentlemen, but there is an urgent call from Mr. Stettinius, sir."
Roosevelt's jaunty grin did not fade by a single iota. "The Secretary of State had better have something very important to say," he told the gaggle of farmers sitting around his broad desk.
"Let's hope he can say it in less than an hour," Truman shot back. "Those people from State seem to take all morning just to say hello!"
The farmers laughed delightedly. Not only were they actually speaking with the President, but they were hearing inside gossip, as well. There would be plenty to tell the folks back home.
Roosevelt's grin evaporated almost the instant he put the phone to his ear. He nodded grimly, said, "Thank you, Edward," then returned the phone to its cradle.
"Gentlemen," he said to the group, "something momentous has happened. Josef Stalin has died."
Silence. No one knew what to say.
Roosevelt continued, "I hope you will excuse me if I cut this visit short. There's a lot that I have to do now."
They all mumbled their understanding and their thanks for his time. Truman shepherded them to the door that led to the corridor. Just before he closed it he said, loud enough for Roosevelt to hear, "Well, that's one less Commie in the world."
"Harry!" called the President.
Truman instantly wheeled about, his face going red.
"Harry, would you be good enough to inform Sam Rayburn and the committee chairmen of this?"
"Yessir, Mr. President. Certainly."
"Thank you."
"They'll all want to see you, you know."
"Yes, of course. Later this afternoon, I suppose. Set up a meeting with Missy, will you."
"Yes, of course." The Vice President closed the door softly.
Roosevelt leaned back in his wheelchair. His secretary was still standing at the doorway to her office.
"Call Henry Stimson for me, will you please? I want him to bring General Marshall here at once. And get Ike's headquarters on the phone and find out if they've heard the news."
She nodded and stepped back into her own office. Alone for a few moments, Roosevelt thought. Uncle Joe has died.
That's unexpected. It could mean a lot of changes. A lot of changes.
He reached across the desk and flicked on his intercom.
"Get Harry Hopkins in here, too, would you? He's got to go to Moscow to see what the new line-up there will be like."
Kustrin. April 13
"Dead? He's dead?"
The news hit Marshal Zhukov like a thunderbolt.
The Man of Steel dead. It was unthinkable. Yet undoubtedly true.
"There's more," said Colonel Novikov.
The two men were walking through the stubble of what had once been an orchard, just outside the German town of Kustrin, on the bank of the River Oder. They spoke quietly together, a hundred meters from the nearest listening ear.
Their uniforms were stained with mud and dust, the working clothes of military men in the midst of a ceaseless, grinding campaign.
The trees of the orchard had been shattered to splinters, their stumps blasted, the ground scorched. A blackened burned-out Tiger tank hulked nearby, one tread splayed along the ground like a metallic snake. All that remained of the stone farmhouse was a scattering of smoking rubble.
Shell craters pockmarked the ground and the stench of death still hung in the air, a week after the last decaying body had been buried. This was the site of a minor skirmish between the advancing Soviet armies and the stubbornly retreating Germans. The battle here had taken no more than a single springtime afternoon. A few kilometers away, the town of Kustrin itself no longer existed as anything more than a splotch on a map. The buildings had been leveled, the inhabitants who had not been killed had fled westward, away from the advancing Russians.
"More?" Zhukov asked curtly.
Novikov was the intelligence officer on his staff, the son of a man Zhukov had known from cadet days. The father had been killed in Stalin's purges before the war; Zhukov had been able to protect the youngster, but just barely.
Now, after nearly four years of continuous fighting, young Novikov looked as gray and worn as his father had.
"Beria was shot," said the colonel. "An army unit surrounded his apartment building last night shortly after the Great One died and one of the officers shot him right there in his own living room."
Zhukov whistled with astonishment. That must have been Khrushchev's work. Cutting off the head of the MGB's private army. Making certain the Red Army won't have to battle the political police. Good for Nikita! He knows when to act. I didn't realize he had the guts for it.
"None of this has been told to the people yet," Novikov went on. "Moscow radio will announce later today that Stalin has been taken ill. By tonight they will say that his illness is very grave. They haven't decided how long to let it go before they announce his death."
"Break the news to the people carefully," Zhukov said.
"Yes, that's the right way to go about it. No sense putting them into a panic. Let them get accustomed to the idea that their great leader will no longer be with them."
If Novikov recognized the irony in the marshal's tone he gave no sign of it. "The story about Beria will be decided upon later, from what I hear."
"Who will take the task of supreme commander of the armies?" Zhukov asked.
The colonel shrugged. "No one knows."
Zhukov turned his eyes toward the west, where the sun was setting fire-red and glowering against the crest of a ridge that had been denuded by artillery fire.
"Who takes Berlin?" Zhukov asked. "Do we do it, or Koniev?" He almost spat the last word.
The colonel shrugged again and repeated, "No one knows."
"It mustn't be Koniev. Whatever happens, we must get to Berlin before he does."
Chapter 17
London, 14 April
Deep below 10 Downing Street, the underground cabinet room was silent and empty except for two men. Winston Churchill sat at the center of the long, green baize-covered table, puffing thoughtfully on an enormous black cigar. His chair was pushed sideways to face Anthony Eden, sitting beside him. Eden looked tired, Churchill thought. No, more than tired. Worse than tired.
He looked weighted with guilt.
"It's been done, then," said Churchill.
Eden nodded somberly. "Apparently they've shot Beria straight off. They will announce a central committee of four: Malenkov, Bulganin, Khrushchev and Molotov."
"I know Molotov. An utterly humorless man." Churchill drew hard on the cigar, making its tip glow bright red in the dimly lit chamber. He blew a cloud of thick gray smoke toward the criss-cross beams of the low ceiling.
"The rest?" Eden asked.
"Nonentities, as far as I am concerned. Do you have files on them?"
"Yes, of course. Rather sketchy, I'm afraid."
"We'll have to dig out more information, then."
"Yes."
Churchill studied the younger man's handsome face for a silent moment. "Do you believe that they suspected Beria was in on it?"
With a slight shake of his head, Eden replied, "No, there's no indication that they
know anything at all about Broadsword. They simply shot the man to get him out of their way. I suppose, in their way of thinking, it was better than risking a civil war."
Churchill pulled on the cigar again. "I must speak with the President."
"Yes."
The Prime Minister picked up the phone on the table in front of him and ordered a call to Washington. "This changes everything," he said as he replaced the phone on its cradle.
"I understand."
Taking the cigar from his lips, Churchill said, "We had to do it, you know. It makes no sense to win the war against Hitler only to face an intransigent Stalin who's taken half of Europe into his tyrannical clutches."
"I realize that, Winston," said Eden unhappily. "It's only that . . ."
"That what?"
"If this should ever leak out."
"That we assassinated a tyrant? History would hail us as heroes."
"What would the Russians do?"
Churchill thought a moment. Then, "The new leadership would secretly congratulate us, I think."
"And then there's the man who actually did the deed. The radiation must have effected him too. Is he dead, or do they have him in custody? Was he able to do the job without compromising the entire plan, or does the Kremlin already know that we murdered Stalin?"
"There's no indication that they know, you said."
Eden shook his head. "No. Not yet, at least."
"Nor will there be, I'm sure. And if they suspect anything, they will blame it on Beria, whom they've already silenced."
"It's so frightfully risky, Winston."
"It is my risk," Churchill said, his voice rumbling deep in his chest. "Broadsword was my plan. I took the full responsibility.
If it is exposed, I will accept the blame." Then he smiled impishly. "Or the credit."
The telephone in front of him buzzed once. "That would be the President."
"Yes."
Eden started to push his chair back, but Churchill motioned for him to stay as he picked up the phone.