Stalin's Final Sting

by Andrew Turpin

  As Omar gave pursuit, the unmistakable bulky shapes of two US Army Humvees, painted in khaki and green camouflage, turned the corner at the bottom of the street, right in front of the black pickup. The truck veered at the last moment to avoid colliding with them, appeared to skid on gravel, and smashed into the perimeter wall of a house on the left of the street, where it flipped over and came to rest on its roof in a drainage ditch, wheels spinning in the air.

  Three soldiers carrying rifles jumped from the first Humvee and ran up to the stricken pickup, pointing their weapons at the driver’s cab. Storey got out of the second Humvee and walked up to join them.

  Omar braked to a halt twenty yards from the Humvees, and Johnson, Jayne, and Haroon jumped out.

  One of the soldiers was pointing his rifle and screaming and swearing at the driver of the pickup to get out. Slowly, the door of the inverted Toyota swung open and the driver crawled out onto the gravel and dust, blood streaming down the right side of his face from a cut on his forehead, his clothing disheveled. It was Javed.

  Javed raised his hands in the air in a token gesture of surrender. At the same time, a green Afghan National Police pickup appeared from around the corner and headed toward them, its siren wailing, headlights on, blue emergency roof lights flashing.

  The police vehicle braked to a halt and an officer wearing a blue-gray uniform and a peaked cap and carrying a pair of steel handcuffs got out and walked over to the group.

  Johnson moved closer and caught Javed’s eye. The Afghan just looked blankly at him and shook his head.

  “The bastard deserved it,” Javed said. “For what he did. You know he killed my wife, my daughter. He had it coming to him.”

  “I was going to greet you with that old phrase, salaam alaikum. Peace be upon you. But it’s not appropriate—is it?” Johnson said. “And I know what Severinov did. But nothing can justify what you’ve just done, shooting down that aircraft. I had plans to bring Severinov to justice my own way. And I had hoped to meet with you to discuss all that—but you’ve been running and ducking. You didn’t give me a chance.”

  Storey took a couple of steps toward Johnson. “We need to get him taken into the police headquarters,” he said. “Maybe you can talk to him in depth later. But I don’t want to hang around here. We’re going to attract attention, maybe Taliban attention. We need to move.”

  Johnson nodded reluctantly. “We never do seem to quite complete our meetings as intended, do we?” he said to Javed. “I feel we have unfinished business.”

  He would have liked to grill Javed in more depth there and then. But after a quick conversation between the police officer, Johnson, and Storey, it was agreed that the police should take charge of Javed and drive him to their headquarters for questioning, as Storey had suggested. The officers pushed Javed into the back of the green Ford, his hands now cuffed tightly behind his back.

  As he watched the police unit drive off, Johnson found himself with mixed feelings.

  Javed had been caught, and Watson would now be prosecuted for his illegal activities over the years. But death in a plane crash had robbed Johnson of his chance to deliver at least some form of justice to Yuri Severinov for all the evil that the Russian had done during the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan and, it had to be assumed, during the years since.

  Rather than being jubilant, Johnson suddenly felt as though he had been cheated in a major way.

  Storey walked over to Johnson. “I’ve just had a message about the Putin flight. There was only one of his planes in the end, not two. They diverted it to Bagram, and he’s on the ground safely there.”

  Bagram was the largest US military base in Afghanistan, about twenty-five miles north of Kabul, with two long runways and a sprawling mass of support buildings, housing for soldiers and aircrews, and offices.

  Johnson nodded. “Okay, good. I don’t think having an American Stinger missile disappear up Putin’s backside while the US is more or less in charge on the ground here would have done much for Russian-American relations, and definitely not for Russian-Afghan relations. Looks like Severinov was the sacrificial lamb in this case, then. Not that Putin will care about that.”

  “Actually, he wasn’t the sacrificial lamb,” Storey said.

  “What do you mean?” Johnson asked.

  “I’ve just heard that Severinov wasn’t on his own plane—the one that got shot down.”

  Johnson felt a jolt go through him, and there were a few seconds of silence before he replied.

  “You what?” Johnson said.

  “He was on Putin’s plane. The only people on the Severinov jet were the pilot, the copilot, a couple of crew, and one of Severinov’s assistants.”

  Johnson stared at Storey. “You’re joking.”

  But it was very clear that the US lieutenant colonel was not joking. “No. Severinov’s on the ground at Bagram right now.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Thursday, June 13, 2013

  Bagram Airfield

  The meeting room at Bagram Airfield fell silent as the TV news bulletin began. Johnson leaned back in his chair to watch the large screen on the wall, as did Sally O’Hara, sitting opposite him, and Jayne, to his right. A fan standing on a table whirred away behind them in a vain attempt to keep the room cool.

  “Following President Obama’s dismissal of Kurt Donnerstein yesterday, speculation is mounting that the former energy secretary will face a series of as-yet unspecified charges relating to alleged corruption and abuse of public office involving using his position to make substantial financial gains,” the TV newscaster said. “Sources close to the White House and to the House of Representatives indicate that it is possible Donnerstein could even face charges relating to alleged arms deals in Afghanistan involving Stinger missiles that were carried out as long ago as 1988, as well as more recent breaches of federal law.”

  The bulletin went on to state that Donnerstein remained under close questioning by senior FBI agents in New York City following his arrest three days earlier at a rented apartment in Brooklyn.

  “It has emerged from FBI sources that the downfall of Donnerstein followed the unearthing of secret documents from files compiled by the KGB, the former intelligence service of the Soviet Union, that were held in Kabul. It was previously thought that all such files had been destroyed in the late 1980s after the Soviet withdrawal from Afghanistan,” the newscaster said. “The sources indicated that a private US investigator was behind the sourcing of the documents, but his identity is not known at this stage.”

  Johnson fought to stop a wry grin from spreading across his face. A media and political storm had erupted following the arrest of Donnerstein and the details that had emerged from the photographs of the KGB files that Abdul Akbari had spirited out of Afghanistan.

  The CNN bulletin continued with a separate story about Vladimir Putin’s jet having a narrow escape after the plane landing ahead of his at Kabul Airport was shot down in what was believed to be another Taliban attack. The reporter detailed how the wreckage of the plane, a privately owned Bombardier Global Express, had narrowly missed a residential area and had smashed into the southeastern end of the runway. Attempts were ongoing to determine the identities of those on board, including crew, all of whom had died. To Johnson’s relief, there was no link to the previous story about Donnerstein. Doubtless that would all emerge in time, but it was too soon now.

  Meanwhile, Robert Watson had been formally charged at his hospital bed with a series of offenses, historic and more current, spanning espionage, corruption, illegal arms trading, and the theft of federal funds and property. His case too had generated worldwide news coverage and widespread condemnation that reflected badly on those at Langley who had supported him for so long. Some of the background material and footage was rehashed from when Watson had initially fled the US following Johnson’s Yugoslav war crimes inquiry the previous year.

  Latest indications from the FBI, via Vic, had been that Watson was likely to be in the
hospital for another week and would then be taken to Federal Plaza, where further charges could follow. It was almost certain that Watson would be refused bail while waiting to be arraigned in front of a judge. “If Watson isn’t a flight risk, then I don’t know who is,” Vic had said.

  O’Hara turned to Johnson and winked. “The ripples from the stone you threw into the pond seem to be spreading far and wide,” she said calmly. “From Manhattan to Moscow.”

  “It looks that way,” Johnson said.

  Johnson, Jayne, Haroon, and O’Hara, along with Seb Storey, had been ferried in a US Army Osprey helicopter on a short flight from Camp Phoenix to Bagram to assist with interviews taking place with Severinov. Now they were waiting for the Russian to be brought to the meeting room.

  Clearly he’s being spared some of the more extreme interviewing techniques, Johnson thought to himself. A pity.

  A couple of minutes later, Storey took a call giving him an update on Javed Hasrat, who continued to be detained at the Afghan National Police headquarters, a little farther along Bibi Mahru from the US embassy.

  Johnson had requested a meeting with Javed, just for the purposes of closure more than anything. But Storey told him that the police were not going to cooperate given that they had their own interrogation process well underway—a successful prosecution was inevitable.

  Johnson had felt a great deal of empathy for Javed in the late ’80s, when their anti-Soviet agendas had been aligned, but certainly did not envy him now. Javed’s fate was a grim one, and ironically, it was quite possible he would end up back at Pul-e-Charkhi, from which he had so fortuitously escaped in 1988, but this time for a much longer stint.

  The price of revenge.

  Johnson knew that soon he would have to brief media and senior US political investigators on what had happened and on some of the findings he had uncovered about all the players in this complex historical web of events. Already there had been interview requests from Kabul correspondents of The New York Times and CNN after someone at the US embassy had pointed them in his direction. It would be interesting to see what journalists—especially Russian ones—made of the twin tales of revenge involving Javed and Severinov.

  Even more interesting might be the impact of the news that Stalin’s oligarch grandson had been following firmly in the family tradition of barbaric behavior—and had almost succeeded in buying up a large chunk of Afghanistan’s oil sector.

  “I’ve received one interesting piece of information back from the police interrogation team holding Javed,” Storey said.

  “What’s that?” Johnson asked.

  “Apparently Javed told officers he couldn’t understand why Severinov was not on the plane that he had shot down. He explained exactly why he had done it: it was revenge for the killing of his wife and youngest daughter by a Soviet helicopter unit operating under Severinov’s orders in 1988. He also told them he had installed a tracker device in Severinov’s prospectus document or file or something and that his tracker app had indicated clearly that Severinov was on the plane he had hit with a Stinger.”

  “Except he obviously wasn’t.”

  “Indeed. It will be interesting to find out why.”

  The door opened and in walked Severinov, wearing a heavy cotton white shirt with gold cufflinks, black slacks, and deeply polished brown shoes, flanked by two US Army officers. He took two steps, then stood and glared first at Johnson, then at Storey and Haroon.

  The tables are turned, Johnson thought. It was exactly ten days since he had escaped from Severinov’s property in eastern Kabul. He would love to see the Russian taken into custody by Afghan police and properly prosecuted.

  “Sit down,” Johnson said. “So nice to see you again,” he added, with as much sarcasm as he could muster.

  Severinov didn’t reply but just walked, almost in slow motion, to a chair on the opposite side of the long table and sat, folding his arms as he did so.

  “So, you had a narrow escape, it seems,” Johnson said.

  “It seems so,” Severinov said. “Just like you.”

  Johnson withheld the temptation to guffaw. “We can talk about our previous encounter at your shack later. But I’d like to know why you weren’t on your own plane coming here. Why were you on your president’s jet?”

  “I didn’t invite myself, you asshole,” Severinov said. “He wanted me. I was instructed to join him.”

  “Right. So what happened to all your papers, documents, files?” Johnson asked, ignoring the insult. He wasn’t going to directly mention the tracker. “Why weren’t they with you?”

  Severinov looked slightly nonplussed. “I had some with me. My assistant, Zinaida, took the others on my plane.”

  That explained that. Zinaida had died along with the crew.

  “Good thing you followed your leader’s instructions, then,” Johnson said. He paused, then added, “Just like your father and your mother followed Josef Stalin’s instructions—your grandfather’s instructions.”

  Johnson needed to let Severinov know that he was aware of his family situation and that none of his secrets were secret any longer.

  Severinov’s face froze momentarily. “What are you talking about?” he said.

  “Was that why you were after Javed?” Johnson asked. “Because of your half brother?”

  Severinov’s face visibly tensed and went red. He clenched his fist, and after a second’s pause, banged it down on the table, rattling the drinking glasses that stood next to a jug of water, and swore in Russian. “How the hell do you know about my family?”

  Johnson shrugged. “Old KGB files.”

  “Bullshit. Bullshit! They were all destroyed. I know that for a fact.” He stood suddenly and lurched toward Johnson, only to be pulled back by the two US military men standing behind him, who with lightning speed grabbed him by the collar and jerked him back into his chair.

  “He is the one who deserves to die,” Severinov spat, “not Zinaida or my flight crew. That Javed is an animal, like all the other dukhi. My father always told me, be a bee that stings for the Motherland. That’s what I’ve always done. It’s about the Motherland, not about me.”

  Privately, Johnson had to agree that what Javed had done to Severinov’s half brother was indeed animalistic.

  Johnson shook his head. “So what about those helicopter attacks you ordered on the villages in the Khost-Gardez Pass, the ones that killed Javed’s family and others,” he said. “How would you characterize those?”

  Severinov leaned back and gazed at Johnson with a look of pure contempt. “What do you know? My orders were the orders given to me,” Severinov said. “I had no choice. It was that or the Lubyanka.”

  The usual KGB operative’s defense, albeit probably true.

  “Speaking of bees stinging for the Motherland, I saw that quote on the wall of your shack in Kabul,” Johnson said. “But it was attributed to Stalin, your grandfather, not your father.”

  “Josef Stalin gave the original print to my father,” Severinov said. “It was a little private saying. He taught it to me.”

  “So all this was inspired by Stalin, then?” Johnson asked.

  “In one sense, yes,” Severinov said.

  Jayne folded her arms and turned away. “Stalin’s final sting,” she murmured under her breath, just loud enough for Johnson to hear.

  “What’s that?” Severinov said, turning to her.

  “I said, the gunship attack on Wazrar was Stalin’s final sting,” Jayne said, turning back to him. “Or was it the killing of Baz, who you also murdered there a couple of weeks ago? I have to say, Stalin taught your father and you very well. Chips off the old block.”

  “You’re talking complete shit,” Severinov said.

  “You’re a real credit to your grandfather,” Jayne continued. “He would have been proud of you. I guess it’s all in the genes. A triumph of DNA.”

  The sarcasm seemed to wash over Severinov almost unnoticed. Rather than responding, he leaned forward, eyeballed
Johnson, and said menacingly, “And you and the rest of your CIA scum deserve to be stung for what you did, supplying the mujahideen with missiles and weapons.”

  Severinov paused and appeared to collect himself. “I would like to request that you keep my historical family situation private,” he said. “The leadership does not want it made public because of the Stalin connection. It reflects badly on him.”

  This is laughable, Johnson thought. “I’m not going to even comment on that. Anyway, perhaps you can tell me why you continued to admire Stalin despite his atrocities—quite apart from what he did to your family.”

  Severinov shrugged. “He was a strong leader. He saw off Hitler and modernized and industrialized the country. Simple. He actually inspired thousands. Inspired me.”

  Johnson found it difficult to think of an appropriate retort and instead let his silence do the talking.

  “How did your family cope with what he did?” Johnson asked eventually. “It would have finished off most.”

  Severinov pressed his lips together. “We forgot and we moved on. My mother never spoke of it and my father hardly ever did. I don’t think of it.”

  “I can understand that,” Johnson said. “But how did you find out, if they never spoke of it?”

  Severinov screwed up his face, as if in some pain. “One night, after my father had been drinking again, he told me. I was eighteen years old by then. I was utterly shocked—of course, until then I had believed Ioseb simply to be my older brother. But I’m not going to talk about that with you.”

  Johnson sighed inwardly, finding himself sympathizing with Severinov on the issue, if on nothing else the Russian had done. Further questioning could wait. There would be other opportunities.

  “Look,” Johnson said. “You need to know I’ll be pushing the ICC as hard as I can to try to get you into court. Either way, I will be telling the story as fully as possible. Maybe someone, somewhere, might learn from it.”