Death of a Tyrant Page 15

  “No, Comrade Commissar. Are they for your collection?” Tatiana asked, with apparent innocence.

  Beria looked up. “That is no business of yours, Tatiana. Now tell me, is the Princess well?”

  “She is recovering. She has suffered no permanent damage. Do you wish her disposed of?”

  Beria appeared to hesitate. “Not at this time,” he said. “It may be possible to get more information out of her. But that she remains alive must be known to just you and me.”

  “That will be difficult, Comrade Commissar.”

  “If it was a simple job I would give it to someone else, Tatiana. You will remove the Princess from the Lyubyanka, secretly, and then follow my instructions. She will be delivered to a specific gulag, as a number, nothing more, and she will remain there…until I choose to send for her again. Do you understand this?”

  “Yes,” Tatiana said. “I still think it is a risk. If her identity ever became known…”

  “There would be nothing anyone could do about it. We have a signed confession from her agent as to what she really is.”

  “With respect, Comrade Commissar, but that confession is a lie.” Beria’s head came up. “The man Morgan is not a British agent,” Tatiana said. “He is nothing more than he claims, a hack journalist who wished to write a book about his father.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “It is my business to interrogate people, and to know when they are telling the truth.”

  Beria leaned back in his chair. “Who else knows this?”

  Tatiana shrugged. “I do not think anyone knows this, in Russia. You told me to get a confession, and I have done that. It was really very simple. Too simple. But the confession is there, and my assistants heard him make it. Of course, if inquiries were to be made in England, the British Secret Service would know that we have the wrong man…”

  “Are you saying that the man we want is still at large?”

  “I am saying that Morgan is not the man we want, Comrade Commissar. As to who that is, well…it is possible it was the man calling himself Smith. But due to that fool Radnarski he died before I could properly interrogate him.”

  Beria pointed with his pencil. “As commander of the interrogation squad, you are ultimately responsible for what happened.”

  “I understand this, Comrade Commissar.”

  “Ha! I will have to consider the matter. Anyway, this Morgan has served his purpose. Dispose of him.”

  Tatiana drew a deep breath. “I would like Morgan kept alive.”

  “You would like. You have just said there is no information to be got from him.”

  “Nevertheless, Comrade Commissar, I would like him to live. He can go to a gulag, like the Princess.”

  “So, you think you can demand a private prisoner, eh? What is it? A big prick?”

  “I obeyed orders, Comrade Commissar. I sucked him in, seduced him, on the understanding that he was an enemy agent. Now I know that he was not. I do not think he deserves to die.”

  “And you believe he would rather exist in a gulag than be dead?”

  “If he exists in a gulag, however unhappily, he would be alive, Comrade.”

  Beria waved his hand and turned back to the photographs. “Well, the answer is no. Shoot him. Or if you cannot do it yourself, have someone else do it. That is an order. Dismissed.”

  Tatiana never moved, and after a few moments Beria raised his head. “Does Premier Stalin know that the Princess is being sent to a gulag, Comrade Commissar?” Tatiana asked, her face the picture of innocence. Beria stared at her, but she remained looking straight ahead. “It is just that my mother and I have been invited to tea in the Kremlin tomorrow afternoon. I should not like to say the wrong thing.”

  Beria took off his pince-nez and polished the glass. “Do you think that you, a chit of a girl, can blackmail the Commissar for Internal Security?”

  “I am merely asking for direction from my superior officer,” Tatiana pointed out. “Who I desire only to serve, and certainly who I have no wish to make trouble for. Am I to mention those photographs to the Premier, or…” she had a sudden flash of insight. “Will he already have them, as a perpetual memory to a woman he now supposes to be dead?”

  “You understand, Tatiana,” Beria said, “that one day you may be dead yourself.”

  Tatiana’s lips twitched. “But you will not kill me, Comrade Commissar. Not while Premier Stalin lives.”

  “As you say,” Beria agreed. “Very well. Have your Englishman. As Premier Stalin has also commanded that he be executed, we will share a secret, you and I. Will that not be enjoyable?”

  “I am sure it will be, Comrade Commissar.”

  “Yes,” Beria said. “But I think, as we are to be partners in secrets, we should become partners in everything. Do you not agree, Tatiana? I have admired you for a long time, Tatiana Andreievna. That I have never touched you is because you are Jennie Ligachevna’s daughter, and virtually Premier Stalin’s god-daughter, if we any longer have such things. But now I feel I need no longer restrain myself. Do you not agree?”

  Tatiana licked her lips. “I agree, Comrade Commissar. If you command me to do so.”

  “I do command you, Tatiana. I would like you to visit my apartment tonight. You will use the secret entrance; I will give you the combination. We have much to discuss. And celebrate. We shall have a party.” Tatiana bowed her head.

  *

  Tatiana strode through the corridors beneath Lubyanka Square. She felt angry, vicious. More angry and vicious than ever before in her life, even when she had been told of Gregory’s execution. There had been periods of white hot fury, during the War. But these had been immediately expiated. When, as an eighteen-year-old, she had been captured and raped, again and again by the Germans, she had hated all mankind. But she had escaped, and in the process had killed the two men most responsible for her mistreatment. When her half-brother, and first lover, Feodor Ligachev, had drowned in the Pripet Marshes, again she had known nothing but fury…but there had been a whole army on which she could wreak her vengeance, and she had done so with consummate ability and success.

  When the War had ended, she had supposed such extremes of emotion were behind her. She was well aware of her beauty, the hold she exerted on men, and even women, by her sheer presence. But she had resolved that there would be no more involvement, no more personal feelings in her life. Not even to her profit; she needed no profit. Even when she had been informed that it had been Beria’s personal wish that the ex-guerrilla commander should be incorporated in the KGB, and that the quick way to promotion was to give herself to the Commissar, she had not been interested. Actually, she had been repelled by the great moonface and his reputedly obscene desires. And she had known, however much he hinted, and however often he had clearly enjoyed watching her train and then afterwards, watching her bathe, he would never dare take her by force because of her links with Premier Stalin. But she had been unable totally to suppress the instincts of her own nature. She and Gregory Asimov had adventured together to the ultimate degree, lain shoulder to shoulder as they had slain the enemy, and come close to being slain by them, eaten and slept and bathed together. During the War, she had not been interested in a boy. And he, while his heroine-worship had been plain to see, had realised that she was beyond his reach and had sought the comfort of Natasha Renkova’s arms. After Natasha had been taken by the SS and tortured to death, he had been distraught, and she had comforted him. But still as a younger brother.

  Only the end of the War, and their joint recruitment into the KGB, had finally brought them together, sexually. And although she would never have admitted it to anyone, much less Gregory himself, she had fallen in love with him. The thought that he was dead, shot down by his old comrade-in-arms Shatrav… Now she wanted only vengeance. During the War they had called her the Ice Maiden. Now she again wanted to be that demonic figure. But she could not touch Shatrav. At the moment!

  And again she had been betrayed by her own
instincts. She refused to admit that she could have fallen in love with Andrew Morgan. She had entered upon the task of seducing him and destroying him with all the eager venom of her training and personality. That he had been a charming, thoughtful, indeed, nice man, had meant nothing to her in the context of her job. That he was also totally innocent should equally have meant nothing to her; it was part of the Russian system, as created by her Uncle Joe, that if to preserve the State it was necessary a hundred innocents be eliminated in order that one guilty person might also be removed, that was for the good of the State. Perhaps it was this stroke of weakness, surfacing for the first time in her life, causing her to reject that monstrous concept, that was most distressing. But equally distressing was where it had led her. She had sought to raise herself to Beria’s level, or bring him down to hers, by the simple means of using what her brains had told her. And she had stepped into a trap. Last night had been the most terrible of her life. When the German officers had been holding her down and thrusting their filthy members between her legs, she had never doubted that she would destroy them, even if she died doing so.

  So perhaps she could now destroy Lavrenty Beria, and herself at the same time: were she to go to Uncle Joe…but there was the point. She could no longer be sure of Uncle Joe. Not even Mother could be sure of Uncle Joe. That he could be terrible was well known. But always in the past he had kept in reserve at least an aspect of kindness, certainly to her mother and herself, almost of love, at times. Now, the way he looked at them when they had tea together reminded her of a huge lizard, waiting to snake out its tongue and seize and swallow its prey, just as the way he would drift off into an almost somnolent reverie, sometimes scarce appearing to breathe, made her wonder if he was not about to die. That was the most important point. The Premier was getting older every day. The War had taken more out of him than anyone not in his innermost circle suspected. And when he died, what then? There were several aspirants for the all-powerful position. There was Georgy Malenkov, chubby and apparently good-humoured, but petulant and unsure of himself. There was Nikita Kruschev, even more chubby and apparently good-humoured; but Kruschev, who had been a party boss in the Ukraine before and during the Great Patriotic War, had proved himself to be as ruthless as any other member of the Politburo, without, like Malenkov, suggesting that he possessed the single-minded ferocity of Stalin.

  And then there was Lavrenty Beria, who already controlled the immense apparatus that in turn controlled Russia. Beria was Stalin’s obvious successor. He was already making plans for that succession. Thus he had to be accommodated, in everything he wished. There was a horrifying thought. Especially when one had been literally sucked into his embrace, forced to submit to his questing fingers, forced to use one’s lips on every nook and cranny of that white, moon-like body, so like his face and head — and to do all of this in the company of others, also worshipping at the shrine of the future Master of Russia. Horrifying indeed.

  She could do nothing about it. He was omnipotent, and would become more so. She could only suffer those obscene embraces and rise with him. The alternative was to perish. And in the meantime, be as vicious as was her master.

  *

  “Atya,” she said kindly. “How is your leg today?” She knew Atya’s leg ached when it rained.

  Atya was taken entirely by surprise. Tatiana had never inquired after her health before, since her return to duty. “It hurts, Comrade Captain. But my shift ends this afternoon. I shall be able to rest it.” She could hardly wait to get home; she had so much to tell her man.

  “You will have to extend your shift,” Tatiana told her. “By several days. I need you, for special service. Do not worry, you may extend your leave period when you have completed your task. And there will be a bonus. Will you not like that?”

  Atya was still gathering her thoughts. “Of course, Comrade Captain. I am to remain on duty here?”

  “You will accompany me on a mission,” Tatiana told her.

  Despite her concern at having her arrangements disrupted, Atya swelled with pride; she had never been taken, or sent, on a mission before. “We are to deliver the two prisoners,” Tatiana told her. “We shall enjoy doing that, eh?”

  “Oh, yes, Comrade Commissar.” Atya’s brain was working overtime. “They are to be executed?” But that would hardly require several days.

  “No,” Tatiana said. “They are to be delivered to the archipeligo.”

  “Ah,” Atya said. Yes, she thought, several days. And Johnnie was expecting her, tonight. There would be no way of letting him know why she was delayed, or that she was being delayed at all that would be too risky. Would he wait for her? For a while, certainly. But if it was too long a while he would have to assume that she had been found out and arrested, and that therefore his own life was in danger. Then…she did not know what he might do. She would have to risk it. “With respect, Comrade Captain,” she said. “I would like permission to return to my home. I shall be very quick.”

  “Why is this necessary?”

  Atya flushed. “My cat, Comrade Captain. He is very old, and very precious to me. Normally he is fed by my neighbour when I am on duty. But as I am expected back this afternoon, he will no longer be fed, unless I can make another arrangement.”

  She waited, trying to keep her face immobile, as the Captain studied her. Then Tatiana smiled. “We cannot possibly put your dear old cat at risk, Atya. Of course you may go home. Give me your keys.” Atya unclipped the bunch of keys from her belt. “Be sure to return here by six,” Tatiana said. “We will leave as soon as it is dark.”

  “I will be here, Comrade Captain,” Atya said. “And thank you.”

  Tatiana watched her limp up the steps. She thought it odd, and potentially dangerous, that neither she nor anyone else, certainly not Beria, had ever given any thought to the possibility that people like Atya might have lives of their own, outside the confines of the Lyubyanka. An elderly cat, indeed. She picked up the phone on Atya’s desk. “Captain Budenski. Captain? Captain Gosykinya here. The woman Atya Schulenskaya is just leaving the premises. I wish her followed, clandestinely, and a report made on where she goes and who she meets. This report must be delivered to me, personally.”

  “It shall be, Comrade Captain.”

  Tatiana replaced the phone, picked up the valise that had been packed for her, and went down into the cells. She went to where Priscilla was confined, unlocked the door. The Princess sat on the bare floor, leaning against the wall, turned away from the door and its peephole. She only half stirred as the door opened. Tatiana closed it behind her. “Well, Aunt Priscilla,” she said. “How are we today?” The plate of food was untouched, although the water and the vodka had been drunk. “You must eat,” Tatiana remonstrated. “You must keep up your strength. You will need it. If you will not eat, voluntarily, you will have to be force fed. I am sure you will not like that.”

  Now at last Priscilla turned her head. “You mean I am not to be executed?”

  Tatiana chuckled. “Now, whatever gave you that idea, Aunt Priscilla.” She placed her valise in the corner, knelt beside the older woman, stroked the silky golden hair. “You are going somewhere you will be safe. I am taking you there myself. And do you know what is going to happen to you when you reach your destination?” She ran her hand across Priscilla’s shoulders and down her back. “Your guards will rape you, time and again.” She pulled Priscilla’s arms apart and caressed her breasts. “Then they will flog you, time and again.” She stroked Priscilla’s hips and buttocks. “Then they will cut off your hair. This hair too.” She slid her hand over Priscilla’s thighs and between her legs. “Then they will send you into a barracks with other women. These will almost certainly rape you again, time and again. Will you not enjoy all of that, dearest aunt?”

  Priscilla had made no attempt to resist her. Now she looked into her eyes, and Tatiana suddenly felt, almost for the first time in her life, a small spasm of fear. Those grey eyes had looked upon so many people, perhaps ju
st like that, and those people were all dead. But, she reminded herself, people who went to gulags very seldom came back. She stood up. “There are clothes in that valise. Put them on. Be dressed by the time I come back. Or I will beat you myself.”

  “And the man?” Priscilla asked. “Morgan?”

  “I am going to visit him now,” Tatiana said.

  Chapter Seven: The Quest

  “She’s going to be a looker, just like her mother,” Alex said.

  Elaine looked down at the tiny scrap of humanity cradled in her arm. This should have been the most joyous occasion of her life. Instead, she could only think: just like her grandmother. “Nothing?” she asked.

  Alex’s shoulders sagged, and then squared again. Elaine knew that even after several months he had not yet fully recovered from the effects of the two bullets slashing into his body; he had not yet been able to resume his practice. But he could move, and he would improve, they had been promised. He was more fortunate than his stepfather. Joseph might have survived the assassination attempt, just, but it was not anticipated he would ever walk again. “I’m afraid they’ve closed the case,” Alex said. “There is simply no trace. They reckon it was a kidnapping that went wrong, that Mom fought them until she died, and they were left with a corpse on their hands which had to be disposed of.”

  “But… Asimov’s body…”

  “Had two bullet holes in it, remember? That would figure if Mom managed to get hold of a gun.”

  “So they disposed of her body, but left his lying by the roadside?”

  “The FBI figure maybe they panicked. They’ve checked Asimov out with the Soviets. Gregory Asimov opted out right after the War, emigrated without permission, and disappeared. Had he been slightly more important it would have been hailed as a defection. He clearly entered this country illegally. The Russians have even been apologetic, that one of their nationals should have been engaged in kidnapping one of our citizens. They say he must have got in with the mob when he arrived here.”