Death of a Tyrant

by Christopher Nicole

  “I’m sure we can arrange a switch for you, doctor,” the sister said.

  *

  Elaine packed an overnight bag, her somewhat long, solemn face taut with concentration; her experiences in the War had left her a somewhat tense person. Amazingly, they had not affected her health, or her femininity. Her figure remained good; she had always been slender, with her height, a trifle willowy. Now she had filled out a little. Perhaps the most amazing thing of all was that her life in the Pripet, even her mishandling by the SS when she had been captured, had left her with no permanent injuries, not even a permanent scar — that was visible, at any rate.

  She packed a bag for Alex as well. She entirely understood his problems. But she also knew he would wish to meet his parents, if, as he had said, it was humanly possible. They were that kind of family. Into which she had so strangely been drawn. Actually, the decision to become a Bolugayevski, or Bolugayevska, as she would be known in Russia, had been entirely hers: she had fallen in love with Alex almost the moment they had met, when they had both been internees at Boston General. She could still remember her excitement when he had first taken her home to meet his mother, the fabulous Princess Priscilla. But she did not think their relationship would have developed had it not been for the War.

  When the Russians, fighting desperately for survival against the Nazi menace, had appealed for help, they had needed, apart from the necessary materiel with which to wage war, the assistance of trained doctors, to release their own medical people for service at the front. Alex had of course volunteered: he might be an exile from his motherland, but he was still the last Prince of Bolugayen. Elaine had volunteered too. It was more than a desire to be with Alex; it had also been a desire to help that huge country she had always found fascinating. She had little understood where her careless pseudo-patriotism was going to lead her, or she might have hesitated. Her war had come to fruition in the depths of the Pripet Marshes, fighting with the partisans, with people like Tatiana Gosykinya and her half-brother Feodor Ligachev, engaged in the bloodiest and most savage of conflicts, where quarter had neither been given nor expected.

  But Alex had been there too, and although he had from time to time revealed the innate savagery of his own Russian background, their love had grown. And survived. And now she was his wife. She still needed to pinch herself from time to time to make herself understand it had really happened. That she would be standing on the quayside tomorrow when the Queen Mary docked, that she would be hugged and kissed by the most beautiful woman in the world, that she would address her as Mom. That was the most unbelievable thing of all.

  She no longer practised as a doctor. That was the one regret she had. Her other regret, that she was not a mother, would be history in another six months. But the wife of the Prince of Bolugayen did not work for a living. Why, it could be asked, did the Prince work for a living? Alex, or at least his mother, held a large number of shares in the Cromb Shipping Line operated by Priscilla’s brother. They were wealthy people in their own right. But Alex felt the need to serve, someone, all the time. He was a prince.

  The doorbell jangled as she closed the second suitcase. Elaine looked at her watch. But it couldn’t possibly be Alex yet; she didn’t even know if he was driving down with her or would catch a late train. Mary the maid appeared in the bedroom doorway. “Someone to see you, Mrs Bolugayevski.” Elaine raised her eyebrows. “A man,” Mary explained. “Foreign type. I showed him into the den.”

  “I hope he’s not pinching the television set.” Elaine fluffed out her dark hair, which she wore long and straight because that was how a Russian princess always wore her hair when not making a public appearance, checked to make sure her lipstick wasn’t smudged, and went down the stairs. The den was beyond the drawing room, but she could see the man, standing at the French windows leading into the garden, looking out. He had his back to her, but… Elaine frowned, and hurried forward. The man turned. “Good Lord!” she commented.

  The man smiled. “I was hoping you’d remember me, Princess. We fought together, in the Pripet.”

  Chapter Three: The Bullet

  “Gregory!” Elaine cried, and before she could stop herself was embraced. When she had first met Gregory Asimov, only five years previously, he had been a seventeen-year-old boy; he hardly looked older now, his face revealing the same eager innocence she remembered, even if, like hers, his body had filled out. But even at seventeen he had been a veteran of war and destruction, and she had fought beside him for more than two years. And as one of the doctors with the partisan group, she had tended to his various ailments as well, from frostbite to diarrhoea. Nor could she deny that he had been a dedicated and brilliant soldier — even if he had also been a savage one. But then, they had all been savages during the War: it had been necessary to be savage to survive.

  He was also about the only member of the group who had never made a pass at her. But that was because he had always been hopelessly in love with Natasha Renkova, the lovely girl who had been tortured to death by the SS. After Natasha’s death he had transferred his love to their commander, Alexei’s cousin, Tatiana Gosykinya. Now, to see him here, in Boston… “I have come at a bad time,” Gregory said.

  “No, no,” she protested. “It’s just such a surprise. And where did you learn to speak English so well?”

  “I have been studying. To come to America.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “I wish to emigrate.”

  “You? Good lord, where are my manners. Would you like something to drink? A cup of coffee…”

  “Do you have vodka?”

  “Ah…yes.” She went to the bar, poured two fingers, glanced at him. “I don’t suppose you wish anything with it?”

  “With it?”

  “Absolutely.” She poured two more fingers, handed him the glass, took one finger for herself and filled the glass with tonic. “Well…it’s great to see you again. And looking so well.” Her memory was of a handsome boy in a tattered uniform, never lacking a tommy-gun, and with a sprouting, untidy beard and moustache. Now she was looking at a man, handsome, certainly, clean-shaven, and very well dressed in a three-piece suit. It was difficult to envisage the tommy-gun.

  “As are you, Dr Mitchell. Oh, yes, it is good to meet old comrades. And so you married Prince Alexei.” Odd, she thought: Gregory, a dedicated Communist, at least during the War, had never before referred to Alexei as a prince. But he was clearly anxious to make a good impression.

  “Yes, I did. We had always intended to, you know. Only the War got in the way.”

  “And now you live in this beautiful house, in this beautiful city, in this beautiful country…”

  That was a bit too thick. “You say you have come here, to emigrate? I didn’t know you could do that. I mean, out of Russia…well…” she hesitated, embarrassed.

  “I am a war hero,” Gregory explained. “I was decorated by Premier Stalin himself. So they have allowed me to do this.”

  Elaine frowned. “And the US Immigration people have just let you in?”

  “No. They have given me a three months visitors’ visa. But I mean to stay.”

  “I wouldn’t recommend doing anything illegal,” Elaine said.

  “I would not do that. But if I can get a job…”

  “You’d need a work permit. And if you’re on a visitor’s visa, you wouldn’t get one.”

  “I need a permit for any job?”

  “I’m afraid so. I mean, there are people who employ illegal immigrants around the house…” she gazed at him. “I’m afraid my husband and I are not inclined to do that. Anyway,” she hurried on, “we have nothing to offer you. I mean…what exactly can you do?” Apart from being able to kill people, very efficiently.

  “I garden,” Gregory said. “I am good with the flowers, eh?”

  “Ah! Unfortunately, we don’t really have much of a garden. Just what you see out the back.”

  “But perhaps you have friends who have gardens.”

&n
bsp; “Well…” Elaine observed that he had drained his glass, and refilled it. How on earth was she going to get rid of him?

  “Does your mother-in-law not have a garden?” Gregory asked.

  “Well, yes, she does.”

  “I should very much like to meet the Princess,” Gregory said reverently. “I have heard so much about her. From Tatiana. You remember Tatiana?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “She spoke of her, often. Of her charm, and her beauty.”

  Elaine frowned as she tried to remember if Tatiana had ever actually met Priscilla. Priscilla had been in Moscow during the War, but Tatiana had spent the entire War in the Pripet. But… Priscilla had also been in Moscow in 1935, looking for Joseph. She could have met Tatiana then… Tatiana would have been a girl of twelve. But she would remember her glamorous aunt who was also her cousin. “Would she not like to have a Russian gardener?” Gregory asked.

  The trouble was, Elaine knew that Priscilla would indeed like to have a Russian gardener. Priscilla, even more than her son, believed in cultivating every possible link with Russia, confident as she was that one day Stalin would fall, and with him the whole Communist regime…at which time all things might be possible. Even the reclamation of the family estates of Bolugayen. It was an impossible dream, of course. But it might amuse Priscilla to meet this man, especially as he was an old comrade-in-arms of both her son and her daughter-in-law. Certainly Priscilla would know how to get rid of him, if she chose to do so. But the decision could not possibly be hers. “My husband will be here in a little while,” she said. “I know he would like to meet you again. And he will know if we can help you or not.” She bit the bullet. “Why do you not wait for him, and in the meanwhile, have another vodka.”

  *

  Tatiana looked at her watch. “Soon we will be in Moscow,” she said. “I must get dressed.” She gave a surprisingly girlish giggle, which Andrew had found one of the most attractive things about her. “I must be back in my own compartment, when we arrive.” She sat up, but her giggle was only one of the most attractive things about her. Andrew put his arms round her waist to bring her back down on to him, then slipped his hands up to caress her heavy breasts.

  He was still not sure that he was not dreaming this, that he had not been dreaming since that midnight stop in Brest-Litovsk, more than twenty-four hours ago. He had thought that a nightmare, then. But out of it had come possession of this superbly strong and mature body, so willing, eager to yield to him, to accommodate his every desire.

  The last twenty-four hours had passed in a sexual daze. They had left the compartment together twice, for lunch and dinner, and from time to time Ivan the conductor had brought them tea. Andrew had been embarrassed by that, afraid that she might be getting into trouble. But Tatiana and Ivan appeared to be old friends, which made sense if she regularly travelled this train as an Intourist guide. Certainly she had not been embarrassed, or concerned by the conductor’s intrusions. If she had dressed herself to leave the compartment when necessary, she had undressed herself again with a hungry enthusiasm the minute she had returned. She had overwhelmed him with her body, surprisingly white where her hair and eyes were dark. But he gathered the average Russian worker did not have much time for lying in the sun, even were the sun readily available, most of the year. For the rest he could only glory in the magnificence of that hair, matched by the curling coating of her groin, by the deliciously large breasts, by the strong legs and supple thighs between which he was sucked time and again.

  And even more, by the aura of her. He wondered if he should not have been shocked by what she had to tell him of her experiences during the War. She had been only eighteen when the Germans had rolled across the frontier. She had been on that frontier, in summer camp in that June of 1941, with her companions of the Communist Youth. She had been captured and raped, time and again, while many of her friends had been shot for being Jews. She had escaped, into the Pripet Marshes, and spent the rest of the War there, living a hand-to-mouth, sexually casual existence…and killing Germans, often with a self-confessed savagery he found hard to accept. But if only a tenth of what she claimed was true, she had certainly killed a lot of Germans. And yet she could lie in his arms with the enthusiastic naivety of a girl first experiencing life, and love. “Did you never love, amongst the partisans?” he asked.

  For a moment her face was rigid. “I loved,” she said. “One. But he died.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “How did it feel, to leave the army, after such experiences, and become a tourist guide?”

  Tatiana shrugged. “It is necessary to work. Did you not fight in the War?”

  “Yes. But I was a journalist before the War, so when it ended I merely went back to what I had been doing before.”

  She kissed him. “I could not go back to being a schoolgirl. Or a virgin. Some things are irrevocable.” She seemed to have abandoned the idea of returning to her own compartment, for the moment. “Tell me about the Princess Bolugayevska.”

  “What about her?” Andrew asked, lazily, stroking her body.

  “She is my cousin, you know. As well as my aunt.”

  “How can the same woman be your cousin and your aunt?”

  “We have a very tangled family history. Did she not tell you of it?”

  “Not a lot.”

  “Well, you see, her husband is my mother’s half-brother. So she is my aunt. But her mother and my mother were cousins. So she is also my cousin.”

  “And you’re all really Anglo-American, and not Russian at all.”

  “I am Russian,” Tatiana said, almost fiercely. “My father was a Russian. My mother is a Russian citizen.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend.”

  “How could you, offend me?”

  Andrew found that a little enigmatic. Did she mean because they were lovers? Or because he was not of sufficient importance in her life ever to cause offence? “You were going to tell me about the Princess,” she said. “Is she as beautiful as they say?”

  “Have you never met her? She told me that she had been to Russia several times. She even lived her once, did she not?”

  “That was before I was born. She came again, during the War, but I was in the Pripet. I should like to meet her. Tell me of her beauty.”

  “In her own way, she is very beautiful, yes. I prefer you.”

  “You are nice to me,” she said. “Now I really must go. Do not worry, I will see you at my mother’s apartment. I will arrange a vacation for myself, and then I will be able to show you everything you wish to see.”

  “I have an idea that I have seen everything I really want to see, right here in this compartment.”

  She kissed him. “You are a lecherous man who thinks only of sex. You are here to work. I will help you do that work.” She got out of the bunk, pulled on her clothes. “I have enjoyed myself,” she said, and closed the door behind her.

  Another enigmatic statement, Andrew thought. Yet she seemed very anxious to see him again, and had virtually promised to spend the entire duration of his stay in Russia in his company. That was such an alluring prospect he was not the least inclined to start wondering if she really loved him or was just interested in a new face, a new body, a new technique. He was determined that by the end of his visit, she would love him. He would take her back to England with him. That would be a coup. Not an easy accomplishment, but if her mother was really an intimate of Stalin’s…of course, the mother would have to be charmed into agreeing first. He didn’t doubt he could do that.

  He got dressed himself, stood at the window to look at the Moscow suburbs drifting by. There were a group of women working beside the track. Women navvies? But they looked up and laughed and clapped their hands at the train. The door opened. “You are packed, yes?” Ivan asked.

  Andrew turned in surprise; Ivan had shown not the slightest desire to assist him when he had boarded the train. “All packed
, yes.”

  “I will take your bags,” Ivan volunteered.

  Feeling extraordinarily conspicuous, Andrew followed the conductor along the corridor, which was now filling with people preparing to disembark. But Ivan cleared a way with a series of sharp, barked commands. Andrew almost bumped into Smith. “I never realised you were such an important fellow,” the typewriter salesman remarked. He looked quite put out.

  “Neither did I,” Andrew agreed, with an embarrassed grin. But then he was on the platform, and Ivan was even helping him through the barrier. Tatiana was not to be seen. “Does Comrade Gosykinya travel with you regularly?” Andrew asked.

  “She is a Heroine of the Soviet Union,” Ivan replied.

  That was apparently all that he was required to know.

  *

  “What do you reckon?” Elaine asked, as they took the freeway south.

  Alexei was driving. If their years in the Pripet had left her with the odd streak of grey in her dark hair, they did not seem to have affected Alex at all, physically. Of course he was blond, and it was less easy to discern grey or silver amidst the gold. But his features had not hardened as much as they might have done; he remained a big, handsome man, with the bold Bolugayevski features and the broad Bolugayevski shoulders. They did not often discuss those years, although they had fought, and eaten, and slept, and done everything else, shoulder to shoulder. There were too many memories neither of them wanted to return. But Gregory… “Seeing him again sure takes you back,” Alex said.

  One of the memories Elaine did not wish to return was that like Gregory, Alex had also fallen under the sexual spell of their commander, who had also been his cousin. It had been a brief surrender, and then he had returned to her. But had that only been because Tatiana had used him as an object, rather than considered him as a human being? Tatiana had used everyone like that. Even Gregory. Even herself! Elaine had only been happy to have Alex back. She did not think she was actually jealous of Tatiana. It is difficult to be jealous of a monster, however beautifully wrapped. But…she didn’t think she would have wept if she had been told that Tatiana had not survived the War. But she had. Like Gregory, she had been decorated by Stalin himself as a Heroine of the Soviet Union. Elaine wondered what she was doing, now that she was no longer required, or presumably allowed, to spend her time killing people? Life must have become a bit of a bore. But there had been no communication with the Russian half of the family since their return to the States. “Do you think Mom will be interested?” she ventured.