He had stirred when she depressed the mattress. Now he stirred some more, moving his legs as he rolled entirely on to his back. “Josef,” she said. “Won’t you wake up? I have come to kill you. Trotsky has sent me. Trotsky, Josef, the man you thought you had murdered.”
Stalin exhaled, loudly, and one eye opened, then the other. He looked at her, frowned, and stared at her. She wondered what he had seen first? The caked white make-up, of course, which made her look like a long-dead corpse. But then he had identified the features, the glowing eyes, the haughty curl of the lip. He opened his mouth, but no words came. The veins in his neck throbbed, as did those at his temples and in his forehead. “You…” he gasped, with an enormous effort. “You are dead.”
“I am here, Josef. I have come to take you, to see Trotsky, to talk with Trotsky, your old companion. Will we not have much to talk about?”
Stalin made an enormous effort to sit up, gasped again, and fell back, rolling on his side. Sonia rested two fingers on his neck; there was a pulse there, but it was enormous, a huge throb, as if his heart was about to burst. She realised she had done all she could, and it was time to think of herself. She stepped into the bathroom, washed the make-up from her face. Behind her there was no sound. Then she heard the door open. She stared at her face. Almost every trace of the make-up was gone. Certainly, no one was going to notice the odd vestige around her ears. She opened the bathroom door. “You!” Istomina whispered. “What are you doing in here?”
“The Premier called. You were asleep, so I came in.” Istomina was staring at the bed. “He was restless,” Sonia said. “He wanted to touch me. Then he went back to sleep. I will go now. I do not think he will awake again.”
Istomina continued to stare at the bed. There was no sound in the room above that of breathing. Their breathing. Sonia held her arm and half pushed her from the room. “Let him sleep,” she said. “Will you tell the guards to let me through?”
“You have no transport.”
“I will walk,” Sonia said. “I always feel like walking, after sex.”
Istomina glanced at her. But the woman was clearly confused, uncertain what to do. She herself escorted Sonia into the outer room. “This woman is to go home now.” For the first time she peered into Sonia’s face. “You are an old woman,” she said. “What did he want with an old woman?”
“We are old friends,” Sonia pointed out. “He wanted to talk, about old times. And touch, old things.”
Istomina watched her leave the house, then she went back into the lounge, made herself some more tea. It was past four, and she knew she would not sleep again. She drank her tea, sat still for a few minutes, then got up again and went to the bedroom door. This had been the oddest night that she could recall. Who was that woman? But she had been a friend of Beria’s, which was reassuring. Supposing Lavrenty Pavlovich had any friends.
She stood at the door for several seconds, then returned to her chair. But she continued to be restless. The Premier had been awakened by an old friend, a woman he had wanted to touch. Therefore he had wanted to have sex with her, but had been unable to do so. That was normal. What was not normal was that, sexually aroused and unable to harden, or even ejaculate — as she knew was his problem — he would simply turn over and go back to sleep. Normally he would be fretful and bad-tempered for hours, difficult to approach…but he had simply rolled over and gone back to sleep. To a very deep sleep.
Istomina finished another cup of tea, got up again, stood at the door again. It was now five. He often awoke at five. Cautiously she opened the door. The room was heavy…and silent. Istomina held her own breath, and heard nothing. Her heart gave a great lurch as she moved to the bed. She stood above the inert figure; he had not apparently moved a muscle for the past hour.
Istomina found that she was panting. Obviously she had anticipated such a moment as this for over a year now; she knew better than anyone how dangerous had been the Premier’s lifestyle. But one can anticipate disaster without ever actually visualising what it might be like. What the consequences might be like. She rested two fingers on the dictator’s neck, and gasped again. Then her nerve cracked, and she ran for the door. “Awake!” she shouted. “Awake!” she screamed. “Premier Stalin is dead!”
Chapter Twelve: The End of an Era
Sonia rubbed her gloved hands together. She was very cold, firstly from having had to stand on the roadside waiting for the car to pick her up, and partly at the realisation of what had happened. What she had done!
No one would ever know, of course. No one could ever know. But then…she frowned as a terrible truth dawned on her. No one could ever know. Therefore, despite Beria’s assurances, there was no way she could be allowed to accompany Anna into exile. To attempt to escape might be to condemn Anna to death. But if she was going to die anyway, then Anna would also; Beria would not wish a single trace of his diabolical, and successful, plot to remain. Anna’s best, Anna’s only, hope of survival lay in the survival of her mother. Beria would not dare kill the daughter while she remained alive.
She saw the lights of a car in the distance, made an instant decision, slid down the embankment beside the road, waded across a shallow stream, the ice crackling beneath her boots, and plunged into the woods beyond. The men in the car would have in the first instance to suppose she had not yet completed her task, and would therefore wait. By the time they realised she must have already been and gone, she would be beyond their reach.
In the first instance. But where could she seek shelter? She had no money, no clothes save what she was wearing, no friends. There was only one person in all Moscow she even knew, outside of the Lyubyanka — and Jennie was a close friend of Stalin himself. But Jennie might give her shelter, in exchange for a revelation of what was happening. If she told a convincing enough story.
*
The man twisted his hat nervously between his hands. He had never seen his master in pyjamas, a huge white hulk, looking somehow more menacing than when in uniform. He glanced from Beria to the woman. She also wore pyjamas, an evocative sight. Perhaps she took dictation all night. “What do you mean?” Beria asked.
The man licked his lips, more nervous than ever. “The woman was not there when we arrived, Comrade Commissar. So we waited. As we were instructed to do. We waited for half an hour. Then we realised something was wrong, that she might not be coming at all. So we considered it best to return here, and report.”
Beria’s brain spun round in circles. The man suspected nothing of the truth, of course; his orders had merely been to pick up a woman from the side of the road, a mile away from the Premier’s dacha. But what could have gone wrong? Had Sonia betrayed him? Or had Istomina been less stupid than he had supposed, and had her arrested? What to do? The telephone was jangling. All three of them looked at it together. “Take it,” Beria told Maria. “But…I am not here. I have left the city on state business.” He simply had to have time to think.
Maria licked her lips, picked up the phone. “Yes? … Who? The Commissar has left the city on security business. What did you say?” She looked at Beria with enormous eyes. “Would you repeat that, please? The Premier has had a heart attack? He is dead? My God!” So far had she forgotten that she was living in Soviet Russia.
She was still staring at Beria. “Ask who was present,” he mouthed.
Maria gulped. “Was anyone with the Premier when he died? No one? I see.” Beria made a quick gesture with his hand, drawing it through the air in a chopping motion. “Yes,” Maria said. “I will see if I can contact him. Yes. Do nothing until you hear from the Commissar.” Slowly she replaced the phone. “The Premier…”
“I heard,” Beria said. “Well, I begged him to see a doctor, and he refused, time and again. You…” he pointed at the agent. “Do not mention this to a soul, until I tell you.”
The man swallowed. “Yes, Comrade Commissar.”
“Remember,” Beria said. “Now go home to bed.”
The man hurried from the room
. “Do you think he will keep his mouth shut?” Maria asked.
“Long enough.”
“But I do not understand. Should you not go out there immediately, Lavrenty Pavlovich?”
“Let others handle it.”
“But…if the Premier is dead, you…”
“I must be chosen,” Beria said. “Let others begin the choosing.” Go out there, and perhaps come face to face with Sonia? He had to find her, before he could do anything. It had just never occurred to him that she would betray him, or even attempt to escape him. Not while he held her daughter. The bitch! The cold-hearted savage animal. He had always known her for that, and yet had supposed he could command her, through a mother’s love. “Get me Kagan,” he said.
*
By the time Kagan reached the Lyubyanka it was nearly light. Beria was fully dressed and in his office, Maria hovering. “Close the door,” Beria said. “Something terrible has happened. The Premier is dead.”
Kagan frowned at him. “When did he die?”
“A few hours ago.”
“Then should you not be out there?”
“What am I supposed to do? I am neither a doctor nor an undertaker. I will be going out there in a little while. Meanwhile, there is a mystery which we have to resolve. The Premier asked for a woman, last night. I was against it, in view of his health. But it was his birthday, and he is a difficult man to argue with.”
“You provided the woman?”
“Yes, I did. She is a very respected whore. Not in the first flush of youth, but someone who, I was quite sure, could be trusted, both to please the Premier, and to keep her mouth shut afterwards if he…well, failed to perform.”
“And you think this woman did so well she induced a heart attack?”
“I think that is extremely likely. It is even more likely because she has disappeared.”
Kagan rubbed his nose. “She did not leave with you?”
“Well, of course she did not, Kagan. I took her there, and left her there. The Premier wanted sex with her, not me.”
“Did Comrades Malenkov and Kruschev know of this?”
“No, they did not,” Beria said. “It was a private matter between the Premier and me.”
“And you think this woman may still be out there?”
“No. I think she left. I do not know whether she knows the Premier is dead or not, whether he died in her arms or after she left. But she must be found, Kagan. And very quickly. Have you arrested Tatiana Gosykinya yet?”
Kagan shook his head. “She seems to have vanished off the face of the earth. But I know she is in Moscow. I have men watching every possible exit, be it road, or train, or plane. She will surface some time, and we will get her then.”
“I hope you do. But this woman is more important.”
Kagan got up. “I will find her. And when I do?”
“I think it would be for the good of the state if she were to disappear, Comrade General. Whether she actually brought about the Premier’s death or not, she now will know too much about him. So, no interrogations. Immediate disposal.”
Kagan nodded. “Very good.” He left the office, paused for a moment in the outer office to look at Maria. Who seemed to curl in her seat. She was terrified. Kagan gave her a pleasant smile, and went out.
*
Maria went into the inner office. “He knows,” she said.
Beria looked up. “Knows what, Maria Feodorovna?”
“About that woman, Lavrenty Pavlovich.”
Beria leaned back in his seat. “What woman, Maria Feodorovna?”
Maria licked her lips. “The one you brought in from Astrakhan.”
“Did I bring in a woman from Astrakhan, Maria?” Maria stared at him with her mouth open. “If I did,” Beria went on, “you are the only person in this building who knows of it.”
Maria panted. “I…I would never betray you, Lavrenty Pavlovich.”
“I have no doubt of that,” Beria said. “Because you know that with the Premier dead, there is only one possible successor. And that is me. You are in a very fortunate position, Maria Feodorovna, in being so close to the new head of state. Do you not think so?” Maria’s head jerked up and down like a puppet on a string. “So now, tell me, what makes you think that Kagan knows anything of this woman?”
“Just the way he looks at me, his expressions.”
“You are setting up to be a psychiatrist, Maria. But it is better to deal in realities. Like you, Kagan knows who is his master. He will not fail that master.”
“And the woman?”
“The woman,” Beria said, “is history.” An apt summing up, he thought.
*
It was well light by the time Sonia reached the Government Building. It had been a long walk for someone of her age, and she had had to stop and rest several times, while whenever she saw a patrolling policeman it had been necessary to make a deviation to avoid questions. She was exhausted. The concierge eyed her without interest. “Which apartment, Comrade?”
“The apartment belonging to Comrade Ligachevna, Comrade.”
The concierge did not even raise his eyebrows, although his heart pounded. One of them! Sooner than he could have hoped. But he had his orders, from General Kagan himself. “Fifth floor, Comrade.”
“Thank you.” Sonia peered at the bandage on his head. “Are you hurt, Comrade?”
“I fell over,” the concierge said.
“I hope it is nothing serious,” Sonia said, and went to the stairs. The concierge watched her disappear at the first landing, then picked up his telephone.
***
Sonia went up the stairs, slowly; she felt that every bone in her body was creaking, and she had to pause for breath several times before she reached the fifth floor. Then she peered at the door to Jennie’s flat, and frowned. She had lived in the heart of the police state that was Soviet Russia long enough, as Trotsky’s companion, to recognise a door that had been sealed by the police. Jennie’s door?
But if something had happened to Jennie, she was lost; the concierge had let her in without question, thus the police would already be on their way. She might as well go to the nearest window and jump out. But she could not do that. Not only was it not in her nature, but she had to stay alive for as long as possible, for Anna’s sake. Then what was she to do? She bit her lip as she tried to think, and remembered that Jennie had had a friend, who lived in the apartment above. It was the faintest of hopes, but it was all the hope she had. The friend would at least know what had happened to Jennie.
She climbed the next flight of steps, slowly and painfully, knocked on the door. It was not immediately answered, but she could hear movement within. Then the door swung in, so suddenly she was taken by surprise. The woman facing her was as breathless as her, but this was the breathlessness of fear.
Sonia licked her lips. The woman was in her forties, and therefore fitted the age bracket. Anyway, there could be no turning back now. “I am a friend of Comrade Ligachevna,” she said. “I have come to see her, but her apartment is…empty. Can you tell me where she is?”
The woman looked her up and down, then half turned her head, and clearly received an instruction from inside the room. She jerked her head, at the same time grasping Sonia’s sleeve and almost pulling her through the doorway. Then the door was closed and locked. Sonia looked left and right at the people. She had not expected this. But… “Priscilla?” she whispered.
She could not believe her eyes. But it was Priscilla, although she wore no make-up and borrowed clothes which did not fit her very well. And her face had changed. Sonia had always known that behind the mask of beautiful innocence there had been a very tough mind; she had shared the trauma of their imprisonment by the marauding soldiers in 1917, and she knew she would not have survived but for Priscilla’s cool determination that they should both do so. But to see her here…the last time she had seen the Princess had been the day she had been arrested, in 1942. She had thought then that Priscilla had also been arrested,
but Beria had refused to discuss the matter. Priscilla was equally astonished. “Sonia?” she asked. “But…we were told you were dead!”
“Explain,” said one of the other women.
Sonia had never met Tatiana, but she knew she was looking at a Bolugayevska, even if a brunette one. And a Bolugayevska who was wearing the uniform of an officer in the KGB! “This is Sonia Bolugayevska,” Priscilla said. “My first husband’s first wife.”
“Trotsky’s woman,” Tatiana said.
“And you are Jennie’s child,” Sonia said, the penny dropping.
“You were executed, in 1942,” Tatiana said.
“Then I am a ghost.”
Tatiana was frowning. “You have been a prisoner, all this time? You have been in a gulag?”
“I have been a guest of your boss,” Sonia said. “Lavrenty Beria. A very secret guest.” She watched the people in the room exchange glances, and realised they knew things she did not. Just as they were an incongruous lot. The very sight of Priscilla was incredible. Of the others, she presumed from the facial resemblance that the other young woman was Galina’s daughter. But the men…she would have sworn neither was Russian. One was almost nondescript in appearance, but had piercing eyes. The other was big and handsome, dressed in prison clothing. “May I ask what is happening? Are these people under arrest? Where is Jennie?”
“You came to see Jennie?” Tatiana asked. “Why?”
“That is my business,” Sonia said. She certainly could not take these people into her confidence until she found out just who and what they were. But Priscilla’s presence was reassuring.
“But you came here,” Tatiana said, “openly…how did you know where to come? How did you know which was my mother’s apartment?”
Death of a Tyrant Page 26
