The Red Gods

by Christopher Nicole

  It would probably have occurred anyway, but had waited for her arrival. And Grishka. Oh, gallant Grishka. “Did they get him?” Sonia asked.

  Trotsky shook his head. “He just disappeared.”

  “Leon, he was dripping blood.”

  “Not that much. There are spots on the stairs. But it is raining heavily, and the traces are already obscured.”

  “But a wounded man, in a strange country...”

  “There is no country in the world that is strange to a Russian agent,” Trotsky pointed out. “Gosykin will have been provided with a list of safe houses in which to take refuge should he find it necessary to do so. That is where he has gone, to stay in complete safety until his wound is healed and he can return to Russia.”

  “But, Leon, if he escapes, and recovers.”

  “Oh, he will undoubtedly come after us again.”

  Priscilla had been listening to the conversation with increasing incredulity and impatience. “Grishka is dead!” she shouted. “And you are concerned about the next time?”

  “I am very sorry about Grishka,” Sonia said. “But as you say, she is dead. We had been promised immunity from assassination. Now that immunity has been withdrawn.”

  “That is Stalin for you,” Trotsky said bitterly. “Well, we must leave Turkey. Immediately.”

  “But where can we go? The British have refused you...”

  “I have been in communication with Plutarcho Calles. He was President of Mexico a few years ago. Since he gave up that position he’s still been running the country. All the presidents since have been his nominees, and they do what he tells them. He has offered me asylum, in complete safety, whenever I needed it.”

  “Mexico,” Sonia muttered.

  “I know. It is the other side of the world. I would far rather stay here, close to Russia. But I am publishing my articles all over the world, and the chances of getting back into Russia appear to be zero, and if our safety can be guaranteed...I don’t think we can do better.”

  “Mexico,” Sonia said again, and raised her head to look at Priscilla. “What are you going to do?”

  “Arrange for a proper burial for Grishka,” Priscilla said.

  “Well, of course we will help you there,” Sonia said, and forced a smile. “I don’t think Gosykin is in a proper frame of mind to take any more shots at us right now. And after that?”

  “I am going to Moscow.” Both Sonia and Trotsky stared at her with their mouths open. “We know who tried to shoot you,” Priscilla said. “He may have a safe house here in Turkey. But I intend to denounce him to Stalin. And then demand the release of Joe.”

  “You are stark, raving mad,” Trotsky said. “She thinks this is still 1912.”

  “Priscilla,” Sonia said earnestly. “Don’t you understand? Gosykin was sent by Stalin. How can you denounce him to his master?”

  “He was sent by Stalin clandestinely. That’s how he was sent to murder Colin.”

  Sonia sat straight. “Gosykin murdered Colin?”

  “No. He tried to, while Colin was in Egypt after leaving Russia in 1919.”

  “But...?!”

  “Oh, my God!” Priscilla said, as the penny dropped. “You think he was the one murdered Colin in Paris?”

  “Almost certainly,” Trotsky said.

  “Does Jennie know this?”

  “Jennie doesn’t know what Gosykin does,” Sonia said. “She thinks he is some kind of roving ambassador for Stalin.”

  “And you never told her?”

  Sonia bit her lip. “She told you, she was warned off,” Trotsky said. “In the Soviet Union one does not go around revealing all one knows.”

  “The country seems to be composed of those who murder and those who are afraid of being murdered,” Priscilla snapped.

  “That is a very accurate summing up,” Trotsky commented.

  “I am going to blow that stinking hole wide open,” Priscilla said.

  “Priscilla,” Sonia said. “You would be committing suicide.”

  “We shall see,” Priscilla told her.

  *

  “The woman has arrived,” Ligachev said.

  Josef Stalin had known Priscilla was coming; her progress northwards from Sevastopol had been monitored. He had in fact been aware of her presence in Istanbul during the weeks she had had to stay there while the woman Tamara’s death was investigated. But now she had finally been released by the Turkish authorities. Those fools who had granted her a visa were going to be punished. He had no doubt they had done it solely to embarrass him, he was surrounded by fools and traitors. The conviction was growing on him daily since Nadya’s suicide. It was unheard of for the wife of the leader of one of the greatest nations in the world to commit suicide. In fact it was unique, so far as he knew, unless one went back to Roman times, and those ‘suicides’ had more often than not been murder. Nadya’s death had ruined his domestic life, left his children horrified and estranged...and of course there were not lacking those who did indeed consider it murder.

  Kirov, no doubt. A man he would have supposed he could trust to the limit. Who was now daring to criticise him for the collectivisation plan, calling him a murderer on the greatest scale since Genghis Khan. His best friend, a deviationist, unable to understand that the death of a few million kulaks did not matter, when set against the development of the Soviet state. And Kirov had his supporters, all of those fellow-travellers like Kamenev and Bulganin, who were jealous of his, Stalin’s success, and who were now recalling those mysterious words of Lenin’s, that he was not truly fit to be anything more than the Party’s office boy.

  He gave a grim smile. He had told Gosykin that in time he would give him the entire Politburo to dispose of. Now he was going to implement that promise. Save that Gosykin had also failed him. “Where is Gosykin now?” he asked.

  “He is in hospital, recuperating,” Ligachev said. “But I am afraid that he will no longer be of any use to us. The necessity to keep him hidden in Istanbul, the delay in getting him back here, has caused problems. Gangrene set in. They have had to take off his arm.”

  “And his wife?”

  “As far as I am aware, she believes the official story, that Gosykin was attacked by an anti-Bolshevik fanatic while on a business trip to the Middle East. In any event she is still in a state of shock. But, when the woman Mann gets here...”

  “Yes,” Stalin said. “We are going to have to act, decisively.”

  “An accident,” Ligachev suggested. “It can easily be arranged.”

  “Not the woman, blockhead,” Stalin snapped. “She is too much of a celebrity. The beautiful Princess Dowager Bolugayevska, returning to Russia! You saw the newsreel pictures of when she landed in Sevastopol. Well, her visit may be of some use as propaganda. Her death in Russia, just when the Americans have recognised our government, would be a catastrophe.”

  “But if she is not stifled, now, she may cause a great deal of trouble.”

  Stalin began to fill his pipe, which, as Ligachev knew, was a sure sign that his master’s brain was working overtime. “Let us consider what she has on her mind,” Stalin said. “That fellow Cromb, and now Gosykin’s bungled attempt on Trotsky. Where is Cromb at the moment?”

  Ligachev checked his notes. “Number Seventeen.”

  “And his condition?”

  “I do not know, Josef. But I do know that anyone sent to Number Seventeen is not fit for release. And this man has been there for several years now. Even if he were fit enough, the tale he would tell would blast your hopes of recognition by America.”

  “Well, he is serving no useful purpose by being there. Will you attend to the matter?”

  “Of course. I should tell you that the commandant of Number Seventeen is about to be replaced.”

  “Then give the new commandant the list.”

  Ligachev cleared his throat. “She requested the posting.”

  Stalin looked up. “I do not like riddles, Ivan Ivanovich. She? What woman?”

  “
Her name is Dagmar Steklova.”

  “And she is a camp commandant?”

  “Oh, indeed. She has considerable experience in the prison service.”

  “Then what is your problem?”

  “Her original name was Dagmar Bolugayevska.”

  Stalin frowned. “The woman who escaped from Bolugayen, when it was sacked by our people?”

  Ligachev nodded. “She survived all those troubled times, changed her name, joined a woman’s regiment...and has prospered. She transferred to the prison arm, and has prospered there too. She is reported as being utterly ruthless and devoted to the Party.”

  “But she is related to Cromb.”

  “There is no blood between them. But it has been reliably reported that Dagmar Steklova hates the very name Bolugayevski. She regards herself as having been the true heiress to Bolugayen, before the Great War, and as having been disinherited by the other members of the family, who appealed to the Tsar against her.”

  “But you say she asked for this posting, because Cromb is on the list of prisoners at Number Seventeen?”

  “I would say that is very probable.”

  Stalin smiled. “Perhaps she intends to see the back of him. Let her go to Number Seventeen, Ivan Ivanovich. And give her the list to bolster her resolve. That is splendid. Then if the future there is any repercussion from the Americans for the death of one of their citizens, we can say that the execution was carried out by Dagmar Bolugayevska, without proper authorisation from any higher authority.”

  Ligachev nodded. He would never cease to be amazed at Stalin’s ability to turn every eventuality to his own advantage. “And Gosykin?”

  “He has also served his purpose.”

  “I will attend to that too.”

  “Not yet,” Stalin said. “He must be part of a general reduction in, shall we say, deviationists who would bring down the regime. Do we have an utterly reliable man?”

  “There is that fellow Nikolaiev, trained by Gosykin. He entrapped Cromb. I would not say he is as good as Gosykin, but he is promising.”

  “That will do. We shall only use him for this one job.” Stalin struck a match and lit his pipe. “You will not, of course, tell him this, Ivan Ivanovich.”

  Priscilla had never been to Moscow before, much less into the Kremlin. But she was not about to be overawed, the Kremlin was just a large fort. She had resisted the temptation to visit Bolugayen on her way north. She was concerned with the future, not the past, and in any event her escort assured her she would no longer recognise anything of the old Bolugayen.

  Now she was equally not prepared to be afraid of any of Moscow’s denizens, even the greatest denizen of all, into whose office she was being shown. She had taken too many precautions for that, the ultimate being to be met at Moscow Central by the newly appointed Ambassador. Jimmy had arranged it, but the Ambassador was an old acquaintance, who had attended more than one of the lavish parties thrown by Carlie and herself in more prosperous times. “My dear Priscilla,” he said, “welcome to Moscow. May I ask your exact purpose in coming here?”

  “I have come to find Joseph Cromb. I am going to see Mr Stalin.” He had goggled at her. But now she was here, and being shown into the Holy of Holies.

  “Princess Bolugayevska.” Stalin came round his desk to take her hands.

  “Mrs Mann, actually,” Priscilla said, and glanced at the other man in the room.

  “This is Ivan Ivanovich Ligachev, my greatest confidant,” Stalin said. “Will you take tea?”

  “Thank you.”

  Ligachev signalled to the waiting secretary, then held a chair for Priscilla. Stalin returned behind his desk to sit. “To have someone of your beauty, your stature, in the Kremlin is a great honour,” he said. “And to me, you will always be the Princess Bolugayevska.”

  “Thank you,” Priscilla said, disconcerted by the welcome where she had expected nothing but hostility.

  “However,” Stalin went on, “it is also an occasion of great sadness. The matter of the man Cromb...”

  “You are saying that he is dead.”

  Stalin gave a great sigh. “You know how vast a country Russia is. Even I, I admit it freely, cannot keep control of everything that is done in my name. However, my dear Madame Princess, I do assure you that where I can discover those who abuse their authority, especially when they do it in my name, I am determined to punish them most severely. In your case, it seems that these abuses of power, these crimes against humanity, have but a single fount.”

  Priscilla frowned at him. “You are telling me that Gosykin had Joseph Cromb murdered?”

  “Indirectly. He arrested Cromb on his visit to Russia in 1924, entirely because of his paranoiac hatred of Trotsky.”

  “I was told that he was employed by you.”

  “He was. But because he had been previously an employee of our great and revered leader Nikolai Lenin, I am afraid I allowed him too much power. The result of all this was that he produced evidence, given him by the man Cromb, that led me to exile Comrade Trotsky. I did this with the heaviest of hearts, Trotsky was one of my oldest comrades in arms. But what else could I do? The safety of the state is paramount.”

  “You mean you did not send Gosykin against Trotsky in Istanbul?”

  “Of course not. I gave Trotsky, and Madame Bolugayevska, the right to leave Russia and live where they chose, even if I knew they would disseminate anti-Soviet literature wherever they went. How could I break my word to an old comrade?”

  Priscilla bit her lip. “Then you intend to punish Gosykin?”

  “Oh, indeed.”

  “But you have not yet done so. The attempt on Trotsky took place several months ago.”

  Stalin nodded. “Sadly, it is not always possible to act as swiftly as one would wish to deal with malefactors. Russia is undergoing a profound change at the moment. So many foreign observers supposed that the great change was the Revolution itself. That is quite untrue. The Revolution represented a victory for the people over the forces of Tsarist reactionaries. But when that was won, it became necessary to remake the country itself, redraw social and economic lines. These things are not accomplished overnight, Madame Princess. The Revolution is still only seventeen years in the past, and right at the beginning of the remaking process, we lost our great leader, Nicolai Lenin, the friend of your mother-in-law...” he peered at her, benevolently. “I am assuming that Joseph Cromb was your husband, Madame?”

  Priscilla flushed. “We were never actually married.”

  “Ah,” Stalin said. “And why not? We have nothing against free love in the Soviet Union. Although,” he hastily added, “we encourage marriage. And large families. Do you have a family, Madame Princess?”

  “I have a son,” Priscilla muttered, now totally out of her depths.

  “By Monsieur Cromb?”

  “By Prince Alexei Bolugayevski. My first husband.”

  “Who died fighting so gallantly in the Civil War. For the wrong side, sadly,” Stalin said.

  Priscilla made a great effort to gather her thoughts. “You are saying that Gosykin is responsible for the death of his brother-in-law, but you cannot arrest him.”

  “No, no,” Stalin countered. “I have said that there is a time and a place for everything. There is a great conspiracy going on in this country. A conspiracy directed against me and all the good I have tried to achieve for Russia. Gosykin is a part of this conspiracy. He will be arrested and made to pay for his crimes. But I cannot arrest him until I am able to arrest all of the conspirators. You understand?”

  “Yes,” Priscilla said, not at all certain that she did. What Stalin was talking about sounded positively medieval. “But you are certain that Mr Cromb is dead.”

  “Sadly, yes. On the evidence obtained by Gosykin, Cromb was tried and executed.” Stalin got up and came round the desk to hold Priscilla’s hand. “I wish you to know that this grieves me as much as it does you. It happened before I was even aware he was in Russia. Patricia’s son...oh, it
is tragic. Do you wish to see Jennie?”

  “She knows of her brother’s death?”

  “Of course. She has known since it happened.”

  “And she never even wrote to me,” Priscilla muttered. “No, I do not wish to see Jennie, Monsieur Stalin.” She stood up. “I wish to thank you for receiving me, and for being so honest with me.”

  “Will you stay in Moscow awhile?”

  Priscilla shook her head. “No. I think the best thing I can do is go home.”

  Chapter 13 - Escape From the Gods

  “Stand to!” There were several guards in the room, all shouting together. The prisoners scrambled to their feet, shoulder to shoulder, shivering in ragged clothing; a turn out in the middle of the night could only mean that someone was about to be punished or executed. As if it mattered, Joseph Cromb thought. Have we not all been executed years ago? We are living and breathing — but we are all dead.

  Except perhaps for himself. He clung to his determination to survive, even as an ill-treated, half-starved animal rather than a human being, if only because, one day, he might discover what had actually happened to him. His life as Joseph Cromb had ended when he had been raped by electricity. Then he had been a hero. No matter how pain-wracked his body, how confused and humiliated his mind, he had refused to implicate Aunt Sonia, and thus Trotsky, in any plot against Stalin.

  He had expected them to grow weary of torturing him and execute him. But when they had grown weary of him they had sent him here. Moments of agony had become long hours of almost unbearable discomfort interrupted only by further periods of excruciating pain whenever the guards chose to beat him.