Stalin's Final Sting

by Andrew Turpin

  “Where are you going to take him now?” Johnson asked the senior of the three police officers.

  “I’m still waiting for confirmation, but I think Langone Hospital. It’s the nearest,” the officer said. “We’ll stay with him and process initial charges once the medics have finished with him.”

  As he had fallen, Watson had been whacked by the front of the train just before it came to a halt, throwing him forward and knocking him unconscious.

  It had then taken considerable time for the police and paramedics team to bring him around, treat his injuries, lift him off the tracks, and prepare him for transit to the hospital. In truth, Johnson knew he was fortunate to still be alive.

  All northbound express train services and most of the slower local northbound services had been canceled since the incident, and it was expected to take another half an hour at least to get them running again. Police and subway staff had rapidly evacuated all the platforms in that area of the station and closed them to passengers. Those trains that were allowed through on the southbound local line did not stop.

  As they walked, Johnson felt a sense of elation come over him. He had been relieved that Watson had not been killed by the train—death would not have represented justice. Now he had the opportunity to help bring Watson to court, something he had been dreaming of for years.

  They followed the stretcher team down the stairs into the exit tunnel and then up to the plaza outside. The whole area outside the Barclays Center was lit up blue and red by the flashing lights on the roofs of an array of police, ambulance, and fire service vehicles. Two black FBI Suburbans and three Dodge Chargers, also black, were parked next to the curb near the NYPD vehicles.

  The paramedics placed Watson’s stretcher on a trolley and began wheeling it toward one of the ambulances, followed by the three NYPD officers.

  Eight TV crews were waiting in the far corner of the plaza, their lights and reflector panels creating a pool of brightness. Another TV van was pulling up across the far side of Flatbush Avenue. They had all requested interviews with Dover. A large bunch of other journalists brandishing notebooks and hanging on their cell phones was also gathered in the same area, which had been cordoned off by the police press information team.

  “I nearly screwed up there, Vic,” Johnson said. “We nearly lost him.”

  “No, you didn’t,” Vic said. “He’s gonna get what he deserves, like you told him.”

  “Yes, but it was a close thing. I should have seen him more quickly outside on the plaza,” Johnson said. “I should have positioned us nearer the entrance, not at the Starbucks, so we could move quicker. And then I should have acted more subtly, somehow. I didn’t think he’d seen me, but he started running, so maybe he did.”

  “Joe, just stop it, buddy,” Vic said. He stopped walking, turned, and put a hand on Johnson’s shoulder. “What the hell are you talking about? We’ve got him in the bag. They’ll fix his injuries. He’ll go to prison. End of story.”

  Johnson smiled at last. “I know, I know. But it wasn’t ideal. What’s the latest on Donnerstein?”

  Vic pulled Johnson away, out of earshot of Dave and Ben. “The Feebs are still questioning him at Federal Plaza,” Vic said. That was the FBI’s main New York office, just off Broadway, near to city hall in Manhattan. “Could be an all-nighter. He’s finished. The media are already going crazy with it, but frankly, they’ve heard nothing yet. It’s not even begun. The Feebs are having difficulty getting right to the bottom of his investments over the years—just wait until all that comes out into the open. All the cash originally came from his arms dealing in Afghanistan and elsewhere.”

  “Yes, but we need the proof of the original arms dealing,” Johnson said. “That’s the critical thing. And that’s got to come from Akbari. Nobody else is going to come up with anything on that.”

  “True.”

  “And Obama’s going to have to make a statement,” Johnson said.

  “Yes, probably about Watson as well as Donnerstein, and sooner rather than later,” Vic said. “He’s coming under pressure from all directions.”

  Johnson paused. He knew he needed to think about the bigger picture and keep his focus on the war crime elements of his investigation, and on Severinov and Javed, which had been difficult with everything that had gone on in the previous few hours.

  He urgently needed to speak to Jayne, and then to Frank Rice, to keep them briefed. He glanced at his watch. It was just after ten. Three in the morning in London and seven thirty in the morning in Kabul, he calculated. He’d better call Jayne as soon as he could.

  Johnson felt a wave of exhaustion slip over him. It had been a long, demanding day. But he knew that if he took his foot off the gas pedal, only half the job would be done.

  Vic’s phone beeped loudly. He took it from his pocket and scrutinized the message. “It’s our station chief in Moscow. They’ve picked up that one of Putin’s four planes has just filed a flight plan to go to Kabul, leaving at nine tomorrow morning Moscow time, arriving three in the afternoon Kabul time.”

  He showed Johnson the message, which went on to say that the plane was an Ilyushin Il-96-300PU, registration RA-96016.

  “Interesting,” Johnson said. “But is it significant?”

  “It could be just one of their routine decoys. They file all kinds of flight plans for Putin’s jets, and nobody knows which of the four he’s on until takeoff. But nevertheless, the timing is significant.”

  Vic’s phone pinged again. He read the message. “Hmm. The plot thickens. There’s a second Putin jet also filed to fly to Kabul at the same time. Another Ilyushin.”

  “My God,” Johnson said, as a thought struck him. “You don’t think Putin’s going to be flying in to join Severinov for the oil presentation, do you? Can’t just be a decoy, with two flight plans for two jets.”

  Vic shrugged. “No idea. But we need to try to find out. You’d better get yourself back to Kabul. I can deal with things on this end.”

  Two more pings sounded, this time from Johnson’s phone as text messages arrived. He glanced at the screen and read the first, from Dover.

  Well done on Watson. Can you come to Federal Plaza ASAP. I need you to assist with questioning of Donnerstein. Thanks.

  He flicked over to the second message, which was from Akbari.

  I have been through the uncataloged files and found the missing cross-reference document about the killing of the helicopter crews in the K-G Pass. It’s the sensitive information I mentioned. I’ve decided to show it to you. Can you come to my apartment tonight? You will find it very interesting.

  Johnson groaned and showed the messages to Vic. “What do you think? I’m feeling exhausted, buddy.”

  “Better do both,” Vic said. “Dover first, Akbari second. We can’t afford to screw around, even if we’re all in.” He pointed at Dave and Ben. “Let’s see if we can persuade these guys to give us a ride. They’ve got nothing better to do. We’ll get a drive-through coffee on the way.”

  Monday, June 10, 2013

  Manhattan

  “Tell me about Kay Associates and what you, or they, were doing in Afghanistan in the 1980s,” Dover said to Donnerstein.

  Johnson sipped his espresso, folded his arms, and waited to hear how the energy secretary was going to respond. Dover had told him before the meeting began that Donnerstein had denied all wrongdoing and had even declined to call in his lawyer.

  Johnson wasn’t surprised at the denials but was stunned that Donnerstein didn’t want his attorney present while he was being questioned by federal agents. Maybe the energy secretary was so arrogant he felt he could handle the situation himself.

  The men, together with a couple of Dover’s top investigators and the FBI’s special agent in charge of New York, Rod Blyth, were sitting in Blyth’s office on the twenty-third floor of the steel and glass skyscraper at 26 Federal Plaza.

  The floor, housing the FBI’s main New York field office, was buzzing with agents, analysts, secre
taries, and other staff, despite it now being quarter to eleven at night.

  Hardly surprising, Johnson thought. It wasn’t every day a cabinet member was brought in for questioning.

  “I’ve never heard of Kay Associates,” Donnerstein said, leaning back in his chair. “Means nothing to me, and I’d bet my last dollar you have no proof that I’ve ever had any connection with them.”

  “I suppose you’ve never heard of Robert Watson or Rex Zilleman, either?” Johnson asked.

  Donnerstein said nothing. He had a quizzical expression on his face, his iron gray hair still immaculate. After a short silence, he sighed. “I think you would be well advised to just stop this game and let me go.”

  Dover impatiently held out his hand to Johnson. “Joe, can we see that photograph, please?” he asked. “Maybe that will persuade the energy secretary to cut the crap.”

  Johnson took his phone from his pocket, tapped on the photograph that he had discussed with Dover before entering the meeting, and enlarged it so it filled the screen. Then he put it down on the table in front of Donnerstein.

  The energy secretary leaned over to view the photo. His face visibly tensed and blanched. His lips moved a little but he didn’t speak.

  The photograph clearly showed a younger Donnerstein holding a Stinger missile, standing behind Watson, who was presenting another Stinger to some mujahideen.

  Donnerstein stared at the photograph for a few moments. “I don’t want to answer any further questions until my attorney is here,” he said eventually. “Can I call him, please?”

  Monday, June 10, 2013

  Hell’s Kitchen, Manhattan

  Akbari had a pot of brewed coffee ready when Johnson and Vic finally turned up at his apartment at nearly midnight after a twenty-five-minute journey from the Federal Plaza offices in an FBI Dodge Charger.

  They had left behind a very satisfied Dover, who was convinced he was about to checkmate Donnerstein and also seemed particularly happy at the demise of Watson. “I tell you, these top CIA guys, you can’t trust a single one of them,” he had said as Johnson had left.

  The arrest of Watson was on the rolling CNN news that Akbari had on in his apartment when Johnson and Vic arrived. The anchor was running through a list of some of the corrupt activities that the former CIA chief had been involved in. CNN had clearly been carefully briefed by someone—probably inside Dover’s section at the FBI, Johnson surmised. The Feebs never missed an opportunity to land a punch on the Agency.

  “Thank God for that,” Johnson said as Akbari poured a coffee and handed it to him. “You don’t know how necessary that is right now.” He decided not to go into details of what they’d been up to in Brooklyn earlier in the day.

  The closest thing to a smile that Johnson had seen since he had met Akbari appeared on the Afghan’s face. “Just take a look at this. I think this will give you more of a jolt than a cup of coffee, frankly. I had to think long and hard before deciding to show it to you.”

  A few moments later Akbari had a short memo up on-screen. “This relates to the helicopters shot down in the K-G Pass and the incidents that followed.”

  Johnson nodded and began to read the Russian text.

  HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL — TOP SECRET

  KGB RESTRICTED LIST ONLY

  331/AS/21 YURI SEVERINOV BACKGROUND FILE

  January 12, 1988 r.

  Kabul

  FOR INFORMATION ONLY: Reference incident 2.1.1988 Wazrar, Khost-Gardez Pass, shooting down of two Mi-24 helicopters by mujahideen.

  YURI SEVERINOV, born November 10, 1957

  Parents: Sergo Severinov and Olga Orlov (married name Olga Severinov)

  Sergo Severinov’s parents: father Josef Stalin, mother Irina Severinov

  IOSEB GRIGOROVICH, born October 16, 1947 (pilot of second Mi-24 helicopter shot down)

  Parents: father Josef Stalin, mother Olga Orlov

  Johnson read through the memo slowly, his stomach turning over, and then reread it twice more to make sure he had understood what it was saying. He felt initially confused as he tried to get the relationships clear in his mind.

  “This can’t be right,” Johnson said slowly. “Or is it? Tell me. It’s saying Severinov’s grandfather—his father Sergo’s father—was Josef Stalin. Presumably Sergo was the product of some affair he had, and he took his mother’s surname, not Stalin’s?”

  Johnson looked up at Akbari, who nodded.

  “And Severinov had an older half brother, Ioseb, who was also fathered by Stalin,” Johnson continued, his eyebrows raised.

  “Yes,” Akbari said. “It seems Stalin spread his seed quite widely. He had an affair with Irina Severinov in 1912, and she gave birth to Sergo.”

  Akbari paused. “Stalin then for a short time in early 1947 took Olga Orlov as his mistress while she was working as a cook at his dacha,” he continued in a level, matter-of-fact tone.

  Johnson’s eyes widened as he digested the detail. “Stalin had an affair with his son’s wife?”

  “It seems so,” Akbari said. “Typical of the bastard. He was in his late sixties at that time. He probably terrified her into it. Put a gun to her head or something.”

  “My God,” Johnson said. “That’s disgusting.” He had known since studying Stalin at university that he was reputed to have had several affairs and illegitimate children during his lifetime. But this?

  “It happened just after she got married to Sergo, who worked in security for Stalin. She then gave birth to Ioseb. It seems Sergo believed he was the father for a long time before the truth emerged. Yuri was born later.”

  “But why the hell did Sergo stay there, working for Stalin, after that?” Johnson asked. “Why stay married to Olga?”

  Akbari pressed his lips together. “You need to understand what life was like in the Soviet Union under Stalin. His power was absolute. Anyone who crossed him and his desires, his orders, was killed immediately. Everyone was dispensable. These people, Sergo and Olga, were servants, but they might as well have been slaves. They had no choice but to keep their mouths shut and carry on. They had no money. They couldn’t afford to leave.”

  Johnson exhaled. What Akbari had said made absolute sense. He felt momentarily incapable of saying anything. “Why hasn’t all this emerged before?”

  “Stalin made Sergo, Olga, and everyone else who knew sign confidentiality agreements. They all knew what the price of breaking them would be,” Akbari said. “I and other KGB employees who had access to these top secret files in the ’80s also had to sign agreements promising never to disclose this information, anywhere, to anyone. That was why I wanted to have a long think before disclosing all this to you. But frankly, I’ve decided I no longer care. It should be known.”

  Johnson turned back to the memo. “And then also, Ioseb was a helicopter pilot who was shooting the shit out of the Afghans before he was shot down and killed by Javed and his men in the K-G Pass.”

  He looked up at Akbari again. “If I remember correctly, Stalin’s birth name wasn’t Josef or Stalin. He adopted those later. His birth name was Ioseb something, I can’t remember.”

  “You are correct,” Akbari said. “Stalin’s birth name was Ioseb Besarionis dze Jughashvili. Which accounts for why the name Ioseb was given to Severinov’s half brother.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Johnson said. “This is dynamite. It also accounts for why Severinov has been out to get Javed as well as vice versa—it’s all in the blood, the family, I mean. And if it’s Stalin’s blood, well . . .” His voice tailed off.

  “Yes,” Vic said. “They are both trying to wreak revenge on each other for things that happened twenty-five years ago.”

  “And the seeds of which were planted a century ago,” Akbari added.

  There was a pause in the conversation while they all contemplated this startling twist to the legacy of Josef Stalin.

  Finally, Johnson broke the silence. “You know, as kids, every time we talked about getting revenge on someone who’d wronged us, my m
other would say: love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you. It was from the Sermon on the Mount. So I’m not having that. I’m all for justice but not for revenge. It needs to stop.”

  Akbari shrugged. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Not sure yet,” Johnson said. “But I’m heading back to Kabul tomorrow as soon as I can get a flight and if at all possible, I’ll try to make sure they answer for what they’ve done. If not in court then in the media. I’m sure the Afghans will have a view on all this—I’m sure they’d love it if they found out someone like Severinov was planning to buy up their oil and gas industry.”

  Another thought struck Johnson. He had been wondering why Severinov had called his company Besoi Energy. There seemed no obvious reason for the choice. But now he realized. “The name of Severinov’s company—Besoi.”

  “What about it?” Vic asked.

  “That’s Ioseb spelled backward.”

  “Damn me. You’re right,” Vic said. “He really must have strong feelings for his half brother.”

  “The other thing we urgently need is the KGB files on Donnerstein to confirm him as the man from Kay Associates,” Johnson added. He turned to Akbari. “Have you found those yet?”

  Akbari looked impassively at Johnson. “It would be the final piece in your jigsaw, unless I’m mistaken,” he said.

  Johnson nodded. “Yes, it would.” He knew instinctively what Akbari’s next line would be.

  “If I provide it and complete your puzzle,” Akbari said, “you both need to undertake to walk out of here and forget we’ve had any of these conversations. Forget you ever came here or met me.”

  Johnson glanced at Vic, then turned back to Akbari. “And if we were unable to provide that?”

  “If you caused me trouble, I would make it known that these documents were of dubious origin and certainly could not be relied on as evidence in any court. I might add that the levels of corruption among the KGB officers compiling these files was extremely high. I’m good at muddying the waters when I need to do so.”