He wondered why he wasn’t simply dead. Had he been staging a coup, he would not have let his opponents survive. Lenin had thought the same way, and disposed of Tsar Nicholas and his family. With wry amusement, Molotov remembered how shocked the Lizards had been to learn that bit of Soviet history.
To his surprise, a guard did come peer into the cell through the little barred window set into the door. “Awake, are you?” he grunted, his accent White Russian.
“No, I always shout for guards in my sleep,” Molotov snapped.
He might have known the fellow would prove imperturbable. “Good thing you’re with it again. You have some papers to sign. Or maybe you could have done that in your sleep, too.”
“I am not going to sign anything,” Molotov declared. He wondered if he meant it. He’d dished out a lot of pain, but he’d never had to try to take much. People who weren’t on the business end of torture talked about withstanding it. People who were knew how rare an ability that was. Most men, once the anguish started, would do anything to make it stop. He dared a question: “Where am I?”
Beria or Zhukov? Zhukov or Beria? Zhukov, he judged, would not have left him alive if he ever decided to strike for the top. But he didn’t think Beria would have, either. Beria, though, might be inclined to gloat, and…
He didn’t get much chance to think about it. The guard answered, “You’re right where you belong, that’s where.” He laughed at his own cleverness, rocking back on his heels to do it. Then he shoved his face up close to the window again. “And you’ll do what you’re told, or you’ll never do anything else again.” He went on his way, whistling a song that had been popular a few years before.
Molotov’s stomach growled. It was ravenous, no matter how his head felt. He wondered how long he’d been drugged asleep. One more thing they wouldn’t tell him, of course. He looked at the window. Was the stripe of sunlight it admitted higher or lower than before? That would eventually tell him whether this was morning or afternoon. But even if he knew, what could he do with the knowledge? Nothing he could see.
Knowing in whose prison he sat… That could be all-important. And he didn’t need long to figure it out, either, once the cell took on a little more immediate reality for him. Here and there, previous occupants had scrawled or scratched their opinions on the walls. Quite a few were uncomplimentary toward the NKVD. None said a word about the Red Army.
“Beria,” Molotov said softly. So. The Mingrelian wanted to go where the Georgian had blazed the trail, did he? With cold political horse sense behind his judgment, Molotov didn’t think Beria could get away with it for long. The Soviet Union had had one ruler from the Caucasus, and that was plenty for a long time. But horse sense, unfortunately, said nothing about Molotov’s personal chances for escape.
And here came the guard again. He shoved papers between the bars of the window set into the door. A cheap pen followed the papers. “Sign here. Don’t take all day about it, either, not if you know what’s good for you.”
“I will remember your face and learn your name,” Molotov said. The guard walked off again, laughing.
Molotov read the papers. According to them, he had resigned as General Secretary because of failing health. They maintained he looked forward to retirement in some place with a warm climate-perhaps the Caucasus, so Beria could make sure he didn’t get into mischief, perhaps the hell in which, as a good Marxist-Leninist, he wasn’t supposed to believe.
If he signed those papers, how long would Beria let him live? He had the idea he was still breathing for no other reason than to put his name on the requisite lines. But if he didn’t, what would Lavrenti Pavlovich do to him? Did he want to find out? Did he have the nerve to find out?
Whatever it was, it couldn’t be worse than killing him. So he told himself, at any rate. A few minutes later, the guard opened the door. He was big and beefy. So were his three pals. When he checked the papers, he scowled. “You forget how to write?” he demanded, his voice scratchy from too many cigarettes.
“No,” Molotov said. It was the last coherent sound he made for the next several minutes. The goons set on him with a gusto that showed they enjoyed their work. They also showed a certain amount of skill, inflicting a maximum of pain with a minimum of actual damage. The one who wrapped Molotov’s fingers around a pencil in a particular way and then squeezed his hand had especially nasty talents along those lines. Molotov howled like a dog baying at the moon.
After a bit, the guard shoved the papers in front of his face again. “Remember your name yet, old man?” Yes leapt into Molotov’s throat. But then he thought, If I yield, I am likely to die. He made himself shake his head. The guard sighed, as if at a bad run of cards. The beating went on.
Feigning unconsciousness came easy for Molotov, though lying still when one of the bastards kicked him in the ribs was anything but. Grumbling, the guards stamped out of the cell. But they would be back. Molotov knew too well they would be back. Maybe the next round of torment would break him. Maybe they wouldn’t bother with another round. Maybe they would just kill him and get it over with.
He gathered his strength, such as it was. He’d sent a lot of men to executions without wondering what went through their minds while they awaited death. What went through his mind was surprisingly banal: he didn’t want things to end this way. But no one, now, cared what he wanted.
Sooner than he’d expected, the door opened again. He braced himself, not that that would do any good. Only one NKVD man this time, with a silenced pistol in his hand. It is the end, Molotov thought. Then the fellow spoke: “Comrade General Secretary?” His Russian had a rhythmic Polish accent.
And, suddenly, hope lived in Molotov’s narrow, heaving chest. “Nussboym,” he said, pleased and proud he’d remembered the name. He spoke with desperate urgency: “Get me out of here and you can name your own price.”
David Nussboym nodded. “Come along, then,” he said. “Keep your head down-make yourself hard to recognize. If anyone does figure out who you are, look abused.”
“It will not be hard.” Molotov heaved himself to his feet. Nussboym aimed the pistol at him. He shambled out of the cell, looking down at the cheap linoleum of the floor as he’d been ordered.
A few men passed them in the halls, but a guard leading a prisoner excited no special comment. Molotov was nearing the doorway and realizing Nussboym would have to shoot the guards there when something outside emitted a rumbling roar and the door came crashing in. One of the guards cursed and grabbed for his pistol. A burst of machine-gun fire cut him down.
An immensely amplified voice bellowed: “Surrender in there! Resistance is hopeless! The Red Army has this prison surrounded! Come out with your hands up!”
Molotov wasted no time whatever in obeying. Only later did he wonder if the tank machine-gunner might have shot him down for rushing forward so quickly. David Nussboym threw down his pistol and followed a heartbeat later.
A Red Army infantry lieutenant with a clipboard stood behind the tank. The fellow looked too young to shave, let alone serve the Soviet Union. “Give me your name, old-timer, and make it snappy,” he barked.
“Vyacheslav Mikhailovich Molotov,” Molotov said in tones like a Murmansk winter. “Now give me yours.”
The lieutenant visibly started to call him a liar, but then took another look. He stiffened, as if suddenly afflicted with rigor mortis. Then he bawled for a superior. In something under fifteen minutes, Molotov was whisked into the presence of Marshal Zhukov back at the Kremlin. “Well, well,” Zhukov said. “So Beria didn’t do you in, eh?”
“No, Georgi Konstantinovich,” Molotov answered. “I remain at the helm, as you see, and not badly the worse for wear. And tell me, where is Lavrenti Pavlovich now?”