45
HARRY HADN’T EXPECTED a chauffeur-driven car to take him to the airport, and he was even more surprised when he saw who the chauffeur was.
“I just want to make sure you get on the plane,” said Colonel Marinkin.
“How very considerate of you, colonel,” said Harry, forgetting to remain in character.
“Don’t get clever with me, Mr. Clifton. The railway station is closer than the airport, and it’s not too late for you to join Babakov on a journey that won’t have a return ticket for another twelve years.”
“But I signed the confession,” said Harry, trying to sound conciliatory.
“Which I know you’ll be glad to hear has already been released to every leading newspaper in the West from the New York Times to the Guardian. It will have hit most of their front pages before you touch down at Heathrow, so even if you did try to deny it—”
“I can assure you, colonel, that, unlike St. Peter, there will be no need for me to deny anything. I saw Babakov for what he was. And in any case, an Englishman’s word is his bond.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” said the colonel, as he accelerated on to the motorway and put his foot hard down. Within seconds the indicator was touching a hundred miles an hour. Harry clung on to the dashboard as the colonel nipped in and out of the traffic, and for the first time since he’d set foot in Russia, Harry was genuinely frightened. As they passed the Hermitage, the colonel couldn’t resist asking, “Have you ever visited the Hermitage, Mr. Clifton?”
“No,” said Harry, “but I’ve always wanted to.”
“Pity, because now you never will,” said the colonel as he overtook a couple of lorries.
Harry only began to relax when the airport terminal came into sight, and the colonel slowed to sixty. He hoped his plane would take off before the first editions hit the streets, otherwise he might still be on that train to Siberia, and as he couldn’t hope to get through customs for at least a couple of hours, it might be a close-run thing.
Suddenly the car swung off the road, through a gate held open by two guards, and drove onto a runway. The colonel dodged in and out of the stationary aircraft, with much the same abandon with which he had treated the cars on the motorway. He screeched to a halt at the bottom of an aircraft’s steps, where two guards, who had clearly been waiting for him, sprang to attention and saluted even before he’d got out of the car. Marinkin leaped out, and Harry followed him.
“Don’t let me hold you up,” said the colonel. “Just be sure you never come back, because if you do, I’ll be at the bottom of the steps waiting for you.” They didn’t shake hands.
Harry walked up the staircase as quickly as he could, knowing he wouldn’t feel safe until the plane had taken off. When he reached the top step the senior steward came forward and said, “Welcome aboard, Mr. Clifton. Let me take you to your seat.” Clearly he was expected. The steward guided him to the back row of first class, and Harry was relieved to find the seat next to him was empty. No sooner had he sat down than the aircraft door was slammed shut and the seat belt sign switched on. He still wasn’t quite ready to breathe a sigh of relief.
“Is there anything I can get you once we’ve taken off, Mr. Clifton?” asked the steward.
“How long is the flight?”
“Five and a half hours, including a stopover in Stockholm.”
“A strong black coffee, no sugar, two pens, and as much writing paper as you can spare. And could you let me know the moment we’re no longer in Russian airspace?”
“Of course, sir,” said the steward, as if he got this sort of request every day.
Harry closed his eyes and tried to concentrate as the plane began to taxi to the far end of the runway in preparation for take-off. Anatoly had explained to him that he knew the book off by heart, and had spent the past sixteen years repeating it to himself again and again in the hope that one day he would be released, when it could be published.
As soon as the seat belt sign had been switched off, the steward returned and handed Harry a dozen sheets of BOAC writing paper and two ballpoint pens.
“I’m afraid that won’t be enough for the first chapter,” said Harry. “Can you keep up a regular supply?”
“I’ll do my best,” said the steward. “And will you be hoping to catch a couple of hours’ sleep during the flight?”
“Not if I can possibly avoid it.”
“Then may I suggest you leave your reading light on, so when the cabin lights are dimmed, you can go on working.”
“Thank you.”
“Would you like to see the first-class menu, sir?”
“Only if I can write on the back of it.”
“A cocktail perhaps?”
“No, I’ll stick with the coffee, thank you. And can I say something that’s going to sound incredibly rude, but I assure you it’s not meant to be.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Could you not speak to me again until we land in Stockholm?”
“As you wish, sir.”
“Other than to tell me when we’re no longer in Russian air space.” The senior steward nodded. “Thank you,” said Harry, then picked up a pen and began writing.
I first met Josef Stalin when I graduated from the Foreign Languages Institute in 1941. I was on a conveyor belt of graduates being awarded their degrees, and if you had told me then that I would spend the next thirteen years working for a monster who made Hitler look like a pacifist, I would not have believed it possible. But I have only myself to blame, because I would never have been offered a job in the Kremlin if I hadn’t come top of my class, and been awarded the Lenin Medal. If I’d come second, I would have joined my wife Yelena, taught English in a state school, and not been even a footnote in history.
Harry paused as he tried to recall a paragraph that began, For the first six months …
For the first six months, I worked in a small office in one of the many outer buildings within the red wall that encircled the 69 acres of the Kremlin. My job was to translate the leader’s speeches from Russian into English, without any idea if anyone ever read them. But then one day two members of the Secret Police (NKVD) appeared by my desk and ordered me to accompany them. I was led out of the building, across a courtyard, and into the Senate, a building I’d never entered before. I must have been searched a dozen times before I was allowed to enter a large office where I found myself in the presence of Comrade Stalin, the General Secretary of the Party. I towered above him, although I am only five foot nine, but what I remember most was those yellow eyes boring into mine. I hoped he couldn’t see that I was shaking. I learned years later that he became suspicious of any state employee who wasn’t shaking when they first appeared before him. Why did he want to see me? Clement Attlee had just been elected as the British prime minister, and Stalin wanted to know how it could be possible for such an insignificant little man (Attlee was an inch taller than Stalin) to replace Winston Churchill, whom he admired and respected. After I’d explained the vagaries of the British electoral system to him, all he said was, “That’s the ultimate proof that democracy doesn’t work.”
A steaming hot coffee, Harry’s second, and more sheets of paper of different sizes and shapes were supplied by the silent chief steward.
* * *
Sebastian took a cab to the High Court shortly after eleven. Just as he had been about to leave his office, Rachel had dropped the morning post and three more thick files on his desk. He tried to tell himself that things would return to normal next week. He couldn’t put off much longer telling Ross Buchanan that he intended to go to America and find out if he had the slightest chance of winning Samantha back, although he wasn’t even sure she would agree to see him. Ross had met Samantha on the Buckingham’s maiden voyage, and later described her as the best asset he’d ever let go.
“I didn’t let her go,” Seb had tried to explain, “and if I could get her back, I would. Whatever the cost.”
As the taxi made its way through the morning traffic, he kept checking his watch, hoping he’d get there before the jury returned.
He was paying the cabbie when he spotted Virginia. He froze on the spot. Even with her back to him, it couldn’t have been anyone else. That confident air of generations past, the style, the class, would have made her stand out in any crowd. But what was she doing hiding away in a back alley talking to Desmond Mellor of all people? Seb didn’t even realize they knew each other, but why wasn’t he surprised? He would immediately tell Uncle Giles and leave it for him to decide if they should let Emma know. Perhaps not until after the trial was over.
He slipstreamed in among a tide of pedestrians to make sure neither of them spotted him. As he entered the Royal Courts of Justice, he ran up the wide staircase, dodging in and out of bewigged barristers as well as witnesses and defendants who wished they weren’t there, until at last he reached the lobby outside court fourteen.
“Over here, Seb,” called a voice.
Seb looked around to see Giles and his mother sitting in the corner of the lobby, chatting to Mr. Trelford, killing time.
He strode across to join them. Giles told him there was no sign of the jury returning. He waited for his mother to resume her conversation with Mr. Trelford before he took Giles aside and told him what he’d just witnessed. “Cedric Hardcastle taught me not to believe in coincidences,” he concluded.
“Particularly when Virginia is involved. With her, everything is planned to the finest detail. However, I don’t think this is the time to tell your mother.”
“But how could those two possibly know each other?”
“Alex Fisher has to be the common factor,” said Giles. “But what worries me is that Desmond Mellor is a far more dangerous and clever man than Fisher ever was. I’ve never understood why he resigned from Barrington’s so soon after he became deputy chairman.”
“I’m responsible for that,” said Seb, and explained the deal he’d made with Hakim Bishara.
“Clever, but be warned, Mellor isn’t the type to forgive or forget.”
“Would all those involved in the case of Fenwick versus Clifton please go to court number fourteen, as the jury is expected to return in the next few minutes.”
The four of them rose as one and made their way quickly back into the courtroom, where they found the judge already seated in her place. Everyone was looking toward the door through which the jury would make their entrance, like theatre-goers waiting for the curtain to rise.
When the door finally opened, the chattering ceased, as the jury bailiff led his twelve charges back into court, then stood aside to allow them to return to their places in the jury box. Once they were settled, he asked the foreman to rise.
The chosen one couldn’t have appeared at first glance to be a less likely leader, even of this disparate group. He must have been around sixty, and not an inch over five foot four, bald and wearing a three-piece suit, white shirt, and a striped tie that Giles guessed represented his club or his old school. You would have passed him in the street without giving him a first look. But the moment he opened his mouth, everyone understood why he had been selected. He spoke with a quiet authority, and Giles wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that he was a solicitor, a schoolmaster, or even a senior civil servant.
“Mr. Foreman,” the judge said, leaning forward, “have you reached a verdict on which you are all agreed?”
“No, my lady,” he replied in a calm, measured voice. “But I felt we ought to inform you of the impasse we have reached, in the hope you might advise us what we should do next.”
“I will certainly try,” said Mrs. Justice Lane, as if she was dealing with a trusted colleague.
“We have taken the vote a number of times, and on each occasion it has resulted in an eight-to-four deadlock. We were not certain if there was any purpose in us continuing.”
“I wouldn’t want you to give up at this early stage,” said the judge. “Considerable time, effort, and expense has been invested in this trial, and the least any of us can do is to be absolutely sure we have made every effort to reach a verdict. If you think it might help, I would be willing to accept a majority verdict of ten to two, but nothing less will be acceptable.”
“Then we will try again, my lady,” said the foreman and, without another word, he led his little band back out of the court, with the bailiff bringing up the rear of an exclusive club that no one else would be invited to join.
Once the door had closed behind them, a babble of chattering broke out, even before the judge had made her exit.
“Who’s got eight, and who’s got four?” was Virginia’s first question.
“You have the eight,” said Sir Edward, “and I can identify almost every one of them.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Two reasons. While the foreman was speaking to the judge, I kept my eyes on the jury, and the majority of them were looking at you. Juries, in my experience, don’t look at the loser.”
“And the other reason?”
“Take a look at Trelford and you’ll see an unhappy man, because he will have carried out the same exercise.”
“Who got the majority?” asked Giles.
“Never easy to try to second-guess a jury,” said Trelford, touching the envelope in his inside pocket, although he was fairly sure it wasn’t his client who needed the extra two votes to win the action. So perhaps the time had come to allow Mrs. Clifton to see the major’s letter, and decide if she wanted it read out in court.
He would advise her to do so if she still hoped to win the case, but having come to know the lady over the past few months, he would not have been surprised if she thought otherwise.
* * *
While Stalin was serving his first prison sentence in 1902 at the age of twenty-three, like many ambitious party members, he decided to learn German, so he could read Karl Marx in the original—but he only ended up with a cursory knowledge of the language. During his time in jail, he formed a self-appointed political committee of murderers and thugs who ruled over the other prisoners. Anyone who disobeyed him was beaten into submission. Soon, even the guards became intimidated by him, and were probably relieved when he escaped. He once told me that he’d never murdered anyone, possibly true, because he only had to hint, drop a name, and that person was never heard of again.
The most damning thing I learned about Stalin during my time at the Kremlin, and never repeated, even to my wife, for fear it would compromise her, was that when he was a young man and had been exiled to Kuneika in Siberia, he fathered two children by a 13-year-old schoolgirl, Lidia Pereprygina, and once he left Kuneika, he not only never returned, but never contacted them again.
Harry unfastened his seat belt and walked up and down the length of the cabin as he thought about the next chapter. He began writing again the moment he returned to his seat.
Another incident that Stalin regularly regaled us with was his claim that he carried out a series of bank robberies all over the country to raise funds for Lenin in support of the revolution. This certainly accounted for his rapid promotion, although Stalin yearned to be a politician, and not simply thought of as a Caucasian bandit. When Stalin told his friend Comrade Leonov of his ambitions, he just smiled and said, “You can’t carry out a revolution wearing silk gloves.” Stalin nodded to one of his thugs, who followed Leonov out of the room. Leonov was never seen again.
“We are no longer in Russian airspace, Mr. Clifton,” said the steward.
“Thank you,” said Harry.
Stalin’s arrogance and insecurity reached the most farcical proportions when the great motion picture director, Sergei Eisenstein, was chosen to make a film called “October,” to be shown at the Bolshoi Theatre to mark the tenth anniversary of the October Revolution. Stalin turned up the day before the first screening and, after seeing the film, ordered Eisenstein to remove any reference to Trotsky, the man acknowledged by the Bolshevik Party as the genius behind the October coup, but now regarded by Stalin as his most dangerous rival. When the film was screened for the general public the following day, there was no mention of Trotsky from beginning to end, because he’d been consigned to the cutting-room floor. Pravda described the film as a masterpiece, and made no mention of the missing Trotsky. The paper’s previous editor, Sergei Peresky, was among those who had disappeared overnight for criticizing Stalin.
“We’ve run out of paper,” said the steward.
“How far are we from Stockholm?” asked Harry.
“About another hour, sir.” He hesitated. “I have one other source you might consider.”
“I’ll consider anything, rather than lose an hour.”
“We have two varieties,” said the steward. “First class or economy, but I think economy will serve your purpose better—a heavier texture and less absorbent.”
Both of them giggled like schoolboys as the steward produced a roll in one hand and a box in the other. Henry took his advice and chose economy.
“By the way, sir, I love your books.”
“This isn’t my book,” said Harry, as he continued writing.
Another persistent rumor his enemies spread was that during his youth Stalin was a double agent, working for the tsar’s secret police at the same time as being one of Lenin’s most trusted lieutenants. When Stalin’s enemies found out about his regular meetings with the tsar’s secret police, he simply claimed he was turning them into double agents so they could work for the revolutionaries, and whenever anyone reported him, they mysteriously disappeared soon afterward. So no one could ever be sure which side Stalin was working for; one cynic suggested whichever side looked like winning. Someone else who was never seen or heard of again.
Harry paused as he tried to remember the opening line of the next chapter.
By now, you will be asking yourself if I feared for my own life. No, because I was like wallpaper: I simply blended into the background, so no one ever noticed me. Very few of Stalin’s inner circle even knew my name. No one ever sought my opinion on anything, let alone my support. I was an apparatchik, a junior civil servant of no significance, and had I been replaced by a different colored wallpaper, I would have been forgotten within the hour.
I had been working at the Kremlin for just over a year when I first thought about writing a memoir of the man no one spoke of unless it was in reverential tones—even behind his back. But it was another year before I summoned up the courage to write the first page. Three years later, as my confidence grew, whenever I returned to my little flat each evening I would write a page, perhaps two, about what had taken place that day. And before going to bed, like an actor, I would learn the newly minted script off by heart, and then destroy it.
So frightened was I of being caught that Yelena would sit by the window whenever I was writing, just in case anyone paid an unexpected visit. If that had happened, I was ready to throw the page I was working on into the fire. But no one ever did visit, because no one considered me a threat to anything or anybody.
“Please fasten your seat belts, as we will be landing in Stockholm in a few minutes’ time.”
“Can I stay on the plane?” asked Harry.
“I’m afraid not, sir, but we have a first-class lounge where they serve breakfast, and where I’m sure you’ll find an endless supply of paper.”
Harry was the first off the plane and within minutes had settled down at a table in the first-class lounge with a black coffee, several varieties of biscuits, and reams of typing paper. He must have been the only passenger who was delighted to learn that the flight had been delayed because of a mechanical fault.
Yakov Bulgukov, the Mayor of Romanovskaya, faced a potentially dangerous situation when he decided to build a massive image of Stalin, twice life-size, using convicts from a nearby prison to build the statue, which would be erected on the banks of the Volga-Don Canal. The mayor was horrified when he turned up for work each morning to find his leader’s head covered in bird droppings. Bulgukov came up with a drastic solution. He ordered that a constant electric current should be run through the statue’s head. A junior official was given the job of removing the little corpses every morning before the sun rose.
Harry gathered his thoughts before he began the fourth chapter.
Stalin had a hand-picked cadre of security guards led by General Nikolai Sidorovich Vlasik, whom he trusted with his life. He needed to, because he’d made so many enemies during the purges, when he’d eliminated anyone and everyone he considered to be a possible rival, at that time or in the future. I lost count of how many people were in favor one day and disappeared the next. If a member of his inner circle so much as hinted that someone was plotting against him, that person was never seen or heard of again. Stalin didn’t believe in early retirement or a pension plan. He once told me that if you kill one person, you’re a murderer; if you kill thousands, it becomes a mere statistic.
Stalin boasted that his personal security protection was in a different class to anything the president of the United States was getting from the American Secret Service, and that wasn’t hard to believe. When he left the Kremlin for his dacha each evening, and when he returned to the Kremlin the following morning, Vlasik was always by his side ready to take an assassin’s bullet, although the nine-kilometer route was permanently patrolled by three thousand armed agents, and his bulletproof Zil limousine rarely traveled at less than eighty miles an hour.
Harry was on page 79 of the manuscript when all passengers on the flight to London were requested to reboard the plane, by which time Stalin saw himself as something of a cross between Henry VIII and Catherine the Great. Harry walked up to the check-in counter.
“Would it be possible to change my flight to a later one?”
“Yes, of course, sir. We have one going via Amsterdam in two hours’ time, but I’m afraid there’s no connecting flight to London for another four hours.”
“Perfect.”