“At your suggestion, of course, Beria.”
“It was the right thing to do, Comrade.” A flash of irritation crossed Beria’s face. Fortunately, Stalin had just reached down to spit into a receptacle under the desk. All key members of the Politburo had signed the execution orders, but the Vozhd liked to pretend that he had had nothing to do with the massacre.
“So, this Sasha was killed at Katyn?”
“Yes, Comrade. It is in the report I gave you.”
“But at this point you had no suspicions against him regarding the gold?”
“On the contrary, I had identified Sasha as the person in charge of the gold transportation not long after you had charged me with the investigation of the matter. We found out that Sasha had been aware of the documentary discrepancy concerning the shipment and I put two and two together. Unfortunately, by the time I realised that we needed to interrogate Sasha, it was 1939; he had gone back to Poland, Hitler had invaded and we could not easily get hold of him. Then in the confusion of the invasion’s aftermath, his arrest and removal to Katyn were not notified to me.”
“Excuses never satisfy me, Lavrentiy. You should have got hold of him before the Nazis invaded. Then again, you should have identified him as one of our prisoners.”
“With respect, Comrade, although we lost Sasha, I did manage to identify Karol as one of our prisoners and it was through him that we in due course found the gold.”
Stalin grunted and spat again. “Very well. And so the two Stanislawicki boys both perished one way or another, as did the Count and Countess and the nephew Kowalski? And my old friend Voronov, who tried to piss me off one time too many?”
“Yes, Comrade.”
“And so this is all the gold we were missing?”
Beria could feel his neck getting wetter. “Not quite, Comrade. There remains a balance lodged in a vault in a London bank, which, pursuant to the Count’s will, is credited to the Polish government in exile.”
Stalin’s face darkened. “Polish government in exile! Ha! What a joke. And how much of the missing gold do they hold?”
“About a third.”
“A third.” Stalin screamed. “A fucking third! And what are the prospects of its return, Comrade Beria?”
“We have initiated proceedings in the London courts. The lawyers tell us that we have a reasonably strong case. I am hopeful…”
Stalin stood up and strode to the window. He opened it and they could hear the sound of a distant factory whistle.
Beria also rose and stood nervously by his chair.
“I am sure you are hopeful, Lavrentiy. I would be, if I were you.”
Beria shuffled his feet and coughed.
“When I understood that all the principal criminals, all those who had connived to deprive me of my gold, were dead, I was not correct, was I?”
“You were, of course, Comrade Stalin.”
“What about Grishin?”
“Well, it—”
“It was his negligence that led to the theft in the first place, was it not?”
“Well, yes, I suppose.”
“Not suppose, Lavrentiy. It is fact. Recall him and then deal with him as I would expect.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what about the other conniver?”
“Who is that, Comrade?”
“You, Lavrentiy, of course. You have connived to deprive me of my gold by your inefficiency.”
“But, but, Comrade—”
“But me no buts, Comrade Beria. I remember everything, as you know. And I shall remember this. Now you may go. You are very busy, as you say.”
Lavrentiy Beria paused, thinking whether there was anything he could say to his advantage. From long experience, when the Vozhd was in this mood, he knew it was best to withdraw.
As he opened the door, Stalin spoke again, his voice a little mellower. “And Lavrentiy, please arrange some flowers.”
“For whom, sir?”
“Why for Voronov’s widow, of course. In memory of some good times together. He used to make fun of my Georgian accent, you know.” Stalin smiled sweetly at his colleague. “He was not the first, but he was certainly the last!”