Suddenly, his eyes seemed to catch sight of something. Still keeping the revolver aimed at Jack, he moved slowly to the fireplace, where he pushed the embers with his boot.
“Well, well, well, Jack . . . what do we have here?” He bent and picked up a piece of singed paper that he’d just noticed in the ashes, examining it in the ray of light from the window. “It looks like the remains of the report I was looking for! Who would have guessed it? It looks like that idiot Walter Scott carried out his mission after all.” He laughed and struck Jack with the butt of his revolver.
Jack staggered. Despite the pain, he kept his composure, while a trickle of blood ran down from the corner of his mouth.
“Damned American! I should have had you killed when you escaped the conveyor, like I did Orlov.”
Jack spat out a mouthful of blood. Until that moment, he’d believed that Orlov had set the conveyor in motion. “And what stopped you?”
“Your friend Walter. He persuaded me you’d be more useful alive, and to be fair, he was right, because he kept me informed of everything you confided to him.” He dealt Jack another blow, making him go down on one knee. “Pretentious fool . . . You thought you were the smart one. You believed you had me eating out of your hand while you repaired the Buick, but you didn’t know how quickly I discovered your game. Yes. The young man from the party at the Metropol whom I pretended not to recognize, and who had the nerve to show up at my house wearing a bird’s-eye suit. A suit that I would’ve recognized among a thousand others because I gave it to McMillan as a gift. It was a shame my gifts didn’t have the desired effect on him and I was forced to kill him.” His laughter was boastful. “Tell me, Jack . . . Did you really think I’d even care that you had some lousy document? Ha! A million reports wouldn’t have persuaded Stalin. That cretin would never convict me because he’ll always blindly believe every word a relative of his says. You’re as arrogant as Sergei and Natasha.”
“Leave Natasha out of this. She has nothing to do with it.”
“Oh, but she does. She and her father despised me. Did you know Natasha left me? Me! Viktor Smirnov! Stuck-up whore . . . How dare she cast me off!” he cried as if Natasha were in the room and could hear him.
Jack took a step back. “That was why she didn’t want you to know about me and her, right? That was the reason. Natasha wasn’t hiding me from her father; it was your rage she was trying to protect me from.”
“You know what? I think we should continue this conversation somewhere where you can share with us the names of all the people who’ve helped you.” He cocked his weapon. “How ironic, Jack. You came to Russia searching for paradise, and I’m the one who will be sending you there. And, so you see how much I appreciate you, I’ll send Natasha with you.”
“Goddamned bastard! She’s innocent!”
“I’m sure she is,” he said with a cynical laugh, “but I can’t allow Loban’s daughter to run around plotting how to avenge her father’s death. Men! Get in here and hold on to him!” he yelled.
Jack felt rage compress his lungs until he couldn’t breathe. He thought of Natasha, and her memory urged him into action. Taking advantage of the distraction when Viktor’s henchmen entered the house, he swooped on his adversary, dealing him a head butt that made him collapse like a rag doll. Sprawled on the floor, Smirnov screamed at his men to restrain his assailant. One of them grabbed Jack, but he spun around and knocked him down with a punch. He was about to throw himself on Viktor again when, suddenly, he felt a sharp, burning pain in his chest. Then his legs weakened, and he collapsed to his knees. Incredulous, he looked at the dagger that one of the soldiers had just plunged into his chest. When he looked up, he saw Viktor’s stunned face.
As his vision went dark, he heard the new head of the OGPU scolding his men for the stabbing. Then he remembered Natasha’s sweet, honey-flavored kisses. The sweetness turned sour as vinegar as he fell headlong onto the floor.
42
Two days later, with the rebellion stifled and the insurgents arrested, the courtroom at the Palace of Justice reopened for the public trial of the Soviet people versus Natasha Lobanova. The new commissar in charge of the OGPU, Viktor Smirnov, was acting as prosecutor, with Stalin himself the chair. The leader had decided to remain in Gorky until the trial was resolved. After listening to Smirnov’s web of lies about her and her father and his request for a death sentence, Natasha stood impassively waiting for the chairman to give his verdict.
The entire room fell silent when Joseph Stalin stood.
“Natasha Lobanova. You are accused of conspiring against the revolution, plotting with your father, and committing high treason, crimes punishable by death. Do you have anything to say?” the chairman asked.
During the hearing, Natasha had already said everything she had to say. Strong and proud, she fixed her eyes on Stalin’s, knowing that there was nothing she could say that would alter her sentence. In other circumstances, she would have defended herself, but after Yuri had told her that Smirnov had killed Jack and taken his body, there was nothing left for her to live for. Without Jack, she no longer cared.
“Very well. In that case, as chairman of this court”—he paused to look at Natasha—“I declare the defendant, Natasha Lobanova, guilty of the crimes of which she has been accused, and sentence her to the death penalty. The accused will be executed as soon as—”
“One moment!” A trembling voice was heard, coming from the back of the room.
The audience turned to see an old man, his face covered in scars, burst in from the corridor, accompanied by another man in a bow tie carrying a varnished mahogany box.
“By Lenin’s whiskers!” Smirnov sputtered. “Arrest those men!”
“Mr. General Secretary, I beg you! I am here to prevent serious damage to the Soviet Union!” The two men walked forward until they were even with Natasha.
“Silence! Who are you?” Stalin asked.
“Mr. General Secretary, with the utmost respect, I request permission to speak.” He gave something like a bow. “My name is Valeri Pushkin, retired lawyer, and the person accompanying me is Louis Thomson, the New York Times Moscow correspondent. We possess information of great importance to this case and—”
“All the statements have already been heard, and the accused has been found guilty.”
“Yes . . . but, Mr. General Secretary, if you will allow me, you haven’t yet finished meting out a sentence, and as the second paragraph of Article 18 of the Penal Code sets out, all Soviet citizens have the obligation—yes, the obligation—to report any crime included in Article 58. It says so here.” He opened the copy of the Penal Code that he was carrying and waved it in the air.
“Article 58 refers to counterrevolutionary crimes, and this court has already addressed them,” Stalin roared.