‘Stalin’s doctor was a Jew, name of Academician V.N. Vinogradov. There were a lot of Jewish doctors in those days. Stalin didn’t like Jews.’
‘He was Zhdanov’s doctor too?’
‘Who?’
‘Yakovlevitch — sorry, Vinogradov.’
‘Search me. Probably. It didn’t matter: it was always possible to make a connection between Vinogradov and Zhdanov even when none existed. You’re missing the point.’
‘Go on.’
‘Go on! Go on! Yes — OK. Next — what? So Stalin decided that someone had poisoned Zhdanov. The Jews, naturally — who else? — creeping around the Kremlin with bottles of God knows what in their bags; poison their mothers, they would. Stalin called Beria in. Arrest them! If they killed Zhdanov, who would they poison next?’
‘Stalin?’
‘That was the theory. Beria had to set up the facts to fit it. And it scared him. You see, he knew his Stalin. Back in 1934 or whenever, Stalin had asked Yagoda to bump off S.M. Kirov, and Yagoda like a good boy had done the deed. Then, come 1938, Stalin used the same murder as an excuse for purging NKVD and getting rid of Yagoda. So Beria could see what was coming. He could arrest Vinogradov and a bunch of other Jewish doctors, but that would only be the beginning. If Vinogradov was planning to poison Stalin, who was he working for? Since the plot was a pure fabrication, the answer could be anybody! The answer could be Beria himself. That was what frightened him.’
‘What did he do about it?’
‘Nothing — nothing directly. Once Stalin had invented the plot, Beria was trapped. He couldn’t refuse to arrest Vinogradov otherwise he would be accused of complicity. Yet once he had arrested him, Vinogradov could be forced to implicate anybody that Stalin had a grudge against — and you’ve got to remember: Beria was Jewish! Beria had one slim hope. If Stalin really was moving against him, the Old Man had to have in mind a successor. So, if Beria could outguess Stalin and identify his own successor, he could drag him into the plot as a potential accused and Stalin could do nothing about it without revealing his own hand. At the least it would gain time.’
‘And that’s what he did?’
‘Yes,’ said Uncle Kolya and he lapsed into silence. He stamped on the floor to call Tatiana Yurievna, and when the housekeeper arrived he pointed mutely at the bottles and she tut-tutted and dosed him with the stuff. Kirov sat passively through the little scene. He accepted Tatiana Yurievna’s complaint that he was tiring the General, and her reproach that it was foolishness to keep talking about the past, as she gathered they were doing, when these days things were so much better. Satisfied with this she left the two men alone. When she had gone Kirov resumed.
‘Who was Beria’s successor to be?’ he asked quietly.
‘Your father,’ came the answer as Kirov had expected. And his memories of the photograph of his father and Beria at Sochi, and of Uncle Lavrenti bringing him presents were all explained. ‘And now you know,’ said the General. ‘The rest doesn’t matter. Stalin died not long after Vinogradov’s arrest, and Beria moved immediately to wind down the Doctors’ Plot and release the prisoners.’
‘Except my father.’
‘Except your father,’ the old man admitted. ‘He was different. In Beria’s eyes all the holds he had on your father fell away to nothing. Instead of being causes for loyalty, they became grounds for resentment. So he had your father shot.’
‘And replaced.’
‘If you like.’
‘By you?’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘You were my father’s deputy and his successor, weren’t you?’
‘I —’ the General spluttered but Kirov would not allow him to speak.
‘What hold did Beria have over you? How did he propose to keep you loyal?’ He was searching for some sign of anger within himself, but could find nothing except, perhaps, a small measure of pity. The General was staring, eyes open and tearful and a trickle of spittle dribbling down his cheek. He rolled uncertainly to one side and reached for a bottle of vodka that he put roughly to his mouth and then held out as an offering. Uncle Kolya bearing gifts. Uncle Kolya standing at the apartment door with his smile and his swagger and his presents for the beautiful widow and the unfortunate traitor’s child.
Kirov stood up and told his host that he had to leave. He had to go into the city on some business and would be back later that night.
‘I shot your father,’ the old man replied pathetically. ‘I pulled the trigger. That was Beria’s hold on my loyalty.’ Kirov had opened the door and was speaking to Tatiana Yurievna about his laundry and the next meal and where to make up his bed. The General could see only his back and interpret its rigidity. He shouted, ‘Your father was glad it was me! He knew I was loyal to him! That I loved him! I love you too, Pyotr Andreevitch!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Bogdanov arrived in the late afternoon, alone and in an unfamiliar car. From the window Kirov watched him struggle along the snowbound path. His black angular figure appeared thin and frail. He’s getting old, Kirov told himself.
Bogdanov explained the car. ‘I got it from the Sluzhba pool.’ He greeted Tatiana Yurievna coyly like a girl met at a dance and made a flattering reference to her cooking, which he had sampled on some past occasion. Kirov guessed he had something to be pleased about.
‘You shook off a tail to get here?’
‘A couple of goons were watching my place,’ Bogdanov replied off-handedly, ‘and Heltai has the Centre staked out, but nothing to get excited about. How is Uncle Kolya? Can I see him, pay my respects?’
‘He’s all right. He’s sleeping. What about Radek?’
‘Your guess is right. His interest is in replacing Grishin and he doesn’t know about the other thing. At the moment he’s busy counting his winnings. Until they find you or you show up and kiss his arse, I’m reporting to Radek’s deputy, Petruk.’
‘Petruk was Scherbatsky’s case officer.’
‘Was he now? Then this must be his reward for keeping quiet about where the bodies are buried. It makes things a bit more tricky. Radek may want you alive and well as a loyal soldier, but Petruk is likely to be less enthusiastic. It means you’re on your own. You don’t really have a case against Heltai, and, if you try to take what you do have up to the Director, Petruk will kill you before you get through the door: with Scherbatsky’s blood on his hands, he has to. Radek can go hang himself if he tries to stop him.’
‘What about your position?’ Kirov wasn’t used to Bogdanov when he was full of life. His deputy carried his personal raincloud, and anything else wasn’t normal, particularly this brittle good humour.
‘Me?’ the other man answered with a hint of self-mockery. ‘I’m safe until they settle accounts with you. What would they want with a toe-rag? They figure that any move against me would only scare you off. They still hope you’ll come in with your hands up.’ He dropped the pretence. ‘If you want my advice, you should accept their offer. Radek has you stitched up for the housing fraud and Scherbatsky’s death. There are times when you’ve got to recognise that you’re on the losing side; and Radek’s backside can’t be any less tasty than Grishin’s. And with Radek’s support you can maybe do a deal with Heltai: kiss and make up and promise to forget.’
‘It’s going to be OK,’ Kirov told him. ‘Trust me.’
‘The last time someone said that, I got pregnant.’
They waited in darkness. The office workers spilled into Pushkin Street from the Public Prosecutor’s Office, carrying their briefcases and shopping bags. Bakradze wasn’t in the crowd. He had his little Zhiguli, so clean and neat you could spot it anywhere, and behind the wheel the lawyer looked as dapper as always. Bogdanov, hunched and shabby, watched him like a visitor from another country.