Then he felt a jab in his stomach from a thick finger. “You eat too much, Nichik.”
Khrushchev allowed himself to close his eyes for a moment before turning to address Josef Stalin with a smile. “You provide us with such food, Comrade Stalin, how can I not? You shall make all of us expand with your generosity.”
At this, the Old Man laughed, and Khrushchev sighed with relief. Stalin was aged now, his hair and iconic mustache well grayed and heading for white, and his frame under his military fatigues had grown somewhat over the years. But he was still a commanding presence, and the worst part was that Stalin knew it — and knew he had the power to back up any commands he gave.
Soon the plates were filled, the wine was poured, the toasts to Stalin’s health were duly made by each man present. While the supreme leader was arthritic and had slowed, each one of The Four remained disappointed in Stalin’s continued good health, despite their toasts. They all knew that the Soviet Union was stagnating. The global post-war economy was booming, but the Soviet economy was well behind. This was, of course, largely due to the staggering losses suffered by the Motherland during the war, both in lives and resources. But it was also leadership, for how can an economy truly grow if one’s economic solutions are to simply send managers and foremen to the gulag? Khrushchev had grand ideas, and had begun to slowly — so very carefully—implement them. But it was a drop in the bucket, and the bucket was vast and full only of need.
Khrushchev listened as Bulganin discussed the stalemate in Korea between the Chinese Communists and the U.S.-led United Nations forces. The heady successes of late 1950 were a distant memory; the fighting had largely bogged down as the Americans and their allies flowed additional men and materiel to the front.
“Advise Chairmans Mao and Kim… oh, what Kim is this? Korea is full of Kims!” Stalin said, laughing at his own joke. “Anyway, tell them to negotiate. Communism will be happy to settle for half a country rather than none. When the Koreans in the south see the workers’ paradise we will create in the north, they will knock down the borders and send the Americans home. Now, Comrade Beria, tell me of the doctors.”
The Doctors’ Plot was one of Stalin’s pet peeves, one that Khrushchev felt had been concocted by Beria simply to keep the Old Man distracted. In short, it was an alleged plot by counterrevolutionary elements within Moscow’s medical community — largely Jewish as well, which was convenient — to spread lies about Stalin’s health — or even assassinate Party leaders — in an attempt to destabilize the Soviet Union.
“It fares well, Comrade,” Beria replied smoothly. “Comrade Ignatiev has been doing fine work, and several will soon crack. And I have it on good authority that Dr. Vinogradov has quite the long tongue, and has been reported spreading scurrilous rumors about your fainting spells. Such nonsense, of course.”
“Right, what do you propose to do now?” Stalin asked crossly after downing a shot of vodka. “Have the doctors confessed? Tell Ignatiev if he doesn’t get full confessions out of them, we’ll shorten him by a head.”
“They’ll confess,” Beria replied. “With the help of other patriots like Timashuk, we’ll complete the investigation and come to you for permission to arrange a public trial.”
“Arrange it,” Stalin said. He then paused to look around the table. “You are my most loyal and effective comrades. Some of you have done fine work and continue to do fine work on behalf of the State.” Stalin’s face grew redder and he stood from the table. “But there are those in the leadership of the Party and the State who think they can somehow get by on past merits! To sit in fine offices and enjoy their apartments in Moscow and their country dachas without continuing to do fine work! They are mistaken.”
At this, Stalin strode from the room, and The Four were left to look at each other awkwardly, and to make small talk for the benefit of anyone else surely listening in. These sudden outbursts were becoming more common, as were the abrupt departures. Sometimes, Stalin would come back into the room after just a few moments, likely having gone to take a piss, and would either continue on his rant or change the subject entirely. Sometimes, The Four would be left to their own devices for hours, only to be told by a servant that Stalin had gone to sleep. Unfortunately, Stalin never really slept until just before dawn, so they would have to wait until he either came back to join them or was off to bed.
Khrushchev eyed the couch along the far wall longingly. Being caught napping would not perhaps be best, but tonight had already been long, and the morning too close by half. Instead, he joined the others in discussing the Korean question, which allowed them all to enjoy debating a topic that had little overall relevance for their careers.
Stalin joined them an hour later and was in far better spirits — and had better spirits with him as well, in the form of top-shelf bottles of Stolichnaya. Drinks were poured, toasts were made again. Someone produced a phonograph so that Stalin could play Ukrainian folk songs, and he tried to get Khrushchev to dance, repeatedly poking him in the stomach and singing, “Nichik! Nichik!” over and over. Finally, Khrushchev rose from his seat and — once the room stopped its alcohol-fueled spinning — tried a few moves from his youth. Stalin was pleased, the others laughed along, likely enjoying his embarrassment. But then it was done, and Stalin moved on to pick on someone else. Khrushchev slumped down upon the sofa and tried to stay awake.
Finally, at four in the morning, Stalin arose and wobbled toward his rooms, bidding his compatriots good night. With a sigh, Khrushchev hauled himself up off the couch and staggered toward the door. It was early, for once, and he might catch a couple hours of sleep in his own bed before tomorrow’s meetings. A luxury, to be sure.
Within minutes of driving off in the limo with Bulganin, Khrushchev’s head was up against the glass of the window. He wouldn’t even remember dozing off.
He most certainly did not remember Lavrentiy Beria staying behind at Stalin’s dacha.
But he clearly remembered the call that shook him out of his afternoon nap the following day. He’d remember it for the rest of his life.
2
“So, Uncle Joe is dead, and good riddance. First order of business, who’s got their nukes?”
The President of the United States folded his tall frame into the leather chair in the Oval Office and looked expectantly at Air Force General Hoyt Vandenberg, who felt that, at best, the nukes were the second-biggest open question facing the United States.
The first, well… most of the other men in the room weren’t cleared for that. And even Dwight Eisenhower was still not a hundred percent sure of all the things he’d heard about the MAJESTIC-12 program. But Vandenberg was — he’d seen it. And Russian nukes were absolutely a secondary concern.
Yet there remained a game to play. “Right now, Mr. President, the Soviet nuclear arsenal, such as it is, remains in the hands of the military. Marshal Vasilevsky remains defense minister for now.”
Eisenhower nodded thoughtfully. Vandenberg couldn’t help but smile a bit, reminded of a time less than a decade ago when he was side by side with Ike, planning Normandy. Vandenberg had been responsible for the air cover for the invasion, and had the job of telling Eisenhower that the Germans were too entrenched to decimate via air power. The beaches of Normandy were a fortress, and there was only so much the Army Air Force could do. All Eisenhower did was nod gravely and go ahead with the invasion, hellish meat grinder that it was.