Kelly's jaw dropped to the table.
"And who is this Eye-Owe-Siff, whatever you said his name was?" asked Dowd in a laconic voice.
"Iosif Dzhugashvili is the original birth name of Generalissimo Joseph Stalin."
"Stalin?" cried a chorus of voices. Everyone's voice except Kelly's. He had recognized the name Dzhugashvili.
"But — but—" stammered Dowd. "I don't understand. I thought Stalin was Russian. Wouldn't he have written in Russian Cyrillic writing?"
"That's a misconception a lot of people have," said the voice through the speakerphone. "Stalin was born in the small Georgian town of Gori. He was brought up in the Georgian language and didn't start to learn Russian until he was about ten years old. Georgian is a distinctly different language from Russian, and, in fact, Stalin spoke Russian all of his life with a thick Georgian accent." Brennan let his words sink in, then continued, "After ill health forced Stalin from the seminary in 1899, he became politically active. His early writings were in the Georgian language — like the documents you sent me. I compared them to a personal letter written by Stalin — in the Georgian language — that I have in my files. I'm not a handwriting expert, but that rough style is most distinctive. It's my opinion that your documents, and my sample, came from the same hand. And the content of the documents you sent me should eliminate any question. It's definitely from Anarkhizm ili Sotsializm."
"Professor, this is Rodger Whittenberg. I doubt if you remember me, but you were a guest lecturer when I was getting a master's degree at Georgetown. Are you saying that in your professional opinion, these documents were written by the hand of Joseph Stalin himself?"
"Precisely."
Whittenberg's head was throbbing. "Professor, I must ask you. Are papers of this type something that is available on the open market? You know — historical documents that specialty dealers handle. I've purchased a few letters from a dealer myself that were correspondence between Napoleon and Murat at Aus-terlitz. Could this document be obtained that way?"
The box barked a sarcastic laugh. "Hardly. This isn't something you pick up at a Sotheby's auction. Stalin's writings are exceedingly rare. Particularly his earlier writings. You were lucky to have contacted me. I doubt if there are three or four people in the country who have a sample of his early Georgian handwriting. I obtained the few samples I have from an academic friend of mine in the Soviet Union. As you're probably aware, Stalin has been an extremely sensitive subject with every Russian leader since Khrushchev. Essentially, he became a non-person. It's been difficult to come by anything relating to him for the last thirty years. The mere possession of these documents, particularly outside the Soviet Union, is, well, nothing less than extraordinary. That's why I was so curious how you obtained them."
All eyes were on the CinC for a response. "Professor Bren-nan, if I told you how these documents were obtained, you wouldn't believe it. Just as I'm not sure I believe it. If it's all right with you, I would like to send the original documents to you by special messenger so you can examine them and verify your preliminary findings. Rest assured you'll be compensated for your time."
"The opportunity to examine the original will be compensation enough, General. I'm sure our Bakhmeteff Archive here at the university would appreciate the opportunity to obtain these documents — if that ever becomes a possibility."
"Very well, Professor. I'll see what I can do. We can't thank you enough for your assistance."
"Certainly, General. I'll look forward to receiving the originals. Goodbye, Tim."
"So long, Professor Brennan," said Kelly. "I'll be in touch."
There was almost a minute of silence before anyone could recover from the shock. Finally, it was Whittenberg who spoke. "So it's Iceberg," he said softly. "It has to be."
Dowd gripped the litde leather notebook so hard that the veins on his hawserlike forearm stuck out. He wished his fingers were encircling Kapuscinski's throat instead. "Goddam," he spat through his teeth.
"Joseph fucking Stalin.
Stalin was mad — stark, raving, rabidly mad. Some historians claim he was simply a flint-hard, consummate politician of supreme ruthlessness. But that is wrong. He was mad. Mad in a most evil, calculating way — like a latter-day Ivan the Terrible, carrying Satan's blood bucket across the Eurasian continent. Mass murderers like Tamerlane, Genghis Khan, Adolf Hitler, Napoleon, and the Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini all pale in comparison to Josepf Stalin. Indeed, so overwhelming were the "Generalissimo's" crimes that the river of blood which flowed from his hands would turn the Black Sea red.
What forces turned litde Iosif Dzhugashvili into a madly evil spirit? No one can say. Quite possibly it was his father — a drunken cobbler who beat him savagely. But whatever the reason, once Stalin — a name Iosif took which roughly "translates into "Man of Steel" — seized power in the wake of Lenin's death, he never relinquished it for the rest of his life. No other dictator who has ever lived has wielded such sweeping, absolute power— or spilled so much blood.
And the man who became the high executioner for Stalin's blood-thirsty purges — a Russian Himmler, if you will — was a henchman so evil and sinister that the very whisper of his name would chill the spine of the most hardened Politburo member. This was Lavrenti Pavlovich Beria, komisar of Stalin's dreaded secret police, the Narodny Komisariat Vnutrennii Delo (People's Commissariat for Internal Affairs), or NKVD.
Beria was a hulking, phlegmatic figure — at once malevolent and benign. With his stoic face, bald head, and pince-nez glasses, he looked more like a schoolteacher or the family doctor than a secret police chief. Yet the veil of his unassuming appearance concealed the blackest of hearts, and a mind that was consumed by intrigue, deception, and sexual perversity. This perversity — particularly with young children — was his eventual undoing. In the power struggle following Stalin's death, his repulsive behavior had so alienated him from the rest of the Politburo that even his diabolical scheming couldn't save him. In a poetic end, Beria was accused of spying, and after a six-day Star Chamber trial, he was executed on December 23, 1953.
But in 1945, as the Great Patriotic War began winding down, Beria's position and influence were approaching their zenith, and he was in a position to exercise his own wicked, visionary powers. Beria knew that with Germany defeated, the Generalissimo would need another great enemy to challenge — for dictators need great enemies to stay in power. Beria's calculating mind also knew that Britian, Western Europe, and Japan were finished as potential adversaries. No. They were passe. The next great confrontation would be with the United States — a naive but formidable opponent. To engage the United States in a confrontation — which might lead to war — would be a dangerous but necessary endeavor. After all, little Germany had almost defeated the Motherland, and Germany's resources were puny in comparison to America's vast treasure house. In order to deal with such a potent enemy, Beria knew, extraordinary measures would have to be taken, utilizing all of the Soviet Union's skills of guile, duplicity, propaganda, patience, and spies. Yes, a great many spies would be needed if this adversary was to be slayed. It was in this context — searching for an unconventional spear-that the wicked Beria hatched his long-range, diabolical plan to plant his "seedlings" on American soil. "Seedlings" that would one day rise up and strike the American giant from within.
February 1945.
Moscow.
Heavy snow in Red Square.