"You would do anything for the Generalissimo, would you not, Comrade?" asked the komisar harshly.
"Anything," replied Viktoria without hesitation.
Beria continued staring at her with his cold, foreboding eyes, until finally saying, "Good." Then his voice took on a challenging tone. "There is a special mission that must be undertaken for the sake of the Motherland, Viktoria Petrovna. A vital mission that is lifelong. Do you understand? Lifelong. The element of danger will be small, and you will live well, but the requirement for secrecy is all-important. Yes, secrecy. It is crucial. So secret is this mission that I cannot tell you the nature of it until you have accepted the task.'' Beria smiled his phelgmatic smile. "A dilemma, is it not, Viktoria Petrovna? You cannot learn the secret until you accept the mission. Only the most devoted of the Party have been selected for this task. The Generalissimo himself approved of your selection. Tell me, Viktoria Petrovna — tell me the absolute truth — do you accept this mission without hesitation? Are you truly worthy of being the Generalissimo's chosen one?"
Any other Russian would have been frightened half to death over this confrontation, but the war had dulled Viktoria's sense of fear, and steeled her devotion to the Generalissimo and the Party. Her village komisar had saved her. She regretted her parents' death, but she had never really known them. All she knew was that Viktoria Kaminskaya had survived the war, when twenty million Russians had not, and she had actually laid eyes on the Generalissimo. And now he summoned her.
"I accept," she said flatly.
Beria nodded. "Good," hesaid, then added another "Good" for emphasis. "The Generalissimo knew you would not refuse him.'' Beria did not tell Viktoria that had she refused, she would not have left Dzerzhinsky Square alive.
Beria rang for tea, and for the next two hours he explained in patient detail to Viktoria how she would soon be wed to another loyal Soviet, also handpicked by the Generalissimo.. The couple would receive intensive language training, and after the war's end would be packed onto a train for Poland. From Warsaw they would emigrate to America, along with thousands of displaced persons pouring into the promised land after the war. They would enjoy a hidden source of money and raise one child and one child only, who would be taught from the cradle to be a loyal Soviet and to obey the instructions of his parents.
"Go to your home and collect your possessions, Viktoria Pe-trovna, then return here. Your training will commence at once. Never forget, you are the Generalissimo's chosen one."
Viktoria nodded and left.
The Packard transported her back to the apartment in Moscow that she shared with eight other women. The hovel was empty because the other occupants were working. Viktoria had no reservations about leaving the miserable apartment behind. Perhaps this "mission" she had accepted would lead to something better. But there was one thing she was not about to leave behind. From beneath her cot she withdrew a small wooden chest that was padlocked shut. On a string around her neck she kept a key, which she now used to unlock it. Inside were two baubles of cheap jewelry — and a leather notebook. Carefully she placed the notebook in the dirty cloth sack that served as a handbag.
Initially, she thought her summons to Dzerzhinsky Square might concern the notebook. And although Viktoria no longer frightened easily, she was relieved to learn the komisar knew nothing of it.
Two months previously, Viktoria had reported for work at the Council of Ministers Building, only to find two Red Army soldiers posted at the door. These were not the old, toothless men or young boys found in Moscow these days, but real soldiers with rifles. Like the ones at the German front. They stopped Viktoria at the door until her supervisor appeared. With an urgent manner, the supervisor ushered her downstairs to an area of the basement where she'd never been allowed before. Her superior pointed to a door. "Go inside and help Ludmilla. We must finish and lock this door quickly,"
Viktoria did as she was told, and when she entered the room, Ludmilla nearly jumped out of her skin.
"Oh, Viktoria," cried Ludmilla. "Thank heaven it is you. I was so afraid it was one of the guards."
Viktoria confronted a bizarre scene. Her friend was surrounded by file boxes. But these were not the boxes made of pine or rough cardboard to which they were accustomed. No. These file boxes were made of finished rosewood. Beautiful, smooth, polished rosewood. They were finer than anything
Viktoria had ever seen. One of the fine boxes had fallen from its stack, and the paper contents had spilled at Ludmilla's feet.
"Ludmilla," asked Viktoria with a sense of wonder, while touching one of the boxes, "what are these?"
Ludmilla gulped. "They were delivered only minutes ago."
Viktoria nodded. "Yes… but what are they?"
Ludmilla gulped again and drew Viktoria close. "These boxes," she whispered, "are the papers of the Generalissimo himself."
Viktoria gasped. "The Generalissimo?"
Ludmilla nodded vigorously. "Da, Viktoria. We are to stack these boxes against that wall.'' She pointed.''I was moving this one when it slipped." Ludmilla started to whimper. "I am so afraid. What will they do to me when they learn I dropped the Generalissimo's papers?"
Viktoria comforted her friend. "Do not fear, Ludmilla. I will repack this box. You begin stacking the others. We will tell no one that the box slipped. We can stack it so any scratches will be hidden."
"Oh, yes, Viktoria, let us do that," said Ludmilla, and she quickly put her heavyset body to work stacking the file boxes against the wall.
Viktoria knelt down and began repacking the strewn papers back into the rosewood box, trembling at the knowledge that what she held had passed through Stalin's own hands. A small leather-bound notebook had been badly smudged by the basement room's grimy floor. If anyone opened this box later he would find the dirty volume. So Viktoria made a quick decision. She would clean the notebook off and return it to the box later, when she had the chance. She dropped it into her raggedy cloth handbag and began helping Ludmilla.
But Viktoria never had the opportunity to return the notebook. The door to that special room was locked and sealed off, and Viktoria could not enter. And besides, she'd become attached to the diminutive leather-bound volume. It was her link to the Generalissimo. And now he summoned her for this lifelong mission. She couldn't bear to part with the little book. So she kept it.
A year later, when Viktoria Kapuscinski and her husband waited down the boat ramp at Ellis Island in New York Harbor, her belly was already swollen with their first and only offspring.
The pilot at the controls of the American space shuttle Intrepid was a "seedling" planted by Lavrenti Beria.
THE FOURTH DAY
"A deep plant," murmured Tedesco softly. "It has to be."
"What did you say?" asked Strand.
The FBI agent's brow had turned into deep furrows beneath his widow's peak. He took a slow breath and said, "Something called a deep plant. It was a rumor. Pure supposition that was bantered about in the Bureau from time to time. I always thought it was some kind of fairy tale left over from the Hoover era. A myth, like a unicorn or a mermaid. But in view of this, I guess it has to be real. Still, God, I can't believe it."