Smyslov smiled without humor. “My superiors might not agree, but personally, I should like not to fuck up entirely. That anthrax could find its way into the hands of the Chechen rebels or another of our domestic terrorist groups. It could be used against Moscow or St. Petersburg as easily as against New York or Chicago. This is what matters now.”
Smith extended his hand. “Welcome back, Major.”
The Russian accepted his handclasp. “It’s good to be back, Colonel. What are your orders?”
Smith glanced toward the rear of the cave. “Our best intelligence source concerning this new faction is unavailable for the moment. When and if we can talk with her, then we can make some plans. For now, how about a cup of tea?”
A few minutes later the two men hunched over steaming canteen cups, letting the warmth seep in through their fingers.
“I have to admit, Major,” Smith said, “that one question still keeps nagging at me. It’s the other half of the March Fifth equation: why the Soviet attack was recalled at the last minute.”
Smyslov shook his head. “I’m sorry, I cannot say, Colonel. I must respect the last remaining rags of my nation’s security.”
“You might as well tell him, Gregori,” Valentina’s voice issued from the mound of sleeping bags. “I’ve figured that bit out as well.”
Smyslov’s head snapped around. “How could you?”
Valentina’s sigh whispered in the ice cave. “Because I’m a historian and because I’m very good at playing connect-the-dots. The Misha 124 crashed on Wednesday Island on March fifth, 1953, and the USSR came within a hairsbreadth of starting the Third World War on March fifth, 1953. One other major sociopolitical event involving the Soviet Union took place on that date as well. Logic indicates this one must be related to the other two.”
“What was it?” Smith demanded.
“March fifth, 1953, was the day Joseph Stalin died.” Valentina twisted around so they could make out the pale oval of her face. “Or rather, the day he was assassinated. Your people did off the bastard, didn’t they, Gregori?”
For a long moment, the only sound was the nagging whine of the wind.
“We’ve always suspected,” Valentina went on. “As history currently records it, Stalin was stricken by a massive cerebral hemorrhage on the night of February the twenty-eighth, while he was in residence at the Kremlin. Supposedly he was incapacitated and rendered semicomatose by the stroke, remaining in that state until his death on March fifth. But the world has always wondered. It was held there was something ‘funny’ about the rather sketchy account made by the Soviet government of Stalin’s death. There were also rather broad hints made by Stalin’s daughter, Svetlana, that the true story of her father’s demise was not being revealed.”
The historian shifted her position, trying not to disturb Randi. “Of course, rumors and conspiracy theories cluster like flies around the death of any controversial national leader. Call it the ‘grassy knoll syndrome.’ But given Stalin’s decidedly notorious nature and the nature of the Soviet regime at the time, this conspiracy theory seemed a little more solidly founded than most.
“Now, with the truth about the Misha 124 and the Soviets’ aborted first strike coming out, the whole question is going to blow wide open again. I’m sorry, Gregori, but there is not going to be a plausible deniability here, and anything we guess will likely be worse than the reality.”
Disgusted, Smyslov looked up at the roof of the cave. “Shit!” Closing his eyes, he was silent for a few moments more before replying. “You are quite right, Professor. As you say, Stalin was stricken with a stroke, but he did not pass into a coma. He was partially paralyzed but he remained conscious, alert, and capable of giving orders. And his orders were for the immediate launching of the decisive finishing attack against the Western democracies.
“Who can say why? Possibly his mental capacities were diminished by the stroke. Possibly he foresaw his imminent death and he wanted to witness the final triumph of the People’s Revolution before he died. Or possibly he just wanted the world to end with him. Be that as it may, there were other members of the Politburo who viewed such an attack as national suicide.”
“Would it have been?” Smith inquired.
“In the spring of 1953, yes,” Valentina answered. “The West would have had a decisive edge in any nuclear exchange. By then, the United States and Great Britain possessed several hundred atomic weapons and even a couple of prototype hydrogen bombs. The Soviets had only a couple of dozen low-yield Hiroshima-grade nukes in their arsenal. Even with the first-strike advantage and augmented by biological and chemical warfare, it wouldn’t have been enough to deliver a finishing blow to NATO.
“More critically, the West had the superior delivery systems. The Soviets only had their poor old B-29skis, while the United States Air Force had the big B-36 Peacemaker, with range enough to hit any target in the USSR. The first generation of NATO jet strike aircraft like the B-47 and the Canberra were also coming into service in considerable numbers.
“Western Europe would have been made a thorough mess of,” Valentina concluded, “and the United States would have been badly hurt. But Russia and the Warsaw Pact states would have been A-bombed into a radioactive wasteland.”
Smyslov scowled and sipped his tea. “As I said, a clique within the Politburo fully recognized this reality. They also recognized there is only one way to impeach a dictator of Stalin’s kind. I regret to tell you, Professor, that history will never know the name of the individual who held the pillow over Stalin’s face until he ceased to struggle. It was most carefully not documented.”
“That’s all right, Gregori. It could only have been one of three men, and I can make an educated guess.”
Smyslov shrugged. “The clique was not able to act and secure power until after the first-strike wave was actually airborne and en route to their targets. These were the America bombers with the greatest distance to fly over the Pole. The attack was successfully recalled before it was detected by the North American air defenses, and all of the aircraft returned safely to base. All except for one biological weapons platform, the Misha 124.”
Smyslov emptied his cup. “The great konspiratsia of silence concerning the March Fifth Event began then and has continued to this day.”
“Why did they have to hold it a secret?” Smith asked. “They’d just saved the world from a nuclear holocaust, and it wasn’t as if any sane individual would weep any crocodile tears over Joseph Stalin, not even in the Soviet Union.”
Smyslov shook his head. “You do not understand the Russian mind, Colonel. Had Stalin’s killers been true liberators, this might have been the case, but they were merely tyrants killing another tyrant to save their own lives and to secure their own power base. Beyond that, the Soviet state still existed, and the mythology of the state demanded that Stalin be revered as a hero of the Revolution. Even after the Soviet Union fell, its fears and paranoias lingered.”
His lips quirked ruefully, and he set his empty cup aside. “Besides that, we Russians have something of a social inferiority complex. We pride ourselves as being profoundly civilized, and murdering one’s national leader in his sickbed is simply not kulturny.”
Smith snapped back into wakefulness, straightening out of his dozing slouch against the ice wall. Ignoring the stabbing barrage of protests from his collection of bruises, he listened, questing with all his senses.
He wasn’t sure how long he had slept; it must have at least been a couple of hours, but there was still a patch of full blackness in the entrance air vent. The sun had yet to rise, but the wind had died. The only sound from the outside was the distant creak and crack of the shifting pack ice. Inside the little cavern he could hear the deep, weary breathing of his sleeping teammates.