“Each of my predecessors, every man behind this desk since Dzerzhinsky, has busted his guts trying to break them.”
The history was personal to Frolov. It had changed his life, sending him on his chosen path of distinction by making him part of that history.
Ever since 1917, “decossackisation” had gone for years, claiming millions of lives. The Don’s resistance continued until the late 1930s, when finally the Cossacks appeared to have been subdued by the collectivization, the famine and the extermination wreaked by Stalin.
But it was not to be. Their Scythian spirit was always too strong.
On June 1st, 1962, the workers of Novocherkassk, the Don’s capital, organized a rally against a thirty-five percent lowering of wages, and an equal increase in food prices. Nikita Khrushchev gave the order to shoot down the peaceful demonstration and punish everyone responsible for the show of dissent. The procession of fourteen thousand workers was mowed down by tanks. People in the streets were chased by automatic fire.
Then the KGB instigated a hunt. For those who took part in the demonstration. For those who didn’t.
Those who knew anything about it.
And those who didn’t.
Men and women. Old and young.
Not a home had been passed, because the murderers were afraid of their victims — and it was the worst kind of fear, triggered by instinct, rooted in the core that carried remembrance of Cossack whips, of the blood washing the Don’s banks as the shocked armies of Bolshevik revolutionaries were hacked by the unyielding Cossacks during the genocide against them that went down in Russian history under the name of Civil War.
The KGB did their job expertly. The thousands of bodies were transported to the wilderness and buried. The executioners were sworn to secrecy; violation was punishable by death.
Even now. The top secret status of the massacre was still in action. Fifty years on, the relatives did not know where the dead were buried, or how many were killed.
Decades later, Frolov remembered everything as clearly as if it had been yesterday. He had been a young KGB officer then, zealous, decisive. He pulled the trigger, and shoveled the earth, and carried the bodies — for several days, losing count of the dead, until the killings became mechanical and tedious.
Eugene and Constantine had lost their grandparents in 1962, so there was a remote possibility that Frolov’s own hand had shot them. He didn’t care much to think about it.
Frolov picked up the glass prism from his desk and held it up, watching the refractions of light as he titled it. His voice became cold, each word clipped.
“Sokolov is a true warrior. I know what he’s like, I saw this quality in men like him, his ancestors. We have his brother’s freedom. He’ll come to us, and he’ll stop at nothing. From the beginning, it was clear that we needed to have them both for the mission to succeed. Now that Eugene is with the girl, it’s absolutely vital. So everything is going quite well, Victor — the loss of your men can be considered a test of his capabilities, a bargain that I’m comfortable with. Eugene Sokolov will be our greatest asset, and Constantine is proving to be our greatest lure.”
23
The hot water scalded Sokolov’s entire body, stinging the cuts, bruises and burns. He let the steaming jets soothe his aching muscles, keeping no track of the time he spent in the shower. Like many times before, he treated this simple comfort of civilization as a luxury, knowing that he may not see it again all too soon. He relished it, the relief that the water gave him being as much emotional as it was physical.
A cloud of vapour preceded him as he stepped out of the shower. He toweled himself and wiped the mist off the mirror, getting a clear look at himself. He was thankful there were no serious injuries.
He returned to the room. His bedroom. By design, it emulated the normalcy of a home between missions, so that the impression could alleviate the minds of EMERCOM crews from the shock of human catastrophe they faced, a change from the bunks and tents, ruins and wreckage. It helped heal the mental scars. Asiyah more than anyone needed the benefit of the psychological effect. When they arrived back at the base, as secretly as possible, they had placed Asiyah in Mischenko’s vacated room, the best one available, next door to Sokolov’s. He left her in the hands of EMERCOM’s top psychologists and physicians. Only when Sokolov realized Asiyah was in absolute safety, and that she needed rest and privacy after her ordeal, did he return to his own room and got down to putting himself back into shape.
For many years Sokolov had thought of this room as his second home. Now it was his only home.
His fresh clothes lay on the bed — underwear, socks, a blue EMERCOM tee-shirt and jeans. Dressing, he grabbed the remote from the bedside table and switched on the television. News headlines would be on in a few minutes, and he wanted to see if the fire and the shootout at his house had made the story.
With the TV jabbering away in the background, Sokolov allowed himself to sprawl across the bed and close his eyes.
The news flash caught his attention. What he saw on the screen rattled him so much that he bolted from the bed, afraid that he might be hallucinating.
With a look of feigned concern, the anchorman announced that Metropolitan Ilia of Kolomna, Father Superior of the Novodevichy Convent, had been hospitalized after suffering a heart attack. His condition was thought to be stable, and he was due to resume his duties after undergoing several weeks of treatment and monitoring.
On archived footage, the Metropolitan was a serene, full-bearded old man, standing tall in his clerical attire. The brief clip was the first time Sokolov had seen Ilia. Then the picture changed to that of a church official voicing his hope for Ilia’s speedy recovery and commenting on his fine record of service.
Sokolov knew that Constantine had spent some time attending courses at the seminary in Sergiev Posad, but he was oblivious to the fact that his brother and the Metropolitan would know each other personally. Even more shocking was the claim that his brother had murdered the Metropolitan.
And yet, despite what the FSB officers had told him moments before their own deaths, the Metropolitan was reported to be alive, more threads adding to the tangle. If the news was to be believed, Ilia was not in perfect health, away from everybody’s eyes, but he was alive. This could mean a number of things. For example, someone was laying the groundwork for a further announcement of the Metropolitan’s death, so as to make it as low key as possible. Someone was covering up.
Sokolov sat at the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the screen.
There was a sharp knock at the door.
“Come in.”
It was Klimov.
“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost,” he said, entering the room.
“I may well have.”
Sokolov recounted the events surrounding Ilia, beginning from the allegations against Constantine. Then he switched to another news channel, catching a recap of the same “heart trouble” story.
After Klimov finished watching the brief report, Sokolov muted the television.
“What do you make of it?” Sokolov asked. “Where is the divide between truth and lies? Is Ilia dead or alive?”
“I’m at a loss here.” Klimov shook his head. “The Metropolitan is a prominent figure, one of the top officials in the Orthodox Church. I can tell you that if he had been placed in any clinic, I would have been among the first to know. I’ll run a check on this for a confirmation.”
“I would appreciate if you did. But so far, until there is a confirmation, the whole story seems like a hoax.”