The Kremlin had released press statements announcing the President’s heart problems, successful surgery and imminent recovery. Knowing that Nikolai Alexandrov had been dead for over a month, he expected other headlines to hit the news agencies soon — a sudden deterioration and unfortunate passing of the nation’s leader.
He felt a hand brush against his shoulder from behind.
Turning, he saw FSB Director Frolov standing over him.
“Congratulations,” Frolov said quietly. “Thanks to you, we have uncovered the location of the lost treasures from that train. Apart from the Amber Room, we found all the icons and artifacts also stored in the bunker, including the Kremlin Collection. Sadly, you will never be able to claim credit for the discovery, which is set to be made officially at an archeological dig somewhere outside Kaliningrad. But it’s a job well done, all the same.”
Eugene was unperturbed by the man’s praise.
“Comrade Frolov, where is Asiyah Kasymova? What did you do to her?”
“Sorry, I don’t follow you. What are you talking about, Comrade Major? Who is she?”
Eugene did not show his anger, but when Frolov winked at him, he wanted to grab the old rat by the neck and crush it. He mustered all his will to rein back the swelling rage.
“Take it easy, he’s not worth it,” Constantine muttered.
With a smug grin, Frolov proceeded down his row to an empty seat.
There was no time to mull over Frolov’s treachery.
The announcer called for attention.
The ceremony got underway.
A pair of FSO guards dressed in historic 1812 costumes of the Preobrazhensky Regiment pulled open the Hall’s immense gilded doors as a gray-haired man walked briskly down the red carpet.
“The President of the Russian Federation…” the announcer’s voice boomed.
It couldn’t be…
“…Nikolai Petrovich Alexandrov.”
Stunned, Eugene Sokolov was the last to stand up as everyone around him rose in applause.
President Alexandrov strode to the rostrum. Smiling, he motioned for his guests to sit down as he began his address.
“Dear friends…”
His mind reeling, Sokolov did not hear the President deliver his speech on the fight for freedom and democracy, their acts of courage, and the warriors who had sacrificed their lives on the altar of peace.
Was it an illusion, his eyes deceiving him?
It was impossible.
“Am I hallucinating?” he asked Constantine.
“It’s him, Gene,” his brother replied.
One by one, the announcer called up the names of the honored guests and the President conferred their new decorations on them.
Colonel Grishin, ramrod-straight and full of pride for his troops.
Major Petrov, his arm supported by a sling, but his head held high, his gait measured as he approached the Supreme Commander-in-Chief.
The men of Alpha and Vympel with whom Sokolov had trained at their base in Balashikha.
When the sound of his name reverberated around the marble vaults of the St. George Hall, Eugene Sokolov felt his blood rush.
He walked to the rostrum, his eyes boring into President Alexandrov’s face.
I saw you dead! I could touch your drowned corpse!
Alexandrov did not seem to notice Sokolov’s intense gaze. He picked the Gold Star Medal from a cushion held by a guard and pinned its tricolor badge to Sokolov’s chest.
Sokolov shook the President’s extended hand. It was warm and fleshy.
“Well done, Comrade Major,” Nikolai Alexandrov said.
Alexandrov’s eyes sparkled. Sokolov detected a slight puffiness around the eyelids, the result of recent cosmetic surgery.
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Sokolov said firmly. “I’m happy to serve my country.”
4
After the ceremony, Eugene and Constantine took a long walk. Crossing the Cathedral Square, they exited the Kremlin through the Trinity Tower and strode along the Alexandrovsky Garden. The Gold Stars on their lapels glistened in the sun.
“His corpse was right next to me, I saw it at the wreck of the Olympia.”
“It could be an impersonator, Gene. A double.”
“Then or now?”
“We’ll never know.”
“That’s all it was from the beginning, then. A deception.”
“Yes, but not the only one. I think I’ve come to understand what happened back in 1993. The shooting of the Parliament. We were lied to that it had to be done to keep Russia from a return to Communism. We both know it was impossible, there was no going back, not in 1993. But was there a way to go forward from it? Imagine what would have happened if there had been a nationwide trial against the Soviet regime? A full-scale Civil War would have broken out. Our rulers were too scared to take the responsibility, so the shooting was a stage show played out between Yeltsin and the parliamentary leaders, at the expense of thousands of lives. A symbolic denouncement of the past in front of the television cameras.”
They reached the wrought-iron gates at the entrance of the Garden, topped by imperial eagles, and walked out to Red Square. Opposite the Garden’s fence stood the equestrian statue of Marshal Zhukov, the mass murderer of his own soldiers. Looming ahead, adjacent to the Kremlin’s wall, was the blocky pyramid of Lenin’s Tomb.
“So you’re saying we’ll never distance ourselves from Sovietism?” Eugene asked.
“I’m sure we will, we already have. Such fundamental changes require either a lot of blood or a lot of time. It may take decades, a generation, but Russia will gradually recover. There are a lot more people who view history adequately than we think. The ghost of that mummy lying here will no longer haunt us. We’re living in the age of a Russian renaissance.”
Arriving at the other end of Red Square, they came to the bright-colored domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral. The clock of the Kremlin’s Spasskaya Tower chimed once, marking a quarter-hour.
“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” Eugene said. “What if the Amber Room aboard the train in 1941, the one I saw in Kantubek, wasn’t real? There could be two copies, one taken by the Nazis, the other stolen by Kaganovich, and all the while Stalin kept the real Amber Room hidden somewhere else. Like you said, I don’t think we’ll ever know.”
“It’s not inconceivable,” Constantine mused. “Suppose that all the blood, from Kaganovich to Kasymov, had been shed over a fake… In that case, Joseph Stalin has tricked everyone once again.”
Acknowledgements
Special thanks to:
Roy Govier, writer and brilliant artist. My deepest gratitude for helping with the early drafts and producing such fantastic art.
Dirk Cussler, Jack Du Brul, and Kerry Frey, for your advice and inspiration.
Michael Okely, for keen eyes and generous attention.
James "Papa Jim" Patke, Tom Gwinn, Wayne Valero, Bruce Kenfield, Barry Campbell and many others for your help and support.
My mom and dad, Elena and Igor, for everything. I love you.