Текст книги "Snow Wolf"

Автор книги: Glenn Meade

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Текущая страница: 34 (всего у книги 34 страниц)

"Why did the CIA claim my father committed suicide?"

"At the time your father's death was a problem for Washington. They had to cover it up somehow and without any of his colleagues becoming suspicious. The official explanation given was that he had committed suicide while traveling in Europe. They said that after he had been recalled to Washington from Munich he had been put on leave, for health reasons. They claimed that he was depressed and unstable. The date they gave for his death was before our mission began, so that no one might ever connect him to what subsequently happened. It wasn't fair to the character of your father, of course, but it had to be done for the sake of security. And, of course, no body was buried, just a coffin full of stones."

"What happened to Lebel and Irena?"

Anna Khorev smiled. "Henri opened a clothing business in Tel Aviv and they married and lived happily together until Henri died ten years ago. lrena followed him soon after."

"And Yuri Lukin?"

For a long time Anna Khorev stared out silently at the sheeting rain. There was a look of sadness on her face. Then she looked back.

"He made it to the train that night, much to the relief of his wife, but he was distraught, as you can imagine. He had found his brother after all those years, and then lost him again. When we arrived in Helsinki we were all debriefed for several days by Branigan. I never saw Yuri Lukin again after that. I would have liked to very much. He was a remarkable man, Mr. Massey.

"Do you know what became of him?" She crushed out her cigarette and said, "Do you really want to know?"

"He's the final part of the puzzle," I offered. "I can only tell you what I heard from the CIA. After Helsinki, he and his wife were flown to America. They were given new identities and settled in California, where his wife gave birth to a son. Then three months later they told me Yuri was killed in an automobile accident."

"You think the KGB had him killed?"

No, I don't believe they did. It was definitely a freak accident, Mr. Massey. And I'm certain the CIA didn't kill him for that matter. In many ways, had it not been for him, the mission wouldn't have been so successful. But I suppose his death was probably convenient for both the Kremlin and Washington. There was one less person alive who knew the real truth."

:"What happened to his wife and son?"

"I have no idea, I'm afraid."

I sat there for several moments, taking it all in. Beyond the glass the rain had stopped. The sun appeared from behind the sullen Moscow clouds, glinting off the Kremlin's golden domes and the bright, candy-colored whorls of St. Basil's.

I looked back. "May I ask you a personal question?"

She smiled. "That depends on how personal."

"Did you ever remarry?"

She laughed gently. "Good lord, what an odd question. But the answer is no. Sasha eventually married a nice Russian immigrant in Israel. They have a son they named Ivan Alexei Yuri. And a daughter, Rachel, whom you met when you arrived."

She smiled. "I loved two remarkable men in my life, Mr. Massey. My husband and Alex. And that's really been quite enough."

So you really did love Alex Stanski?"

"Yes, I loved him. Not in the way I loved Ivan, but I loved him. It was never destined to have a happy ending, I think we both knew that. What is it they say? A lost soul. That summed up Alex perfectly. I think he knew he'd die on the mission, perhaps even wanted to. I think he always knew his destiny was to die in Moscow. To kill Stalin was worth the sacrifice of his life and the ultimate revenge for what had happened to his family. And in paying that price Alex did the world a great service, Mr. Massey. There were as many sighs of relief in Moscow as in Washington when Stalin died."

The door opened softly. The dark-haired girl stood there. She had changed into a blouse and skirt and she looked remarkably beautiful, her long legs tanned and her hair down about her shoulders. "Nana, the embassy car is here for the airport."

The girl smiled at me and I smiled back. She had the same features as her grandmother. The same brown eyes and presence. I guessed she must have looked much like Anna Khorev had over forty years before. I could understand Alex Stanski, and even my father, falling in love with her, "Thank you, Rachel. We're almost finished. Tell the driver we'll be with him in a minute."

The girl smiled at me again. "Promise me you won't keep my grandmother much longer?"

"I promise."

She left, closing the door after her. Anna Khorev stood. "So there you have it, Mr. Massey. I've told you everything I can. I'm afraid you must excuse me now. Rachel and I have a flight to Israel to catch. I hope you understand? It's been a brief visit, but one I've wanted to make for a long time."

"May I ask one more question?"

"And what's that?"

"Do you really think my father would have killed you and Alex?" She thought for several moments, then she said, "No, I don't believe he would have. Though God knows what the outcome would have been if Yuri Lukin hadn't done what he did. Your father came to Moscow because he was ordered. But I think if it had come down to it, he wouldn't have killed us. He would have stopped us, certainly, but figured some way of getting us out of Moscow. He was a fine man, Mr. Massey. He was a father you would have been proud of, And to be honest, maybe I was a little in love with him, too."

Finally, she glanced at her watch before picking up the bunch of white orchids I had brought. "We have some time, so why don't you ride with us in the car, Mr. Massey? We can drop you at your hotel on the way to the airport. And if you don't mind I'd like to pay a visit to Novodevichy on the way."

The sun came out as we walked together to the graves. Rachel had waited in the car and as the sunlight washed down through the chestnut trees the graveyard hardly seemed like the same place. The sky was clear and blue and the dry heat of the afternoon lingered under the trees. Old women walked among the shaded pathways with bunches of flowers and bottles of vodka, come to sit and talk and drink with their departed.

When we came to the two gravestones Anna Khorev placed a spray of orchids on each of them.

I stood back then, to let her say her final prayer. She wasn't crying, but I saw the pain in her eyes when she finally turned back.

"I decided a long time ago that this will be my final resting place when my day comes, Mr. Massey. I know Ivan, my husband, would have understood."

"I'm certain he would have." I looked at her, stuck for something to say, seeing the faraway look in her brown eyes. "Everything that happened that night must seem like a dream."

It was all I could offer.

"Sometimes I wonder did it really happen. And wonder who would believe it."

I do.

She half smiled and went to say something, glancing at the two graves as if there was something else I should know, but then she seemed to change her mind and shivered.

"Are you ready, Mr. Massey? I'm afraid graveyards are not one of my favorite places. Even on a warm, sunny Moscow day.

I nodded and took her arm and we walked back to the car.

I heard that Anna Khorev died six months later.

There was nothing in the newspapers but Bob Vitali called from Langley and said he thought I'd want to know she had passed away in the Sharet Hospital in Jerusalem. She had suffered from lung cancer. The funeral was to be in Moscow four days later.

I ordered plane tickets, for some reason wanting to be part of the end of things.

it was snowing when I landed at Sheremetyevo, the fields and steppes of Russia frozen like some vast ghostly tapestry, flurries of snow sweeping the Moscow streets, the country in the harsh grip of another bitter winter, and I thought it must have been like this all those years ago when Alex Stanski and Anna made their way across Russia.

The funeral at Novodevichy was a small affair and it had already started when I arrived. A half-dozen or more Israeli embassy staff were huddled around the open grave as an Orthodox priest chanted his prayers for the dead and the snow gusted around us.

I saw Anna Khorev's granddaughter holding on to the arm of a handsome woman in her forties whom I guessed was Sasha, both their faces pale with grief. The coffin was open and I took my turn to kiss Anna Khorev's cold marble face and say my final goodbye. For a brief moment I looked down at her, thinking how beautiful she looked even in death, then I walked back and stood at the edge of the mourners as the gravediggers went to work, Something remarkable happened then.

As I stood watching the coffin being lowered into the frozen ground, I noticed an old couple standing arm in arm among the mourners. The woman's face was deeply wrinkled, but under the headscarf she wore could see a fading tint of red in her graying hair. The man was very old, his body almost bent double with age.

He wore a black leather glove on his stiff left hand.

I felt a shiver go through me.

The couple waited until the coffin had been lowered into the ground before the old man came forward and placed a bunch of winter roses in the open grave. When he stepped back he stood there for several moments, then I saw his eyes look over at Alex Stanski's headstone. For a long time the old man stood there, as if lost in thought, until the woman took his arm and kissed his cheek and led him away.

As they shuffled past me, my mind was on fire with excitement.

My heart pounded in my chest as I touched his shoulder and asked the question in Russian. "Major Lukin'? Major Yuri lukin?"

The old man started and his watery eyes looked up to study my face.

For a time he seemed undecided about something, then he glanced over at his wife, before replying to my question in a frail voice.

"I'm sorry, sir. You're mistaken. My name is Stefanovitcli."

The couple walked on. I started to say something then, remembering the name, Stanski's family nai-the, but I was struck dumb. I saw the couple step into one of the black cars parked nearby and drive off down the narrow cemetery track before the red taillights disappeared in a mist of snow. Was it Yuri Lukin?

Perhaps. I like to think he hadn't really died as Anna Khorev had said.

But it was all such a long time ago. I had found my own truth. I had resurrected my ghosts and now it was time to bury them.

I took one last look at the three graves, then turned and walked back toward the cemetery gates.

AUTHOR'S NOTE Although the exact date and time cannot be confirmed, history relates that Joseph Stalin was taken fatally ill on the night of1-2 March 1953. He died almost four days later.

To this day the exact circumstances of his death remain a mystery.

Some sources claim he was poisoned by a girl friend, whose gloating at Stalin's deathbed is well recorded, but the claim has never been proven.

Stalin's immediate family claimed that he had almost certainly been killed, and had not died of a cerebral hemorrhage as was widely reported, and that the true circumstances of his death were covered up for reasons of state security.

There are historically recorded facts that point to an answer that supports this view.

Some months before Stalin's death, the CIA had been receiving reports of the Soviet leader's worsening mental health.

Stalin was displaying alarming signs of a deep psychological disturbance, and the CIA was also aware of Stalin's almost manic wish to perfect the hydrogen bomb ahead of the U.S.and acutely aware of the fact that the Soviets were ahead in their research, and that Stalin intended a "final solution to the Jewish problem," on a par with Hitler's.

All these were serious and troubling signs, especially at the time of a dangerous Cold War. And the likelihood of war, as those who lived during the period will recall, both in America and the Soviet Union, was both very real and very threatening.

Was Stalin assassinated to prevent the situation from worsening?

There were numerous intended plots to kill him. So far as history records, all failed, or never materialized. But history rarely records or reveals its true secrets. What is true is that the CIA had already sent a number of agents with military training to Moscow at the time of Stalin's death. It also seems likely that the CIA would at least have considered such a plot. And almost immediately after his demise, the KGB unleashed an unexplained and savage program of assassination against top anti-Soviet immigrant leaders who were working with the CIA.

Former senior CIA officers, responsible for such missions during the period, remain curiously tight-lipped, even for very elderly men long since retired. Nor to this day will they reveal the identities of those they dispatched, invoking the fact that certain details of the period remain top secret, and claiming that some of the agents are still alive and living in Russia to this day.

So what exactly happened on the night of 1-2 March at Stalin's dacha seems destined to remain a mystery.

It is known that his last days prior to that eventful night were spent in seclusion, heavily guarded, apparently fearful for his life, and with strict instructions to his guards that all the big wooden log fires in the dacha be kept lit, just as the Russian hunters and shepherds of old kept fires burning to keep away wolves. And on pieces of paper Stalin drew, obsessively, pictures of a wolf with sharp fangs.

But one very remarkable incident, never fully explained, is confirmed fact.

In the early hours of 2 March, after Stalin was reported to have been taken seriously ill, several members of his guard at the Kuntsevo villa witnessed the bodies of two men being removed from the grounds. Both had apparently died from bullet wounds.

Rumors spread within the KGB itself about the mysterious incident, but not until many months later was an official internal explanation offered.

The two men, the KGB report claimed, were bodyguards of Stalin's, so overcome with grief at their leader's certain demise that they had shot themselves.

Stalin certainly incited awe in many of his unsuspecting countrymen, but those closest to him who witnessed his rages and his incredible malice, who knew too well his evil crimes, lived in fear of him and breathed a deep collective sigh of relief when he died.

The names of the two alleged bodyguards were not divulged, nor was any further explanation offered. The matter was firmly closed and the file on the incident destroyed.

The two men who died were buried in a Moscow cemetery.

To this day their graves remain.

Curiously, they each bear a nameless headstone.