The Long Hard Road

Chapter Ten: Back in the USSR

The Kremlin

Moscow, Russia

5^th April 1942

Vyacheslav Mikhailovich Molotov braced himself before entering Red Square, which had been cordoned off by Stalin’s personal Red Army battalion, which was watched carefully by an NKVD division. He shivered; like all senior members of the Politburo, he had been assigned his own guard team by Stalin – a team that would shoot him down in an instant if Stalin ordered them to do so.

Life here has gotten a lot more dangerous, he thought, as his papers were checked carefully. No trace of his thoughts showed on his face; his famous ability to conceal his thoughts was his only weapon here. Stalin’s paranoia had grown to new heights in the months since Trotsky had returned… and no one was safe at all. The little surveillance devices that had been part of the German technological trade made certain of that; Molotov was certain that his entire apartment and dacha had been thoroughly bugged.

He smiled inwardly, allowing the guards to finish their search of him. They didn’t – quite – insist that he stripped naked, but he’d heard rumours that female visitors to the Kremlin received such treatment. He’d also heard that more than a few Party senior officers had gone utterly mad when it sank in that Stalin could see them on the toilet, sleeping with their wives or mistresses… that they had no secrets at all.

“You may proceed, Comrade,” the guard said finally. His voice was cold and flat as the Artic; Stalin would hardly punish him for being careful of his personal security. “Do not deviate from your route.”

Molotov nodded politely – it wouldn’t do to upset the guard – and entered the Kremlin, slowly making his way through the long corridors to Stalin’s personal sanctum. The entire atmosphere was darker these days; people scurried around, trying to ignore the guards. Molotov almost laughed; if someone accidentally coughed at the wrong time, it could start a bloodbath.

The thought wasn’t amusing. It had a certain resonance that refused to disappear. Molotov kept his face blank as two more sets of guards searched him, divesting him of anything that might possibly be dangerous, and then finally allowed him to enter Stalin’s room.

“Ah, Comrade Foreign Minister,” Stalin said, as he stepped inside. The room was massive, easily big enough to hold a major party. Stalin’s desk, where he was sitting, was placed at one end of the room, red flags draped the walls.

“Comrade General Secretary,” Molotov replied. Stalin’s voice was calm; Molotov felt his nerves jangle. The Georgian accent had almost vanished.

“Have a seat,” Stalin invited, waving to one of the chairs near his desk. His orderly produced a samovar full of steaming tea; a small box of tobacco sat beside it. Molotov, who didn’t smoke, watched as Stalin carefully filled his own pipe, before lighting it with a simple lighter.

Stalin noticed Molotov focusing his attention on the lighter. “Yes, that is indeed from the future,” he said. “Comrade Gregory is confident, however, that we can make them for ourselves without too much difficulty.”

He passed it over and Molotov examined it. It was made of some strange plastic, clearly holding some liquid inside it. Experimentally, he flicked the wheel on the end of the lighter and was rewarded by sparks. Gasping in pain as his thumb was burnt, he dropped the lighter on the ground.

Stalin laughed. It was a chilling sound. “So, Comrade, how proceeds our alliance with the fascist scientists?”

Molotov rubbed his thumb. The pain was sore beyond any burn he’d felt before. “It proceeds well,” he said. Refusing to give Stalin his title was a piece of petty revenge. “The fascists are producing their vengeance rockets” – the German word was beyond him – “and splitting them with us. We will soon have a major stockpile of them ourselves.”

“Good,” Stalin said. His voice remained oddly calm. “Are we certain that the fascists are not deceiving us?”

“We have been selecting the rockets for our use at random,” Molotov said. “While trickery remains a possibility, we have done what we can to minimise it. Unfortunately, the fascists have been unwilling to test the rockets in open space; we have only the results of the tests within caverns. The guidance system, for example, was modelled on one from the future” – he forbore to mention that the rocket in question had been a Russian design – “and should work.”

He smiled. “The fascists, apparently, are planning to use them in a terror strike against Britain,” he said. “We will have ample opportunity to evaluate them before revealing that we possess them ourselves.”

Stalin smiled. He enjoyed learning from others mistakes. “And we still cannot take over the German science cities ourselves?”

Molotov thought rapidly. Genius, he’d learnt from the future, had to be nurtured, not forced along. Even though the Germans in the science cities had only sidearms – forbidden anything heavier by treaty – they would have ample time to destroy all of their prototypes and the scientists inside the city.

“The fascists have anticipated trickery on our part as well,” he said finally. “Not that we had any such plans, of course.”

Stalin laughed throatily. “Of course not, Comrade,” he said. “Would we do a thing like that? We’re not Germans, you know, or even Frenchmen.”

Molotov smiled at the joke. Not just because not laughing at Stalin’s little jokes was suicidal, but also because it was genuinely funny. Molotov had handled the negotiations with the French – and their then British allies – and the French proposal had boiled down to the Soviet Union doing almost all of the heavy lifting, even through Poland had been… obstinate about allowing Russian troops on their soil.

Molotov smiled. The joke had been on them, and from what the future had said; the French hadn’t learnt a thing from the war. They were the slaves of Germany; the proud French reduced to working for the Germans, while the British stole their empire.

“The Germans have arranged the plants very carefully,” he said. Allowing the Germans bases within the Rodina had been a calculated risk. “We have teams of our own working on duplicating their work and building more industry cities that the Germans will know nothing about.”

“Excellent,” Stalin said. “Now… the memo from Georgy Konstantinovich.”

Molotov, who hadn’t seen any such memo because of the information being concealed by Stalin, lifted a single eyebrow. Stalin passed across a sheet of paper.

“He is advocating that we withdraw our forces from Iran,” Stalin said. “That cursed Indian hasn’t proven as useful as we had hoped.”

Molotov finished reading the paper and frowned. “He may have a point,” he said.

“Territory that has been gained by the Rodina may never be surrendered,” Stalin said firmly. Zhukov wanted to withdraw to north Iran and hammer Turkey as punishment for their betrayal. “The British will be at a disadvantage in city fighting.”

Molotov hesitated, uncertain what to say. There were times that Stalin wanted the truth and nothing but the truth; there were times when it was dangerous to disagree. It was true; the super-warriors of the future – including the never to be sufficiently damned SAS – were reluctant to fight in a built-up area. On the other hand, Molotov knew that that was because of a reluctance to cause civilian casualties, and neither of Iran or Iraq’s main cities had much of a civilian population left. Zhukov had hoped that Baghdad and Basra would serve as fortresses to bleed the Allies… but the British preparations were not for a city fight.

“If they choose to engage in a city fight,” he said, hoping that this was one of Stalin’s good days. “They might just seek to cut the forces in the cities off and let them starve.”

Stalin snorted. “They will seek to destroy the forces,” he said. “In their place, I would use their nuclear warheads on the city. Have the Germans made any extra progress with the nukes?”

The sudden change of subject didn’t stun Molotov. Who knew where Stalin’s thoughts went? “They have set up a prototype reactor in one of the science cities,” he said. The NKVD, the GRU and several new security organisations were watching those Germans like hawks. They’re moving forward as fast as possible, but they’ve hit problems.”

Stalin glowered. Not only did he want the nuclear weapons for himself – and not for Himmler if he could avoid it – but he was certain that the Germans had a larger nuclear program than they were admitting to. Both sides were learning a lot from the joint project, but was it enough to build a nuclear weapon ahead of the fascists?

“And the trade with the Japanese?” Stalin demanded finally. “What have the little yellow men given us?”

Molotov hesitated. The Soviet Union was providing quiet assistance to the Japanese attempts to move their operations to China; something that Molotov knew well was futile. There was no way that they could move enough of their people over before the British and their Australian brothers finally moved in for the kill.

“The Japanese program was proceeding slowly,” he said. “They’re still working desperately to build a weapon, but they had two separate programs and limited supplies.”

“But they gave us what they had,” Stalin said. Molotov nodded. “If we were to give them a bomb, who would they use it against?”

“We don’t have a bomb ourselves yet,” Molotov protested.

“But we will have one soon, won’t we?” Stalin asked. “Your projection said early 1943, did they not?”

“Yes, perhaps sooner, once we assimilate the German and Japanese research,” Molotov said. He smiled; was that not a demonstration of the truth of Communism? “Still, it will take time to build up a stockpile.”

“True, true,” Stalin mused. Molotov hoped that he’d gotten the thought of giving a nuclear weapon to the Japanese out of his mind. “So, back to our little internal problem. Lavrenty Pavlovich has not succeeded in tracking down our old friend.”

Stalin’s old friend, Molotov remembered. They had been genial opponents, because Trotsky had never realised what lay behind Stalin’s smile… until he was forced to flee the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. If Beria, one of the most capable – and sadistic – people couldn’t track down Trotsky, then the old communist must have leaned a few new tricks.

“He’ll turn up sooner or later,” Molotov said. “Our security is getting better and better all of the time.”

“He better had, or Lavrenty Pavlovich will lose his head,” Stalin growled. “This has appeared.”

He picked up a leaflet and passed it to Molotov. Molotov examined it with some concern; the leaflet was printed on finer paper than the best Soviet propaganda… and the image on it was literally out of time and space.

“Those things have been turning up everywhere,” Stalin snapped. Molotov examined the picture; the ruins of an entire military city hung in front of his eyes. Other pictures were displayed on the other side; a ruined tank and dozens of burnt bodies.

“We must be able to locate some of their network if they’re this busy,” Molotov protested.

“Lavrenty Pavlovich has found children – street children – serving as delivery men,” Stalin snapped. “They are very careful, just like we were before the Revolution.”

Molotov nodded in agreement. The Tsar’s secret police had been brutal opponents. “What else has happened?”

“Food riots in some towns, a riot on a collective farm that was one of the handful kept in operation,” Stalin said. “They’re also pointing out that the ongoing build-up of the army will send most of the men to their deaths, and they’ve given very exaggerated death figures. People don’t believe Pravda; they believe…”

He waved the leaflet. Everyone knew – everyone who could read behind Pravda’s half-truths and distortions – that Radio Moscow and Pravda always put the best face on things. Neither one of the official organs for news dissemination had revealed the atomic blast – or the dangers of biological warfare – but the underground newssheets had revealed both of them, along with the alliance with the Germans and the Japanese.

“We will dig them up eventually,” Molotov said. He smiled; “it’s not as if we will lose our nerve, like the Tsarists did.”

Stalin smiled roughly. “Lavrenty Pavlovich has promised success,” he said. “He will have it or…”

An explosion cut him off. The ground shook. Stalin grabbed for a pistol in his desk as one of his guards hurried in.

“Sir, there has been an explosion nearby,” he said. “You have to get to shelter.”

Molotov considered the guard. He was from Georgia; one of the people who had to be loyal to Stalin… for the NKVD and the Red Army would have no hesitation about slaughtering them if they stepped out of line.

“Yes,” Stalin said slowly. “What has been hit?”

“Sir, the Lubyanka,” the guard said. Stalin’s mouth dropped open; Molotov’s followed, his shock overriding all of his control. “It’s been blasted!”

When he’d first seen the Lubyanka, the headquarters of the dreaded NKVD in its first incarnation, Trotsky had been reminded of a boarding school. A massive building covered with yellow brick, it represented fear and hatred to the population of Moscow, many of whom had seen people disappear inside it.

Trotsky watched from a safe distance, hidden in the crowd, as the lorry was driven inside the Lubyanka. It pulled up outside; its papers, artfully forged, giving it full permission to enter the sealed compound. The special delivery, which everyone knew was underage teenage girls for Beria, would not have been stopped even if the guards had suspected that something was wrong.

As soon as the lorry had entered the underground garage, Trotsky counted to ten and pushed the remote control in his pocket, then headed away from the scene. Five minutes later, the explosion blasted out behind him, as the entire building disintegrated. People ran screaming around the building and Trotsky joined them, slipping away.

“Leave, now,” the guards shouted, firing above the heads of the crowd in near-panic. It was easy for Trotsky to join them, appearing to be in a real panic, and he slipped away into Moscow. Behind him, the flames were spreading, but the guards and what Moscow had that passed for emergency services fought to put them out.

“Take that, you bastards,” he muttered. He hadn’t felt so alive in years. Natasha Yar had objected to him detonating the strike personally, but he’d insisted. Their first strike had to be as daring as possible, and leading it in person was the only way to make a bold impression.

He slipped into the shadows and picked up the outfit that had been left for him, abandoning his coat and replacing it with an anonymous outfit, one that would pass unnoticed almost everywhere. As soon as he had changed, he stuffed his old outfit into a bin and triggered a heat grenade, before slipping back into the alleyways. Ten minutes later, he was back in the flat.

“Good work,” Yar said. As always, she looked like a babushka. Irina, her fictional daughter and another agent, gave Trotsky a hug. “We have been monitoring events.”

“And has the Great Leader said anything?” Trotsky asked. “Even Radio Moscow can’t let this pass without comment, can they?”

Yar waved a hand at the Soviet radio. The program, raving about increased industrial outputs in Siberia, played on and on without interruption. There was nothing about an explosion near Red Square.

“They’re probably still trying to decide what slant to put on it and how to spin it,” Irina said, who’d attempted to explain the concept to Trotsky once. “They can’t go and admit that they have a rebellion on their hands, can they?”

Trotsky shook his head. “We’ll have to keep our heads down for a bit,” he said. “However, the other teams can start producing new leaflets – I’ll start work on a statement at once – that can be distributed.” He hesitated. “Do you think that we could broadcast on the same frequency as Radio Moscow?”

“Of course, with some equipment in space,” Yar said. Trotsky blinked; he would have expected the equipment to be here. “It could be traced otherwise,” Yar said, following his line of thought.

“We could set up the transmitter and rig a bomb next to it,” Trotsky suggested. He paused; Radio Moscow had finally noticed that the sun had risen.

“We regret to announce that a gas main exploded today in Lubyanka Square,” the radio announcer said. If he knew that he was lying, he gave no sign of it. “Although damage was serious, Comrade Stalin has informed us that the state apparatus remains intact and was in fact moved out days ago, so sabotage wreckers will still be caught and punished.”

He spoke on, but Trotsky tuned him out. “We must have got someone or something vital,” he said. “The files alone will simulate Stalin’s paranoia; he might not even have duplicates around somewhere.”

Yar smiled. “We’d better transmit a report back to London,” she said. “As it happens, we have to keep working on building the underground army and keeping it underground, and that won’t be easy.”

Trotsky nodded grimly. The plan had sounded simple when he’d proposed it; build up a small strike force in Moscow and an underground anti-Stalin movement. Stalin had retaliated – Yar had introduced him to the concept of defensive peremptory retaliatory strikes – by making arrangements for more food, although the comfort of the citizens was hardly his first priority. The bigger the organisation they created, with cells all over Russia and the nationalists in Byelorussia and the Ukraine – the more chance of the NKVD breaking open a cell and using it to break the entire organisation wide open.

“We’re going to have to take care,” he said, and meant it. The British would be quite happy for Stalin to be quickly assassinated, but he knew better. If anything worthwhile were to come out of the armed camp that Stalin was turning Russia into, Trotsky would have to move carefully indeed.

He smiled to himself. If the game was easy, anyone could play.