Mausefalle

Uncle Nikita had taken a special interest in that gaunt peasant girl after the war. He'd taken the time to read my reports from Stalingrad and confirm them with other unit reports. He sensed something in me and sponsored me into the Militsiya, the police force. It paid him back in spades. It turned out that I had the talent and ruthlessness necessary for hunting criminal organizations and destroying them. Drug runners, white slavers and smugglers learned very quickly that to be hunted by me was to be hunted to extinction.

I gave a half-shrug. "That's not surprising. I am here in pursuit of a criminal matter."

"And what would that be?"

I sucked in a slight breath; I knew he wasn't going to like this at all. "A possible kidnapping. Oksana Beria, wife of Vadim Beria."

"Beria? As in..."

"Yes. He was the nephew of Lavrentiy Beria. First Deputy Premier Beria." I pretended to admire the elaborate tracery on one of the fountains.

"Was?" From the grim, hollow tone in his voice, it was clear he understood how bad this was.

"Was. Vadim was killed when the wife disappeared. Burned alive in his house." I glanced over to see his reaction. There was, unsurprisingly for a man like that, none at all.

"You said disappeared. You have doubts that she was actually kidnapped?"

I shrugged again. "There are some questions. There is also a question of a dossier, a collection of letters and papers of some kind."

"So you are investigating the murder of the First Deputy Premier's nephew."

"Not so much, I believe the actual murder is being dealt with, at a higher level."

Even the no-doubt hardened Rezident let that pass quietly. The First Deputy's reputed fondness for cruelty and torture was well known to anyone who had the sense to listen. "I see. And this dossier?"

I reached out and touched one of the flowers next to a small blue fountain. "I don't know for certain. It has become apparent that Vadim was involved in some kind of scheme regarding women and even young girls. Trading them for money and favors."

"Perhaps the dossier outlines the criminal network?"

"Perhaps. I can't be certain what is in it. There is a link. One trail leads here." I decided not to explain that further.

"To Ankara." He mused thoughtfully, studying a rather ornately tiled fountain covered in complicated colorful floral motifs.

"To our Embassy in Ankara."

That brought him up abruptly, he stopped walking and stared at me. His face was impassive, but I could tell his mind was screaming through possibilities. "Who?"

"I don't know, yet. If, in a day or two, I still don't know, I am to call Secretary Khrushchev and he will send men to take the Embassy apart down to the foundation. It would cause problems with Minister Malenkov, so he'd like to avoid that."

"I don't need these complications. The political situation at home since Stalin's death is... uncertain. Beria, Molotov, Malenkov..." He glanced at me for a second, trying to guess what I really was. "... and your... patron, Khrushchev. They are all jockeying to come out on top. Malenkov is a puppet and he and Molotov are supporting Beria for now for some reason, but I doubt that will last."

"I'd think you would be used to the complications and confusion with your job."

"I've never gotten used to it. I commanded a tank division during the war and I was asked to join the Ministry for State Security as a troubleshooter afterwards. I always avoided the damn Commissars and their bullshit." There was more than a trace of irritation in his voice.

"I always had problems with them myself."

"They were like lice, more of them every day." He sighed, shaking his head slowly. "People are going to die over this mess in Moscow. Maybe a lot of people. It's made the situation here very dangerous; it is worse than ever. The Americans and British are like wolves with the scent of blood in the air."

"That's why I am telling you. Of everyone here, you are by far the least likely to be involved. You selling women for profit makes no sense."

He considered me under lowered brows. "And you need an ally."

"And I need an ally. And I have learned to take allies wherever I can find them."

Stalingrad, 12 September 1942

"Private Kornilov!"

I stood up from my place on the floor among the unassigned soldiers and rushed to the table, stopping at attention. "Yes Comm... Zampolit Pavov."

He looked over a sheet of paper that might, or might not, have had anything to do with me. "While the 1077^th performed in an exemplary manner, I see nothing to indicate that you had anything to do with that." He looked up at me expectantly.

"We all did our part, Zampolit. I carried ammunition until the last gun was destroyed, as I was directed by my Starshina."

"You broke and ran?" He said that as a question, but I could see in his eyes what he suspected.

I knew exactly what to say. "We fell back to regroup as our position was overrun." I stopped for a second. "We ran out of bullets, we did not throw down our rifles."

In fact, we'd had no rifles. The Starshina, hadn't thought me or Tania worthy of rifles. I'd run as fast as I could when I saw the dull grey hull of the first German tank crest the ridge, stopping only long enough to pull a crying Tania to her feet and drag her along with me.

We'd made it nearly a half mile to a copse of battered trees before we saw the safety of the new Russian lines just that distance further away. Supposed safety, anyway, it turned out not to be safe at all. Just as we breathed a sigh of relief on seeing the lines, we saw another group of stragglers reach them. We watched in horror as they were forced to their knees and a Zampolit shot each of them in the back of the head. Even though I couldn't hear the words he was saying over and over, I knew what they were. "For cowardice in the face of the enemy. Death."

Tania sank to the ground, not really seeing anything, crying in terror. I looked around hopelessly, hyperventilating. Going back meant the Germans, going forward meant execution. I half-fell to my knees on the ground next to Tania.

A moment later a hand grabbed my arm. "Shhh. Come, little girls. Come with Timur."

I looked up into a round, smiling, Asian face. His uniform was Russian, mostly, although it was almost covered in bits and scraps of cloth, leaves, and even sticks.

He led us down to a hollow in the ground where a dozen similar men sat completely unconcerned with the encroaching battle. He led us through them, directly to a weathered old man with a few scraggly chin whiskers and began talking in a language I'd never heard.

The old man looked at us. "I am Scout Sniper Platoon Commander Seriov. Did you run?"

I nodded stiffly. "We were never given rifles and the big guns were all destroyed, we had nothing to fight with."

He studied the dirt and smoke residue on our faces. I'm sure he saw the tear tracks as well. "You were with the women that fought on the ridge?"

I nodded again.

He said something and one of the men stood up, picked up two well-worn Mosin-Nagant rifles from a pile, fired them into the ground until they were empty and thrust one at each of us, along with an empty bandolier.

"Timur will guide you to the lines. As long as you have rifles that have been fired, but no ammunition, and you tell them you fell back to find more bullets, they will not shoot you."

So it was; when we reached the lines, I headed straight for the Zampolit who'd executed the stragglers, holding my empty rifle over my head. "Zampolit! We need more ammunition! More Germans are coming!"

Zampolit Pavov suspected, of course; he suspected everyone of everything, but with so many witnesses to our arrival and to my immediate demand for bullets, he'd been able to do nothing.

Instead of being shot or given ammunition, we'd been sent to wait with new replacement soldiers in a holding area for re-assignment. Tania, much prettier than I, had quickly been asked to act as an aide to the Regimental Commander. She knew what it really meant, but she'd grabbed the opportunity with both hands, grateful to have anything, do anything other than be sent back out to the battlefield.

Now, Pavov was clearly going to offer me the same opportunity; after weeks of mockery, of hints and veiled threats, weeks of commenting on my White Russian name, he was finally going to force me. "We have no requests for Air Defense personnel, so I can send you to a forward unit in the city, or..." He paused looking up at me meaningfully. "I can assign you as a Commissar... Political Officer's aide." I'd learned he'd taken the change from Commissar to "Zampolit" Deputy Political Officer hard; the massive loss of authority when the independent commissars had been subordinated to combat commanders as political officers had angered him to no end, and it appeared I could be a convenient outlet for that anger.

I stared at him, trying to figure out what to do, what to say. His claim to have no need for replacement air defense personnel was almost certainly a lie. I was aware that I was no beauty, short, scrawny, with almost no figure, plain, with typical Georgian dark hair and eyes. I realized he was enjoying this, enjoying his power over me. If he enjoyed this so much, I knew what it would be like when we were alone, when he could be truly cruel.

I made my decision. "Then I will need my rifle back. Zampolit Pavov." It was a better and cleaner choice to die at the hands of the Germans.

He stood suddenly, leaning across the table toward me, face darkening, nostrils flaring in anger, but before he could say a word, a familiar voice cut in.

"Pavov! I have need of your volunteer." Seriov strode forward through the roomful of unassigned soldiers and put a hand on my shoulder.

"You have to..."

"Nothing. I have to do nothing. Scout Sniper Platoon has the highest priority, isn't that what Colonel General said? I need one; you have one who just volunteered. Simple, no?" Seriov beamed cheerfully, taking a bite out of a piece of black bread in his other hand.

Even so, Zampolit Pavov might have argued, but at least seven of Seriov's men were casually walking around the outer edges of the room, all smiling, half of them munching on black bread. All of them had the new PPSH-41 submachine guns casually draped across their arms, just coincidentally pointing in Pavov's direction.

"Take her. But keep her out of here. She doesn't come back here. Worthless whore of a White. I'll be amazed if she kills even one German."

"Not your problem, Pavov. Germans take more killing than scared recruits." Seriov let his smiling mask slip for just a second, eyes hardening and smile fading. "But you wouldn't know that, would you?"

Zampolit Pavov sat frozen, glaring hate and anger as we walked out.

I hesitated at the door. "I don't have a gun."

"Guns I have. I have lots of them, all kinds. I need somebody brave."

I coughed in disbelief. "Brave? Me?"

"You stood up to that piece of shit. Germans are much less trouble. You're allowed to shoot them." He paused. "I really do need you, and I need you to be brave. I need someone small and brave. Someone who can fit in the ratholes and sewers. I need a scout who can go where we can't."

Die Maus und die Falle

The Mouse and the Trap

Ankara: 23 April 1953

I was still going where others couldn't go, places like Ankara. It was bit of irony, all things considered. I let the Rezident walk me back to my table, then I relaxed the rest of the evening, watching the members of the staff. Mostly, I was watching them watch me.

I'd expected to ride back with the Ambassador, but instead, the Military Attaché, Colonel Ivanov, came over.

"May I offer you a lift back to the Embassy, Major?"

"If it doesn't offend the Ambassador." Offending the Ambassador was really only a concern to me if it interfered in what I was trying to do, but I had to at least pretend.

"I checked with him. His wife would like to have at least a few minutes of his time this week."

We made our way to one of the waiting Embassy ZiS limousines, with its driver.

The Colonel sat across from me in the back, watching as I studied the dash of the limousine. His curiosity won out. "Are you interested in driving?"

I turned back to face him. "Just being cautious. Operativnik are banned from driving, and I have the worst driver in the world. I always wonder if I am going to survive to get where I'm going."

"That bad?"

I shrugged. "He's a Yakuts, from Siberia. I'm pretty sure he'd never driven a car before he was assigned to me. I suspect he just threatened to kill the license official rather than take a test."

"I had one of those during the war. Great soldier, terrible driver. He actually managed to run over himself one time. I'm still not sure how he did that." The Colonel smiled at the memory.

"It sounds like it might be the same man."

"It might be." He leaned back in his seat. "So, Militsiya Major, what exactly are you here for?"

I ignored the weak attempt at overawing me with his rank and gave him the same details I'd given the Rezident.

I could see he didn't like it any better. "And the dossier? What do you think is in it?"

"I don't know, but it's important. We know men died to protect it."

He listened and sighed. "Just criminal bullshit, but the political situation makes this a nightmare. My driver once told me that when elephants fight, mice are crushed. These are dangerous times for all of us. I've come up under Zhukov. Beria, as the Chairman, would be a disaster for me. Molotov is supporting Beria, because Beria released his wife from arrest after Stalin died, but there's something else going on too. Molotov and Beria hate each other... something just doesn't make sense. But what can I do?"

I nodded. "That's why I am telling you. Of everyone here, you are by far the least likely to be involved. You'd have no reason to be involved in any of this, and a real officer would never risk his honor by selling women."

As we pulled up in front of the Embassy, he nodded sagely. "That makes sense. If you need any help, let me know."

*****

I had to have a couple of one-sided discussions with Embassy support personnel, and I'd just managed to get up to my temporary office and sit down when the Ambassador came in. He was desperately trying to suppress his anger.

"Major. Perhaps you'd like to explain just what is going on."

I considered asking him what he meant by that, but it wasn't really in my nature. "Nobody leaves the Embassy grounds for the next two days, on the authority of Secretary Khrushchev. I gave the guards their orders when I got here. People can come in, but nobody leaves."

"I think Minister Malenkov will have a different opinion."

"If so, you won't know it for a couple days. I ordered the communications center to stand down as well. So unless you plan to overrule Secretary Khrushchev, the lockdown stands. It's for your own good, really. If we can resolve this quickly, things go back to normal."

"I have duties to perform, people to visit..."

"I've ordered your secretary to clear your calendar until this is over."

He was furious, but he really was Ambassador material; he managed to keep his temper. His secretary, Ekaterina, had very quickly done as I told her, and I was certain she would continue to do as I'd told her. She was not terribly intelligent, and she was weak in that peculiar way very pretty girls sometimes are; used to being protected and coddled in exchanges for smiles, and in her case, much more personal services for the Ambassador. She'd folded up as soon as I had put pressure on her.

It was, of all things, the lipstick. I'd merely had to mention that her lipstick was quite pretty, and she'd fallen apart.

"I'm so sorry, please don't arrest me... Please!" She started shaking violently, her voice quavering. "He likes this color of lipstick... and I couldn't keep sneaking it from his wife's room... so..."

She continued on to explain the whole pathetic thing. A driver bought the lipstick on the market for her, she carried a few tubes back to Russia every time she visited, never more than three, and she sold them for ten times their value. Making just enough money to make sure her mother and sister didn't starve to death.

I was rather less appalled by her "criminal activity" than the fact that the Ambassador hadn't even offered to ensure her family was taken care of in exchange for the intimate services she was rendering him. Then I realized she seemed to be under the impression that those "personal services" were actually part of her job.

I managed, in the course of giving her a stern lecture for her "criminal behavior" and extracting a firm promise not to smuggle any more cosmetics, to disabuse her of her delusion regarding her duties to the Ambassador. I might have mentioned how angry his well-connected wife might be were she to discover Ekaterina's services to her husband, and how that might have severe ramifications for the Ambassador. When I'd left her there, I'd noticed a sly look under her tears, and knew that at some point in the near future the price of her services was going to go up dramatically as far as the Ambassador was concerned.

When the Ambassador frowned and shook his head, saying, "Minister Malenkov will hear of this eventually and I doubt he will be as tolerant as I am." I just shrugged.

He paused, no doubt considering the possibility that the political struggle for power in the Party might have a positive outcome for me. "You do, of course have my full support; let me know if you need assistance."

The Ambassador tried not to storm out of my office, and I smiled to myself, knowing that he'd soon be paying far more for his afternoon treats.

As for his promise of support, I'd learned long ago that you can always find yourself alone.

Stalingrad. 6 November 1942

Seriov's Scout Sniper Platoon, my platoon, was gone. I'd been out for a two-day reconnaissance when it happened; I was alone, since none of the others could fit through the sewers I was using to get around. And now they were gone; Seriov, Timur, all of them. The weapons, the equipment, everything but my bedroll and pack. A single piece of paper was hidden in the hollow wall where we'd kept the situation reports when we couldn't get them turned in.

The note was from Seriov. The platoon had been moved to support another Division with no notice, and despite Seriov's arguments, I was left behind. Somehow or other I had been left off the platoon's roster. Seriov suspected Zampolit Pavov's hand in that and he would get it corrected with the new Division as soon as possible, but for now, I was to fall in on the new Scout Platoon when it arrived, and to continue to pass reports to the Division.

The new Scout Platoon never arrived, of course. I continued to scout my sector and report back to the Division. I dropped off reports, picked up ammunition and spoke to fewer and fewer people.

I'd learned to be a solitary creature, more solitary and more feral than even Seriov's men. He'd started me as a spotter for Timur, then slowly, as I proved myself and kept coming back alive day after day, I started going out on my own. I learned my way through the sewers, the collapsed basements and the rubble. I could range farther than the men in the platoon, fit places they couldn't go.