MJ-12: Endgame

1

Three limousines sped down the two-lane road in the cold night, headlights illuminating the piles of dirty snow on either side, the work of the plows creating a canyon for the cars to slalom. Dark trees loomed on either side, but to one of the limos’ occupants, the destination loomed larger.

For Nikita Khrushchev, dinner with Josef Stalin was always a fraught affair. No matter how many times he went — and it was indeed a terrifying privilege he was granted with increasing regularity — he would never get used to the high-wire act they were all forced to perform.

When Stalin said dance, you danced. And for his four most trusted advisers, there was a great deal of dancing to do at these things. Khrushchev glanced at his watch, noting it was half past eleven at night. They wouldn’t eat before midnight, undoubtedly, and would be expected to drink for hours afterward. And even as they drank, they would somehow need to be in full control of their faculties — one misstatement could mean demotion. Or worse.

Khrushchev looked over at his companion in the limo, Nikolai Bulganin, the new defense minister, who was dozing in his seat, his head propped against the glass of the window beside him. Khrushchev wished he could sleep so easily; he imagined it would do well for his fortitude during the night ahead. But no, the head of the Communist Party for Moscow and one of the top advisors to Stalin himself had to settle for a solid afternoon nap, one that kept him from his wife and daughter more often than he liked.

Was this, then, what the October Revolution had wrought? Grown men performing for a puppet master in the middle of the night, their livelihoods and lives on the line, all for… what? A chance to succeed Stalin as the puppet master? Or maybe, just maybe, a chance to do what could be done to fulfill the goals of the Revolution, to improve the lot of the workers and peasants. Perhaps to preserve them as much as possible from the increasingly erratic dictates of their glorious leader.

Khrushchev’s silent musings — a death sentence if spoken aloud — were interrupted as the ZiS limousine ground to a halt in the snow outside a beautiful, ornate house. They were in Kuntsevo, at the Old Man’s dacha. It was a rare thing for Stalin himself to enter Moscow except to entertain himself, so the business of government was handled here now, awash in wine and vodka, rich sauces and obsequiousness.

Khrushchev poked Bulganin in the arm. “We’re here.”

The other man stirred and stretched. “Time to play the game, then.” With a yawn, Bulganin opened the door and braved the cold outside. Khrushchev followed suit. Behind them, the third limo was just coming to a halt. The doors opened and out came Georgy Malenkov, deputy chairman of the U.S.S.R.’s Council of Ministers, and Lavrentiy Beria, the first deputy premier and, many believed, the next supreme leader of the Soviet Union.

There was, of course, no finer mind for it, Khrushchev thought. Beria had the mind of an academician and the guts of a back-alley brawler. He looked like nothing more than a shopkeeper, with his balding pate and spectacles; only his piercing eyes betrayed this facade. Beria was, in Khrushchev’s opinion, the most ruthless man in the Soviet Union. Even more so than Stalin himself.

It was a good thing, then, that most of the Politburo was scared of what Beria might do should he take such power. If Khrushchev had anything to do with it, he would ensure that the cost of such power would be too high for Beria to bear.

“Where is Comrade Stalin?” Bulganin asked.

Khrushchev turned to see the limo in front of him had already sped off, and he caught a glimpse of the supreme leader already inside the foyer of his dacha. The Old Man could still move at a decent clip, at least when it came to getting out of the cold.

“He’s hungry,” Beria said. “Perhaps he’ll be easily sated tonight.”

“Wishful thinking,” Khrushchev said with a smile. “Come, let us see what he has for us.”

The four men entered, their coats taken by Stalin’s servants, a relic of the bourgeoisie that still troubled Khrushchev. Were they all not capable of managing their own coats? Or having their own wives cook their food? An army of servants, even for those of the proletariat honored with the heavy mantle of leadership, seemed counterrevolutionary.

Of course, Khrushchev wouldn’t say no to them, either, should he eventually ascend to Stalin’s position. Human nature would remain what it was.

The four — sometimes even referred to as “The Four” in the halls of the Kremlin, signifying their importance to the Soviet State — knew their way through the house and proceeded to the dining room. At least Stalin had opted to take in the picture show in Moscow, rather than here at the dacha, where the sound quality was bad and the movies were often Westerns smuggled in via diplomatic pouch from America. For some reason, Stalin loved Westerns. But since they weren’t subtitled, the Old Man would ask someone in the room to make up the translation as the movie played. It was, of course, another test. Stalin could easily have employed a translator, but he wanted to see how his protégés handled the duties. A fine story would bring toasts to your health and playful banter. A poor one would earn a stream of profane invective if you were lucky. The unlucky might be frozen out of the Soviet Union’s political structure for weeks at a time, and the other vultures would move in quickly.

But tonight was just dinner and drinking. Stalin’s dining room was a relatively modest affair — a table for twenty, another along one side for the buffet, couches on the other side for relaxation, a warm fire, wood-paneled walls, and fine carpets. Tonight was Georgian food, which Khrushchev didn’t particularly care for. He heaped food on his plate regardless.

Then he felt a jab in his stomach from a thick finger. “You eat too much, Nichik.”

Khrushchev allowed himself to close his eyes for a moment before turning to address Josef Stalin with a smile. “You provide us with such food, Comrade Stalin, how can I not? You shall make all of us expand with your generosity.”

At this, the Old Man laughed, and Khrushchev sighed with relief. Stalin was aged now, his hair and iconic mustache well grayed and heading for white, and his frame under his military fatigues had grown somewhat over the years. But he was still a commanding presence, and the worst part was that Stalin knew it — and knew he had the power to back up any commands he gave.

Soon the plates were filled, the wine was poured, the toasts to Stalin’s health were duly made by each man present. While the supreme leader was arthritic and had slowed, each one of The Four remained disappointed in Stalin’s continued good health, despite their toasts. They all knew that the Soviet Union was stagnating. The global post-war economy was booming, but the Soviet economy was well behind. This was, of course, largely due to the staggering losses suffered by the Motherland during the war, both in lives and resources. But it was also leadership, for how can an economy truly grow if one’s economic solutions are to simply send managers and foremen to the gulag? Khrushchev had grand ideas, and had begun to slowly — so very carefully—implement them. But it was a drop in the bucket, and the bucket was vast and full only of need.

Khrushchev listened as Bulganin discussed the stalemate in Korea between the Chinese Communists and the U.S.-led United Nations forces. The heady successes of late 1950 were a distant memory; the fighting had largely bogged down as the Americans and their allies flowed additional men and materiel to the front.

“Advise Chairmans Mao and Kim… oh, what Kim is this? Korea is full of Kims!” Stalin said, laughing at his own joke. “Anyway, tell them to negotiate. Communism will be happy to settle for half a country rather than none. When the Koreans in the south see the workers’ paradise we will create in the north, they will knock down the borders and send the Americans home. Now, Comrade Beria, tell me of the doctors.”

The Doctors’ Plot was one of Stalin’s pet peeves, one that Khrushchev felt had been concocted by Beria simply to keep the Old Man distracted. In short, it was an alleged plot by counterrevolutionary elements within Moscow’s medical community — largely Jewish as well, which was convenient — to spread lies about Stalin’s health — or even assassinate Party leaders — in an attempt to destabilize the Soviet Union.

“It fares well, Comrade,” Beria replied smoothly. “Comrade Ignatiev has been doing fine work, and several will soon crack. And I have it on good authority that Dr. Vinogradov has quite the long tongue, and has been reported spreading scurrilous rumors about your fainting spells. Such nonsense, of course.”

“Right, what do you propose to do now?” Stalin asked crossly after downing a shot of vodka. “Have the doctors confessed? Tell Ignatiev if he doesn’t get full confessions out of them, we’ll shorten him by a head.”

“They’ll confess,” Beria replied. “With the help of other patriots like Timashuk, we’ll complete the investigation and come to you for permission to arrange a public trial.”

“Arrange it,” Stalin said. He then paused to look around the table. “You are my most loyal and effective comrades. Some of you have done fine work and continue to do fine work on behalf of the State.” Stalin’s face grew redder and he stood from the table. “But there are those in the leadership of the Party and the State who think they can somehow get by on past merits! To sit in fine offices and enjoy their apartments in Moscow and their country dachas without continuing to do fine work! They are mistaken.”

At this, Stalin strode from the room, and The Four were left to look at each other awkwardly, and to make small talk for the benefit of anyone else surely listening in. These sudden outbursts were becoming more common, as were the abrupt departures. Sometimes, Stalin would come back into the room after just a few moments, likely having gone to take a piss, and would either continue on his rant or change the subject entirely. Sometimes, The Four would be left to their own devices for hours, only to be told by a servant that Stalin had gone to sleep. Unfortunately, Stalin never really slept until just before dawn, so they would have to wait until he either came back to join them or was off to bed.

Khrushchev eyed the couch along the far wall longingly. Being caught napping would not perhaps be best, but tonight had already been long, and the morning too close by half. Instead, he joined the others in discussing the Korean question, which allowed them all to enjoy debating a topic that had little overall relevance for their careers.

Stalin joined them an hour later and was in far better spirits — and had better spirits with him as well, in the form of top-shelf bottles of Stolichnaya. Drinks were poured, toasts were made again. Someone produced a phonograph so that Stalin could play Ukrainian folk songs, and he tried to get Khrushchev to dance, repeatedly poking him in the stomach and singing, “Nichik! Nichik!” over and over. Finally, Khrushchev rose from his seat and — once the room stopped its alcohol-fueled spinning — tried a few moves from his youth. Stalin was pleased, the others laughed along, likely enjoying his embarrassment. But then it was done, and Stalin moved on to pick on someone else. Khrushchev slumped down upon the sofa and tried to stay awake.

Finally, at four in the morning, Stalin arose and wobbled toward his rooms, bidding his compatriots good night. With a sigh, Khrushchev hauled himself up off the couch and staggered toward the door. It was early, for once, and he might catch a couple hours of sleep in his own bed before tomorrow’s meetings. A luxury, to be sure.

Within minutes of driving off in the limo with Bulganin, Khrushchev’s head was up against the glass of the window. He wouldn’t even remember dozing off.

He most certainly did not remember Lavrentiy Beria staying behind at Stalin’s dacha.

But he clearly remembered the call that shook him out of his afternoon nap the following day. He’d remember it for the rest of his life.