John Sweeney - The Useful Idiot

Under attack, Borodin must have thrown everything he had at the intruders, and then some. Against one wall, a bloodstained handprint. And in the middle of the wreckage, on the floor: a film reel, yards and yards of it. Unique footage of the famine, hard evidence of Stalin’s monstrous crime, destroyed.

“You put up a bloody good fight, Max,” Jones said out loud As funeral orations went it was short, honest and the only one the dead man would get.

From outside the flat, he heard a voice, frail yet angry. The concierge had made it to the fifth floor. Jones had been pretty confident that the concierge hadn’t got a proper look at him when he’d entered the building but being trapped inside the flat was different. There was a soft knock at the door, then it swung open.

Jones fully opened the shutters and stepped out onto the small balcony overlooking the street sixty feet below. In the snow on the balcony there was blood, and lots of it. He tried not to think about that now. If the concierge got a look at him, he would be able to give the Cheka a description, and that would not end well for him.

Down on the street a figure stepped into a pool of light from a lamppost. A woman in brown.

The concierge’s voice was stronger now, more assertive, calling on him to come back into the room from the balcony. Jones was boxed in, with nowhere to go. The only way of ensuring that the concierge didn’t give the Cheka his description was to silence him – and Jones wasn’t that man.

A fresh flurry of snow started to fall. Jones leant over the balcony, looked down and made his decision. Inside the room came the sounds of the concierge picking his way through the chaos.

Jones straddled the balcony, gripped onto his hat with one hand.

Then he jumped.

They had come for Evgenia shortly after dawn that morning, two polite knocks on the door, then a third, insistent. She was hurrying to get herself organised when the knocking intensified. Terrified of what might happen if she didn’t open the door, she flung it open. She was wearing a satin nightdress, a gift from Duranty.

The Cheka came in threes. This visit was no exception.

“Ah, Colonel Lyushkov.”

“Miss Miranova, I’m sorry to disturb you but the Extraordinary Commission needs your services at short notice.”

Behind the Colonel stood an Uzbek Cheka soldier, a giant of a man, and Lintz. His hair dye was absurd.

“Can you give me a moment?” She gestured to her lingerie.

“We’ll wait inside.”

“That’s not convenient, Colonel. I’m always happy to work for the Cheka but my flat is tiny and I’m afraid I cannot change my clothes without making an unfortunate exhibition of myself.”

Lyushkov relented. Then, closing the door, she put the small icon of the Virgin Mary by her bed under a pillow and proceeded to dress for “over there” – code for the gulag. It took time and Lyushkov knocked again.

Opening the door, she put on a cheery smile and said, “Patience, Colonel, is an art to master.”

“Listen, bitch, we’ve got work to do.”

She had pushed her luck too far and it wasn’t even seven o’clock in the morning. After that, they rode in the ZIS to the Lubyanka in silence. Once there, they took the lift to Lyushkov’s office, a grand affair occupying a corner room. Lyushkov went to his desk, sat behind it and ordered Lintz to sit in the prisoner’s chair. Then, waving his fingers at Evgenia, he ordered her to sit to one side.

“The trick to any interrogation is not to give the prisoner the slightest advantage,” Lyushkov announced. “I’m worried that, if he can see your face, Miss Mironova, he might pick up some intelligence.”

“Colonel, let me assure you that I would not dream of alerting a prisoner to anything. It would be unprofessional.”

“You’re a whore with a smart tongue inside you, woman, that’s all. Shut up or the Cheka will find someone else to carry out your services, someone who has a bit more nous.” He told Lintz to find two wooden screens. Lintz and the Uzbek hurried off while Lyushkov sat at his desk and started reading reports from a stack of folders in his in-tray.

After a time, Lintz and the Uzbek returned, out of breath, with two screens. They spent a few minutes arranging them, one to block whoever was standing at the door from seeing Lyushkov at his desk, the other to screen off Evgenia from the prisoner. This interrogation was going to be performance art.

They were still fussing over the exact positioning of the second screen when there was a gentle knock at the door and in walked a man in a peaked cap, pale tunic, black belt, and wide black breeches. He wore a leather holster holding a revolver on one shoulder and a brown satchel on the other. The most striking thing about him was his toothbrush moustache, directly under his nostrils. You could have mistaken him for a disciple of Herr Hitler. The skull was shaven, the face forbiddingly pale, as if it had never seen sunshine. The moment he appeared, Evgenia felt the temperature in the room drop.

Lyushkov shot out of his chair and saluted the newcomer. “Comrade Yagoda. It’s a great pleasure to see you here, as always. Is there anything we can assist you with, Comrade?”

Evgenia recognised him from the famous photograph of Stalin at the opening of the White Sea Canal: Genrikh Grigoryevich Yagoda, the deputy head of the Cheka. The nominal head, Vyacheslav Menzhinsky, was a permanent invalid and rarely seen or spoken of. Yagoda was the boss and everyone knew it.

“Settling in very nicely in your new office, I see, Comrade Lyushkov,” said Yagoda. His voice was dry, ascetic, prickly. Sitting down opposite Lyushkov, he threw his cap onto his desk. “Wooden screens just so, a beautiful assistant, some of the GPU’s best men to play butler for you.”

Lyushkov gulped, a fish on a hook.

“This was Colonel Zakovsky’s office until his death?”

Lyushkov’s jowls wobbled yes.

“And now the new tenant has moved in and everything is nice as pie.”

Lyushkov said nothing.

“Girl, go to the Registry.”

“She’s not…” Lyushkov interrupted.

Yagoda lifted his palm and stared at Lyushkov. The colonel fell silent.

Yagoda studied him coldly. “Colonel, Comrade Stalin has appointed me to be the deputy head of the Cheka, not you. You are not my superior. Please do not countermand my orders. Girl, go to the Registry and tell them that Comrade Yagoda wishes to see the file on Zakovsky, his death and any other files pertaining to it. Do that now.”

“Yes, Comrade,” said Evgenia.

“The colonel and I are going to have a chat about the unfortunate demise of his predecessor. The files will help refresh our memories of the…” he paused, theatrically “…tragedy.”

She turned to go, then hesitated.

“Yes, what is it, girl?”

She bowed her head and stared at the floor. “Sir, I fear that without written authorisation from you, the Registry will not release such important files to someone, such as me, who lacks seniority.”

The edges of Yagoda’s lips curved upwards. It could have been mistaken for a smile. “Good observation,” he said.

Unbuckling his satchel, he took out a piece of paper with the red OGPU shield and some sentences already typewritten on it.

“Name?”

“Evgenia Davidovich Miranova, Comrade Yagoda.”

“Pen?”

Lyushkov scrambled to offer Yagoda his pen. Yagoda laid the paper out on Lyushkov’s desk and scratched his name underneath the typewritten words. He then took out a silver box from his satchel, opened it and removed a rubber stamp. He stamped the paper, then countersigned it. The whole rigmarole was carried out with a time-eating fastidiousness.