John Schettler: Steel Reign

“The world has changed, Orlov,” said Fedorov. “I did not realize just how much has gone awry.”

“I know you are wanting to blame me for that, yes?”

“What? No Chief. I think I got to you in time, or at least those British commandos did. Besides, most anything you may have changed would have had to occur after 1942. The altered state of affairs I am reading about now all happened well before that. I think it was Karpov who had a great deal to do with some of the changes, and I must also confess that I am equally to blame.”

“You, Fedorov? What did you do?”

Fedorov confessed his crime, that errant whisper, and he told Orlov that it ended up resulting in the death of Joseph Stalin himself.

“My god!” Orlov exclaimed. “Here I was worried a bit about choking Commissar Molla, and you took a contract out on Stalin!” As always, Orlov interpreted the events in light of his own life experience, running with the Russian mob for so many years before he had joined the navy had left him very jaded.

“So you see, Orlov, you can sleep easy now. I’m the real culprit.”

“And that bastard Karpov. He sleeps easy too—with the fishes!” Orlov grinned again.

“Yes, I suppose so. In fact, as to that Commissar you speak of, remember, in this world now it is only 1940, so he may still be alive out there somewhere, though if he is, he will be working for Volkov, and not the Bolsheviks.”

At that Orlov’s face and mood darkened. “Still alive? But I killed him.”

“In 1942, but that world, those events that saw you make your way to the Caucasus… well, they might never occur. This is a new world, Chief. Another life altogether, for you, and I suppose for Commissar Molla as well.”

“Sookin syn!” Orlov swore, clearly unhappy with what he was learning now.

“Orlov… That man you say you dream about. Can you remember anything about how he looks? I mean, did he have a uniform? Was he in the service?”

Orlov’s eyes narrowed. “Come to think of it…. Yes … He had on some kind of military cap, with a red star.”

“Navy?”

“No… Not Navy. But it was just a goddamned dream, Fedorov.”

Now Fedorov decided to take a leap here, and asked Orlov something he didn’t expect.

“Chief… Ever hear of a man named Molla? A Russian Commissar.”

That hit Orlov like a bucket of cold water. He turned, a look of confused surprise on his face. Commissar Molla. Yes, he had heard that name before. He knew the man… But how? Where? That was the face in his dream, Molla’s hound dog face wrenched with pain. Something seemed to snap in his mind, like a window breaking in a storm, and a flood of memory rushed in like cold wind. Commissar Molla!

“ Sookin syn! The bastard thought he would have his way with the women, rounding them up like cattle. Well he picked up more than he knew. Bothered my grandmother, that sick, demented son-of-a-bitch. Then he started asking questions—put that pistol of his right in my face. ” Then the memories came in a great torrent. It all came back to him, with crystalline clarity, icy cold, and chilling to the bone. He remembered it all….

Orlovheard the footsteps in the hall, and smiled inwardly. At last, he thought. The Commissar was finally here. Once inside the prison they had taken his overcoat, cap and service jacket, just as he expected, and they were hanging on the coat rack in the corner, objects of curiosity or evidence to be fodder for the interrogation that was coming next. Orlov was suddenly reminded of that first session with Loban under the Rock of Gibraltar. He wondered if this Molla would get curious and meet Svetlana the way Loban had?

The door opened and a man stepped in, medium build, and dressed in a plain NKVD uniform with side pistol holstered and two thin leather straps crossed on his chest. Right over the place where the man’s heart was missing, thought Orlov. Yet as nondescript as his dress was, the man’s face and eyes were quite revealing. He was much younger than Orlov had expected him to be, and there was a cold, arrogant air about him, the character of a young man who had come into too much authority and power before he had lived enough to know how to use it. His eyes seemed to squint as he looked Orlov over, narrowed slits with obsidian ice behind them.

The Commissar walked to his desk, his footfalls loud on the old wood floor, but he did not sit down. He stood, regarding Orlov with those cold black eyes, one hand on his left hip. Then he calmly drew his pistol, raising it to the level of his cheek to take aim square at Orlov’s head.

“Name.” Molla’s voice was flat and terse, edged with impatience.

“Orlov.”

“Where did you get that uniform?”

Orlov looked at him, a glow of defiance on his cheeks as he sized up the situation. He needed to get the man closer to him.

“I took it from a dead man. He had little use for it, and I thought it would get me to my destination a little easier.”

“Dead man? You killed this man?”

“Of course,” Orlov returned quickly. “I don’t think he would have given me his uniform otherwise.”

“You killed an NKVD Officer?” Molla’s voice was loaded with recrimination now, the slits of his eyes more pronounced.

“Yes, I killed him. He insisted on taking me to Novorossiysk, and I did not wish to go there.”

Molla’s hand never wavered as he held the pistol, and now he slowly moved his finger tight on the trigger. It was a Nagant M1895, an old, reliable revolver dating back to the days of the last Tsar. Orlov could clearly see the bullet laden cylinder, and knew a round was chambered and ready to fire with one squeeze of Molla’s finger, but he was heedless of the danger. All he could think of was getting Molla closer.

“They say you claimed to have orders for me?”

“That was a lie.”

“Of course it was. No one gives me orders here, except perhaps Beria, and he is not around at the moment.”

“Lucky for us both,” said Orlov with a shrug.

Molla sensed something in the man, a strange kinship that was evident in his devil may care attitude. He was holding a pistol on the man, and yet he did not think the frank and direct answers he was receiving were born of fear. Most men would be clearly intimidated, eyes averted, with that pathetic pleading look as they struggled to find a way to prove their innocence. But not this man. No. He’s unlike any man we’ve hauled in for a good long while now. This one is a fallen angel, just like me, dark seraphim, bound for hell and determined to start the fires now while he lives. It’s as if he thought he was invulnerable!

“Just where did you think you were going, Orlov? What were you doing at Kizlyar? Are you a German sympathizer? A Spy? Were you trying to get through our lines to get to those pigs?”

“Of course not,” said Orlov hotly. “I’m Russian! I was looking for the pigs on this side of the wire, men who roust women and children out of their homes and truck them off to places like this in the night. Men like you , Commissar.”

Molla stepped closer, his hand tight on the revolver again. He had killed a hundred men for far less cause than this man just gave him; interrogated thousands more with seared and severed flesh. He was brash, young, and full of himself, and now he had a strong sense that the man he had before him was of the same dark order, a demon of a man who could kill without remorse, without conscience. These were the most dangerous men in the world, he thought. I could use a man like this… if I could control him. Then his righteous anger flared, as he realized just what the man had said to him. Bound for hell or not, we still keep order.