The Commandant would be a very busy man that day.
Chapter 14
June 24, 1940
They would meet near the first stone building ever constructed in the city of Murmansk, a stately red brick walled structure with tall concrete exterior columns and two high arched windows flanking the heavy wood door, framed in bright white paint. It sat adjacent to the rail yard on Lenin Street, at the edge of the harbor where Admiral Volsky’s launch was tied off. Just a short distance beyond the broad rail receiving yard, they caught sight of the old Hotel Arctic, built in 1933. They were told that quarters had been arranged there, and a reception was planned at the main dining hall.
The men who received them at the quay when they arrived were military police, and they eyed Sergeant Troyak and Corporal Zykov darkly when they saw the burly Sergeant emerge from the cabin of the launch. He snapped off a crisp salute, which was then returned, and something about this time honored gesture of good will and perhaps the red hammer and sickle flag Volsky had retrieved from his sea chest and fixed atop the boat, seemed to defrost that the situation. When Volsky appeared in the uniform of a naval Admiral, the security men stiffened at attention, affording him the respect the uniform and rank was due, even if they did not know anything of the man who wore it.
“Right this way, Admiral.” A tall man in a dark trench coat gestured to a waiting line of cars, and there was room in the vehicle for the entire party.
They could have easily walked to the meeting site that had been arranged. Volsky had suggested the location in communications exchanged with the City Commandant before the meeting. He knew of the old hotel, as his father had often spoken of the place. They drove through the familiar intersection known as “Five Corners” and arrived at the hotel just minutes later. Volsky looked around and noted the absence of the statue that would commemorate Gunner Andre Bredov, who gallantly defended his position and then blew himself up when surrounded by Nazi soldiers when they tried to storm Murmansk during their Operation Silver Fox.
Not yet, Anrdre, he thought. That was in 1944. I used to have lunch there in the grounds near the place where they will erect that statue, assuming Bredov was still out there somewhere and was destined meet the same fate. The monument to the victims of political repression was missing as well. The town was dramatically different, with none of the tall brick and concrete buildings, and almost no vehicular traffic on the broad empty streets. There were many more buildings of wood, some using the unhewn trunks of pine trees to construct log cabins.
After a brief security check, and profuse apology for the necessity, they were ushered into the lobby, where Troyak and Zykov would wait, served hot tea and cakes. They had instructions to contact the ship using the hidden radio in the lining of Troyak’s service jacket. A full contingent of well armed Naval Marines was ready on board Kirov, with the KA-40 loaded for bear. The Admiral did not think it would be necessary to call on them, but the uncertainty inherent in the situation prompted him to arrange for his extraction should he not contact the ship within 24 hours. All the men had hidden transceivers and could be easily located.
Volsky and Fedorov were then led off to the meeting room, flanked by four guards in the same dark trench coats, and they saw more security men at intervals along the long hallway. Doors were dutifully opened at the end by two more guards, and they were let into a spacious room, with an elegant crystal chandelier above a table dressed out with candles, oil lamps, and white linen. Tea service was waiting, and they were quietly attended by white coated hotel staff while they waited.
Ten minutes later a door opened and two men stepped in, taking up positions to either side of the entrance. The next man they saw seemed like a demigod walking out of the mists of time itself-Sergei Kirov. His stocky frame, broad face, ruddy features were unmistakable to any Russian, as they had been depicted in statues, postage stamps, posters and artwork for decades after his assassination in 1934… But that had never happened in this world. Stalin had died in Kirov’s place.
The tallest guard, clearly a favored adjutant, announced the arrival in a clear voice. “The Secretary General of the Communist Party!”
Kirov looked at them as they stood in respectful greeting, both men removing their caps as though they were in the presence of a saint. Volsky saw the light of awe and respect in Fedorov’s eyes, and noted how Kirov stared at him, an equal light of amazement plain in his expression. Then he smiled.
“All security personnel will leave the room at once,” he said, still standing by the door. The men obeyed, though their officer’s face betrayed some concern. Volsky noted a small hand gesture by Kirov, reassuring the man that all would be well. Then Kirov stepped forward and extended his hand to the Admiral in a warm greeting, yet his eyes were ever on Fedorov, glittering with silent realization.
A man of just 54 years, Kirov seemed in the fullness of his life, with just a touch of grey starting to appear in his thick head of hair, combed back above his broad forehead. A handsome man, he exuded an energy of confidence and authority.
“Admiral Volsky,” he said smiling. “I must admit that we have no Admiral by that name here in Soviet Russia, and so imagine my surprise when I was invited to this meeting. And you… He turned to Fedorov, his eyes strangely distant, as though he were seeing back through the years to that moment when he had first laid eyes on this man outside the dining hall of the inn at Ilanskiy. “You are Fedorov, and if you can assure me that you are not working for the Okhrana, I would be happy to share my breakfast with you!”
Fedorov smiled. “Sergei Mironovich Kostrikov,” he said warmly. “I am honored to make your acquaintance again, after so many long years.”
“Not for you, Fedorov! You appear exactly as I have remembered you all these many years, even as I remembered every word you whispered to me on that stairway before I went down. Imagine my surprise when I received your message-a message only I could understand, and so I hastened here to this meeting, unwilling to believe it might be the same man I spoke to back then… in 1908. Ah, but it wasn’t 1908 when we parted, was it Fedorov? It was 1942! Yes, I found that out as well. Yet every step I took down those stairs gobbled up two years! I counted them-seventeen steps, a nice prime number. When I got to the bottom all was as I expected, but I must tell you that the room where we spoke that day on the upper floor was not in the same world I left. Yes, I know that now.”
He gestured to the table and they all took seats, with Kirov sitting opposite his visitors. Now he looked at Admiral Volsky. “I did not see your ship in the harbor, Admiral, though they tell me you have given it a familiar name.”
“We have, sir,” said Volsky.
“Well, when I first heard of this ship I came to believe you had come here from the Black Sea, sent by Volkov in a warship built by the Orenburg Federation, though that seemed surprising to me. We saw no sign of this at Sevastopol or any other port on the Black Sea, and we still control Odessa and the shipyards there.”
“No, General Secretary.”
“You need not be so formal. Just call me Mironov, for old time’s sake. That is who I was when I first met this man. Then he told me he was just a sailor being transferred, but I had my own suspicions about him.”
“Very well, Mironov, I must be forthright and tell you we have not come from the Black Sea, nor are we in any way affiliated with Orenburg.”
“Oh? Then where have you come from? Surely not from the far east, unless you’ve managed to Shanghai a Japanese warship and sail it all this way as a prize.”
Volsky smiled. “In fact, we have come from there, but not in a Japanese ship.”