“But we will have one soon, won’t we?” Stalin asked. “Your projection said early 1943, did they not?”
“Yes, perhaps sooner, once we assimilate the German and Japanese research,” Molotov said. He smiled; was that not a demonstration of the truth of Communism? “Still, it will take time to build up a stockpile.”
“True, true,” Stalin mused. Molotov hoped that he’d gotten the thought of giving a nuclear weapon to the Japanese out of his mind. “So, back to our little internal problem. Lavrenty Pavlovich has not succeeded in tracking down our old friend.”
Stalin’s old friend, Molotov remembered. They had been genial opponents, because Trotsky had never realised what lay behind Stalin’s smile… until he was forced to flee the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. If Beria, one of the most capable – and sadistic – people couldn’t track down Trotsky, then the old communist must have leaned a few new tricks.
“He’ll turn up sooner or later,” Molotov said. “Our security is getting better and better all of the time.”
“He better had, or Lavrenty Pavlovich will lose his head,” Stalin growled. “This has appeared.”
He picked up a leaflet and passed it to Molotov. Molotov examined it with some concern; the leaflet was printed on finer paper than the best Soviet propaganda… and the image on it was literally out of time and space.
People of Mother Russia – the arch-criminal Stalin, he who was born in Georgia and nearly became a priest, has sent thousands of men to their deaths. They were struck by a weapon that could destroy an entire city the size of Moscow, one that will be used on Moscow if Stalin is not removed!
Do you want to live freely? Join the underground today!
“Those things have been turning up everywhere,” Stalin snapped. Molotov examined the picture; the ruins of an entire military city hung in front of his eyes. Other pictures were displayed on the other side; a ruined tank and dozens of burnt bodies.
“We must be able to locate some of their network if they’re this busy,” Molotov protested.
“Lavrenty Pavlovich has found children – street children – serving as delivery men,” Stalin snapped. “They are very careful, just like we were before the Revolution.”
Molotov nodded in agreement. The Tsar’s secret police had been brutal opponents. “What else has happened?”
“Food riots in some towns, a riot on a collective farm that was one of the handful kept in operation,” Stalin said. “They’re also pointing out that the ongoing build-up of the army will send most of the men to their deaths, and they’ve given very exaggerated death figures. People don’t believe Pravda; they believe…”
He waved the leaflet. Everyone knew – everyone who could read behind Pravda’s half-truths and distortions – that Radio Moscow and Pravda always put the best face on things. Neither one of the official organs for news dissemination had revealed the atomic blast – or the dangers of biological warfare – but the underground newssheets had revealed both of them, along with the alliance with the Germans and the Japanese.
“We will dig them up eventually,” Molotov said. He smiled; “it’s not as if we will lose our nerve, like the Tsarists did.”
Stalin smiled roughly. “Lavrenty Pavlovich has promised success,” he said. “He will have it or…”
An explosion cut him off. The ground shook. Stalin grabbed for a pistol in his desk as one of his guards hurried in.
“Sir, there has been an explosion nearby,” he said. “You have to get to shelter.”
Molotov considered the guard. He was from Georgia; one of the people who had to be loyal to Stalin… for the NKVD and the Red Army would have no hesitation about slaughtering them if they stepped out of line.
“Yes,” Stalin said slowly. “What has been hit?”
“Sir, the Lubyanka,” the guard said. Stalin’s mouth dropped open; Molotov’s followed, his shock overriding all of his control. “It’s been blasted!”
When he’d first seen the Lubyanka, the headquarters of the dreaded NKVD in its first incarnation, Trotsky had been reminded of a boarding school. A massive building covered with yellow brick, it represented fear and hatred to the population of Moscow, many of whom had seen people disappear inside it.
Trotsky watched from a safe distance, hidden in the crowd, as the lorry was driven inside the Lubyanka. It pulled up outside; its papers, artfully forged, giving it full permission to enter the sealed compound. The special delivery, which everyone knew was underage teenage girls for Beria, would not have been stopped even if the guards had suspected that something was wrong.
As soon as the lorry had entered the underground garage, Trotsky counted to ten and pushed the remote control in his pocket, then headed away from the scene. Five minutes later, the explosion blasted out behind him, as the entire building disintegrated. People ran screaming around the building and Trotsky joined them, slipping away.
“Leave, now,” the guards shouted, firing above the heads of the crowd in near-panic. It was easy for Trotsky to join them, appearing to be in a real panic, and he slipped away into Moscow. Behind him, the flames were spreading, but the guards and what Moscow had that passed for emergency services fought to put them out.
“Take that, you bastards,” he muttered. He hadn’t felt so alive in years. Natasha Yar had objected to him detonating the strike personally, but he’d insisted. Their first strike had to be as daring as possible, and leading it in person was the only way to make a bold impression.
He slipped into the shadows and picked up the outfit that had been left for him, abandoning his coat and replacing it with an anonymous outfit, one that would pass unnoticed almost everywhere. As soon as he had changed, he stuffed his old outfit into a bin and triggered a heat grenade, before slipping back into the alleyways. Ten minutes later, he was back in the flat.
“Good work,” Yar said. As always, she looked like a babushka. Irina, her fictional daughter and another agent, gave Trotsky a hug. “We have been monitoring events.”
“And has the Great Leader said anything?” Trotsky asked. “Even Radio Moscow can’t let this pass without comment, can they?”
Yar waved a hand at the Soviet radio. The program, raving about increased industrial outputs in Siberia, played on and on without interruption. There was nothing about an explosion near Red Square.
“They’re probably still trying to decide what slant to put on it and how to spin it,” Irina said, who’d attempted to explain the concept to Trotsky once. “They can’t go and admit that they have a rebellion on their hands, can they?”
Trotsky shook his head. “We’ll have to keep our heads down for a bit,” he said. “However, the other teams can start producing new leaflets – I’ll start work on a statement at once – that can be distributed.” He hesitated. “Do you think that we could broadcast on the same frequency as Radio Moscow?”
“Of course, with some equipment in space,” Yar said. Trotsky blinked; he would have expected the equipment to be here. “It could be traced otherwise,” Yar said, following his line of thought.
“We could set up the transmitter and rig a bomb next to it,” Trotsky suggested. He paused; Radio Moscow had finally noticed that the sun had risen.
“We regret to announce that a gas main exploded today in Lubyanka Square,” the radio announcer said. If he knew that he was lying, he gave no sign of it. “Although damage was serious, Comrade Stalin has informed us that the state apparatus remains intact and was in fact moved out days ago, so sabotage wreckers will still be caught and punished.”