The End of History, Part 41
Kiev – August 17, 1985
The wait was excruciating, even for someone like Olga. She was normally a very patient person. The academy drilled that into her. Tail the target until an opportunity appears, and then strike with everything she had. Only there was no human target in this situation. Was this what Irina felt every time she waited for the date of the week to call her back? Did the General Secretary know she had the key and asked the archives to drag out its renovations to test her?
It was a good thing that the archives reopened when it did, because one more day and she would’ve burned down Vladimir’s apartment, because Molotov’s dacha was too far away. As soon as the five-hour reopening ceremony concluded (why did every single government building get an elaborate dedication or rededication ceremony?), Olga put on her uniform (the usual one, which thankfully came with pants) and walked down to the building. Good thing it was only a couple blocks away from her apartment.
She’d talked to Irina before she headed out. As expected, Irina wanted to play things safe. As much as she wanted to know what went down in Prague, she thought this was far too dangerous, even by Olga’s standards.
“There’s a reason that agent gave you that keycard,” she told Olga, “Especially one that belonged to Molotov himself. He probably stole it. You know the punishment for stealing?”
“Relax, Irina,” Olga replied, “It’ll be fine. I’ll just get in and out in under an hour.”
“Olga, this is different from your missions,” said Irina, “You operated in other countries. You had support. This is your own country. You’re going up against your own comrades.”
“Irina, there’s a reason the General Secretary’s hiding something for me,” said Olga.
“What if it’s a trap?” said Irina. “What if there’s nothing hidden? Can we trust Agent Putin? Can we trust Molotov? What about me? I’m a target too!”
“Irina, I promise you’ll be okay,” said Olga, “I won’t put you in danger. But there’s something fishy going on here, and I’m going to get to the bottom of this.”
To be sure, Olga called in a favor from one of the cosmonauts she met. Svetlana Savitskaya seemed nice enough to offer Irina free room and board for a few weeks.
Yes, there was something suspicious, but Olga had her doubts as to exactly what it was. She couldn’t exactly trust anybody she recently dealt with. Vladimir wasn’t a trustworthy guy. This went behind the normal assassination-espionage rivalry at the academy. He seemed like he was hiding something from her. And why would Molotov undermine the authority of a fellow General Secretary? Granted, Vladimir probably stole his keycard, but none of this made sense. Why would Molotov be meeting Vladimir to begin with?
She had her doubts about the General Secretary too. He was very secretive, what with the recent setbacks in Siberia and especially Vienna. Secrecy was part of his job (her friends joked that was why the job was called “General Secretary”), but he acted like he was hiding a lot of important things from her personally. Why had he sent her to Vienna? Surely there were veteran agents who could take down the Valkyrie, aided by several dozen army units of course. They had captured her with less at Tempelhof shortly after Gorbachev died. And as for Gorbachev himself…everybody knew who killed him. It was too obvious. But nobody dared accuse the General Secretary to his face, because that was a one-way ticket to the front. Why did the General Secretary get personally involved in the Vienna mission? He did have his personal feud with the Valkyrie, but she had been defeated now. Why Olga? Why was she chosen? He could’ve sent Vladimir himself.
What happened after Vienna was also suspicious. Dozens of awards and recognitions. Hundreds of ceremonies, invitations to Party meetings, and photo-ops with cosmonauts like Svetlana, the only cosmonaut she liked and trusted (Gagarin was arrogant, like the rest of the male cosmonauts, and Tereshkova was too dedicated to her Party work). Irina got fancy cars, designer handbags and fancy dresses (smuggled from the Reich, ironically), and “introductions” to eligible young Party apparatchiks or Army officers. It was nice at first, but after a month it got a little too excessive, as if the General Secretary wanted to distract her from other issues. She hadn’t been given any new missions either. Some of her friends had even died in the meantime. She had to get to the bottom of this.
Olga walked through the towering two-feet thick steel-reinforced entrance of the archives and approached the front desk.
“State your name and purpose,” intoned the bored guard on duty, as if reading from a script.
Olga held up her badge. “Agent Kirova,” she said, “Comrade Molotov sent me to retrieve some of his stuff from the Great Patriotic War.”
The old man yawned. “You KGB kids,” he muttered, “Always demanding stuff. Not like the old NKVD guys. What do I get in return? Not even a little recognition!”
Out of view of the camera, she slipped a small envelope to him. “Wipe the cameras, and if anyone asks, say it was Agent Putin.”
The guard eagerly counted the bills inside the envelope. “Move along,” he said.
Olga stepped into the elevator and closed the doors. It had gotten ridiculously easy to bribe everybody in this city. It helped that the KGB approved every request for a raise, especially after Vienna and the ensuing “compensation.” And if the guard reneged, she had Vladimir’s pen, and there wouldn’t be any footage.
She inserted Molotov’s keycard and called the bottommost floor. The elevator lurched downwards at a sluggish pace. Everything moved slowly in Kiev, due to a lack of electricity. The power plants in the west were working overtime, but the enemy’s strategic bombers had knocked many out of commission, and China had taken over many plants in the east, forcing the government to impose a ration on the remaining electricity. The horrible music (an unholy folk music/propaganda brass/classical Shostakovich/Party-created “rock and roll” abomination) didn’t speed things up at all.
After a full minute of descent, the elevator dinged, and Olga found herself in a large warehouse-like room filled with rows upon rows of filing cabinets. Large signs on the ceiling organized the cabinets by year, spanning from 1918 to 1984, and then by alphabet. She spent another five minutes walking down to the 1972 section and then to the “п” section. It was easy to find something on Prague there. Just about the entire “п” section was filled with files regarding operations in Prague during the invasion, both KGB and Army. All that remained was to find what she needed. After looking around and determining there were no cameras or recording devices down there (she activated Vladimir’s pen just in case), she eagerly searched the cabinets, digging for anything relevant to her situation.
Olga finally fished out a large file, bookmarked July 24-28, 1972, near the time her parents died, and dropped it onto a nearby desk with a heavy thud. The seal of the KGB and the usual Party hammer-and-sickle insignia were stamped on the cover, under the words “CONFIDENTIAL – CLASSIFIED ON ORDERS OF GENERAL SECRETARY L. BREZHNEV AND COLONEL V. VARENNIKOV.”
So Vladimir did tell her the truth when he claimed the General Secretary hid something from her. She never thought he would be keeping secrets about her.
She opened the file, and two photos, crinkled and yellowed with age, slipped out and gently came to a rest on her lap. They were portraits, like those found on driver’s licenses, and they reminded her of her KGB badge. Not just because they were profile portraits, but also because they were faces she hadn’t seen in a long time.
One was of a young man in his thirties with a traditional Kaiser Otto mustache, a high nose, and bright blue eyes. His black hair was arranged in neat little curls, and his ears jutted out from the sides of his head, like Einstein’s ears. His face wasn’t rugged like that of a soldier. If anything, he looked like an academic, and his warm look up at her betrayed a gentle personality. His smile was kind and relaxed, like he had nothing but love in his heart. Olga knew there was nobody like him in Russia. The climate simply wouldn’t agree with him. Most strikingly, he remarkably resembled Irina. Her sister had his eyes, hair, and especially his ears. The girls at the orphanage mocked her as Dumbo because of that. The caption read “Agent Kirov, B.”
The second photo was of a young woman around the same age as the man. Her features were delicate like a ballerina at the Bolshoi, but not too delicate to be easily shattered. Her skin was light enough to remind Olga of sunlight, which was hard to come by in Kiev’s recent overcast and smog-filled weeks. Her beautifully braided blond hair rested on her shoulder. Her nose was tall and noble, like the man’s. Her steely brown eyes simultaneously captivated and captured, outwardly conveying a playful innocence while hiding a calculating interior always scanning the surroundings for useful information. Her smile was brighter than the man’s, though there was a hint of reservation, as if she was holding back. For a few seconds, Olga was convinced that this portrait was of her, despite its age. She had her eyes and complexion. She braided her blond hair the same way and let it rest on her shoulders the same way. She had that same look, that same smile. But it wasn’t her. The caption read “Agent Kirova, T.”
Olga felt a little overwhelmed for a couple seconds, taking in the sight of her parents’ faces for the first time in thirteen years. Then she looked closer and noticed the details. She did something she had never done before: she gasped in surprise, no, shock.
Her parents wore Tsarist uniforms, proudly wearing the coat of arms of the Rurikovich dynasty.
“What?!” Olga hissed to herself, her words echoing through the large chamber.
She tried explaining the discrepancy to herself. Perhaps the uniforms were for an infiltration of Tsarist intelligence. But why would they wear their uniforms for an official portrait that would go on their badges? And even if they did do that (some agents at the academy certainly did that, whether out of sheer incompetence, youth rebellion, or for lack of time before deployment), why would they wear the coat of arms? The KGB forbid all foreign national symbols in official portraits other than the hammer and sickle insignia. This went against protocol. But here her parents were, wearing the uniforms of the enemy. If they weren’t infiltrating the enemy, then what else could explain dressing like a Tsarist?
Her stomach uneasily turned over as she processed the information, concluding something she did not want to conclude. They weren’t KGB infiltrating Tsarist intelligence. They were Tsarist intelligence infiltrating the KGB.
It was impossible, but at the same time it made sense. It certainly explained why the General Secretary went to extreme lengths to hide this from her. Obviously, the knowledge that her parents were enemy spies would distress her, compromising her performance, not to mention increasing the chances she went rogue, which by the way she was seriously considering now.
But this wasn’t the end of her questions. Now that she knew who her parents were, she asked the logical next question: who killed them, and why? She now knew that the Valkyrie killing them was also a lie. The Valkyrie wouldn’t gain anything from killing them, and judging from the frequency of mentions of her on the first page, she probably was their associate. If the Valkyrie didn’t do it, who did? The General Secretary? Everything pointed towards him, but the first page was surprisingly light on mentions of Valentin Varennikov.
And all of this was just on the first page, to say nothing of the rest of the file. One page and two pictures had already upended everything she knew about herself. She dreaded reading the rest of the file. Part of her wished she had trusted Valentin keeping this a secret and never learned about the truth. Another part of her demanded to know what happened in Prague and how Valentin was involved. And another part frantically flashed warnings in her mind, ordering her to put down the file and run away as quickly as possible.
Despite all that, she found her hands flipping to the next page, and she started reading.
Prague – July 24, 1972
The doorbell suddenly chimed. Tatiana Kirova, stirring a pot of guláš stew, cursed. “Could you get that, Boris?” she shouted. “I’m a bit busy right now!”
“Sure thing, love,” said Boris, instantly appearing at the foot of the stairs. Buttoning up his shirt, he swung open the door.
A cacophony of hellos and other greetings filled the small house, and Tatiana remembered what she had planned tonight. She quickly set down her dipper, turned off the heat, and joined Boris at the front door, where he had just welcomed in some old friends.
“How’re you doing, man?” Alek Novak embraced Boris in a brotherly hug. “Been too long!”
“It’s only been a week, Alek,” said Boris, “A slow week at the embassy, at that.”
“At least you haven’t been chased by tanks!” replied Alek, slapping Boris on the back. “You Tsarist types get all the fun!”
“Tatiana!” greeted Nina, wrapping Tatiana in a tight hug, “How’re you doing?”
“Fine, fine,” said Tatiana, “The usual, actually. And you?”
“Making sure Alek doesn’t get run over by those tanks, which is surprisingly easier than both of us expected,” said Nina, “I imagine you guys have all the fun!”
“Not really,” said Tatiana, “It’s been a slow week.”
“Come on, Tatiana,” said Nina, “Don’t ruin the moment! Why are you always so gloomy?”
“I’m just being careful,” said Tatiana, “It’s part of the job.”
Two little kids, a boy and a girl, shoved their way through Alek’s and Nina’s legs, chasing each other across the carpet.
“Pavel! Theresa!” shouted Alek. “Get back here and greet Herr and Frau Kirov!”
Pavel and Theresa instead jumped on the couch and hitting each other with pillows.
“Kids these days,” muttered Nina, “You know how they are.”
“Olga and Irina are well behaved, for toddlers at least,” said Boris, “Though I wish we had someone like Frau Navratilova to look after them. By the way, where is she?”
“Getting the schnitzel from the car,” said Nina, “Hope you guys like smažený sýr.”
A brown-haired woman in her forties, wearing casual and unassuming clothes, barged through the door, a wrapped tray of schnitzel in her arms. “Oh, excuse me,” Anne said, wobbling as if she were drunk on beer, “Got to set this down somewhere.”
“You’re acting up again, my friend,” said Tatiana, “Why do you always fake that clumsiness?”
“Keeps away the secret police,” Anne quipped, “They never suspect a drunk woman. Not that there are any secret police in these parts.”
She shuffled over to the counter and set down the schnitzel.
“Now that we’re all here, we can start dinner,” Tatiana said, “And get to business.”
“Olga! Irina!” shouted Boris. “Dinner’s ready!”
“Pavel! Theresa!” shouted Alek. “Do I have to call you again?”
Two little girls tumbled down the stairs like rocks in a landslide, giggling at the top of their lungs just as Pavel and Theresa ran past. The four kids slammed into each other and found themselves tangled up with each other. Instead of crying, they simply laughed harder, except for Pavel, who looked annoyed.
“Kids these days,” said Tatiana to Nina, “You know how they are.”
“Behold,” joked Nina, “The generation that will bring the equalists to their knees.”
“You jest, but you’re probably going to be correct,” said Tatiana.
“Not that any of us will be around to see it,” Alek interjected, “Given how things are now.”
“Who’s the gloomy one now?” Boris retorted, and the two men howled with laughter, slapping each other on the back.
After a few minutes, the Novaks and Kirovs managed to drag their kids to the table, sit them in their seats, and kept them seated with chocolate Anne smuggled from the Reich. Boris served everybody a bowl of goulash soup and placed a platter of grapes in the middle of the table. Tatiana tuned the radio to a classical music channel.
“I’m glad I didn’t bring my kids,” Anne muttered.
“Irina, would you mind saying the prayer?” asked Boris.
Six-year-old Irina bowed her head and clasped her hands. “Mighty Rod, reigning from above, creator of all past, present, and future, complete and absolute, one and indivisible, your will be manifested through Svarog and Lada, Perun and Veles, and your sons and daughters above, on, and under the earth. May you bless our harvest and forgive our failings as we forgive those who wish harm on us. Save us from the coming Times of Troubles, deliver us from the Black God, Chernobog, and protect the faithful. So it shall be.”
“So it shall be,” repeated Tatiana, Boris, and Olga.
“Theresa, could you do the honors?” asked Alek.
Theresa bowed her head. “O Christ God, bless the food and drink of thy servants, for holy art thou, always, now and ever, and unto the ages of ages. Amen.”
“Amen,” repeated Nina, Alek, and Pavel.
Theresa finished by making the sign of the cross over the food with her right hand. Everybody then looked expectantly at Anne.
Anne took a deep breath and looked down at her plate, clasping her hands in prayer. “Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu, Melekh ha'olam, bo're minei m'zonot. Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, Who creates varieties of nourishment.”
“Dig in, everybody!” Tatiana chimed in. “Eat and be merry!”
They all dug into the goulash. Pavel and Theresa slurped it down, while Olga and Irina took their time with it. Anne drank much slower than everybody else. Tatiana could tell her mind was focused on other things.
They finished the soup, and Tatiana and Boris got up to take away the bowls, which they quickly replaced with the schnitzel Anne brought. It was clear that the schnitzel was a hit, as all four toddlers eagerly wolfed if down and banged on their empty plates. “More!” they cheered.
“How’s the Soviet embassy treating you these days, Boris?” asked Alek, his mouth stuffed.
“The usual,” said Boris, “Dull work. Filing papers. Not as glamorous as whatever you have.”
“Throwing rocks at soldiers gets boring after the hundredth guy,” said Alek, “And I’m not sure if it’s even working. I mean, the embassy’s still open. They seem confident enough.”
“It’s not working,” said Boris, “Dubcek was our only hope of getting the world on our side. Then they tortured a surrender out of him…”
“And Shady Scheel’s off being a pacifist murderer again,” muttered Nina, “And the Security Council will probably forget about us, given the intensity of the Soviet ambassador’s lobbying. Erica told Anne and me the tanks entered the outer districts yesterday. We should plan our escape while we still can.”
“We have our orders,” said Tatiana, “And we would never leave you behind.”
“We don’t have the papers to enter the Reich,” said Alek, “And they’ll shoot us if we approach the Tsarist embassy.”
“I’ll pull some strings,” said Tatiana, “We’ll scout out a path to the Roman embassy, then. We’re going there tomorrow anyways.”
“What about the mole?” asked Nina. “I thought Vlk’s still out there.”
“Vaclav’s working on it,” said Boris, “Jan’s death won’t be in vain.”
“Hey, Jan was our friend too,” said Alek, “Vlk will get what he deserves for killing one of us.”
“I’m not sure you Resistance types are equipped to find a professional spy,” Tatiana countered, “But don’t worry. The Athanatoi’s helping us.”
She glanced at Anne, who so had far eaten silently. “Enjoying the food, Frau Navratilova?”
Anne absentmindedly poked at her food. “I made this schnitzel,” she muttered, “It not as good as last time.”
“Oh, no, don’t be too humble!” exclaimed Tatiana. “It’s perfect! The kids love it! You seen how quickly they finished?”
“My little girl wouldn’t be impressed,” said Anne, rolling her eyes, “Diana’s so picky.”
“That’s no excuse to not eat,” said Tatiana, “You barely touched it, and you made it.”
“I am eating,” replied Anne, spearing the schnitzel with her fork.
“You’ve been here six years, Anna,” said Nina, “And I’ve never seen you like this before. What’s going on?”
“I haven’t seen my kids in so long,” Anne admitted, “I’ve spent six years here with you guys and only a couple months at home, and this after that stint in ‘am I told you about. Diana celebrated her ninth birthday this year, and I missed it, like the last five. I haven’t seen Tobias that much since he was one or two. And here I am, celebrating Pavel’s and Theresa’s and Olga’s and Irina’s birthdays, not Diana’s and Tobias’s.”
“Come on, Anne,” said Alek, “Don’t be so down on yourself. I’m sure they look up to you. You’re their hero. Risking your life to help us …that takes courage many men severely lack.”
“I mean, if this wasn’t my job, I wouldn’t come here,” joked Boris, “No offense.”
Alek laughed. “Oh, Boris,” he said, “Your jokes are a national treasure. The Tsaritsa should give you a title or something, like what they did with Shakespeare!”
“I just want some beer,” replied Boris, “And then we can talk about national treasures.”
Alek cracked open two bottles and handed one to him. “It’s on!” he boasted, and the two men walked out of the room, probably on their way to the basement. “Let’s see if Haifa’s on!”
“Go A’s!” replied Boris, pumping his fists.
“Personally, I prefer coffee,” said Anne.
“I concur,” Nina added.
“Me too,” said Tatiana, “Beer’s a little overrated these days.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh no,” she realized, “I forgot the guláš. Anne, could you help me?”
“Sure,” said Anne.
The two women hurried to the kitchen, where Anne reached for the heavy pot, expecting Tatiana to grab the other handle. Tatiana stood back, her arms crossed.
“Anne, lighten up,” said Tatiana, “What’s going on? You’re never this gloomy.”
“You think I want to be like this?” snapped Anne. “Everything’s falling apart. This mission’s one wrong step from exploding in our faces. Prague’s burning. Bohemia’s a lost cause. Why are we so cheerful when everybody’s being shot by tanks?”
“Anne, how long have we been friends?” said Tatiana. “Five years? We’ve been through much worse before. You’ve been through a lot too, haven’t you?”
“History’s repeating itself,” said Anne, “I was there when Budapest fell, sixteen years ago. We haven’t learned from Budapest, have we?”
“The Reich won’t let Prague fall,” said Tatiana.
“You’re so optimistic,” said Anne, “Just like I was when I was younger. Tatiana, Scheel doesn’t care about us. The UN doesn’t care. The world doesn’t care. Nobody cares.”
“Then what do you want us to do?” said Tatiana. “Pack up and abandon everybody?”
“I’d suggest we get out of here while we still can,” said Anne, “Before your cover’s blown by that Vlk fellow. You know how the KGB treats Tsarist spies. Remember Gustaf?”
“Exactly,” said Tatiana, “I’m not leaving this city, Anne, not until I finish my mission.”
“And what are Stockholm’s orders?” replied Anne. “Coordinate the Resistance? Wait for support from the UN? Because the Resistance is on its last legs, Tatiana. And the UN won’t help us, now that Scheel’s turned his back.”
“My orders, and Boris’s, are to find Vlk and kill him before he kills the rest of us,” said Tatiana, “Yes, Stockholm is aware of the situation. They’re aware of the threat Vlk poses. They need us to eliminate him and get his targets to safety before he exposes us all. Then we can talk about leaving this place.”
“You brought your kids here,” said Anne, “That makes four kids we have to look after. They’ll make our job a lot harder.”
“We had no choice,” said Tatiana, “Sending them to the Reich will make the KGB suspicious, and Boris can’t afford that. But we’ll protect them. We always do.”
She patted Anne on the shoulder. “Hang in there, Anne. Once Vlk’s gone, we’ll get out of here. We’ll go to the Reich. I’ve got citizenship, remember?”
“What about the Novaks?” asked Anne.
“We’ll find a way,” said Tatiana, “We’ll figure it out.”
“Like we always do,” said Anne.
Tatiana smiled. “That’s the spirit. Now, could you give me a hand with the stew?”
