The End of History, Part 56
Constantinople – March 3, 1986, afternoon
Valentin sat in an empty room, tied to a chair placed in front of an empty table. An old light panel hung from the ceiling, occasionally sputtering out. A security camera sat in the corner, watching Valentin’s every movement, or lack of one. Through a one-way mirror, Athanatoi agents observed the captive General Secretary, prepared to record his every move…or deploy tear gas if needed.
The door to the room creaked open and closed, and Erich Hansen, his suit wrinkled but still mostly presentable, sat at the table, folding his hands across his chest.
“Hello, Herr Varennikov,” Erich began, “I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time.”
“On the other hand, I have not,” Valentin said, unamused, “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“My name is Erich Hansen,” Erich said, “I fought with the 101st Airborne at Schnitzelberg in ‘am fifteen years ago, and right now, I’m Assistant Director of the Athanatoi.”
“You must be very proud to serve a tyrannical reactionary regime,” Valentin mused, “To participate in your tyrant’s oppression and slaughter of innocents, carry out imperialist adventures around the world, spreading suffering to enrich Mister Hohenzollern.”
“I’m proud to be a father to my daughter,” Erich said, “Her name is Angela Hansen. You should know that name, because she was in Vienna when you sent your assassins to kill the Kaiserin and the Crown Princess, not to mention my boss. If you don’t know her, I sure as hell know you.”
“You know, I still don’t know you,” Valentin said, “You give me all these names and titles and expect me to make sense out of them. Don’t you remember? We don’t have silly and useless things like titles in our country. We are all equal. Nobody is held above or below another. Unlike your stupid system, where you stubbornly cling to old traditions perpetuating inequality.”
“Aside from the fact you lock up anybody you don’t like,” Erich said, “And you don’t hesitate to kill innocents like my daughter.”
“Your daughter was hardly innocent,” Valentin said, “She made the decision to stay in a warzone long after everybody else had evacuated. She put herself in danger, and she only got what was coming to—”
Erich lunged across the table and grabbed Valentin’s throat. The General Secretary gasped and furiously struggled, but Erich’s grip was too strong. He punched Valentin in the jaw enough times for blood to fly from his nostrils and mouth.
“Nobody talks about my daughter like that!” Erich shouted. “Nobody!”
Valentin cracked a smile. “You can’t stop me,” he taunted.
Overtaken by his emotions, Erich punched him one more time and released him.
“You’re going to be in here a very long time,” he said, “Especially after your ‘friend’ dropped a nuke on fifty thousand Romans and a hundred thousand of your own civilians.”
He turned around and stormed towards the door.
“I very enjoyed our little chat, Director,” Valentin said, “I would love to have another conversation like this sometime.”
Erich turned back to him. “Be careful what you wish for, General Secretary,” he said, “Because the Kaiser won’t be as forgiving as me when he gets his hands on you.”
He left the room and slammed the door behind him.
Kiev
For the first time in decades, Molotov stood in the General Secretary’s office. It looked just like it did when he left it thirty years ago. Of course, his many successors had rearranged the furniture over the years, but it was the same room he had worked in when he led the nation to victory in the Great Patriotic War. And in the middle sat his old desk, hastily abandoned by whoever last sat in it.
His retirement wasn’t as comfortable as he had expected. His successors had repeatedly downgraded his pensions and accommodations, citing “budget cuts” as their reason. He watched as other former general secretaries, like Khrushchev, were exiled to small apartments and left to die alone and in pain. Then he watched as Brezhnev died and his successors died in rapid succession months after each other. He watched as Gorbachev died and his successor start a war they couldn’t win. And he knew he couldn’t stay in his dacha any longer. If he did, he might not have a dacha left once this was all over. He plotted and schemed behind Valentin’s back, preparing to take back the Commune from that crazed madman with the help of some easily manipulated KGB agents and, unexpectedly, Firebird herself.
He expected to die fighting back. He never expected to win, but he did. And here he was, standing in his old office, staring at the desk he wanted for so many years. And the victory he won felt so…underwhelming. Especially the desk.
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Five minutes later, soldiers stationed outside heard glass breaking, followed by a desk plummeting several stories down and shattering against the pavement. Looking up, they saw Molotov standing behind the broken window.
“Turns out I don’t want a desk anymore,” he said.
