Second Contact (61 page)

“Good for you,” Reuven said.

His father nodded and remarked, “My guess is that the Frenchman won’t. He’s useful to the Nazis—he’s not just another damned Jew.”

Goldfarb inclined his head. “As one damned Jew to another—to a whole family full of others—I thank you.” He poured more wine into his glass, then raised it high.
“L’chaim!”
he said loudly.

“To life!” Reuven echoed, and was proud to have answered a beat ahead of his father and mother and sister. He drank his wine; it went down sweet and smooth as honey.

Felless felt like a hypocrite as she accompanied Ambassador Veffani into the
Reichs
Ministry of Justice in Nuremberg. She also felt even smaller than she usually did while entering a building the Big Uglies had built to suit themselves. The Ministry of Justice, like a lot of public buildings of the
Reich
, was deliberately designed to minimize the importance of the individual, whether that individual was a Tosevite or belonged to the Race.

“They know not the Emperor, so they have to build like this,” Veffani said when Felless remarked on the style. “They hope false splendor will make their not-emperor and his minions seem as impressive to their subjects as generations of tradition have made the Emperor seem to us.”

“That is . . . a very perceptive remark, superior sir,” Felless said. “I have seen similar speculations, but seldom so pithily expressed.” For a moment, interest made her forget her craving for ginger—but only for a moment. The craving never left for long—and now she and Veffani were visiting the Deutsch minister of justice to plead for harsher treatment of a captured ginger smuggler. If that was not irony, the stuff had never hatched from its shell.

Deutsch soldiers in steel helmets stiffened as Veffani and Felless reached the top of the broad stone stairway leading to the entrance. They clicked their booted heels together, a courtesy rather like assuming the posture of respect. One of them proved to speak the language of the Race: “I greet you, Ambassador, and your colleague. How may I serve you?”

“We have an appointment with Justice Minister Dietrich,” Veffani answered, observing protocol. “Please escort us to him.”

“It shall be done.” The Deutsch guard’s about-turn had none of the smooth elegance a member of the Race would have given it, but possessed a stiff impressiveness of its own. Over his shoulder, the Big Ugly added, “Follow me.”

Follow him Veffani and Felless did, down corridors that dwarfed Big Uglies, let alone the two of them. Deutsch functionaries, some in the business clothes the Tosevites favored, more in the uniform wrappings the Deutsche used to show status in place of body paint (and, Felless realized, to overawe Tosevites not similarly wrapped), bustled here and there. As with the Race, they seemed to feel that the busier they looked, the more important they actually were.

Minister Dietrich had a doorway even larger and higher than any of the others. A Tosevite miscreant hauled before him would surely feel he had committed some crime for which he could never atone. Felless felt the Big Ugly architect had committed a breach of taste for which he could never atone. A great deal of Deutsch monumental architecture inspired the same feeling in her.

The guard escorting Felless and Veffani spoke back and forth with Dietrich’s secretary in the Deutsch language. Felless had picked up a few words of it, but could not follow a conversation. “It is all formality, of no great consequence,” Veffani whispered to her.

She made the hand gesture of agreement. The secretary spoke the language of the Race about as well as a Tosevite could: “Come with me, Ambassador, Senior Researcher. Minister Dietrich will be pleased to hear whatever you may have to say, although, of course, he cannot promise to fulfill all your desires.”

“I understand,” Veffani said. “As always, I look forward to seeing him.”

Veffani is a hypocrite, too,
Felless thought. The ambassador’s hypocrisy, luckily for him, had nothing to do with the herb. He merely had to pretend the Big Uglies with whom he dealt not only were but deserved to be his equals. Felless still found that concept outrageous. She had come to Tosev 3 assuming the world would be altogether conquered, subservient to the will of the Race. That hadn’t happened, but she remained convinced it should have.

After more formal pleasantries, the secretary—who would also serve as translator—escorted the male and female of the Race into the presence of Justice Minister Dietrich. His gray hair and flabby face showed him to be an elderly male. “I greet you, Veffani,” he said in the language of the Race. His accent was far thicker than that of his secretary.

“I greet you, Sepp,” Veffani replied. Sepp, he had given Felless to understand, was a nickname for Josef. The Big Uglies, already possessed of too many names from the standpoint of the Race, added to the confusion by using informal versions of them whenever they felt like it.
One more piece of Tosevite inefficiency,
Felless thought. Veffani went on, “I present to you Senior Researcher Felless, who is also concerned with the problem ginger poses for the Race.”

“I greet you, Senior Researcher,” Dietrich said.

“I greet you, Justice Minister,” Felless answered; using his title let her avoid calling him
superior sir,
an honorific she did not care to give to any Tosevite.

Dietrich spoke in the Deutsch language. The secretary translated: “And are you intimately concerned with the problem of ginger, Senior Researcher?” He put undue stress on the word
intimately
. Both he and his superior let out the yips the Big Uglies used for laughter.

Failing to see any joke, Felless answered, “Yes, I am,” which seemed to amuse the Tosevites all over again.

“Shall we begin?” Veffani asked, and Sepp Dietrich, seeming to recall his manners, waved him and Felless to chairs. They were built for Tosevites, and so not comfortable to the male and female of the Race, but refusing would have been most impolite.

“So,” Minister Dietrich said, “we come again to the matter of this Dutourd, do we? The Foreign Ministry has already told the fleetlord that he shall not be surrendered.”

“So it has,” Veffani said. To Felless, his tone indicated strong disapproval. Whether Dietrich and his secretary understood that, she could not tell. The ambassador resumed, “That you seek to use him for your own purposes and against the interests of the Race is, however, not acceptable to us.”

“How can you say such a thing?” Dietrich asked. “We have him in prison. We are keeping him in prison for the time being. If he can do anything against you while in prison, he is a formidable character indeed, not so?”

“You are not keeping him in prison because of what he has done against the Race,” Veffani said. “You are keeping him in prison because he wanted to go on doing it on his own, and not for you.”

“He is in prison,” Dietrich said, not bothering to deny the assertion. “You cannot ask for more, since dealing in ginger is not a crime under the laws of the
Reich
.”

“Superior sir, may I speak?” Felless asked. When Veffani used the affirmative hand gesture, she turned both her eye turrets toward Sepp Dietrich. “Justice Minister, if under your laws it is not a crime to deal in ginger, we can and will revise our laws to make it no crime to deal in narcotics that appeal to Tosevites, and to make it legal and indeed encouraged to smuggle those narcotics into the independent Tosevite not-empires.”

As one of the ornaments on the wrapping around his torso, Dietrich wore a small silvery pin showing a Big Ugly’s skull with a couple of crossed bones behind it. His own features froze into an expression no more lively than that skull’s. “If you wish to play that game, we can play it,” he said through his interpreter. “No drug you can bring into the
Reich
will do as much to us as ginger does to you.”

“Truth.” Felless admitted what she could scarcely deny. “But you are already doing all you can to us with ginger.” She knew the truth in that to a degree Dietrich did not realize. “If you keep trying to do all you can to us with ginger, why should we do anything less to you?”

She waited until the interpreter put that into the language of the Deutsche. Sepp Dietrich’s jaw worked as he chewed on it both literally and metaphorically. He said, “This is not far from a threat of war.”

Veffani’s eye turrets slewed rapidly toward Felless. The ambassador was undoubtedly wondering what sort of trouble she’d got herself into. So was she, but she went ahead regardless: “Why is it a threat of war when we do it to you, but nothing of the sort when you do it to us?”

Dietrich grunted. “Perhaps you should be talking with the foreign minister and not with me.”

“Perhaps you should not evade your responsibilities,” Felless shot back. “This male Tosevite is in a Deutsch prison. An official from the Foreign Ministry has already refused to turn him over to the Race, as Ambassador Veffani said. That leaves him in your hands.”

“It also constitutes an act unfriendly to the Race,” Veffani put in. “From the actions of the
Reich
, someone might conclude that peace between your not-empire and the Empire does not matter to you. I think that would be an unfortunate and dangerous conclusion for anyone to reach. Do you not agree?”

Watching the Big Ugly squirm gave Felless pleasure approaching that of a taste of ginger. After coughing and wiping metabolic cooling water away from his forehead (a sign of distress among Tosevites, the experts agreed), Dietrich said, “I am not unfriendly to anyone. The
Reich
is not unfriendly to anyone except Jews and other racial inferiors, and Dutourd, whatever else you may say of him, is not a Jew.”

“He is an enemy of the Race,” Veffani said. “Keeping him in prison for a long time would be an act of courtesy to the Race.”

“I shall take what you say under advisement,” Sepp Dietrich replied. “The matter may have to be decided at a level higher than mine, though.”

“Who is higher than you, Justice Minister Dietrich?” Felless demanded. “If you cannot decide here, who can?”

“Why,
Reichs
Chancellor Himmler, of course.” Dietrich seemed surprised she needed to ask. She was surprised the head of the Deutsch not-empire would concern himself about the fate of a ginger smuggler. Dietrich proceeded to explain why: “The
Reichs
Chancellor yielded to the Race when he let you destroy an air base after the attack on your colonization fleet, though the
Reich
, he has insisted, was not guilty of that attack. To yield to you again might be taken as a sign of weakness, and we Deutsche are not weak. We are strong, and we grow stronger day by day.”

That was true. It was also, to the Race’s way of thinking, extremely unfortunate. From the point of view of the
Reich
, Dietrich’s words did make a certain amount of sense. Felless reluctantly admitted as much to herself.

But Veffani said, “Protecting criminals is not a sign of strength. It is a sign of criminality.”

“I did not agree to receive you to listen to insults,” Sepp Dietrich said. “Now I must bid you good day. And I remind you that this Dutourd has committed no crimes in the view of the
Reich
.”

“And I remind you that the
Reich
can also redefine crimes to suit itself,” Veffani answered as he rose from his chair. Felless imitated the ambassador, who added, “I shall report the substance of your remarks to the fleetlord.”

Dietrich made a sort of noise the interpreter did not translate. Felless followed Veffani out of the justice minister’s office. When she started to say something, he made the negative hand gesture.
I am a fool,
she thought.
If the Deutsche are recording anywhere, they are recording here.

Only after the two members of the Race had left the Ministry of Justice could she say what she had in mind: “Congratulations. You showed them we are not to be trifled with.”

“And to you, Senior Researcher,” Veffani said, “for your able assistance.”

 16

Vyacheslav Molotov woke with a head pounding like a mechanical hammer in the biggest steel mill in Magnitogorsk.
By the devil’s grandmother,
he thought blurrily,
I haven’t had a hangover like that since I was a student before the Revolution.

Only gradually, as full awareness seeped back into him, did he realize how long ago the Revolution had been. For some reason, he remembered that before remembering he’d had nothing stronger than fizzy mineral water the night before. That alarmed him.

He sat up in bed, which forcibly brought his attention to its not being his bed, not being the one in which he’d fallen asleep. It was a cheap cot on which a newly conscripted recruit would have had trouble getting any rest. He looked around. He was not in his bedroom, either. Somehow, that didn’t hit him too hard. By then, it was scarcely a surprise.

He tried to figure out where he was and how he’d got there.
Where
quickly became obvious. If this wasn’t a cell, he’d never seen one. As cells went, it was fairly luxurious; most would have had straw on the floor rather than a cot of any sort, no matter how unsatisfactory. Watery sunlight dodged past the bars over the narrow windows.

Who would put me in a cell?
Molotov’s mind was still slower than it should have been (
someone’s drugged me,
he realized, which should have been obvious from the start), but only two candidates presented themselves. Beria or Zhukov? Zhukov or Beria?
The lady or the tiger?
The drug—chloroform?—had to be what let that fragment of foolishness float up into the light of day.

“Guard!” he called, his voice hoarse, his throat raspy and sore. “Guard!” How many counterrevolutionaries had called out to their gaolers during the great days? How few had got even the slightest particle of what they wanted? How little Molotov had expected to find himself in the position in which he’d put so many others, both during the Revolution and throughout the endless rounds of purges that followed.

He wondered why he wasn’t simply dead. Had he been staging a coup, he would not have let his opponents survive. Lenin had thought the same way, and disposed of Tsar Nicholas and his family. With wry amusement, Molotov remembered how shocked the Lizards had been to learn that bit of Soviet history.

To his surprise, a guard did come peer into the cell through the little barred window set into the door. “Awake, are you?” he grunted, his accent White Russian.

“No, I always shout for guards in my sleep,” Molotov snapped.

He might have known the fellow would prove imperturbable. “Good thing you’re with it again. You have some papers to sign. Or maybe you could have done that in your sleep, too.”

“I am not going to sign anything,” Molotov declared. He wondered if he meant it. He’d dished out a lot of pain, but he’d never had to try to take much. People who weren’t on the business end of torture talked about withstanding it. People who were knew how rare an ability that was. Most men, once the anguish started, would do anything to make it stop. He dared a question: “Where am I?”

Beria or Zhukov? Zhukov or Beria? Zhukov, he judged, would not have left him alive if he ever decided to strike for the top. But he didn’t think Beria would have, either. Beria, though, might be inclined to gloat, and . . .

He didn’t get much chance to think about it. The guard answered, “You’re right where you belong, that’s where.” He laughed at his own cleverness, rocking back on his heels to do it. Then he shoved his face up close to the window again. “And you’ll do what you’re told, or you’ll never do anything else again.” He went on his way, whistling a song that had been popular a few years before.

Molotov’s stomach growled. It was ravenous, no matter how his head felt. He wondered how long he’d been drugged asleep. One more thing they wouldn’t tell him, of course. He looked at the window. Was the stripe of sunlight it admitted higher or lower than before? That would eventually tell him whether this was morning or afternoon. But even if he knew, what could he do with the knowledge? Nothing he could see.

Knowing in whose prison he sat . . . That could be all-important. And he didn’t need long to figure it out, either, once the cell took on a little more immediate reality for him. Here and there, previous occupants had scrawled or scratched their opinions on the walls. Quite a few were uncomplimentary toward the NKVD. None said a word about the Red Army.

“Beria,” Molotov said softly. So. The Mingrelian wanted to go where the Georgian had blazed the trail, did he? With cold political horse sense behind his judgment, Molotov didn’t think Beria could get away with it for long. The Soviet Union had had one ruler from the Caucasus, and that was plenty for a long time. But horse sense, unfortunately, said nothing about Molotov’s personal chances for escape.

And here came the guard again. He shoved papers between the bars of the window set into the door. A cheap pen followed the papers. “Sign here. Don’t take all day about it, either, not if you know what’s good for you.”

“I will remember your face and learn your name,” Molotov said. The guard walked off again, laughing.

Molotov read the papers. According to them, he had resigned as General Secretary because of failing health. They maintained he looked forward to retirement in some place with a warm climate—perhaps the Caucasus, so Beria could make sure he didn’t get into mischief, perhaps the hell in which, as a good Marxist-Leninist, he wasn’t supposed to believe.

If he signed those papers, how long would Beria let him live? He had the idea he was still breathing for no other reason than to put his name on the requisite lines. But if he didn’t, what would Lavrenti Pavlovich do to him? Did he want to find out? Did he have the nerve to find out?

Whatever it was, it couldn’t be worse than killing him. So he told himself, at any rate. A few minutes later, the guard opened the door. He was big and beefy. So were his three pals. When he checked the papers, he scowled. “You forget how to write?” he demanded, his voice scratchy from too many cigarettes.

“No,” Molotov said. It was the last coherent sound he made for the next several minutes. The goons set on him with a gusto that showed they enjoyed their work. They also showed a certain amount of skill, inflicting a maximum of pain with a minimum of actual damage. The one who wrapped Molotov’s fingers around a pencil in a particular way and then squeezed his hand had especially nasty talents along those lines. Molotov howled like a dog baying at the moon.

After a bit, the guard shoved the papers in front of his face again. “Remember your name yet, old man?”
Yes
leapt into Molotov’s throat. But then he thought,
If I yield, I am likely to die
. He made himself shake his head. The guard sighed, as if at a bad run of cards. The beating went on.

Feigning unconsciousness came easy for Molotov, though lying still when one of the bastards kicked him in the ribs was anything but. Grumbling, the guards stamped out of the cell. But they would be back. Molotov knew too well they would be back. Maybe the next round of torment would break him. Maybe they wouldn’t bother with another round. Maybe they would just kill him and get it over with.

He gathered his strength, such as it was. He’d sent a lot of men to executions without wondering what went through their minds while they awaited death. What went through his mind was surprisingly banal: he didn’t want things to end this way. But no one, now, cared what he wanted.

Sooner than he’d expected, the door opened again. He braced himself, not that that would do any good. Only one NKVD man this time, with a silenced pistol in his hand.
It is the end,
Molotov thought. Then the fellow spoke: “Comrade General Secretary?” His Russian had a rhythmic Polish accent.

And, suddenly, hope lived in Molotov’s narrow, heaving chest. “Nussboym,” he said, pleased and proud he’d remembered the name. He spoke with desperate urgency: “Get me out of here and you can name your own price.”

David Nussboym nodded. “Come along, then,” he said. “Keep your head down—make yourself hard to recognize. If anyone does figure out who you are, look abused.”

“It will not be hard.” Molotov heaved himself to his feet. Nussboym aimed the pistol at him. He shambled out of the cell, looking down at the cheap linoleum of the floor as he’d been ordered.

A few men passed them in the halls, but a guard leading a prisoner excited no special comment. Molotov was nearing the doorway and realizing Nussboym would have to shoot the guards there when something outside emitted a rumbling roar and the door came crashing in. One of the guards cursed and grabbed for his pistol. A burst of machine-gun fire cut him down.

An immensely amplified voice bellowed: “Surrender in there! Resistance is hopeless! The Red Army has this prison surrounded! Come out with your hands up!”

Molotov wasted no time whatever in obeying. Only later did he wonder if the tank machine-gunner might have shot him down for rushing forward so quickly. David Nussboym threw down his pistol and followed a heartbeat later.

A Red Army infantry lieutenant with a clipboard stood behind the tank. The fellow looked too young to shave, let alone serve the Soviet Union. “Give me your name, old-timer, and make it snappy,” he barked.

“Vyacheslav Mikhailovich Molotov,” Molotov said in tones like a Murmansk winter. “Now give me yours.”

The lieutenant visibly started to call him a liar, but then took another look. He stiffened, as if suddenly afflicted with rigor mortis. Then he bawled for a superior. In something under fifteen minutes, Molotov was whisked into the presence of Marshal Zhukov back at the Kremlin. “Well, well,” Zhukov said. “So Beria didn’t do you in, eh?”

“No, Georgi Konstantinovich,” Molotov answered. “I remain at the helm, as you see, and not badly the worse for wear. And tell me, where is Lavrenti Pavlovich now?”

“Deceased,” Zhukov answered. “Your office carpet will need changing; it has stains on it.” The Red Army officer didn’t say anything for a while. Molotov didn’t care for the way Zhukov was studying him. If he had an unfortunate accident about now, who would stop Zhukov from seizing the reins of the Soviet Union?
No one at all,
Molotov thought bleakly. Zhukov lit a cigarette, inhaled, coughed a couple of times, and said, “Well, well, good to have you back.”

Molotov breathed again, and didn’t even notice how his ribs twinged. He’d known the habit of subordination was deeply ingrained in Zhukov, but he hadn’t known how deeply. Maybe Zhukov himself hadn’t known, either, not till the test came. “Good to be back,” Molotov said, no more emotionally than he said anything else. He raised an eyebrow. “And how did you become involved in the drama?”

“Beria announced your indisposition over Radio Moscow this morning,” Zhukov answered. “He also announced mine. Mine would have been fatal, except that my bodyguards shot faster and straighter than his assassins. I suspect he had a puppet waiting to take over the Army, but the rank and file are fond of me, even if some officers and
apparatchiks
aren’t. And, while the NKVD is strong, the Red Army is stronger. I have made very sure of this. We suppress the
Chekists
everywhere.”

“Good,” Molotov said. Beria had aimed to kill Zhukov at once, but had been willing to keep Molotov himself alive for a while. That spoke volumes about whom the NKVD chief had thought more dangerous. The way things had turned out proved he’d had a point. Molotov chose not to dwell on it. He said, “The NKVD man who came out with me—his name is Nussboym—deserves reward, not punishment. He got me out of my cell. Without him, Beria’s men might have liquidated me even with Red Army troops filling Dzerzhinsky Square.”

“So they might have,” Zhukov said—wistfully? Molotov chose not to dwell on that, either. Zhukov went on, “I leave it to you to tend to that, then, Comrade General Secretary. Meanwhile, we have retaken the Radio Moscow transmitter and announced that all is well, but you might want to think about broadcasting a message yourself, to show that you are well and in control.”

“Yes, I will do that,” Molotov agreed at once. Chloroform? Beatings? He shrugged them off. That he hadn’t eaten since before Beria’s thugs seized him? He shrugged that off, too. “Take me to a broadcast studio.” Only after he was on his way did he realize he hadn’t asked about his wife. He shrugged once more. That could wait, too.