Young Philby (24 page)

I had difficulty finding my voice. “I work for the Communist dream,” I finally managed. “I work for the Soviet Union. I work for you, respected Josef Vissarionovich.”

Respected Josef Vissarionovich expressed amusement as if at a private joke. Comrade Beria and N. Khrushchev laughed along with him as if privy to the joke. The others around the table joined in, though I doubt they understood what they were laughing at.

“The Englishman passed on other secrets that attest to his being a legitimate Soviet agent,” respected Josef Vissarionovich continued. “He informed us that the Americans, with the collaboration of British physicists, are attempting to split the atom in the expectation of building an atomic bomb by 1944 or ’45. He told us the British had broken Germany’s top-secret Ultra code, which is how they knew the details of Hitler’s plans to invade the Soviet motherland. He told us about a secret British device installed along their coast called radar—it looks like a giant bedspring and emits radio waves that can provide warning of German bomber attacks in time to scramble fighter squadrons and defend the targets. He passed on to us what the British knew of the German order of battle, of their losses in men and matériel in the Polish and French campaigns, of the flawed armor on their
Panzerkampfwagen
One, of the heavier armor that limits the mobility and autonomy of the
Panzerkampfwagen
Two.”

“Respected Josef Vissarionovich,” I said, my trembling voice rising to no more than a murmur, “it is self-serving for Britain to provide us with information on German military deficiencies. After the defeat of the British Expeditionary Force in Flanders, after the humiliating retreat from Dunkirk, London’s nightmare is that we will make a separate peace with the Hitlerians if you, respected Josef Vissarionovich, conclude the English are too weak to defend their island against a German invasion.”

Respected Josef Vissarionovich said, “Comrades, we are fortunate to have in our midst someone who is not only an authority on international affairs but one of the world’s leading experts on strategic military theory.”

N. Khrushchev snickered. “We should count our blessings.”

Respected Josef Vissarionovich looked at Captain Gusakov, sitting to my left. “You, Gusakov, signed off on Modinskaya’s conclusions.”

With an effort Captain Gusakov pushed himself to his feet. “Comrade Stalin, it is an exaggeration to say I signed off on her conclusions. My countersignature means I verified that her report accurately quoted telegrams and conversations and events presented in case file 5581. Her conclusions are her own affair.”

“You accuse me of
exaggerating
?” respected Josef Vissarionovich demanded.

“I chose my words without thinking—”

“Perhaps you signed off on Modinskaya’s conclusions without thinking.” Respected Josef Vissarionovich turned to Senior Colonel Sudoplatov, who likewise rose stiffly to his feet. The room was so quiet I could hear respected Josef Vissarionovich sucking on the stem of his pipe. “You, Sudoplatov, signed off on Gusakov’s work, putting your initial ‘S’ on the upper right-hand corner of each page of Modinskaya’s conclusions.”

Senior Colonel Sudoplatov cleared his noticeably dry throat. “I initialed Modinskaya’s reports that bore Captain Gusakov’s countersignature. I can state that it was one of hundreds of documents that crossed my desk on any given day. My initial in no way indicates support for her actual conclusions, only that the techniques of examining case file no. 5581 were authenticated by the countersignature of an experienced NKVD officer.”

“And
my
desk,” respected Josef Vissarionovich said with a snarl. “Does it occur to you that
thousands
of documents pass across it each and every day?”

Senior Colonel Sudoplatov bowed his head. “With all respect, Comrade Stalin, it was not my intention to suggest otherwise.”

And then something curious occurred that I cannot explain, I can only recount. To Senior Colonel Sudoplatov’s mortification, he began hiccupping—stifled gasps that made it sound as if he were choking on a bone in his throat. Stalin stared at the comrade colonel almost sympathetically. “Stop that,” he said in a voice that was not devoid of benevolence. And Senior Colonel Sudoplatov did. He stopped hiccupping on the spot.

Respected Josef Vissarionovich waited a moment to be sure the hiccups had ceased. Then he said: “When I sign my initial ‘S’ on the upper right-hand corner of a page, Sudoplatov, it indicates I agree with the contents.” Respected Josef Vissarionovich leaned forward and tapped the bowl of his pipe on the desk to emphasize the point he was making. “Permit me to give you an example. The last thing every night Comrade Beria brings around is the list of wreckers and traitors to be shot the next morning. I occasionally draw a line through the name of someone I know has rendered exceptional service to the revolution and the motherland. When I sign an ‘S’ on the upper right-hand corner of the page, it signifies I agree with the executions.”

Respected Josef Vissarionovich fell back into his chair and turned his attention to Comrade Beria. “For my money, they are all in this together. Which implies they must sink or swim together. If Modinskaya wants us to conclude that a valuable intelligence operative is a Western disinformation agent, one has to ask what is behind this interpretation. If Gusakov countersigns her conclusions, if Sudoplatov initials them in the upper right-hand corner…”

Respected Josef Vissarionovich shrugged as if to say he had little choice in the matter at hand and finished his thought in what I took to be Georgian. Comrade Beria nodded carefully. “I am of the same opinion, Comrade Stalin. It has the stench of a wrecking conspiracy.”

The trip back to town passed in the silence associated with tombs. The two security agents, who had chatted and laughed on the way out, uttered not a word. Summer darkness, which is saturated with dampness in Moscow that is thought to be excellent for the complexion of women, had settled over the city. Distant bursts of red illuminated the horizon—the Hitlerians were bombing munitions factories—but the explosions were too far away to be heard. The streets had become deserted, air raid blinds had been pulled over apartment windows by the time we reached the avenue behind the Lubyanka. The giant building, which had been home to an insurance company before the glorious revolution, so the story goes, hovered over us, blotting out the sky and its stars. The driver passed the main entrance with the ornate double doors leading to the great court by which we normally entered and left. Farther along the avenue the Zil pulled up in front of smaller metal doors and the driver Klaxoned twice. With a grinding noise the metal doors swung open and the Zil, its headlights dimmed, drove into the courtyard used to bring in prisoners. Captain Gusakov leaned forward. “You have mistaken the doors,” he said.

The driver, who had an open peasant’s face, turned in his seat. “There has been no mistake, comrade officers,” he assured us. He looked genuinely embarrassed. “We thought you understood—you have all been arrested.”

15: MOSCOW, JANUARY 1942

Where Former Senior Lieutenant Y. Modinskaya Refuses a Last Cigarette

“The trick is to turn the recording volume to five. When you speak into the microphone the needle should jump, but not into the red zone. If it jumps into the red zone, you have set the recording volume too high.”

“When I need your help, prisoner Modinskaya, I will ask for it. [Pause] Testing one, two, three. It appears to be working now. I shall begin the interrogation.”

“Yes, by all means do. We don’t want to keep the comrades in the crypt waiting.”

“You need not take that tone. This is an ordeal for me, too.”

“I understand how you must feel. I was on your side of the tape machine on one memorable occasion, in this very room as a matter of fact.”

“There is a new regulation since your time—condemned prisoners are to be offered a last cigarette. Here, take one—”

“I don’t smoke.”

“So that I am not reprimanded, can you confirm on tape that I offered the cigarette and you refused.”

“You offered a cigarette. I refused.”

“All right, let’s begin. Interrogation of state criminal number SH seven naught seven one naught eight. [Pause] Prisoner Modinskaya, do you wish to register any complaints about your treatment since your arrest?”

“These leg irons are biting into my ankles, which are swollen and infected.”

“Leg irons, wrist irons are obligatory for condemned prisoners. [Pause] Do you know where you are?”

“So: You waste your breath on silly questions. I am disillusioned but not disoriented. I recognized this room the moment they brought me here from the cellblock. I recognized its narrowness, its bareness, the high ceiling, the straight-backed wooden chair you might find in any honest Soviet kitchen. I recognized the three-legged stool on which I was instructed to sit. I recognized first light the color of ash and the weight of lead oozing through a slit of a window high in the wall. If the room reeks of an unpleasant but unidentifiable odor, I would be the last person in the world to know it, my nasal passages having been blocked when one of the jailers broke my nose the night of my arrest. To answer your question: I am on one of the lower floors of the Lubyanka prison where they interrogate state criminals. I even recognize the scream of the friction brakes when trolley cars stop below us in Dzerzhinsky Square. [Pause] Dear God, if only all the screams that reached my ears in this building came from friction brakes.”

“Prisoner Modinskaya, the comrade guards have observed you talking to the wall of your cell. I remind you that talking in the cellblock is a grave breach of rules with serious consequences.”

“In the Lubyanka, prisoners in need of a sympathetic ear often end up talking to a wall. If the wall were to reply I could understand your concern—that would constitute a conversation. Until now the wall in my cell, no doubt aware of your rules, has remained silent.”

“Prisoner Modinskaya, you have been found guilty of being a British agent and condemned by a special tribunal to the highest measure of punishment. You are to be shot immediately after this interrogation terminates.”

“The garments I was wearing the night of my arrest have been reduced to rags. I will need suitable clothing.”

“Suitable clothing?”

“A dress. There is a long gray one in the closet of the flat I share with my father. It has a modest velvet collar that buttons to the neck and long sleeves with lace cuffs. I will also need clean undergarments, clean stockings.”

“I don’t understand. The dress must be suitable for what?”

“Are you dimwitted?”

“A prisoner in your delicate situation should be wary of insulting a Chekist.”

“As the condemned prisoner Maly once remarked, someone minutes away from having a large-caliber bullet shot into the nape of the neck doesn’t lose sleep over the insulting of a Chekist. [Pause] The clothing must be suitable for a funeral.”

“There will be no funeral. Executed prisoners are buried in a common grave.”

“You cannot execute prisoners in January. Impossible to prepare common graves when the ground is frozen.”

“This is First Secretary Stalin’s Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, not Chiang Kai
-
shek’s China. Our workers are equipped with earth-moving machines that are capable of excavating ditches in the fields behind Novodevichy Cemetery in the coldest of winters.”

“I hope to God they don’t mix the men with the women in this common grave of yours. Imagine being forced to lie for eternity next to some man, one you don’t even know at that. [Pause] I was a virgin the night of my arrest but the comrade interrogators put an end to that with a vodka bottle. They punched my breasts with their fists, all the while yelling that I must come clean. ‘Only sign the confession and your troubles will be over,’ they shouted over and over. ‘Confess to what?’ I asked. I was never ordered by Trotskyists to assassinate respected Josef Vissarionovich. I was never instructed to wreck bread production by throwing glass fragments into sacks of flour. I was never recruited by the British Secret Intelligence Service to discredit the Englishman. ‘I would certainly sign your paper if I were guilty of these crimes,’ I told them. [Pause] I don’t think they heard me.”

“Prisoner Modinskaya, do you recall what rank you held before your arrest?”

“I was a senior lieutenant in the fifth department of the NKVD’s second chief directorate, reporting, like yourself, to Captain Gusakov.”

“The late Captain Gusakov. A special tribunal convicted him of being a British agent. He was executed the day before yesterday.”

“So it
was
Captain Gusakov I heard being dragged down the passageway sniveling like a child, begging for mercy between sobs.”

“He didn’t make life easier for the comrades in the crypt.”

“The comrades in the crypt didn’t make death easier for Captain Gusakov.”

“Prisoner Modinskaya, do you know who I am?”

“Everyone in the second chief directorate knows who you are. You’re Nina Petrovna, the mailroom slut who slept her way into the fifth department secretariat and wound up working as a research assistant for then senior lieutenant Gusakov when I was promoted to intelligence analyst. You were legendary for submitting summaries of interrogations that were utterly illiterate. We used to read them aloud in the corridor for entertainment when you were not there.”

“You are absolutely determined to make things harder on yourself.”

“As I am scheduled for execution when this interrogation terminates, I don’t see how I can make things harder on myself.”

“Comrade Beria himself initiated this interview in the hope that you would do what you have refused to do during the five months of your formal interrogation—confess to being an agent of the British Secret Intelligence Service, explain why they are so intent on discrediting the Englishman. Your immediate superior, the Captain Gusakov, confessed. His immediate superior, the late Colonel Sudoplatov—”

“Late! Has he been executed, too?”