Hitler's peace

“Schellenberg,” whispered the prisoner. “General Walter Schellenberg, of the SD. There are two teams. A North Team and a South Team. The South Team is commanded by…”

Beria patted the man on the cheek. “See what I mean? This bastard’s not only talking but we’ll have a hard job to shut him up now. He’d tell me Charlie Chaplin sent him on this mission if that’s what I wanted to hear.” Beria wiped the neck of the bottle and took a long swig of vodka himself. “Well, don’t just stand there,” he yelled at Melamed. “He’s ready to split like a pomegranate. Get a pencil and paper and take down every stinking word that comes out of his mouth.”

Still holding the vodka bottle, Beria collected his jacket and went back upstairs, followed closely by Mamulov. He handed his secretary the bottle. “Where are Sarkisov and Nadaraia?” These were the two NKVD colonels who acted as his unofficial pimps and procurers.

“They’re at the summer embassy, Comrade Beria.”

With Stalin occupying the winter embassy in the center of Teheran, it had been decided that Beria would have the run of the summer embassy in Zargandeh, about five miles outside the capital.

“They’ve got women?”

“Quite a variety. A couple of Poles, several Persians, and some Arabs.”

“Very Rimsky-Korsakov,” Beria said, and laughed. “Let’s hope there’s enough time, and that our guests don’t arrive too early. I’ve never fucked an Arab bitch before. Are they clean?”

“Yes, Comrade Beria. Comrade Baroyan has examined them all thoroughly.”

Dr. Baroyan was the director of the Soviet hospital in Teheran. He also worked for the NKVD, and in that capacity he sometimes murdered troublesome patients with neglect, unnecessary surgery, or overdoses of drugs.

“Good, because I’ve only just recovered from that syphilis. I wouldn’t want to go through that again. It was that actress, you know. What’s her name?”

“Tatiana.”

“Yes. Her. Which camp did we send her to? I’ve forgotten.”

“Kolyma.”

The camps at Kolyma, a three-month journey from Moscow, were the most wretched places in the whole Soviet Gulag system.

“Then she’s probably dead by now,” said Beria. “The bitch. Good.”

Beria went into Melamed’s office, ignoring the pretty secretary who was the local security commissar’s gatekeeper, and threw himself down on the sofa. He farted loudly and then ordered Mamulov to “tell the girl” to bring him some tea. “And some wine,” he yelled after Mamulov’s retreating figure. “Georgian wine, too. I don’t want any of the local piss.”

He closed his eyes and slept for almost half an hour. When he opened them again, he saw Melamed standing nervously over him. “What the fuck do you want?” he growled.

“I have a transcript of Kosior’s statement, Comrade Beria.”

“Who the hell is Kosior?”

“The Ukrainian prisoner you interrogated downstairs.”

“Oh, him. Well?”

Melamed handed him a typed sheet of paper. “Would you like to read it?”

“Fuck, no. Just tell me what you’re doing about it.”

“Well, naturally, Comrade Beria, I wanted to confer with you first, before doing anything.”

Beria groaned loudly. “I thought I made it abundantly clear that it is imperative we catch the remaining terrorists as quickly as possible. You should have woken me.”

Melamed glanced uncomfortably at the box of silk teddy bears that now occupied a corner of his office-presents for the young women with whom Beria was planning to spend his evening. “The comrade chairman must be tired after his long journey from Moscow,” he said. “I didn’t want to disturb him.”

“When an assassin presents himself in front of Comrade Stalin,” said Beria, snatching the transcript out of Melamed’s hands, “I’ll remember your thoughtfulness.” Fixing the pince-nez on the bridge of his broad nose, Beria glanced over the typescript. “Very well. Here are my orders. I want the bazaar surrounded with troops. No one is to be allowed in or out until a house-to-house search has been carried out.”

“Yes, Comrade Chairman.”

Beria read on a way. “Wrestlers?” he said.

“They have high status in the local community,” explained Melamed. “Many of them used to be bodyguards.”

“Have you ever heard of this fellow, Misbah Ebtehaj?”

“He’s quite famous, I believe.”

“Arrest him. Go to wherever it is that wrestlers go-”

“The Zurkhane?”

“Go there. And arrest them all. Also this address in Abassi Street. Arrest everyone there, too.”

Melamed moved smartly toward the door.

“Melamed!”

“Yes, Comrade Beria?”

“While you’re at it, put up some signs offering a reward for information leading to the capture of the German terrorists. Twenty thousand dollars, in gold. That ought to be enough to persuade anyone who’s hiding them to give them up.”

“But where shall I find such a sum?”

“Leave that to me,” said Beria, still glancing over the transcript. “This Kosior. He doesn’t say exactly how many were in his team. Don’t you think it might be useful to know that? So we can be sure how many we are still looking for. Is it ten? Is it a dozen? Is it thirteen? I want to know.”

“I’m afraid he fainted, Comrade Beria, before we could establish a precise number.”