Mightier Than the Sword (49 page)

Once the guests had all departed, Stalin would retreat to his study and read until the early hours. A portrait of Lenin hung above his desk, a lamp illuminating his face. He loved reading Russian novels, often scribbling comments in the margins. If he couldn’t get to sleep he would slip out into the garden, prune his roses, and admire the peacocks that wandered through the grounds.

When he finally returned to the house, he didn’t decide which room he would sleep in until the last moment, unable to shake off past memories of being a young revolutionary, always on the move, never certain where he was going to rest. He would then grab a few hours’ sleep on a sofa, the door locked and his guards outside, who would never unlock the door until he called. Stalin rarely rose before midday, when, after a light lunch, no drink, he would be driven from his dacha to the Kremlin in a convoy, but never in the same car. When he arrived, he immediately set to work with his six secretaries. I never once saw him yawn.

Emma turned the page, while Harry fell into a deep sleep.

When he woke just after midnight, she had reached chapter twelve (the opening paragraph of which was on the back of a first-class menu). She gathered up several sheets of paper and put them as neatly as she could into Harry’s overnight bag, then helped him off the bed, guided him out of the room, and into the nearest lift. Once Emma had paid the bill, she asked the bellboy to hail her a taxi. He opened the back door and allowed the tired old man and his girlfriend to climb inside.

“Where to, miss?” asked the cabbie.

“Twenty-three Smith Square.”

*   *   *

During the journey back into London, Emma brought Harry up to date about what had been happening in the trial, Fisher’s death, and Giles’s preparations for the by-election, Virginia’s performance in the witness box, and the letter from Fisher that Mr. Trelford had received that morning.

“What did it say?” asked Harry.

“I don’t know, and I’m not sure I even want to know.”

“But it might help you win the case.”

“That doesn’t seem likely if Fisher’s involved.”

“And I’ve only been away just over a week,” said Harry as the taxi drew up outside Giles’s home in Smith Square.

When the front door bell rang, Giles quickly answered it, to find his closest friend holding on to his sister with one hand, and the railing with the other, to make sure he didn’t fall over. His two new guards took an arm each and guided him into the house, past the dining room, and up the stairs to the guest bedroom on the first floor. He didn’t reply when Giles said, “Sleep well, old chum,” and closed the door behind him.

By the time Emma had undressed her husband and hung up his suit, she became painfully aware what the inside of a Russian prison cell must smell like, but he was already sound asleep by the time she pulled off his socks.

She crept into the bed beside him, and although she knew he couldn’t hear her, she whispered firmly, “The farthest east I will allow you to travel in future will be Cambridge.” She then switched on the bedside light and continued to read
Uncle Joe.
It was another hour before she finally discovered why the Russians had gone to such lengths to make sure that no one ever got their hands on the book.

Comrade Stalin’s seventieth birthday was celebrated across the Soviet empire, in a manner that would have impressed a Caesar. No one who hoped to live talked of his retirement. Young men feared early preferment because it often heralded early retirement and, as Stalin seemed determined to hold on to power, any suggestion of mortality meant your funeral, not his.

While I sat at the back of the endless meetings celebrating Stalin’s achievements, I began to form my own plans for a tiny slice of immortality. The publication of my unauthorized biography. But I would have to wait, possibly for years after Stalin’s death, for the right moment to present itself, before I approached a publisher, a brave publisher, who would be willing to consider taking on
Uncle Joe
.

What I hadn’t anticipated was just how long Stalin would cling on, and he certainly had no intention of releasing the reins of power before the pallbearers had lowered him into the ground, and more than one or two of his enemies remained silent for several days after his death, just in case he rose again.

A great deal has been written about Stalin’s death. The official communiqué, which I translated for the international press, claimed that he died at his desk in the Kremlin after suffering a stroke, and that was the accepted version for many years. Whereas in truth he was staying at his dacha, and after a drunken dinner with his inner circle, which included Lavrenti Beria, his deputy premier and former secret police chief, Nikita Khrushchev, and Georgy Malenkov, he retired to bed, but not before all his guests had left the dacha.

Beria, Malenkov, and Khrushchev all feared for their lives, because they knew Stalin planned to replace them with younger, more loyal lieutenants. After all, that was exactly how each of them had got his own job in the first place.

The following day, Stalin still hadn’t risen by late afternoon and one of his guards, worried that he might be ill, phoned Beria, who dismissed the man’s fears and told him Stalin was probably just sleeping off a hangover. Another hour passed before the guard called Beria again. This time he summoned Khrushchev and Malenkov and they immediately drove over to the dacha.

Beria gave the order to unlock the door of the room in which Stalin had spent the night, and the three of them tentatively entered, to find him lying on the floor, unconscious but still breathing. Khrushchev bent down to check his pulse, when suddenly a muscle twitched. Stalin stared up at Beria and grabbed him by the arm. Khrushchev fell on his knees, placed his hands around Stalin’s throat, and strangled him. Stalin struggled for a few minutes, while Beria and Malenkov held him down.

Once they were convinced he was dead, they left the room, locking the door behind them. Beria immediately issued an order that all of Stalin’s personal guards—sixteen of them—were to be shot, so there could be no witnesses to what had happened. No one was informed of Stalin’s death until the official announcement was made several hours later, the one I translated, which claimed he’d died of a stroke while working at his desk in the Kremlin. In fact he was strangled by Khrushchev and left lying in a pool of his own urine for several hours before his body was removed from the dacha.

For the next fourteen days, Stalin’s body lay in state in the Hall of Columns, dressed in full military uniform, wearing his hero of the Soviet Union and Hero of Socialist Labor medals. Beria, Malenkov, and Khrushchev, heads bowed, stood in respectful silence beside the embalmed corpse of their former leader.

These three men were to become the troika who grabbed power in his place, although Stalin hadn’t considered any of them worthy to succeed him, and they knew it. Khrushchev, thought of as no more than a peasant, became secretary of the party. Malenkov, whom Stalin once described as an obese, spineless pen pusher, was appointed prime minister, while the ruthless Beria, whom Stalin regarded as a sordid sex addict, took control of the nation’s security services.

A few months later, in June 1953, Khrushchev had Beria arrested and later, not much later, executed for treason. Within a year, he had removed Malenkov and appointed himself prime minister as well as supreme leader. He only spared Malenkov’s life once he agreed to announce publicly that it was Beria who had murdered Stalin.

Emma fell asleep.

47

W
HEN
E
MMA WOKE
the following morning, she found Harry kneeling on the floor, trying to sort out various different bits of paper and arrange them in neat piles: BOAC writing paper, the backs of a dozen first-class menus, and even lavatory paper. She joined him, concentrating on the lavatory paper. Forty minutes later, they had a book.

“What time do we have to be in court?” asked Harry as they made their way downstairs to join Giles and Seb for breakfast.

“Ten, in theory,” said Emma, “but Mr. Trelford doesn’t think the jury will return much before midday.”

Breakfast was the first real meal Harry had eaten for the best part of a week, but despite that, he was surprised how little he could manage. They sat in silence as he regaled them with everything he’d experienced since they’d last seen him. They were introduced to the taxi driver, the old woman in the bookshop, the KGB colonel, the tribunal chairman, the chief prosecutor, the defense attorney, the jury, and, finally, Anatoly Babakov, whom he’d liked and admired. He told them how that truly remarkable man had spent every hour he could stay awake telling Harry his story.

“Won’t he be in considerable danger if the book is published?” suggested Giles.

“The answer must be yes, but he was adamant that
Uncle Joe
be published before he died, because it would allow his wife to live in comfort for the rest of her life. So once the trial is over, I plan to fly back to the States and hand over the manuscript to Harold Guinzburg. I’ll then travel on to Pittsburgh to see Yelena Babakov, and pass on several messages from her husband,” he added as Big Ben struck the first of ten chimes.

“It can’t be that late,” said Emma, leaping up from the table. “Seb, go and find a cab while your father and I get ready.”

Seb smiled. He wondered when mothers stopped treating their children as if they were perpetually fifteen years old.

Ten minutes later, they were all heading up Whitehall toward the Strand.

“Are you looking forward to being back in the House?” asked Harry as they drove past Downing Street.

“I haven’t even been selected as the candidate yet,” said Giles.

“Well, at least this time Alex Fisher won’t cause you any trouble.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” said Giles.

“You must be a shoo-in,” said Emma.

“In politics there are no shoo-ins,” Giles assured her as they drew up outside the law courts.

The cameras began flashing even before Emma had stepped out of the cab. She and Harry walked arm in arm through the phalanx of journalists and photographers, most of whom seemed more interested in her husband than in the defendant.

“Are you relieved to be back home, sir?” shouted one of them.

“Is London colder than Siberia?” quipped another.

“Is it good to have him back, Mrs. Clifton?” yelled a third.

Emma broke Giles’s golden rule. “Yes, it most certainly is,” she said as she squeezed Harry’s hand.

“Do you think you’ll win today?” persisted another, which she pretended not to hear. Seb was waiting for them, and held open the massive door to allow them through.

“Are you hoping to be the Labour candidate in the Bristol by-election, Sir Giles?” But Giles simply waved and smiled, giving them a picture but no words, before he disappeared into the building.

The four of them made their way up the wide marble staircase to find Mr. Trelford occupying his favorite corner bench on the first floor. Trelford stood the moment he saw Emma approaching. She introduced him to Harry.

“Good morning, Detective Inspector Warwick,” said Trelford. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

Harry shook the barrister warmly by the hand. “I must apologize for not being here sooner, but I have—”

“I know,” said Trelford, “and I can’t wait to read it.”

The tannoy crackled. “Would all those involved in the Lady Virginia Fenwick versus…”

“The jury must have reached a decision,” Trelford said, already on the move. He looked around to check that they were all following him, and bumped into someone. He apologized, but the young man didn’t look back. Sebastian, who had walked on ahead, held open the door to court number fourteen so his mother and her silk could resume their places in the front row.

Emma was too nervous to speak and, fearing the worst, kept glancing anxiously over her shoulder at Harry, who sat in the row behind her as they waited for the jury to appear.

When Mrs. Justice Lane entered the courtroom, everyone rose. She bowed before resuming her place. Emma transferred her attention to the closed door beside the jury box. She didn’t have to wait long before it swung open, and the bailiff reappeared followed by his twelve disciples. They took their time finding their places, treading on each other’s toes like late-arriving theatregoers. The bailiff waited for them to settle before he banged his rod three times on the floor and shouted, “Will the foreman please rise.”

The foreman rose to his full five feet four inches and looked up at the judge. Mrs. Justice Lane leaned forward and said, “Have you reached a verdict on which you are all agreed?”

Emma thought her heart would stop beating as she waited for his reply.

“No, my lady.”

“Then have you reached a verdict on which you are agreed by a majority of at least ten to two?”

“We did, my lady,” said the foreman, “but unfortunately, at the last moment, one of our number changed his mind, and we have been stuck on nine votes to three for the past hour. I am not convinced that will change, so once again I am seeking your guidance as to what we should do next.”

“Do you believe you could reach a majority of ten to two, if I gave you a little more time?”

“I do, my lady, because on one particular matter, all twelve of us are in agreement.”

“And what is that?”

“If we were allowed to know the contents of the letter Major Fisher wrote to Mr. Trelford, we might well be able to come to a decision fairly quickly.”

Everybody’s eyes were fixed on the judge, except for Sir Edward Makepeace, who was looking closely at Trelford. Either he was a formidable poker player or he didn’t want the jury to know what was in that letter.

Trelford rose from his seat and reached into his inside pocket, only to find that the letter was no longer there. He looked across to the far side of the court, to see that Lady Virginia was smiling.