~ * ~
Baku, Azerbaijan, 1981
The general lived in a building that had once been the elegant townhouse of an oil baron but was now just another crumbling structure in the old part of Baku. The Maiden Tower was visible at one end of the street, and beyond it, the blue Caspian swept out to the horizon. Danforth had been here only once, so many years in the past that he was scarcely able to remember anything but the carpet merchants who’d draped their heavy wares over ancient walls, which, to his surprise, they still did. But the great castle had faded, as had the minarets; his memories were now as weathered as the little stone statue that still rested in the market square.
Solotoff had not fallen into disfavor as so many of Stalin’s generals had, and because of that, Danforth was surprised that his letter had been answered at all. He suspected that the old general might well be cocooned in the loneliness of old age and so welcomed the opportunity to tell his story.
In his letter, Danforth had portrayed himself as something of a historian, a gatherer of oral histories having to do with the war. In his return letter, the general had written in quite elegant Russian of his participation in the heroic defense of Stalingrad and of his many medals and honors and decorations. He had not spoken of anything having to do with intelligence work, and given the extensive nature of the general’s military service, Danforth doubted that he’d done much of it, a fact that suggested the general had become involved in the Rache investigation for some specific reason, after which he’d returned, unscathed, to his military duties.
“Ah, most welcome,” the old general said in Russian when he opened his townhouse door to Danforth, his manner so pleasant and amiable that it reminded Danforth of the Russian Errol Flynn.
Danforth returned the greeting in Russian, then followed Solotoff into a small room that looked out onto what was called a woman’s view in that part of the world, by which was meant an enclosed terrace where cloistered females could gaze, unseen, at a universe otherwise denied them.
“Such a long way to come for my story,” Solotoff said.
He had put out goat cheese and some dried fruit, along with slivers of dried meat Danforth didn’t recognize, and together they sat, facing each other, on small woven chairs. There was vodka, but Danforth politely refused it, which seemed a relief to the old man since tea was certainly cheaper. He was clearly in fallen circumstances, an old soldier whom the new order considered little more than a Stalinist relic. His pension was probably precarious, Danforth thought, if not reduced or halted altogether. He had outlived his time and his ideology, and the revolution he had served had sunk into a mire of corruption and inefficiency so deep it had begun to generate public outcry and even strikes, Russian workers at last grown impatient with the workers’ paradise.
For the next three hours, Danforth listened more or less without interrupting as the old general told his war stories, mostly concerning the horrors of Stalingrad, how Khrushchev had conducted the city’s defense with an iron hand.
“We set up machine guns behind our own troops,” he said, “and if they tried to return after a charge, we shot them.” He shrugged away the bloodcurdling horror of this. “So they either took the position they were ordered to take, or they were killed for failure to take it.” His grimaced. “War is a terrible thing,” he said, then asked a question that gave Danforth his entry. “Were you in the war?”
“Yes,” Danforth said.
Here was the opening, he thought, and he took it.
“I was a spy.”
“A spy?” Solotoff asked. He did not seem in the least troubled by this.
“And I helped plot an assassination,” Danforth added. “But it failed.”
Solotoff appeared no more troubled by this than by Danforth’s initial answer. “Who did you fail to kill?”
“Hitler,” Danforth answered flatly.
Something registered in Solotoff’s eyes, a glimmer he quickly doused with a loud laugh. “I wish you hadn’t failed. It was forty degrees below zero when those German bastards retreated. We went after them like wolves. The big, brave German Fifth Army. We slaughtered them like little frozen lambs. Whoever attacks you in your homeland deserves to die. That’s what I believe.”
Danforth smiled. “So do I, believe me.” He attempted to appear long perplexed by a curious and unsolved little mystery. “As far as Hitler was concerned, we almost did it. Or at least, we almost tried. But the Germans caught on to us. I’ve always wondered how.”
Solotoff said nothing, but Danforth could see his mind working behind his eyes.
“I always thought we were betrayed,” Danforth continued.
“You probably were,” Solotoff said casually. “A spy swims in a sea full of sharks.”
“A certain name has always floated in that water,” Danforth said. “Rache.”
The name clearly registered in Solotoff’s mind, Danforth saw, and he leaned forward slightly. “Tell me, were you ever in Warsaw, General?”
“I have been to Warsaw many times,” Solotoff answered. “And you?
“After the war,” Danforth answered. “I saw a lot of the East after the war.”
“Did you?”
“Dubno,” Danforth said. “Lemberg. Kiev. Moscow.” He stopped, waited, then said, “Magadan.”
“Ah,” Solotoff said. “That is very far to the east.”
“But you can see it from Adult World,” Danforth said.
Solotoff’s gaze hardened. “When were you released?”
Danforth could hardly believe the answer he gave. “A lifetime ago.”
