The Soviet Spy

Malinkow did leave the Kremlin with Alistair, and he did walk all the way down the street to the little house they'd prepped in. But instead of retiring to his room as he claimed he simply walked in, locked the door, popped the window open and jumped down to the ground below from the first story. Then he looped around the back of the house and strode right back onto the street that led to the Kremlin. In about fifteen minutes he was at the door to Stalin's office. It was opened for him immediately. He stepped in and took a seat. 

"What do you think Koba. Do you think they're setting us up?" He reached for a cup of tea that had been prepared during his absence. He took a sip, watching Stalin over the rim. The dictator put his pipe down, folded his hands together and then, spoke. 

"How else would they know exact dates? You said he works for Hitler, personally. Either he's a crazy man, which I don't think he is, or he's trying to get us to do exactly what Hitler wanted."

"I think the latter is more possible. He didn't seem crazy to me." Malinkow said. "He's smart enough to know he'd make an enemy in you if the things didn't come true, the things he listed. So, in my opinion, I think he's trying to trick us."

"I agree." Stalin answered thoughtfully. The spark in his eyes got brighter as he thought about their punishment. "What should happen to him, Vitia?"

"I think we both know that." Vitia replied with a smile. "Gulag." 

"Yes. Or perhaps a car accident," Stalin said. "Who knows? I don't think it makes sense to wait too long, but I would say we rid of him by May. It'll send a powerfull message to Hitler, in case Alistair is really his right hand man."

"Oh believe me, he is. I've listened in. He might even take over a KZ now."

"A man of punishment himself." Stalin said with a smile. And then he laughed. "Americans are just like the Russians just with the wrong ideology. Deep down inside we're all just monsters."

"Respectfully, Koba, you are more of a monster than anyone in American office. Perhaps even more of a monster than Hitler himself." Malinkow said with a waywards grin. He didn't know himself if he was absolutly terrified of Stalin or completely unbothered, either way, he acted the later. Stalin just laughed and then turned to Beria, in his quiet and sweet voice he asked his comrade to escort the spy out. 

Malinkow sensed he might have said something wrong. Stalin was an incredibly moody man. But although he was capricious he almost never punished someone on the first day. He usually waited until he was dissatisfied for months and then he'd thunder the whole load down on them, causing their heart to strain with fear before sending them to a desolate place in Siberia, never to be seen again. 

When Malinkow looked back Stalin was studying papers on his desk. But Malinkow could tell that the old Georgian was thinking of him; and he wasn't sure if that was favourable. He turned to Beria, a man who scared him more than the soviet leader himself. "Does he want me dead, Beria?"

"I think Stalin wants most everyone dead." Beria answered with, for the first time, a warmish smile. "But I wouldn't be scared if I were you, he likes the way you write and speak. Poetry has plucked a few poor souls out of the devils hands." With that he showed Malinkow out. Beria's haunted smile was the last thing Malinkow saw before the doors to his headquarters closed again. He'd much rather been escorted out by Molotov. He liked Molotov, always had, but Beria... 

He shook his head to clear his thoughts. But one woudn't go. The reason Stalin hadn't killed him was his flamboyant way about him and the few lines of poetry he'd shared with the man. "Craziest man to ever live." He muttered and slowly walked back to their house. 

In a mere quarter of an hour he slipped back into his room through the window, then opened the door to the hallway and started whistling. Whistling in the house might bring back luck, but it brings joy to me, for an instant, and during war, joy is more precioius than luck. Was what Vitia had always said. It's meaning was something along the lines of; you can't get lucky forever.

He joined Alistair at the coffee table downstairs where, funnily, there was a cake and some tea laid out. Cheerily he took a seat and engaged in a conversation with the American, in one where he said he thought they might get lucky with Stalin, and that he might help them, if everything turned out as prophecied. 

Alistair never found anything suspicious in the man's eyes, but the smile still unsettled him. How could a KGB agent, with most-probably a dark and horrible past, smile so often? Malinkow picked up his whistling and although the tune was bright it felt more like a wave of opression to Alistair.