Dark Star by Alan Furst Page B

dies, his other deputy, Menzhinsky, takes over. No Jew, Menzhinsky, but an artiste. A man who speaks Chinese, Persian, Japanese, in all twelve languages and who, while doing our work in Paris, is a poet one day, a painter the next, and lies around in silk pajamas, smoking a perfumed cigarette in an ivory holder, the leader of a, a salon. Lenin dies. This young state, troubled, gravely threatened, thrusts itself at our leader, and he agrees to take its burdens upon his shoulders. He seeks only to continue the work of Lenin but, in 1934, the Trotskyite center begins to gather power. Something must be done. In Lenin's tradition he turns to Yagoda, a Polish Jew from Lodz, a poisoner, who eliminates the writer Gorky through seemingly natural means. But he is too clever, keeps his own counsel, and by 1936 he is no longer the right sort of person for the job. Now what is the answer? Perhaps the dwarf, Yezhov, called familiarly ‘the blackberry,' which his name suggests. But this one is no better than the other—not a Jew this time but a madman, truly, and malicious, like a child of the slum who soaks cats' tails in paraffin and sets them alight.”
    Dershani stopped dead, tapping four fingers on the kitchen table. A glance at Agayan's wife, standing at the stove in the far part of the kitchen, brought her swiftly with a fresh little cup of coffee.
    “Tell us, Efim Aleksandrovich, what will happen next? ” Ismailov thus declared himself suitably chastened, symbolically sought Der-shani's pardon for his momentary flippancy.
    Dershani closed his eyes politely as he drank off his coffee, smacked his lips politely in appreciation. “Stasia Marievna, you are a jewel,” he said. She nodded silently to acknowledge the compliment.
    “It evolves, it evolves,” Dershani said. “It is beautiful history, after all, and guided now by genius. But he must move at the proper speed, certain matters must be allowed to play themselves out. And, I tell you in confidence, there are many considerations that may elude our vision. These yidzh from Poland cannot just be sweptaway wholesale. Such cleaning, no matter how appropriate, would draw unwelcome attention, might alienate the Jews of America, for instance, who are great idealists and do our special work in their country. Thus Russians and Ukrainians, yes, and even Georgians and Armenians must leave the stage along with the others. This is necessity, historical necessity, a stratagem worthy of Lenin.”
    “Then tell us, Efim Aleksandrovich,” said Agayan, not unconsciously echoing Ismailov's phrasing, “if today we are not in fact privileged to hear the views of our comrade in Tbilisi? ” He referred to Lavrenty Pavlovich Beria, presently first secretary of the Georgian Communist party and previously head of the Georgian NKVD. The modest bite in the question suggested that Dershani should perhaps not call his wife a jewel in front of his colleagues.
    Dershani took only the smallest step backward. “Lavrenty Pavlovich might not disagree with the drift of what I am saying. We both believe, I can say, that we will win this battle—though there are actions which must be taken if we intend to do so. Most important, however, to perceive his, his, wishes and to act upon them with all possible measures.”
    This opened a door. Agayan tapped his cup on the saucer and his wife brought him a fresh coffee. Dershani had cited all possible measures, and form now decreed that Agayan seek to discover what they were. Once described, they had to be undertaken.
    Dershani glanced at his watch. Agayan leapt at the possibility. “Please, Efim Aleksandrovich, do not permit us to detain you if duty calls elsewhere.”
    “No, no,” Dershani said dismissively, “I'm simply wondering what's become of Grigory Petrovich—he was specifically to join us this morning.”
    “You refer to Khelidze?” Ismailov asked.
    “Yes.”
    “I'll call his apartment,” Agayan said, rising quickly, delighted with the