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Beria, had he been there, would have claimed he was loyal and the Foreign Commissariat riddled with spies for the Nazis and the Americans and the Lizards. Beria was loyal to himself and the Soviet Union, in that order. He had been loyal to Stalin, a countryman of his, or as near as made no difference. Molotov eyed Gromyko. Was Gromyko loyal to him in particular? In a struggle against Beria, yes, he judged. Otherwise? Maybe, maybe not. But Gromyko was not the sort to head a coup d’etat. That would do. It would have to do.
“See to it, then,” Molotov said. Gromyko nodded and left. Molotov’s dismissals were brusque, but they weren’t brutal, as Stalin’s had been.
Molotov’s secretary stuck his head into the office. “Comrade General Secretary, your next appointment is here.”
“Send him in, Pyotr Maksimovich,” Molotov said. The secretary bobbed his head in a gesture of respect that went back to the days of the Tsars, then went out and murmured to the man in the waiting room.
The fellow came in a moment later. He was thin and middle-aged, with an intelligent face that clearly showed he was a Jew. He carried a topcoat and a fur hat against the nasty weather outside. Here in the Kremlin, sweat beaded his face. Also going back to the days of the Tsars, and to long before the days of the Tsars, was the Russian habit of heating buildings very warm to fight the winter cold. Molotov waved the man to the chair Gromyko had just vacated.
“Thank you, Comrade General Secretary,” the fellow said. His Polish accent put Molotov in mind of that of the Lizard ambassador’s interpreter.
“You are welcome, David Aronovich,” Molotov replied. “And what is the latest news from Poland?”
“Colonization by the Lizards is proceeding more rapidly than either the Poles or the Jews expected,” David Nussboym answered. “This suits the Jews better than the Poles. The Jews know they could not rule on their own. Many Poles still harbor nationalist fantasies.”
“Polish delusions, for the time being, are the Lizards’ problem and not mine,” Molotov said. “The Lizards are welcome to the Poles, too. If we cannot embroil the Lizards against the Reich, next best is to use them as a buffer against the Nazis and, as you say, as an object for the Poles’ nationalist desires. Russians have filled that role in the past; I am content to leave it to the Race now.”
“That strikes me as wise, Comrade General Secretary,” Nussboym said.
Molotov gave him a hooded stare. He had not asked for any such endorsement. Nussboym plainly had not grown to manhood in the USSR, else he would not have been so quick to speak his mind. Even years in the gulag, evidently, had not taught him that lesson. Then Molotov gave a mental shrug. If Nussboym proved a nuisance, he could go back to the gulag. He wasn’t so important that Beria would lift a finger to protect him.
“And I have another piece of information you need to know,” Nussboym said, doing his best to make himself out to be more important than he was.
“Tell me the information,” Molotov said icily. “Then I will tell you whether I need to know it. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Nussboym said, flinching: he understood some things, anyhow. “The information is, I have located the hiding place the Jews use for the atomic bomb they stole from the Nazis in Lodz.”
“Have you?” Molotov rubbed his chin. “I do not know yet whether that is information I need to know, but it is certainly interesting.” He eyed Nussboym. “You would sell out your coreligionists and former countrymen to tell me this?”
“Why not?” the Polish Jew now serving in the NKVD replied. “They sold me out. Why should I not repay them? I owe the Party more loyalty than I owe them, anyhow.”
He said that, and said it with evident sincerity, even though the first thing the Party had done when it got its hands on him was throw him in a gulag for some years. Molotov believed him. For one thing, he was far from the only man to come out of the gulag and serve the Soviet Union well. Every time Molotov flew in a Tupolev passenger plane, he remembered how Stalin had plucked the designer out of the camps and set him to work at his proper job when the Germans invaded. General Rokossovsky was another such case. Either of them was worth a hundred of the likes of David Nussboym.
But that did not make Nussboym worthless. Molotov considered how best to use him. Subtlety seemed wasted here. “Very well, then,” Molotov said. “Where is this bomb hidden away? Somewhere not far from Lodz, I am sure.”
“Yes.” Nussboym nodded. “In or near the town of Glowno, to the northeast.”
“In or near?” Molotov raised an eyebrow. “Can you not be more precise than that, David Aronovich? Those first bombs were huge things, weighing tonnes apiece. You cannot hide them under the mattress.”
“Up till now, the Jews have kept this one hidden for close to twenty years,” Nussboym retorted, which held enough truth to keep Molotov from getting angry at the sardonic relish the NKVD man took in saying it.
“Did you also find out whether the bomb could still function?” Molotov asked. “Scientists tell me these weapons must have periodic maintenance if they are to go off.”
“Comrade General Secretary, that I do not know,” Nussboym said. “The Jews have done their best to keep the bomb working, but I do not know how good their best is. From everything I have been able to learn, neither they nor the Poles nor the Lizards know whether the bomb would work.”
“And no one, I suppose, is anxious to find out,” Molotov said. Nussboym nodded. Molotov studied him. “And you have told Comrade Beria the same.”
“He will hear the same from me, yes,” Nussboym said.
Molotov studied him again. Would he report here before he went to Dzerzhinsky Square? Maybe. Molotov dared hope so, but dared not be sure.
What to do about the bomb? Let the Lizards know it was there? He shook his head. They were clever enough to sit tight. Let the nationalist Poles know it was there? That was a happy thought. The Poles were headstrong, foolish, and frustrated. They could almost be relied upon to do something everyone else around them would regret.
Mordechai Anielewicz chuckled as he rode his bicycle toward Glowno. His legs were behaving very well, almost as if he’d never breathed in too much nerve gas. That wasn’t why he chuckled, though. The name of the town never failed to remind him of gowno, the Polish word for shit.
No Lizard starships had landed close enough to Glowno to go up if the Jews ever had to set off their atomic bomb-if it could be set off, which Anielewicz did not know. He was a little sorry the Race hadn’t offered him such a hostage to fortune. Samson never would have made it into the Bible if he hadn’t had the Philistines’ temple to pull down.
“Now politicians can kill millions with their jawbones of asses, not just a thousand,” Anielewicz murmured. He grunted. That held true for him, too-if the bomb still worked.
Every now and then, he wished he’d been able to figure out a way to smuggle the bomb into the Reich and set it off there. It would have been fitting vengeance for everything the Nazis had done to the Jews. But it might have set the world afire-and the bomb wasn’t easy to smuggle, anyhow. He ordered it moved every so often to keep the Lizards from getting their hands on it, and that wasn’t easy, either, not when the damn thing weighed close to ten tonnes.
Cars and lorries zoomed past him as he pedaled along at the edge of the highway. A lot more of the lorries, these days, were Lizard models with Lizards driving them: males and females from the colonization fleet, no doubt. He wondered how they liked the weather. It was a bright, sunny day, with the temperature only a little below freezing-otherwise, Anielewicz would have taken a car himself instead of bicycling. For a Polish winter, it was good weather indeed. Once he’d gone far enough to warm himself up, Mordechai actively enjoyed it.
But the Lizards didn’t like the cold, not even a little. They didn’t have cold weather on their home planet, and they didn’t know how to deal with it. That thought had hardly crossed Anielewicz’s mind when he came upon a Lizard lorry in the ditch by the side of the road. The driver kept turning h
is eye turrets from the truck to the road and back again, as if he hadn’t the faintest notion of how he’d come to grief.
Mordechai applied the brake-with care, for the road was icy in places-and stopped alongside the lorry, which was canted at an odd angle in the mud. “What happened?” he asked in the language of the Race.
“I will tell you what happened,” the Lizard said angrily. “I will be glad to tell you what happened. A Big Ugly in a stinking motorcar cut in front of me. I do not think the stupid creature had the faintest notion I was there.” He had to be a newly revived colonist; he had no idea that one human being might find his comments about another offensive. “I hit the brake to keep from colliding with the worthless Tosevite, and the next thing I knew, I was here.”
“You must have hit a patch of ice and skidded,” Mordechai said. “That can happen to anybody. You have to be careful at this season of the year.”
“Ice?” the Lizard echoed, as if it had never heard the word in its own speech before. It was, no doubt, used far less often in the Lizards’ language than in Polish or Yiddish. “Why is ice permitted on the surface of a road?” The poor creature sounded bewildered, as if Anielewicz had started talking about a rain of frogs.
“Ice,” Mordechai repeated patiently. The sooner the Lizard learned the facts of life about weather here, the less likely it was to kill itself-and perhaps several people with it. “The temperature on this part of Tosev 3 is often below freezing, as it is now. Rain will freeze. So will dew. And ice, as you have discovered, is very slippery. Your tires cannot hold their grip on it.”
