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“Probably not, but they can make enormous nuisances of themselves, and when was Mao ever good for any more than that?” Zhukov answered, proving Molotov did not have the exclusive franchise for cynicism among the Soviet leaders. “Besides, even if the Chinese do seem on the brink of expelling the Lizards, the Race has explosive-metal bombs, and the People’s Liberation Army doesn’t.”
“Not from us, anyhow,” Molotov agreed. “But life gets more difficult and more complicated now that the Japanese do have them.”
Zhukov nodded. “They had imperialist designs on China before the Lizards showed up. They haven’t forgotten, either. They still think of it as their rightful sphere of influence.”
“That is part of it, Georgi Konstantinovich, but only part.” Molotov was glad the marshal did leave him control over foreign policy. Zhukov was a long way from stupid, but he didn’t always see the subtleties. “The rest is, the Race may also hesitate longer before using explosive-metal weapons now that they have to take the Japanese more seriously.”
“Maybe.” Zhukov didn’t sound convinced. “The Lizards didn’t give a fart about what we thought when they pounded the Nazis flat. We’re going to be worrying about fallout in the Baltics and Byelorussia and the western Ukraine for years to come.”
“Not all of that fallout is from the Lizards’ bombs,” Molotov said. “Some of it comes from the ones the Germans used on Poland.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Marshal Zhukov insisted. “The point is the same either way: they’ll do what they think needs doing, and they’ll worry about everything else later. If the rebels in China look like winning, their cities will start going up in smoke.” He waved his hand. “Do svidanya, Mao.”
Molotov considered. Maybe he’d looked for subtleties and missed a piece of the big picture. “It could be,” he admitted.
“There are times I wouldn’t miss him, believe you me there are,” Zhukov said. “He’s as arrogant as Stalin ever was, but Stalin did plenty to earn the right. Mao’s nothing but a jumped-up bandit chief, and a lot of the jumping up is only in his own mind.”
More than the foolish joke earlier, that did tempt Molotov to smile. It also made him look nervously around the office. He noticed Zhukov doing the same thing. “We’re both afraid Iosef Vissarrionovich is listening,” he said.
“He’s been dead twelve years and more,” Zhukov said. “But if anybody could still be listening after all that time, he’s the one.”
“That is the truth,” Molotov agreed. “Very well, then. Do your best to get still more weapons to the Chinese. If they are going to annoy the Lizards, we want them to do it on a grand scale. The more attention the Race pays to China, the less it will be able to pay to anything else-including us.”
“And the less attention the Race pays to us, the better we shall like it.” Zhukov nodded; he saw the desirability of that as plainly as Molotov did. After another nod, he got to his feet. “All right, Comrade General Secretary. We’ll continue on the course we’ve set.” A grin spread over his broad peasant features. “And with any luck at all, the Nazis will get the blame.”
“Yes, that would break my heart,” Molotov said, which made Zhukov laugh out loud. The marshal’s salute was unusually sincere. He did a smart about-turn and left the general secretary’s office.
Molotov scratched his chin. Little by little, he was, or thought he was, regaining some of the authority he’d had to yield to Marshal Zhukov after the Red Army crushed Beria’s abortive coup. He hadn’t really tried to exert it; he could have been wrong. One of these days, though, he might have to try. He wouldn’t live forever. He didn’t want his successor as beholden to the Army as he was. Of course, what he wanted might end up having nothing to do with the way things turned out.
His secretary stuck his head into the office. “Your next appointment is here, Comrade General Secretary,” he said. “It’s-”
“I know who it is, Pyotr Maksimovich,” Molotov snapped. “I do keep track of these things, you know. Send him in.”
“Yes, Comrade General Secretary.” His secretary retreated in a hurry, which was what Molotov had in mind.
David Nussboym came into the office. “Good day, Comrade General Secretary.”
“Good day, David Aronovich,” Molotov answered automatically. Then even his legendary impassivity cracked. “Sit down. Take it easy. Here, I will get you some tea.” As he rose to do that, he added, “How are you feeling?”
“I have been better,” Nussboym allowed. He sounded as battered as he looked. The last time Molotov had seen him-when he’d given Nussboym permission to go into Poland-the Jewish NKVD man had been thin and bald and nondescript. He was thinner now: skeletally lean. And he was balder: he had not a hair on his head, not even an eyebrow or an eyelash. No Lizard could have had less hair than he did. And he was no longer nondescript, either: with his skin a pasty yellowish white, anyone who saw him would remember him for a long time, though possibly wishing he wouldn’t.
“Here.” Molotov gave him the tea, into which he’d dumped a lot of sugar. “Would you care for a sweet roll, too?”
“No, thank you, Vyacheslav Mikhaibovich.” Nussboym shook his head. Even so small a motion seemed to take all his strength. “I’m afraid I still haven’t got much in the way of an appetite.” His rhythmic Polish accent gave his Russian the appearance of a vitality lacking in truth.
“I had heard you were suffering from radiation sickness,” Molotov said, returning to his desk after the unusual show of solicitude, “but I had no idea…”
Nussboym’s shrug looked effortful, too. “By everything the doctors tell me, I ought to be dead from the dose of radiation I took.” He shrugged again. “I’m still here. I intend to be here a while longer. They say I’m a lot likelier now to get cancer later on, but I can’t do anything about that, either. Who knows? Maybe I’ll beat the odds one more time.”
“I hope so,” Molotov said, on the whole sincerely. Nussboym hadn’t had to get him out of the cell where Beria had imprisoned him, but he’d done it. Afterwards, the NKVD man had been reasonable in the rewards he’d requested. And so Molotov did wish him well. He was useful, after all.
“Thank you,” Nussboym said. “In the meantime, I serve the Soviet Union.”
“Good.” Molotov nodded approval. “Spoken like an Old Bolshevik.” Stalin, of course, had purged most of the Old Bolsheviks, the men who’d made the Russian Revolution. At need, Molotov could always purge Nussboym. Knowing that was reassuring. The general secretary went on, “Speak to me of the situation in Poland.”
“You will-or you had better-have more up-to-date information than I can give,” Nussboym replied. “I’ve spent most of the past few months on my back with needles and tubes sticking into me.”
Molotov had always been a scrawny, even a weedy, little man-which might well have helped keep him safe during Stalin’s tenure, for Iosef Vissarionovich hadn’t been any too big, either. Despite looking anything but robust, though, he’d always been healthy. The idea of going into a hospital-of entrusting his physical well-being to a physician he could not fully control-gave him the cold chills. Doing his best not to think about that, he said, “You were on the spot for some time, and you survived the fighting, which a good many of our operatives did not. And, of course, you are a native of Poland. Your impressions of what is going on there, then, will be of particular value to me.”
“You are too kind, Comrade General Secretary,” David Nussboym murmured, seeming genuinely moved. “From what I saw, the Jews are solidly behind the Race, which understands that and exploits it. A good many Poles favor independence, but they too-all except for a
few fascist madmen or progressive Communists-prefer the Lizards to either the Reich or the Soviet Union.”
That accorded well with everything Molotov had already heard. He asked, “How much do you think the extensive damage Poland suffered as a result of the fighting will make Poles and Jews resent the Race?”
“There I fear I cannot tell you much.” Nussboym gave the Soviet leader a bony grin. “I suffered my own extensive damage too early in the fighting to have an opinion. If you like, though, I will go back to investigate.”
“I will think about that,” Molotov said. “First, though, you plainly need more recovery time.” Had the NKVD man argued with him, he would have sent Nussboym back to Poland right away-no tool was better than one that actively wanted to be used. But David Nussboym didn’t argue. That left Molotov a trifle disappointed, though he showed it no more than he showed anything else.
Mordechai Anielewicz lifted a glass of plum brandy in salute. “L’chaim,” he said, and then added, “And to life as a whole family.”
“Omayn,” his wife said. His sons and daughter raised their glasses-even Heinrich had a shot glass’ worth of slivovitz tonight. Mordechai drank. So did Bertha and their children.
Heinrich hadn’t drunk plum brandy more than once or twice before. Then, he’d taken tiny sips. Tonight, imitating his father, he knocked back the whole shot at once. He spluttered and choked a little and turned very red. “Am I poisoned?” he wheezed.
“No.” Mordechai did his best not to laugh. “Believe me, you have to drink a lot more slivovitz than that to get properly poisoned.”
“Mordechai!” Bertha Anielewicz said reprovingly.
But Anielewicz only grinned at his wife-and at Heinrich, whose color was returning to normal. “Besides, if you do drink too much, you don’t usually know how poisoned you are till the next morning. You haven’t had nearly enough to need to worry about that.”
