Guardian Mikoyan
The door closed behind me.
The warmth of the building cut off at once, and a clammy, biting wind struck my face.
“Ugh… cold.”
The wind was strong enough to make anyone wince, yet right then I could not have cared less about the chill.
“…Is no one here?”
I looked around. Not a single cadet remained of the throng that had filled the parade ground only moments before. Katerina, too, seemed to have gone somewhere. I glanced toward the place where the car had been parked, but there was no sign of life at all.
So I was alone.
…Perfect!
I took a quiet breath and clenched my fist.
—Whoosh!
My right arm cut through the empty air and shot toward the sky. After that private little celebration I scanned the surroundings again. Still no one. I was midway through a second, equally furtive expression of joy when—
“Shall we go?”
Kacha spoke from right behind me. My cheeks burned.
I thought no one was here—how did she appear behind me like that?!
In any case, I climbed obediently into the car. The engine turned over, and the vibration of the wheels on the stone pavement traveled up through the seat. Outside the window the school grounds slid slowly past: gray walls, the statue of Lenin, and the red flags, one after another.
“There is someone who wishes to meet you, Yakov.”
Katerina, eyes still fixed on the road, spoke at last.
“…Me?”
I had not the faintest idea who might be looking for me, or why. Katerina offered no further answer. Only the engine and the rumble of the tires filled the silence. After every possible conjecture had run through my head, she finally opened her mouth again.
“Someone who assisted us in this matter. And…”
Someone who helped?
“Someone who has come all the way here to Leningrad from a place farther than Moscow.”
Kacha and I arrived at a certain building. From the outside it looked like any ordinary residence—the sort of place one might find on any street in Leningrad or Moscow.
“This way.”
Kacha turned to look at me, then veered toward a secluded outer corner of the building and suddenly opened what had appeared to be a solid wall of brick. She stepped inside.
A secret door in a place like that…
I followed her through. Almost at once several broad-shouldered men in black suits blocked our path. Their manner was not threatening. They merely glanced at Kacha and, without a word, stepped aside. From the ease of the exchange they clearly knew one another. Kacha led me down a long corridor. A few sparse electric bulbs cast a yellow light; there was not a single window.
At last she stopped before a door.
“Here.”
I heard movement on the other side.
“…Who is inside?”
“You will know presently.”
She knocked twice. A low, heavy voice answered from within.
“Come in.”
Permission granted, Kacha opened the door.
—Creeeak.
The old hinges protested as the door swung weakly open. Inside were windows heavy with curtains, a few tables, and a single small oil lamp. Beyond that lamp a man watched me. I watched him in return.
A young man who looked not yet thirty, slender of build, with dark skin and features that spoke clearly of the Caucasus—nothing at all like a Russian.
“A pleasure to meet you.”
He rose, approached, and offered his hand.
“Anastas Hovhannesovich Mikoyan.”
Mikoyan’s mustache caught the yellow light of the lamp and gleamed. It was the thick toothbrush style that seemed almost a badge of manhood in this era.
…Yet somehow it grated on me. Perhaps because I knew that roughly twenty years from now an Austrian would-be painter with a mustache very much like it would set Europe ablaze.
“No need to be so wary. I am one of your father’s closest friends.”
Mikoyan continued with easy banter.
“Koba always used to say you were nothing like him… but that was wrong. From your looks to your very air, my eyes see nothing but the son of steel.”
“…I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Oh, it is a compliment. It means you’re a handsome fellow. Haha…!”
Mikoyan released my hand and returned to his seat.
“Sit, please.”
He gestured to the chair opposite. I nodded and took my place across from him, Kacha beside me.
“I asked to see you because of a request from Koba.”
“…What did Father say?”
“He asked me to become your official guardian. To look after his son who has gone off to study in Leningrad.”
Guardian…
I found myself nodding at once. Mikoyan was one of the famous Caucasus trio alongside Grigory Ordzhonikidze and Stalin—politically bound to the same boat, and a man Stalin trusted personally. In short, there could scarcely be a better guardian for Yakov.
“I accepted Koba’s proposal gladly. Of course, I did not accept it for free.”
Mikoyan grinned and went on.
“So—how did the interview go?”
“…I managed to pass, somehow, but the whole business feels strange.”
I told him the full, unfair story. A man like this, I decided, could be trusted. Across the table his warm brown eyes held neither the cunning of a snake, nor malice, nor any arrogant display of power. My confidence in him did not rest solely on his place in history.
His reaction, however, left me uneasy. While I recounted the absurd chain of events that had yanked me from my hoped-for Polytechnic into the Political School, Mikoyan showed not the slightest surprise. No puzzled frown, no sympathetic glance. He simply listened, a faint smile under his mustache, as though he already knew every detail.
…Wait.
A sudden odd thought struck me. Why did I find his reaction “unsettling”? When I examined the feeling carefully, I could discover no solid reason. Yet the sensation refused to fade.
“Hmm…”
When my long tale ended, Mikoyan smacked his lips and gazed into the middle distance.
“I will say this in advance, lest you come to resent Koba.”
…What?
Mikoyan laced his fingers on the table.
“Koba genuinely wanted to send you to the Polytechnic. For now… that is all I will tell you.”
What…?
Then why did I just sit through an interview at the Political School?
“Wait—what do you mean by—!”
“Comrade Svanidze.”
“Kacha?”
Katerina cut me off, her expression grave.
“It would be best not to ask further.”
Her voice was low and firm, different in texture from her usual courteous tone. Mikoyan stroked his mustache with evident satisfaction.
“Exactly. For the moment there is only one thing you need to know. And… you must already sense it yourself: as the General Secretary’s son, walking the ordinary path of an engineer will be difficult. Especially since you are the eldest.”
At those words I fell silent for a moment. Stalin’s eldest son. The phrase felt unnaturally heavy, as though the oily soot of the lamp had clung to the inside of my nose.
“…That is true.”
Mikoyan studied my face for a long while, then drew the lamp a little closer to himself.
“What matters is this: although Koba himself had no such intention, there are people who wish to make political use of you. That is all you need to know for now.”
He smiled as he spoke. There was nothing amusing about the situation, yet he smiled.
“And… one thing more.”
Mikoyan pointed to my side.
“The agent beside you—Sokolova. You may trust her. Consider her a small courtesy of mine.”
A small courtesy…?
I glanced sideways without thinking. Kacha was staring at Mikoyan with a rigid expression. There was history there, clearly.
“What do you mean by ‘agent’?”
“Ah, that part?”
Mikoyan tapped the desk with his fingers.
“Don’t take it so formally. It simply means someone who will protect you. There are many in this Union who hate the General Secretary. Like the uninvited guest who once called on our great Comrade Lenin, a threat can appear without warning.”
Threats, kidnappings, assassinations… In this politically chaotic period such things happened with depressing frequency.
“In any case. Where do you suppose that hatred will flow? Directly at the man himself?”
I shook my head. Possible, perhaps, but unlikely. The Kremlin was the most heavily guarded place in the entire Union.
“Correct. It will flow toward the nearest and softest target.”
So assassins would come looking for me as well…?
“From your expression I see you understand perfectly well what I mean. Now you know why Koba conceals your identity, and why an agent is necessary.”
I nodded. For a son, he had at least taken some care.
“Well then, Yakov Svanidze. The hour is late, so I shall keep to the essentials.”
Mikoyan returned the lamp to its original place. Yellow light washed back over the face that the soot had half hidden.
“Do you know Homer’s story? The one about the wooden horse set before the gates of Troy.”