"I assure you, Comrade Premier it is he."
Malenkov walked ponderously to a bar in the corner, poured himself two ounces of vodka and drank them straight. His suite was far within the walls of the Kremlin, so deep and so well hidden, in fact that not fifty people in all of Moscow knew its location. For Stalin this had not been necessary, Malenkov thought uncomfortably. His suite had been secret, true enough—but thousands of people had known its location. With Malenkov it was different. He could trust no one—no one. He never knew a man could feel so completely alone, so helpless at night and afraid to sleep. Every time he saw Vladimir Chenkov's lean, gaunt face he went almost sick with fear.
Chenkov, grim, deadly Chief of Staff of the Red Army, who had arisen from Ural obscurity to power only this year—Chenkov coveted what he did.
Not Chenkov alone. Everyone. Why, he couldn't even trust his servants—two men and a woman who never saw the light of day, never ventured from his suite in the Kremlin.
He was not Stalin, not the Iron Man, not the half-deity. He was Malenkov, the man, the fat half-Tartar—and afraid. He had thought at first that in a matter of months he could cement his position securely enough to venture forth without fear. But here it was, more than a year and a half since he had taken office and he had still to drive along the private highway and use his private dacha to the south for a few days of relaxation.
Fortified with the vodka, Malenkov scowled at the Comrade Doctor. "I won't ask you to explain—such explanations are beyond me. You say it is he. Very well, but hear this: if you are lying, if you are wrong—lying or not—your life shall be forfeit."
The Comrade Doctor shrugged. "I spoke the truth."
Everyone was against him, Malenkov sulked. Everyone. Now even a ghost. "How long will he live—uh, he is living?"
"The answer to the second question, Comrade Premier, is yes. He is alive, although the manner of life is decidedly unusual. As for the first question, does the Premier want a truthful answer?"
"I insist upon it," said Malenkov, who now desired more vodka, but thought it a matter of impropriety to return to the bar and so call the Comrade Doctor's attention to the fact that he drank heavily. Such things had a way of getting out and causing trouble. Perhaps Chenkov would know some way to use it as a weapon.