grave in Vagan’kovskoe? The prisoners wept as they dug their own graves. The guards had to be drunk before they shot them.’
Just as suddenly he was calm again.
‘Nonetheless, we must work. We must do everything in our power for the happiness of the people.’
When they returned, Malinowsky was standing by the gate in the wall. Behind him rose the high Caucasus mountains. He held the plump paper file in one hand.
‘Another report, Rodion Yakovlevich?’ said Khrushchev.
‘Don’t pull that sour face with me, Nikita Sergeyevich. You asked for it yourself. Much good may it do you.’
Malinowsky was an old friend, and dared to speak to Khrushchev in this way. They had survived the purges together, and they had come through the Battle of Stalingrad alive. They had been instructed to spy on each other by Stalin, and had done so, and still they were friends. You had to have been alive in those days to understand how it was.
‘Well, then, I’d better take a look,’ said Khrushchev.
He led them back into the house, across the veranda and through French doors to his mahogany-panelled study. Here he sat himself down at his big desk, pushed a cluster of phones to one side, and patted the mahogany desktop. Malinowsky unpacked the pages of the report and laid them out as if they had already been scanned. He was familiar with Khrushchev’shabits. The chairman rarely read long reports. He liked it to be understood that he was too busy to read.
‘To put it plainly, Nikita Sergeyevich,’ he said, ‘as far as our long-range missile programme goes, you’d have better luck fucking a goat with a telephone pole.’
Khrushchev frowned.
‘I accepted the R-7 had to be abandoned,’ he said. ‘What about the R-16?’
‘The R-16 functions perfectly, so long as it’s set up and fully fuelled eight hours before launch. So if you could request the Americans to give us eight hours’ notice of any attack, and not to target the R-16 sites, I’m told the missiles could be effective.’
Khrushchev threw up his arms.
‘Take this shit paper away! Just tell me one thing. How long before we have long-range missiles that actually work?’
‘Ten years,’ said Malinowsky.
‘Ten years! For ten more years the imperialists can shit nuclear bombs at us any time they like, and we can do nothing?’
‘That’s how it is.’
‘I don’t like how it is!’
Now Khrushchev was shouting again. Malinowsky shrugged.
‘They don’t know,’ he said. ‘Which is almost as good.’
‘Of course they know! They’re not idiots!’
He got up and stamped out onto the veranda. Malinowsky followed. Troyanovsky came discreetly at the rear.
‘When will it ever end?’ cried Khrushchev at the sky. ‘They armed the enemies of Bolshevism in the Civil War! They waited sixteen years to recognise the Soviet Union! They kept out of the Great Patriotic War as long as they could, so we’d be bled dry! They dropped atom bombs on Japan when Japan was already defeated, just to intimidate us! They build up their armed forces so we’re forced to respond, even though it means starving our own people. Has their hatred no end?’
Without thinking, he set off back down the waterside board-walk.
‘I should also report,’ said Malinowsky, ‘that the Jupiter missiles deployed by the Americans in Turkey have now become operational.’
Khrushchev stopped and pointed dramatically out to sea.
‘I can see them, Rodion Yakovlevich! I can see them!’
Of course he couldn’t see them. The coast of Turkey was a hundred miles away.
‘That sticks in my throat,’ growled Malinowsky. ‘Right in our backyard! How would they like it if we put nuclear missiles in their backyard?’
Khrushchev turned to him. His bright piercing eyes had all at once become focused. He had had a single brilliant idea.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘What if we were to put nuclear missiles in their backyard? That would throw a hedgehog in Uncle Sam’s pants!’
Suddenly he
Just as suddenly he was calm again.
‘Nonetheless, we must work. We must do everything in our power for the happiness of the people.’
When they returned, Malinowsky was standing by the gate in the wall. Behind him rose the high Caucasus mountains. He held the plump paper file in one hand.
‘Another report, Rodion Yakovlevich?’ said Khrushchev.
‘Don’t pull that sour face with me, Nikita Sergeyevich. You asked for it yourself. Much good may it do you.’
Malinowsky was an old friend, and dared to speak to Khrushchev in this way. They had survived the purges together, and they had come through the Battle of Stalingrad alive. They had been instructed to spy on each other by Stalin, and had done so, and still they were friends. You had to have been alive in those days to understand how it was.
‘Well, then, I’d better take a look,’ said Khrushchev.
He led them back into the house, across the veranda and through French doors to his mahogany-panelled study. Here he sat himself down at his big desk, pushed a cluster of phones to one side, and patted the mahogany desktop. Malinowsky unpacked the pages of the report and laid them out as if they had already been scanned. He was familiar with Khrushchev’shabits. The chairman rarely read long reports. He liked it to be understood that he was too busy to read.
‘To put it plainly, Nikita Sergeyevich,’ he said, ‘as far as our long-range missile programme goes, you’d have better luck fucking a goat with a telephone pole.’
Khrushchev frowned.
‘I accepted the R-7 had to be abandoned,’ he said. ‘What about the R-16?’
‘The R-16 functions perfectly, so long as it’s set up and fully fuelled eight hours before launch. So if you could request the Americans to give us eight hours’ notice of any attack, and not to target the R-16 sites, I’m told the missiles could be effective.’
Khrushchev threw up his arms.
‘Take this shit paper away! Just tell me one thing. How long before we have long-range missiles that actually work?’
‘Ten years,’ said Malinowsky.
‘Ten years! For ten more years the imperialists can shit nuclear bombs at us any time they like, and we can do nothing?’
‘That’s how it is.’
‘I don’t like how it is!’
Now Khrushchev was shouting again. Malinowsky shrugged.
‘They don’t know,’ he said. ‘Which is almost as good.’
‘Of course they know! They’re not idiots!’
He got up and stamped out onto the veranda. Malinowsky followed. Troyanovsky came discreetly at the rear.
‘When will it ever end?’ cried Khrushchev at the sky. ‘They armed the enemies of Bolshevism in the Civil War! They waited sixteen years to recognise the Soviet Union! They kept out of the Great Patriotic War as long as they could, so we’d be bled dry! They dropped atom bombs on Japan when Japan was already defeated, just to intimidate us! They build up their armed forces so we’re forced to respond, even though it means starving our own people. Has their hatred no end?’
Without thinking, he set off back down the waterside board-walk.
‘I should also report,’ said Malinowsky, ‘that the Jupiter missiles deployed by the Americans in Turkey have now become operational.’
Khrushchev stopped and pointed dramatically out to sea.
‘I can see them, Rodion Yakovlevich! I can see them!’
Of course he couldn’t see them. The coast of Turkey was a hundred miles away.
‘That sticks in my throat,’ growled Malinowsky. ‘Right in our backyard! How would they like it if we put nuclear missiles in their backyard?’
Khrushchev turned to him. His bright piercing eyes had all at once become focused. He had had a single brilliant idea.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘What if we were to put nuclear missiles in their backyard? That would throw a hedgehog in Uncle Sam’s pants!’
Suddenly he
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