1969
It was a dark, chilly day in March. The clocks were striking eleven, and Lavrentiy Milyutin was banging his gloved fist on the rickety door to a small apartment, just barely out of time with the heavy tolling of the tower bells.
He paused for a moment. He heard rustling in the apartment but no voices. Milyutin took a short look down the hallway, taking in the grey walls and brown wooden floor for a moment before turning to a man in uniform next to him. Milyutin nodded, and the man moved into position in front of the door, a small battering ram in his hands.
Milyutin put a hand on the man's shoulder.
"You have a piece of lint;" he said, picking it delicately off the man's secret police uniform. Milyutin looked at the lint for a moment before patting the man's shoulder three times.
The policeman stepped forward and slammed the battering ram into the door, nearly knocking it off its hinges.
"Commissariat!" the man yelled, as two other men in identical black uniforms flanked Milyutin's side, holding submachine guns. Milyutin held back for a moment, allowing his three colleagues to enter the tiny apartment before him. Milyutin stood, one hand on the open door, listening to the near silence in the apartment.
"People's Commissariat for the Protection of the Revolution!" the policeman again yelled, this time taking care to fully enunciate each word of the bureau he worked for. A gunshot rang out, and he dropped the giant club on his feet, using his newly-freed hand to clutch his side. "Goddammit!" he yelled.
His two partners began spraying each side of the apartment with their submachine guns, and suddenly the entire room was a cacophony of noise. Milyutin gently put his gloved hands to his ears. The gunshots continued for a few more seconds before stopping. Milyutin let his hands back down and listened again. Silent, except for the groaning of one of his policemen.
Milyutin carefully stepped into the room, his black boots treading on spent cartridges. He flicked the light and the room was illuminated in a fluorescent glow. Hidden behind an upturned couch were three contorted bodies.
"I count three," Milyutin said to no one in particular. One of the policemen, standing perfectly still but clutching his submachine gun so hard it looked like it would split in half any minute, cleared his throat.
"I was told there were four." Milyutin said. He stepped over the body of his colleague, still writhing in pain. "You," he directed, pointing at the policeman who had just cleared his throat. "Get him a doctor."
"Yes, Comrade Major."
Milyutin stepped through the doorway into the tiny kitchen as the policeman ran down the hall outside. Opening the cabinets, he saw a collection of records, jewelry, and drugs. Slowly lowering his hand from the cabinet door to the counter drawer, he pulled it open with a start and saw stacks of foreign currency. Shaking his head, he stepped back into the common area and looked at the remaining policeman, holding his submachine gun more slack.
"Don't forget," Milyutin said, "there were four."
As if on cue, the knob on the bathroom door began to turn. Milyutin reached for his pistol. He crouched into a combat stance and the door flew open. A fourth man ran from the bathroom, gun blazing, but was torn into by the policeman's submachine gun.
Milyutin smiled.
1985
"I'm so glad you could make it on such short notice, Comrade Commissar." Nikolai Radzinsky said. A faceless Communist Party official who had stumbled his way into the Bravest Leader's favor, he had been with the Leader in his summer villa since his stroke four hours ago.
"I took the earliest train I could manage." Milyutin said, removing his gloves and adjusting his uniform coat.
"He's been in his room," Nikolai said, leading Milyutin to a slightly-ajar door. "No one's wanted to disturb him." Milyutin caught a glimpse of Vasili Ignatyev, an aide to the Bravest Leader, leaning on a wall with his pipe.
"Vasili," Milyutin said with a nod.
"Lavrentiy," Vasili replied.
Milyutin pushed the door to the Leader's bedroom open.
"Agh!" he said, pinching his nose. "What is that smell?"
"I think the Bravest Leader may have... soiled himself, while in his condition."
Milyutin peered into the room. The heavy curtains were drawn, but the sunlight illuminated the room just enough to show the Bravest Leader of Slavnayaboda face-down on the floor, unresponsive but for a twitching left arm.
"We wanted to wait until you had arrived, Lavrentiy," Nikolai began softly, "to get medical attention. After what he did to that aide for suggesting he get some bedrest, we didn't want to take any chances. And both Vasili and myself thought that, as Commissar for the Protection of the Revolution, you might be able to get a doctor for him.
Milyutin looked at the body of the Bravest Leader for a few moments.
"The Leader is very sick and needs medical attention," Nikolai spoke to the back of Milyutin's head. Milyutin turned to look at Nikolai.
"No!" he exclaimed. "He is obviously just in need of a rest. I don't know why you called me all the way out here for this nonsense!"
"But, Comrade Commissar - "
"This is needless panic-mongering. Our Bravest Leader is perfectly fine. We will not call for help."
"Comrade Commissar!" Vasili exclaimed, pushing himself off the wall.
"Yes, Vasili?" Milyutin said, his eyes wild.
"Our Leader is obviously very sick. He needs a doctor."
"He does not!" Milyutin said. He slammed the bedroom door and walked away down the hall.
"If I see a doctor anywhere in this house I shall see the both of you executed!" Milyutin yelled.
