“Haha!” Khrushchev burst into hearty laughter.
Raising a hand to wipe the grease from his face, he said, “Ivan, you’ve been hiding quite a talent from me.
You told me before that you had a young man named Viktor Tarasev under your command who was highly capable—not only excellent at his job, but also experienced.
Now it seems this fellow even has the mind of a diplomat.”
In the exchange just now, Viktor had given two answers, and both of them were virtually flawless.
He had said exactly what Khrushchev wanted to hear, while leaving almost no room for criticism.
Earlier, Khrushchev had accused Podkopaev of betraying the interests of the state.
What exactly had been said before Viktor arrived, he didn’t know.
But one thing was certain: for whatever reason, Khrushchev had no intention of waiting until next June to hold the referendum.
He wanted it carried out as soon as possible.
And what did “as soon as possible” really mean?
Simply put, it meant organizing the referendum quickly, carrying it out with great publicity, and ensuring that the final result was the incorporation of West Ukraine into the Soviet Union.
If any one of those conditions was not met, then, in Khrushchev’s eyes, the job had not been done properly.
Khrushchev was a forceful man, especially when it came to work.
He did not tolerate subordinates questioning his decisions.
When he had questioned Podkopaev earlier, he hadn’t been looking for suggestions at all.
What he wanted was for Podkopaev to take the lead in promoting the referendum throughout Lviv and to guarantee that its outcome matched his expectations.
Unfortunately, Podkopaev had completely failed to understand what Khrushchev wanted.
He had honestly assessed the actual situation and openly expressed his concerns.
Podkopaev was an administrative cadre who had started his career as an engineer.
He was an honest man who respected facts and refused to falsify reports.
That low-key and sincere attitude had even helped him survive the purges of the past two years.
But in the end, he was not a qualified politician.
He failed to understand that, in politics, the first principle is not to seek truth from facts, but to uphold the correct political line.
Viktor’s answer, on the other hand, first emphasized a single key point: that incorporating West Ukraine into the Soviet Union served the fundamental interests of the Soviet state.
Once that premise was established, the timing of the referendum no longer mattered.
Regardless of what the actual vote might have been, the only result that would ultimately be presented to the world would be the one most favorable to the Soviet Union.
In short, the process was irrelevant.
Only the outcome mattered.
“Lieutenant Viktor Viktorovich has always been a very cautious and thoughtful person,” Serov said calmly from behind.
As he spoke, a faint smile appeared in his eyes as he looked at Viktor.
Khrushchev nodded.
Under the corridor lights, the sheen on his broad forehead shifted between light and shadow.
He no longer paid any attention to Viktor.
After nodding once, he resumed walking, but after only two steps, he suddenly stopped, turned his head, and said, “Yevgraf has prepared lunch for everyone.
You should come as well.
Perhaps Comrade Vsevolod would like to speak with you.”
With that, he walked straight into the stairwell, leaving everyone else behind.
Vsevolod?
The name sounded vaguely familiar to Viktor, but he couldn’t immediately remember where he had heard it before. This chapter was copied from g.com without permission.
“Come, Viktor, let me introduce you,” Serov said, noticing Viktor’s momentary confusion.
He gestured toward the burly, square-faced, stern-looking middle-aged man in plain clothes standing beside him.
“This is the Deputy People’s Commissar for Internal Affairs and Director of the State Security Main Directorate, Comrade Vsevolod Nikolaevich Merkulov.”
Viktor was taken aback.
He immediately stood at attention, saluted, and said, “Greetings, Comrade Commissar Vsevolod Nikolaevich.”
As a member of the Peoples Commissariat for Internal Affairs, Viktor naturally knew who the second-highest-ranking official in the organization was.
That was the man standing before him.
In terms of rank and authority, Merkulov stood well above Serov.
He was Beria’s deputy and the second most powerful figure in the entire Peoples Commissariat for Internal Affairs.
More importantly, he had also been Beria’s classmate.
Thinking about it carefully, the entire Peoples Commissariat for Internal Affairs had effectively become Beria’s own domain.
Merkulov, the second-in-command, was his classmate.
Mir Jafar Bagirov, who oversaw the Peoples Commissariat for Internal Affairs in Azerbaijan, was his classmate.
Bogdan Zakharovich Kobulov, who headed the Moscow branch, was his classmate.
Sergei Arsenievich Goglidze, who was in charge in Georgia, was also his classmate.
When it came to promoting trusted associates, Beria had far surpassed his predecessor.
Returning Viktor’s salute, Merkulov skipped all formalities and asked directly,
“Comrade Viktor Viktorovich, answer me this: why has the purge of state enemies in Lviv not yet begun?”
Merkulov carried an overwhelming air of authority.
His expression remained stern, as though the entire world owed him a fortune.
As a result, even this simple question placed tremendous pressure on everyone who heard it.
“Reporting, Comrade Commissar,” Viktor replied calmly despite the pressure.
“The screening and investigation work is still ongoing.
The organization in Lviv has only just been established, and we are critically short of both manpower and resources.
We—”
“Those are merely excuses,” Merkulov cut him off without ceremony.
“If you lack manpower, then carry out the executions in batches…”
Seeing Viktor about to respond, he raised a hand to silence him and continued, “What I find even more unacceptable is that those Polish prisoners of war are still being held together in the camps.
They are openly discussing the restoration of Poland, and no one is stopping them.
A week ago, Moscow issued an order requiring West Ukraine and West Belarus to begin separating those prisoners.
Why have I seen no progress from Lviv in this regard?”
On that point, Viktor had nothing to say, because he really had hesitated over the task.
According to Moscow’s orders, the Polish military personnel still held in the prisoner camps were to be classified as quickly as possible.
The so-called classification meant dividing them into categories.
Those willing to be discharged immediately and join newly formed units as members of the Soviet Red Army would become the first category.
Naturally, before doing so, they first had to swear allegiance to the Soviet Union.
Afterward, they would be dispersed and assigned to military service in Central Asia.
Those unwilling to become first-category personnel would automatically fall into the second category, which required further classification.
Ordinary enlisted soldiers would be relocated far from their former homes, in a manner similar to ethnic resettlement.
Officers, however—whether junior or senior—were all to be executed.
From his previous life, Viktor knew about the infamous Katyn Forest massacre.
“I am very sorry, Comrade Commissar.
This was my oversight.” Having no reasonable explanation for his delay, Viktor could only admit his mistake honestly.
“What I need is not your apology, but results,” Merkulov said coldly.
“I will remain in Lviv for several days during this inspection.
I hope you will have something to show me by then.”
“Yes, Comrade Commissar,” Viktor answered, standing ramrod straight.
Merkulov stared at him for another moment.
Apparently satisfied with his attitude, he finally raised a hand and pointed toward the stairwell.
“During lunch, I want to hear your report,” he said.
“Tell me exactly what you’ve accomplished during this period.”
…
When he left City Hall, it was already close to four o’clock in the afternoon.
At some point, the gloomy sky had begun to drizzle again.
After walking down the dozen or so stone steps, Viktor stopped beside the jeep that Valenka had just driven over.
Turning to look back at the building behind him, he let out a quiet sigh.
Before today, he had only thought Serov was a serious and demanding superior.
But after meeting Merkulov for the first time, he finally understood what true severity meant.
That bastard simply had no idea what it meant to show consideration for his subordinates.
During lunch, the man had calmly eaten his meal while listening to Viktor’s report.
By the time the report was finished, Merkulov had eaten and drunk his fill, while Viktor hadn’t even managed to take a single bite.
Judging from the senior officials he had met so far, Viktor felt that Serov had a favorable impression of him.
Khrushchev was harder to read, but at least he didn’t seem to dislike him.
Only Merkulov…
his impression was probably the worst.
In fact, he was likely deeply dissatisfied with Viktor.
This was the Soviet Union—the Soviet Union of the 1930s and 1940s.
Relationships between superiors and subordinates here were nothing like those in China in his previous life.
Back then, if a superior disliked someone, they might make life a little more difficult for them.
But here, if a superior took a dislike to you, it could quite literally cost you your life—especially in an organization like the Peoples Commissariat for Internal Affairs.
“Comrade Chief, please get in the car first,” Valenka said softly from the side, completely unaware of what Viktor had just gone through.
Comrade Chief?
The real chiefs were all still inside.
What kind of chief am I?
Viktor mocked himself inwardly before bending down and climbing into the jeep.
Most people cannot fight against reality.
When reality is placed right in front of them, even if it forces them to do the very thing they least want to do, they still have no choice but to grit their teeth and do it.
Perhaps that was the most tragic part of being human.
Faced with the overwhelming pressure from above, Viktor finally issued the order to begin a full-scale purge of state enemies throughout the Lviv region.