The Demi-Monde: Winter Read Online Free Page B

immaculate suit. He doffed his top hat, took the door’s handle in a firm grasp and entered. When he saw the man who wassitting behind his desk, idly smoking a cigarette and very systematically scanning his correspondence, all his worst fears were realised.
    ‘Ah, Comrade Commissar Dashwood … at last. I am royally blessed.’
    Dashwood fidgeted uncomfortably under Beria’s scrutiny. The rather feeble joke Beria had made – a reference to Dashwood’s aristocratic lineage: he had once been Baron Dashwood – was one he would do well to mark. Beria’s purge of the aristocracy after the Troubles had condemned almost all of those with any hint of a royal pedigree – like Dashwood – to a painful death.
    Desperately he tried to compose himself. Automatically he raised his forearm to give the Party salute. ‘Two Sectors Forged as One,’ he intoned.
    Beria flipped an arm casually in response and then made a great show of checking his watch. ‘Your secretary informed me you would be at your office at seven. It is now three minutes past: I trust, Comrade Commissar, this is not a demonstration of the laxity with which you order the rest of the workings of your ministry.’
    ‘No, Vice-Leader, Comrade Beria.’
    Vice-Leader: had there ever been a more appropriate title?
    With a bleak smile Beria nodded him towards the guest chair stationed in front of the desk. As he sat down, Dashwood was suddenly aware of a presence behind him. He twisted around and saw the tall, saturnine figure of an army officer lurking in the corner.
    ‘This is Captain Jan Dabrowski, a member of the Checkya,’ advised Beria idly.
    The Captain offered no salute: he just stood, cold and implacable, staring at Dashwood’s neck. Dabrowski certainlylooked the part of a secret policeman and Dashwood had absolutely no doubt that this Polish bastard – he was instantly identifiable as a Pole by his lapel flashes – would do whatever it was his master commanded, murder included.
    ‘I had not been aware, Comrade Commissar,’ began Beria as he arranged Dashwood’s desk stationery in a more precise fashion, ‘that you worked to such an undemanding schedule. A seven o’clock start – even on a Sunday – is decidedly remiss. We are, as you know, about to embark on the divinely ordained crusade to cleanse the Demi-Monde of UnderMentionables, of the nuJu and Shade scum which contaminate our world, and to be successful Operation Barbarossa will require diligence and sacrifice by all Party members. The Party demands sacrifice and it behoves us, the upper echelon, to set an example. I myself am never at my office later than five in the morning: I would suggest you imitate my example.’
    ‘Yes, Vice-Leader.’
    Get on with it, you bastard.
    ‘You are, after all, Comrade Commissar, one of the few survivors of the Court of that Arch-Imperialist and Oppressor of the People, Henry Tudor. Anything less than total dedication to the Party and to Comrade Leader Heydrich could be interpreted as your having recidivist tendencies.’
    ‘Comrade Leader Heydrich should have no doubts as to my total and undying loyalty to the ForthRight and to the Party.’
    Beria slowly drew a handkerchief out of his sleeve, used it to shine his tiny spectacles and then dabbed it to his moist lips. ‘I am sure the Leader will be delighted to hear of your declaration of fealty, especially as I am here to present you with an opportunity to perform a great service to the Party and to the ForthRight.’
    Dashwood almost cried with relief: he wasn’t going to bepurged. Not today, anyway. ‘I am ready to perform any task that might be of service to our Leader.’
    ‘The Leader was impressed with you when you attended the PolitBuro meeting yesterday. You are held in high esteem by the Great Leader. Your expertise in logistics is second-to-none.’
    Which is probably why I haven’t been purged, mused Dashwood.
    Yet.
    Beria leant back in his chair and gazed up at the ceiling as though in