But again Kazu's fingers were at work. Lifting at the eaves, he carefully took off the whole roof. Through a window we saw figures hurrying toward a covered bridge connecting this building with another. At Baker's warning, Kazu demolished the bridge, and then gently began picking the structure to pieces. In a moment we saw what we were after. A wall was pulled down, exposing a great room with oil paintings of Lenin and Stalin on the wall and a long conference table in the center. And clustered between the table and the far wall were a score of men. Anyone would have recognized them, for their faces had gone round the world in posters, magazines and newsreels. They were the men of the Politbureau. They were Red Russia's rulers. There was an instant of silent mutual recognition, and then Kazu spoke to them. As befitting a god, he spoke in their own tongue. Exactly what he said I do not know, but after a little hesitation they came around the table to the precarious edge of the room where the outer wall had been. Kazu gave further directions and held up our steel box. Fearfully they came forward and jumped the gap into our door. One by one they made the leap, some dressed in the bemedalled uniforms of marshals, others in the semi-military tunics affected by civilian ministers. The last was the man who had succeeded Stalin on his death, and who had taken for himself the same name, as though it were a title. As he entered our room, we saw that he even looked like the first Stalin, clipped hair, moustache and all. He was a brilliant man, we knew. Brilliant and ruthless. He had grown up through the purges, in a world which knew no mercy, where only the fittest, by communist standards, survived. He had survived, because he was merciless and efficient and because he hated the free west with a hatred that was deadly and implacable. * * * * * I often wonder what his thoughts were at that moment. He came because he was ordered to and because he knew the alternative. He knew he was to die, but he obeyed because by so doing he could prolong life a little, and because there was always a chance. At that moment I deeply regretted knowing no Russian. The twenty one who came in talked among themselves in short sentences. They saw us, but ignored us. Baker spoke, first in English and then in German. The one called Stalin understood the German, for he looked at Baker searchingly for a moment, and then turned away. Only one of them replied. This was Malik, the man who wrecked the old United Nations and then became Foreign Minister after Vishinsky was murdered. He ignored the German and spat out his reply in English. "You will not live to gloat over us. He will kill you too, all of you!" We can never be sure of what Kazu planned, because now--and of this I am certain--his plans changed. There was suddenly a stillness. We waited. Then I ran to the window and looked upward into the great face.