The Dark Clouds Shining

by David Downing

  “Something to eat, something to drink?” Peters asked. He was wearing an open-necked shirt, baggy trousers, and sandals. A cigarette smoldered on the edge of an ashtray.

  “Tea,” Komarov said, remembering that the Lett was a teetotaler. Peters’s complexion had been coarsened by the local sun, but Turkestan’s Cheka plenipotentiary looked in much better shape overall than he had on the occasion of their last meeting, eighteen months before. The haunted eyes were gone. “You’re looking well,” Komarov said, feeling almost envious. “This place must agree with you.”

  Peters nodded. “Things are more clear-cut here; that’s for sure. I don’t keep bumping into old friends in the interrogation room.”

  “Why is Vladimir Ilych up on the wall?” Komarov wanted to know. Lenin was notoriously averse to that sort of idolatry.

  “That was put up before my time. I was told there used to be one of the czar,” Peters explained, “and that when it was taken down people used to stare at the patch on the wall. So someone decided to replace it.”

  “A new father figure.”

  “Exactly. People down here seem to want one.”

  The tea arrived, two steaming glasses and a bowl of lemon slices.

  “It’s a long journey from Moscow,” Peters said, condemning one cigarette and lighting another. “And I still don’t know why you needed to make it,” he added with a smile.

  “Ah.”

  “I have my suspicions, of course.”

  It was Komarov’s turn to smile. “Which are?”

  “Felix Edmundovich is trying to tangle himself up in laws again. ‘Please, Vladimir Ilych,’” Peters said in a fair imitation of Dzerzhinsky’s breathless voice, “‘let me capture a real murderer or two.’”

  Komarov laughed. “Something along those lines. But it’s more than that. These really are dangerous men.”

  “And hard to catch. Ignore my cynicism, Yuri Vladimirovich.”

  “You haven’t caught them, then?”

  “No.” Peters didn’t sound that apologetic. “We had some bad luck. The two of them left the train at Saryagash—you know that—and they must have come into Tashkent by road. Unfortunately, the train they abandoned broke down ten miles short of here, and we only got to check and question the passengers on the following afternoon. By which time they must have passed through the guard posts. We started a city search at once, but . . . well, you have to understand the situation here: I don’t have many men, and half of those I have are worse than useless. This is not Petrograd. The party and Cheka are almost a hundred percent European, but Europeans are less than half the population. The other ninety percent, well, they don’t fight us in the cities the way the bandits, the Basmachi, fight us in the countryside, but few lift a finger to help us. They’re waiting to see if the next wind blows us away.”

  He grimaced. “And then there’s our side. I’ve got the usual quota of zealots who want to revolutionize Turkestan overnight—shut the bazaars, free the women, shoot the Muslim priests—and the usual quota of timeservers who don’t want to revolutionize anything in case we all end up being roasted on some tribal spit out in the desert. And as if that wasn’t enough, I’ve had three Zhenotdel women murdered in the villages in the last fortnight and the local delegates ringing me every ten minutes. First they won’t have anything to do with the brutal Cheka; now they’re demanding that we shoot the Muslim men in batches!”

  Komarov smiled. “I’ve brought one with me,” he said, and went on to explain Piatakova’s presence.

  “She’s the American, yes? I met her several times in Petrograd after the revolution—she took a letter to my family in London. And I saw her again in Moscow, during the LSR uprising. She never struck me as a man-hater.”

  “I don’t think she is. But she’s certainly committed. Anyway . . .”

  “Yes, where was I?”

  “Shooting men in batches. What about the other two, the Indian and the Armenian? Any news of them?”

  “None. But getting back to Piatakov and the American: the first we heard of their arrival was a telephone call from Vladimir Rogdayev. I’d spoken to him after getting your wire—he was the only ex-anarchist we knew of down here—and it turned out he did know Piatakov and Brady. We agreed that they might try and contact him, but he thought it was pointless to keep him under surveillance—that it would just scare them off. At the time I thought he was right, so we arranged a coded telephone message instead.

  “Unfortunately, I was out dealing with the murder of the third Zhenotdel woman when the call came, and it was taken by a man named Dubrovsky. Not the cleverest of men. And not the most mobile these days,” he added as an afterthought. “Dubrovsky took three men to Rogdayev’s apartment at around ten in the evening. And that was the last time anyone gave them a thought until the next morning, when one of my abler assistants realized they hadn’t come back.

  “We found them there, all tied up. Rogdayev was dead, shot in the head, and Dubrovsky had been shot in the foot trying to disarm them, or so he said. The car was gone, and we later discovered that it passed through the Salarsky Bridge guard post at four minutes past eleven.” Peters sighed. “The idiots were so busy recording the exact time that they neglected to check the men’s papers.”

  “That probably saved their lives,” Komarov murmured.

  “A small consolation,” was Peters’s rejoinder. He lit another cigarette; the smoke curled away out through the window. “We found the lodging house where they’d stayed the night before—as party members—road inspectors, would you believe! Their stuff was still there, including a map on which a route was marked out, south from here to Khodjend, then east to Andijan and over the border to Kashgar.”

  Komarov smiled.

  “Exactly. It felt like a deliberate deception, even before we discovered that they’d returned to their room after killing Rogdayev. Some nerve, though, hanging around like that. Most people would have headed straight for the hills.”

  “Oh, they have nerve, all right. Which direction is that bridge you mentioned?”

  “South. So maybe a bluff within a bluff.” Peters got up trailing ash and walked across to the map. “These are the possibilities,” he said, and went on to outline the various permutations of road, rail, and river travel.

  “You’ve done your homework,” Komarov concluded.

  Peters took a bow. “We provincial policemen do our best,” he said mockingly. “And,” he added more seriously, resuming his chair, “I want them caught. The alternative sticks in my throat.” He rummaged around in a desk drawer and pulled out a crumpled telegraph message.

  It was from Dzerzhinsky and, for him, unusually terse. “If necessary, alert British,” Komarov read aloud. “I don’t like it either,” he said, passing the message back, “though,” he added thoughtfully, “I think the British know more about this business than we do. By the way, I have one of their agents in my party.”

  Peters looked astonished, then burst out laughing. “I assume he doesn’t know you know.”

  “No. Nor does my assistant.” He explained about Maslov. “He’s better than I expected, but he can’t control his face. As for the Englishman, I’m hoping he’ll help me untangle this mess, without of course knowing that that’s what he’s doing. And as a bonus, he should lead us to all the agents they have down here. So we must put some men on him immediately—the best you can spare. He’s not a fool.”

  No one seemed to be paying him any attention, but Piatakov kept to the shadows as he walked south along Tashkent Street. The previous day they had decided that only one of them should attend the Registan on each appointed day and had drawn cards to see who would go first. Piatakov had “won,” much to Brady’s annoyance—their enforced seclusion was denying him Tamerlane’s city and all its wonders.

  There were many people on the street and much activity. Piatakov walked past richly carpeted chai
khanas full of gossiping men, and eating houses with large open windows, through which he could see, hear, and smell large chunks of lamb sizzling on skewers above the glowing charcoal braziers. Farther on, stall after stall was selling rice, then melons, then sheets of silk in an amazing variety of patterns and colors. In the square where they’d met Bertolt, several camels were tied up outside the chaikhana, presumably waiting for their owners to finish their teas. On several stalls Piatakov noticed a mélange of objects from distant Russia, presumably loot from the long-fled local bourgeoisie.

  Above this tumult the soaring broken arch of the Bibi-Khanym seemed almost contemptuously otherworldly. According to Bertolt it had started crumbling as soon as it was completed; like Tamerlane’s empire its initial conception had simply been too ambitious. “Still, even vanity is awesome on such a scale,” the German had remarked.

  A little farther down the street, Piatakov found himself passing a school. Through a line of open windows, he could see rows of children sitting on wooden benches and hear the teacher addressing them in what was presumably Uzbek. The pupils looked more attentive than his had sometimes been, but that had always been one of the challenges that made the job so rewarding.

  He remembered the conversation he’d had with Caitlin after his first tour of duty in Tambov province. He’d done enough, she’d said with her usual bluntness—why not go back to teaching?

  He’d scoffed at the idea. How could she talk about teaching when there was so much that needed doing?

  Because that was what she did, had been her answer. That was what the Zhenotdel did. She and her comrades taught women to want and ask for more and men that their lives would also be fuller if women received it. The new society wouldn’t just spring into existence because the faces changed at the top. People had to learn—had to be taught—how to live in a different way.

  At the time he’d said, “Yes, but,” but maybe she’d been right. It hardly mattered now. That ship had sailed.

  Piatakov walked on, through a section of moneylenders, their rates chalked on boards beneath open windows. The crowd was thinner now, and he began to feel conspicuous. The towering Registan was visible above the roofs about half a mile ahead, and he decided to risk losing himself in the back streets. These were mostly empty and considerably cleaner than their counterparts in Tashkent. And though the Registan soon disappeared from view, he trusted his sense of direction. “So much iron in the brain,” had been Caitlin’s expression, one she had learned from her favorite aunt.

  A church bell was tolling noon in the Russian town as he approached the Registan. The three huge madrasahs—they looked just like mosques to Piatakov but were, according to Brady, religious schools rather than simple places of worship—occupied three sides of a square, the fourth side being open. The two structures facing each other were similar, each with two flat-topped minarets flanking an oblong façade that contained a giant pointed arch. The third structure, sitting between them, was lower and wider, its façade flanked by two storys of small arched openings, like a Muslim version of the Colosseum.

  The buildings were far from ruins, but they weren’t in good repair. Myriad pieces of blue, green, and golden mosaic had fallen away, leaving patches of the yellow-brown walls exposed. Like the Bibi-Khanym, these ancient structures were a sight to behold, yet seemed almost incidental when compared to the world at their feet, where another cacophonous market sprawled. The open space was about four hundred feet square, and all but its rim was sunk some six feet below the level of the madrasahs. Steps descended from each main entrance into the jumble of stalls.

  Piatakov’s approach had taken him between two of the madrasahs, and he found himself looking out over the market, exposed to any searching eyes. He quickly walked across to the steps in front of the central building and took a seat halfway down them, level with the heads of the milling shoppers. If Aram was there, he would see him.

  But there were no European faces in sight. Piatakov wiped his brow on his sleeve and waited. It was already five minutes past the appointed hour. How long should he wait? Another five minutes? Ten?

  And then he saw the familiar wiry figure, walking slowly down the central aisle, patiently scanning those to left and right. There was no sign of Chatterji.

  Piatakov was in the act of rising when two armed Russians brushed roughly past him as they descended the steps. Chekists! He looked around for others, but couldn’t see any.

  There was nothing else for it. He stood and waved his arms, hoping to get Shahumian’s attention. A few more paces, and the Armenian suddenly noticed him. Shahumian grinned and waved back.

  Piatakov desperately gestured him sideways; the two Chekists had seen his friend and were pushing their way through the crowd toward him, guns in hand.

  Aram couldn’t see them. He was still smiling at Piatakov, holding his hands up inquiringly, when the two men appeared in front of him. One held a gun to his head while the other reached for his papers.

  Piatakov raced down the steps and into the crowd, which, with some trepidation, was edging away from the Chekists, creating a pool of space around them and their victim. By the time Piatakov had fought his way through to the front, Aram was loudly disputing his arrest, and claiming a lasting friendship with Lenin that his captors seemed reluctant to credit.

  Piatakov gripped the butt of the revolver inside his shirt. There seemed to be only two of them, but what could he do with the crowd all around them. Which way would the Chekists take his friend? Did they have a car?

  Piatakov looked around to see another two Chekists hurrying down the steps. At the same moment, a gun boomed, the crowd exploded in a hundred directions, and Piatakov was knocked to the ground. Scrambling to his feet, he saw an Uzbek—no, it was Chatterji—frantically trying to draw a bead on the Chekist wrestling Aram for possession of a gun. The other Chekist was writhing on the ground, holding his groin.

  Another shot and Aram crumpled, still grasping the Chekist’s gun hand. Chatterji fired, and the Chekist flew backward against a stall, scattering apples.

  Piatakov sped across the widening space, shouting, “It’s me!” as Chatterji whirled toward him. Behind him the other Chekists had been temporarily swallowed by the retreating crowd.

  Aram was dribbling blood from the mouth; there was a gaping hole in his chest. But he was conscious. “Get out of here!” he wheezed.

  “But—”

  “A blaze of glory, Sergei! Go!”

  Piatakov turned to Chatterji, who was skipping from foot to foot like a dancer on hot coals, a manic look in his eyes. He grabbed the Indian’s arm and pulled. “This way!”

  He sped down one rapidly emptying aisle, then turned into another where an overturned stall had created a bottleneck. The panicking crowd did its best to part before them, but there wasn’t the space to do it quickly.

  “Halt!” a voice screamed out in Russian. A shot was fired, the bullet crashing into a woman just beside them. She sunk to her knees; everyone else flung themselves into the dust. Piatakov and Chatterji raced on, hurdling over prone bodies and leaping up steps as bullets gouged showers of tile from the ancient walls of the central madrasah.

  They ran into the building through the nearest doorway, only to find there was no way out.

  For want of anything better, Piatakov pulled the Indian into one of the arched enclosures.

  The pursuing Chekists followed them in at a run, which was a serious mistake. Piatakov shot one in the legs, Chatterji one in the torso. The two of them raced back out through the doorway, and found themselves facing an audience of thousands. Piatakov had the fleeting sense of coming out onto a stage.

  Away to the left, two cars were squealing to a halt in the open space fronting the square. “This way,” Piatakov said, pulling the Indian along the front of the madrasah toward the gap he’d arrived through.

  They sped down the dark passage between the buildings, alm
ost knocking over a group of veiled women, dodging under a line of stationary camels straddling the street, and ran into a narrow alley. A hundred yards, two hundred, their feet splashing through the dust, their breath now loud and ragged. For one dreadful moment, it seemed like a dead end, but a concealed turning took them through a yard full of tall clay jars and out into another narrow street. This one was empty and led them to Tashkent Street just in time to watch another car roar past in the Registan’s direction.

  Fifteen minutes later they were at the hostel. Piatakov sat down heavily, mopping the sweat from his face.

  “Where’s Aram?” Brady wanted to know.

  “They got him. He’s probably dead by now.” Piatakov explained what had happened, dragging out each word with what felt an immense effort.

  “You left him,” Brady summed up coldly.

  Chatterji also looked at Piatakov, as if expecting a new and better explanation. What blame there was was his, Piatakov thought angrily. If the Indian hadn’t started shooting . . . Piatakov looked up at the American. “He told us to. And he was right. We couldn’t have moved him, and the Chekists would have had us all.”

  Brady took this in, standing with one hand clenched inside the other. The Indian still looked resentful.

  Piatakov felt sick. First Ivan, now Aram. But what else could he have done?

  “You think he was dying,” Brady muttered. “What if he doesn’t?”

  Piatakov gave him a cold stare. “You know Aram as well as I do. You know he would never give us up.”

  “I know, I know. And he doesn’t know where we are in any case.” Brady was pacing the room like a caged animal. “And the moment it gets dark we’ll be on our way.” He paused at the window and stared at the sprawling Uzbek compound across the street.

  “What if they find us before then?” Chatterji asked. He was still breathing heavily, his cheeks twitching. Brady glanced at the Indian, saw something he didn’t like, and walked across to throw an arm around Chatterji’s shoulder. He began talking in a quiet, hypnotic undertone.