The Masters

by Christopher Nicole

  “Am I going to have to kill my own people, sir?”

  Kuropatkin’s smile was grim. “If there is going to be a revolt, Your Highness, how else are you going to deal with it?”

  *

  “I’m not at all sure this is safe, sir,” Morgan remarked, as the train drew into the central station.

  “I did tell you, Harold, that none of this was safe. But if these Lenin people can tell us where to find Patricia…” He shouldered his way through the throng, Morgan following with a porter and the bags.

  “You’ll drink a toast to our future tsar,” invited the ticket collector.

  “And why not?” Duncan agreed. “Vodka, Harold. The national drink of the country.” Morgan made a face as he accepted the glass of colourless liquid.

  “May I ask your purpose in Moscow, monsieur?” inquired one of a pair of policemen standing beyond the gates.

  “We are visitors to your great country,” Duncan told him.

  “You have passports?” asked the policeman’s companion. Morgan presented the passports, which the policeman scrutinised. “Where do you stay, in Moscow?”

  “The Hotel Berlin. We have bookings there.”

  “And for how long do you stay?”

  “As long as it takes to explore your city,” Duncan told him.

  The man closed the passports and returned them. “Stay off the streets at night, Monsieur Cromb,” he said. “There is much unrest.”

  *

  “Can you tell me where the Kitai-Gorod quarter is?”

  Duncan asked the hall porter.

  “Why, yes, monsieur, it is just beyond the Kremlin, to the south-east.” The man frowned. “You have business there?”

  “It has been recommended to me, to explore,” Duncan said. “It is very old, is it not?”

  “It is the oldest part of Moscow,” the porter said. “But you must watch your wallet, monsieur. Would you like one of the hotel staff to accompany you?”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” Duncan said. “We are both well able to take care of ourselves.”

  *

  “Good lord!” Duncan exclaimed over breakfast the following morning. “You’ll never believe this, Harold.”

  Morgan had been standing at the window, looking out over the city, listening to the bells, which clanged relentlessly. He had had a sleepless night, because when the bells had not been clanging there had been gunshots from time to time, not something he was at all used to in Sloane Square. “Bad news, sir?” he inquired.

  “In a way. But tremendous news in another. Apparently my cousin, Prince Bolugayevski, has got himself killed. In Port Arthur.”

  “Oh, sir, I am most terribly sorry.”

  “Thank you. I never really knew him. But don’t you see, according to this, his half-brother, Alexei Bolugayevski, is now the Prince. Alexei is my brother-in-law. That is tremendous. What is more, he is being returned from the Manchurian Front to take up a position as Governor of Moscow. Here!”

  “Well, then, sir, may I respectfully suggest that we wait until this prince arrives, rather than do anything now?”

  Duncan had continued to read. “We can’t do that, Harold. According to the paper, it will be some weeks, certainly a month, before he gets here. No, no, we must find madam as quickly as possible.” Morgan loaded his revolver.

  *

  The bookstore they sought was down a side street off the Kitai-Gorod market place. The street was almost deserted. They opened the door and went in, to a dark interior, made more so by the rows of bookshelves occupying every inch of wall space, and by a general accumulation of dust. There was a naked electric light bulb suspended from the ceiling, but this was not switched on. The shop was empty, but there was a press bell on the inner counter, and this Duncan thumped, vigorously. Morgan hung back by the door, his hand on the revolver concealed under his jacket. The curtain behind the counter parted, and an elderly man emerged. “Yes?”

  “I wish to see Mr Lenin,” Duncan said. “I know he is here.” The man stared at him. “Or at least, that you know where he can he found.” The man continued to stare at him. “I mean him no harm,” Duncan said. “But I must get some information from him.”

  The man’s eyes flickered, and the room was suddenly filled with men. Morgan drew his revolver, but it was struck from his hand before he could use it, even had he really intended to. All the five men in the shop were armed, and one of them now picked up Morgan’s gun. “In there,” said one of the men.

  Duncan led the way into the inner room, blinked at the people. “Duncan!” Patricia cried, and was in his arms.

  *

  “Oh, my darling!” Duncan held her close. “Are you all right?” He looked past her at the big groom.

  “Yes, I am all right,” she said. “Rurik rescued me. You remember Rurik?”

  “I do indeed.” Duncan shook hands. “But I don’t quite understand.”

  “How did you know where to find us?” Lenin asked.

  “Rurik joined the Okhrana, just so that he could help me,” Patricia explained. “Duncan, where is Joe? How is he?”

  “Joe is in safe hands,” Duncan assured her.

  “He is with my sister, madam,” Morgan said. “Mr Cromb is right; he is perfectly safe.”

  “How did you know where to find us?” Lenin asked again.

  “I was told where you would probably be,” Duncan explained.

  “By whom?” Olga demanded.

  “By a faithful servant of the family.”

  “You must take us for cretins,” Lenin remarked. “What faithful servant of the family?”

  “The housekeeper in St Petersburg. Madame Popov.” Even Patricia was astounded. “Madame Popov knew where to find me?”

  “She knew where Mr and Mrs Lenin were, and she thought you might be with them.”

  There was silence in the room, and Duncan and Morgan looked at each other, and then at the hostile faces around them. “You said no one knew you had been returned to Russia,” Lenin said at last.

  “Well, no one did,” Patricia said. “Save for the Okhrana.”

  “Save the Okhrana,” Lenin said, slowly.

  “And your housekeeper not only knew you were back, but where you could be found,” Olga said, equally slowly. “But even the housekeeper, supposing she is in the pay of the Okhrana, could not have known where to send you, Monsieur Cromb, unless she had been told. By the Okhrana.” She looked at Rurik.

  “You are demented,” Rurik snapped. “I saved the Countess’s life.”

  “I have often wondered how you accomplished that,” Lenin said. “People do not escape from the Okhrana every day. In fact, I have never met anyone who escaped from the Okhrana.”

  “Have you ever wondered, Trishka, just how he managed it so easily?” Olga asked.

  “I planned it,” Rurik protested. “As soon as I heard the Countess was returning to Russia, I planned it.”

  “And you considered it necessary to confide in the woman Popov what you were going to do and where you would be taking Madame Cromb.”

  “No,” Patricia said. “That can’t be true. We weren’t coming here, in the beginning. Rurik wanted to go back to Bolugayen...” She gazed at Rurik with enormous eyes.

  “No doubt to pick up Sonia Bolugayevska,” Olga said. “So off you rode, without any pursuit.”

  “We got away before anyone knew,” Rurik said. He was beginning to pant. “We had a clear start.”

  “And is there no telegraph system in Russia? You could have been stopped at any moment that Colonel Michaelin chose, as he knew where you were going.”

  “We are betrayed,” said one of the men, a short, heavyset fellow with a thick moustache.

  “Certainly we must abandon this place right away,” Lenin agreed.

  “And him?” asked another of the group, this a small, slight, dark man, with a goatee beard and horn-rimmed spectacles.

  “He is a police spy,” Olga said. “There can be only one thing to be done
with him.”

  Rurik gave another hasty glance around the room, then dashed for the door. But before he reached it, he was surrounded by angry men. He turned on them, and from under his tunic drew a revolver. A shot rang out, and Rurik gave a gasp and fell to his knees. Instantly one of the men struck the gun from his hand while he remained bent double, moaning in agony. The man with the goatee beard blew smoke from the end of his gun. “That was well done, Lev,” Lenin said. He stood above Rurik and kicked him in the shoulder. Rurik fell over with a thump, hands clutched to his abdomen; blood oozed through his fingers.

  “Listen,” he gasped. “I admit it. I worked for the Okhrana. I was told to help the Countess escape, and to take her to Bolugayen, to implicate the Countess Sonia as well. But she refused to go there. Instead she came here.”

  “And you told your bosses where you were going,” Olga said, also standing above the dying man.

  “No. No, I swear it. I changed my mind. I love the Countess Patricia. It is the Okhrana I have betrayed.” He looked past them at Patricia. “I love you!”

  “So instead of going to Bolugayen, you brought her here,” Olga said. “But you knew where to come.”

  Rurik panted. “The Okhrana have known where you are to be found ever since you returned to Russia. They are waiting for you to start something, then they will shoot the lot of you. But I did not tell them I was coming here. I swear it. God, I swear it. I need a doctor. I am in agony.”

  “You are going to die,” Lenin said. “Lev.”

  The man called Lev levelled the revolver and fired again. Rurik never uttered a sound. His head jerked, and then his body collapsed on the floor. “Now you, Your Excellency,” Lev said, turning the revolver towards Patricia.

  “Don’t be a fool,” Patricia snapped, moving in front of Duncan. “Do you seriously think I would betray you, Vladimir? Olga? Even if I could. I did not know where you were until Rurik brought me here.”

  “That is true,” Olga said.

  “But he knew where to come,” the man with the heavy moustache said, looking at Duncan.

  “My husband knew where to come because Madame Popov told him,” Patricia said angrily. “I think he has behaved most gallantly.” She squeezed his arm.

  He hugged her. “Just to see you, alive and well. But that guy...”

  Patricia sighed. “I thought he was my friend. I thought he loved me, too. He said he did.”

  “You make a very pretty pair,” Olga remarked. “But we are all in deep shit.”

  “Yeah,” Duncan said. “You, we, have to get the hell out of here.”

  “He is right,” Lenin said. “Boris, you will have to shut up shop, and disappear.”

  “Where?” the bookseller asked.

  “Out of Moscow, for a start,” Duncan recommended.

  “No!” Olga snapped. “Once they get us out into the open, hiding in villages or in the country, we are done. The revolution is nearly ready. We will stay in the city. You, Stalin, you said you had some place we could hide.”

  “Yes, I know where we can hide. Until we are ready to strike!”

  “To strike?” Duncan cried. “What do you mean to do?”

  “We shall start the revolution, here,” Lenin said. “Our armies are being defeated. The government can no longer conceal that fact. Now there is even a rumour that Port Arthur is about to fall. It will be a catastrophe for the Tsar. Then we will start the revolution.”

  “You have to be stark, raving mad,” Duncan declared. “Well, you can commit suicide if you wish. My wife and I and Mr Morgan are leaving. Now.”

  “You are the one who is mad,” Olga declared. “Do you think you can possibly escape the country? You have just assisted in the execution of an Okhrana agent, Comrade Cromb. You are a wanted man. As is your wife. Do you want to stand beside her on a gallows? Besides, there is the oath.”

  Duncan looked at Patricia. “Yes,” she said. “I swore an oath.”

  He couldn’t believe his ears. She had reverted entirely to the woman who had first come to him, filled with anger and a desire for revenge. “Patricia,” he said. “Please listen to me. Alexei is coming to Moscow, as governor. Are you going to revolt against your own brother?”

  “I have no brother,” Patricia said. “I have only comrades. Or enemies.”

  *

  “Now, your honour,” Feodor said. “Let me pick these scum up, and deal with them.”

  “Because they have murdered one Okhrana agent, who was in any event expendable?” Michaelin asked. “Anyway, we have now lost them, have we not?”

  “They have gone into their burrows, like the rats they are,” Feodor said. “But we could flush them out.”

  “Time enough for that.”

  “Your honour,” Feodor said urgently. “They are plotting an uprising. We know this.”

  “Of course we do, Feodor. But do we not also know that Madame Cromb is with them?”

  “Indeed, and her husband.”

  “Oh, he is a nothing. But do we not also know that General Prince Alexei Bolugayevski is soon to take up his duties as Governor of Moscow? Madame Cromb’s brother? I think that is going to set up a very interesting situation, Feodor. We will wait a while longer. The best way to deal with this scum is actually to let them start their rising. Then the Tsar will be frightened, and he will allow us to deal with it in our own way, instead of issuing amnesties. And if the new governor does not deal with the situation forcefully enough, well then, we will deal with him as well. In the meanwhile, I will send Reddich to Moscow to control our activities there. I consider that things are working out entirely to our advantage.”

  *

  “I’m going mad. I’m going mad! I’m going mad!” Nathalie Bolugayevska screamed, standing on the verandah.

  There was not much possibility that her screams would be heard, above the steady, growing, rumble of noise. It was September, and to the unending rumble of guns was to be added the equally unending autumnal thunderstorms.

  The Japanese had been on the peninsula for four months, inching their way forward against the most determined resistance, suffering the most incredible casualties...yet always inching forward. Now they were not fifteen miles from the port. For the moment they seemed to be checked by the most determined resistance. But they were there, and coming. Anna watched a horseman riding up the drive through the rain, and frowned. Nathalie leapt to her feet. “Ivan!” she screamed. “It’s Ivan!”

  Careless of the wet once she left the shelter of the verandah, she ran down the stairs to greet him, as fast as she could. Anna waited at the head of the stairs for the general to appear. Pobrebski looked tired and depressed, but his expression brightened when he saw her. He bent over her hand. “Your Excellency.”

  “How does it go, General?”

  Pobrebski shrugged. “It is lost.”

  “Lost?” Nathalie shrieked, trailing behind him, her hair coming down in a damp mass.

  Pobrebski sat down. “There is no other possible outcome. We have just learned that General Stackelburg has been defeated in his attempt to regain control of the railway line south towards us. He has suffered massive casualties and has withdrawn to join Kuropatkin at Mukden. There will be no further attempt to lift the siege.”

  “But what about the Baltic Fleet?” Anna asked. “Is that not on its way to rescue us?”

  “The Baltic Fleet, my dear Anna, has not even set sail yet. Oh, it is coming, I believe. But it cannot get here before next spring, at the earliest.”

  “Well, can we hold out until next spring?”

  “I do not think so. Yesterday the Japanese captured 174-metre hill.”

  “But...was that not one of our strongest forts?”

  “Exactly. But it has fallen. Oh, our men fought with exemplary gallantry, but the Japanese just kept coming. They do not seem to care how many men they lose, providing they achieve their objective. And they have more men than us. So...” he grinned, “when they capture 203-metre hill, just up there...” he poi
nted behind the house, “they will be in a position to bombard the port and make it untenable. Do you know, the prisoners we have taken say Nogi has already sent for a battery of howitzers, for just that purpose. He is confident of success. And I don’t blame him.” Anna hunched her shoulders. She did not like Pobrebski, but she knew him to be a professional soldier. And if he said all was lost... “So I think it is time for us to put into effect some of the plans we have made,” Pobrebski went on.

  Anna raised her head. “What plans?”

  “I am sure you have not made any, Anna. But the Princess Dowager Bolugayevska and I have made certain plans.” Nathalie clapped her hands. “The Princess Dowager wishes to marry again,” Pobrebski said. “I know that normally it is necessary to wait six months after the death of one’s husband, and we fully intended to honour the requirements of social etiquette, but in all the circumstances, we do not feel we can wait any longer. Who knows what will have happened in another three months? I have discussed the matter with General Stoessel, and he quite sees our point of view. The wedding will take place next week.”

  Anna stood up. “You mean to marry Nathalie?” Nathalie clapped her hands again. “Oh, isn’t it exciting?”

  “And thus become Prince of Bolugayen. I suppose you mean to change your name to Bolugayevski?”

  “Well, it would be customary, would it not?”

  “Oh, yes,” Anna agreed. “But it is not going to happen, my dear Ivan. I absolutely forbid it.”

  “You forbid it? What makes you think you can do that?”

  “Simply that I am the Countess Bolugayevska. I am the senior member of the family. And I will not have an upstart like you as prince. The title will go to Count Alexei.”

  “You unutterable wretch!” Nathalie shouted.

  “Ignore her, my sweet,” Pobrebski said. “She is a bag of hot air. She can do nothing to prevent our marriage.”

  “You think so?” Anna rang the bell, and Boris, who had clearly been listening, appeared immediately. “Have the trap prepared,” Anna told him. “I am going into town to see General Stoessel. And tell Collins to fetch my hat and coat.” She faced Pobrebski. “I shall settle this matter once and for all. It is a decision for the Tsar. Stoessel will understand that. Thus there will be no talk of marriage until after we leave Port Arthur and can return to St Petersburg.”