by A J Allen
He selected a dessert fork from the canteen. Like its companions it wore a little felt hood to prevent its silver plating from becoming tarnished. Removing the hood, he held the fork up to the light from the gasolier, and turned it slowly in his hand, marvelling at the exquisite moulding of its tines. The presence of the canteen’s contents on the dining table signalled a prestigious occasion. The luncheon the following day would be such an event, albeit a singular one.
It was, he supposed, almost as important as the historic arrival of Prince Menshikov. As he understood it, the convoy of prominent exiles was en route to Obdorskoye, and not settling in Berezovo. It was therefore unlikely that anything of significance would be allowed to occur during their stay; even less likely that their visit would be recorded in the history books. Nevertheless, as fleeting as their celebrity was, he had determined that their passage should be properly marked; all the more so as it was the members of the Town Council, rather than the disgraced Soviet Petersburg Deputies, that would be sitting down to eat.
He replaced the small felt hood and laid the fork neatly to rest in the canteen. Picking up a knife, he weighed it in his hand.
When Mayor Pobednyev holds such a knife in his fist, he told himself, he will know that he is in for a feast.
He slid the knife back into its slot with a sigh of contentment. Tomorrow, it would lie with its brothers, on a crisp white table cloth; its polished blade, gleaming like a dress sword on parade, reflecting the glittering glasses and the candelabras. The whole dining room had been put at the disposal of the Mayor’s party: fourteen at the last count, but he was quite prepared for more. The canteen held two hundred and fifty-six pieces of cutlery and every single one meant money in his pocket. It would not fail him.
Closing the lid, he carried the heavy box back to the wall safe behind his desk and locked it away. There was still much to do. There was the bakery order from Gvordyen’s to look over and Madame Pobednyeva had not yet confirmed the final list of names of those attending the luncheon nor instructed him as to the seating plan. This last omission was causing him concern. It would be his responsibility to write out the name cards for the table and he wanted to avoid leaving it until the last minute. It would be a crime if the elegant place settings were marred by hasty calligraphy.
He left his office and crossed into the dining room, quickly casting his eyes over the occupied tables. It was the usual Saturday afternoon crowd. He noted with pleasure that Leonid Kavelin and Irena Kuibysheva had already left. Striding through the room, he spared a few perfunctory nods of acknowledgement and smiles to the few guests that saluted him. When he reached the vestibule, he leaned across the counter of the reception desk and peered at the keys that hung from a row of hooks. The key to Room Number 4 was missing.
More high jinks, he thought, and about time too!
He looked quickly over his shoulder through the small window into the dining room door. Everything seemed in order. The two waiters were busy attending to their customers, none of whom had yet drunk enough to become bothersome. Still looking through the window, he began backing away towards the staircase. When his heel had bumped against the bottom step he turned and walked purposefully up the first flight of stairs that led to the mezzanine lounge.
Why, he wondered, is it always Room Number 4?
He did not mind. Irena Kuibysheva could have chosen any of the upper rooms without fear of discovery. It made no practical difference to him: the price her suitor paid for the convenience was the same and the revenue was welcome in the empty winter months. But the question intrigued him: why did she always choose the same room?
He stopped on the landing only long enough to put his head around the door of the lounge to see if anyone was inside. There was: Fyodor Izminsky was snoozing quietly in a chair beside the fire, a newspaper resting across his ample stomach. Assured that the banker did not need any additional comforts, Fyodor Gregorivich continued on his way up the flight of stairs that lead to the upper floor of the hotel.
Was it, he wondered, because the room faced the rear of the Hotel and therefore she did not risk anyone noticing the drawn curtains from the street? Or was it simply because it was near to the water closet? The young merchant Dobrovolsky (who had died on the taiga in mysterious circumstances shortly afterwards), then the blond German garrison commander, followed by his successor Captain Steklov (who had made his excuses and left) and now Kavelin. Four different gentlemen and yet always the same room. It was a mystery.
Reaching the top stair, he stopped and removed his shoes. From there on, he would have to proceed more carefully. As silently as he could, he crossed the landing and began to make his way along the corridor in his stockinged feet. As he drew nearer, Fyodor Gregorivich began to suspect that, like Captain Steklov, Leonid Kavelin also might have experienced second thoughts. No sounds came from the end of the darkened passage. His brow puckered in irritation; could his instincts have been wrong? He himself had made up the fire in the room that very morning and aired the bed, making sure that they had clean towels, fresh sheets and pillowcases. What more could he have done? But just as he neared the end of the corridor, he heard a woman’s sharp cry, followed by a loud groan. He had not been mistaken after all.
He carefully eased open the door of Room Number 3 and slipped inside, taking care to keep his body still pressed close to the wall. The noises were becoming more regular now and he could distinctly hear the rhythmic creaking of the bedsprings, punctuated by the occasional groan. Padding silently to the open doors of the wardrobe cupboard, he climbed inside. In the wall, at about the level of his navel, was the small hole. Kneeling on the floor of the cupboard Fyodor Gregorivich put his eye to the hole and peered through to the next room.
Irena Kuibysheva lay on the bed, her dress and undershift pulled up around her stomach, her thighs wrapped tightly around Leonid Kavelin’s stocky body. Fyodor Gregorivich was gratified to see that the young lady had divested herself of nearly all her clothes. Her blouse and skirt were draped tidily across the back of a chair; a pool of lilac silk – presumably her drawers – lay on the floor beneath the bed; one stocking and her entire bodice were nowhere to be seen. For his part, her lover had only seen fit to remove his jacket, trousers and shoes. Below his flapping shirt tail, a pair of surprisingly skinny legs moved restlessly about as Leonid Kavelin tried to gain a better purchase against the bed. In this he was hampered by the thick cotton long pants that were rolled down as far as his knees. Kavelin’s attempts to rid himself of this encumbrance were becoming frantic as Madame Kuibysheva’s cries grew more urgent. Fyodor Gregorivich blinked in disbelief as he watched the timber merchant actually stop, withdraw, and pull one leg free of his long pants. Madame Kuibysheva’s groan of impatience at his retreat was premature, for no sooner had her lover succeeded in extricating himself from his underwear than he entered her once more, spreading her thighs wider. As his flanks pounded hers, and the sound of slapping flesh became louder, she began to emit a series of wordless piping cries in which the tones of distress and delight were intermingled.
Shuffling round on his knees, Fyodor Gregorivich fought the wall for a better view. But whatever position he took, his vision was obscured, mostly by Kavelin’s shoulder and back. Then the timber merchant moved slightly to one side and he was able to gaze upon the distorted features of Madame Kuibysheva as her hands alternately punched and clawed at the sheets or covered her face. From this new position he could also see Kavelin’s profile, and for a few seconds the hotel proprietor’s emotions switched from lustful excitement to concern. Kavelin’s face was almost purple; he appeared to be approaching the point of apoplexy.
“Please, God,” prayed Fyodor Gregorivich, “don’t let him die! Not here and not now.”
Fascinated and horrified in equal measure, he watched helplessly as the woman on the bed, supporting herself on her elbows, lifted her body and strained to meet the timber merchant’s furious thrusts.
“Yes, go on, damn it!” he heard her urge
him, seemingly oblivious to her lover’s wretched state.
Like a man abandoning ship, or a suicide leaping from a bridge, Kavelin pitched forward, his hands clutching blindly at her pert, jiggling breasts. Wrapping her arms and legs around him, Irena Kuibysheva beat his back and sides with her fists.
“That’s it, Tiger!” she cooed. “That’s it… ooh yes!”
“Tiger?” mouthed Fyodor Gregorivich to himself.
Fighting the urge to laugh out loud, the hotel proprietor pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and stuffed it into his mouth while the cries and groans in the next room became more frenzied. He listened as they rose to a crescendo, broke and died.
Leonid Kavelin? A tiger? he thought. Tiger Kavelin?
Silent tears of laughter began to roll down his cheeks as he repeated the words to himself.
Chapter Sixteen
Saturday 10th February 1907
Berezovo
Shaking the snow off the shoulders of his greatcoat, Colonel Izorov sat down behind his desk and unbuttoned his holster. The weather was worsening and he was concerned that the convoy could be delayed for days if the blizzard returned. As normal before an interrogation, the shutters of his office windows were closed. Outside, he could hear the faint hammering as the workmen strove to finish building the dais before nightfall.
It could just as well be a gallows, he thought grimly. Perhaps it will be. Time will tell.
Drawing out his service pistol, he placed it on the desk, its muzzle pointing towards the huddled prisoner sitting opposite him. Then, with a sigh, he leant down and opened the bottom drawer of his desk. In it lay what appeared to be a bundle of rags. Lifting it carefully out of the drawer, he laid the bundle alongside the gun and kicked the drawer shut with his boot.
Fatiev said nothing, but the Colonel could feel his frightened eyes watching his every movement. Picking up his pistol again, he thumbed the catch at the base of the butt and removed the full magazine. After checking that the breech was empty, he began to clean the weapon.
Even without the monthly intelligence reports from the Okhrana office in Tobolsk, it would have been obvious to him that the Social Democrats were split. No party, however broadly based or lax in its recruitment criteria, could encompass the two poles represented by the Karseneva woman and the man sitting hunched in the chair opposite him. This was one of the many differences between them and the Social Revolutionaries he had encountered. The Social Democrats were mostly loudmouthed agitators and troublemakers, at odds with the world and with each other, whereas the Essers were just terrorist thugs. Glancing up again at Fatiev, Colonel Izorov noted with satisfaction that his sergeant had done his job well. Fatiev’s nose was broken, quite smashed, and the blood was already crusting around his trembling lips.
That is good, he thought. It is hard to be a hero with your nose in bandages. Not the most magnificent figure to cut upon the field of battle. Not a sight to inspire confidence in one’s followers.
He worked methodically, drawing back the oiling stick and carefully inserting it in the open barrel. His concentration appeared total, his eyes never leaving the mechanism in his hand, but when Fatiev made a movement to try to staunch a fresh flow of blood, he was prepared for him. One stern glance was sufficient to make his prisoner refold his arms on his chest.
When he had finished with the pistol, Izorov set it down and, picking up the magazine, began to empty the live rounds onto the desk, the squat bullets rolling and settling on the desk like the ill-formed beads of a broken necklace.
“Does it hurt?” he asked Fatiev.
“What?”
“The nose. Does it hurt?”
“Of course,” Fatiev mumbled. “Your sergeant broke it.”
Colonel Izorov allowed a look of surprise to cross his face as he bent his head to the task of cleaning the clip. Carefully, he poured three drops of magazine oil from a small grey bottle onto the spring.
“Would you care to borrow a handkerchief, to stop the blood from spoiling your clothes?” he asked.
One of the lapels of Fatiev’s jacket had been torn in the struggle and the shirt he was wearing was completely open to the waist, all the buttons having been lost. The knees of his trousers were stained where he had fallen to the ground and had been half dragged along the street. Yet the prisoner seemed to see nothing strange in his suggestion and considered it carefully.
“Yes,” he said at last, adding after a few seconds’ hesitation, “please.”
Izorov tested the spring with his forefinger, and when he was satisfied it was functioning smoothly, he lay the magazine down beside the empty pistol. Picking up one of the bullets, he breathed on it, his breath dulling its brass casing.
Leaning forward, Fatiev stretched out his hand uncertainly towards the bundle of rags on the desk.
“Leave it alone,” Colonel Izorov told him sharply.
Returning his attention to his task, he began to polish the round with the same care he had used to clean the magazine. When he had finished, he placed it upright on the desk in front of him and picked up another. Then, as if something quite apart from Fatiev’s presence had reminded him, he reached into his pocket and brought out a spotless white handkerchief.
“Use this,” he suggested, tossing the handkerchief across the desk.
After that, he ignored the man in the chair until all the bullets stood polished in a line. Then, having reassembled the magazine, he picked them up and fed them back into it one by one, slapping the clip back into the butt of the pistol with the flat of his hand. Quite deliberately, he drew back the slide, compressing the inner spring until the first round presented itself to the empty firing chamber and the breach was closed. Then he gently lay the loaded pistol down, its muzzle pointing at the prisoner before him who had become still.
“Well?” Izorov asked amiably. “Do you have something to tell me?”
Forcing himself to take his gaze off the gun’s barrel, Fatiev replied shakily:
“I am sorry, Colonel? I don’t understand. I thought you wanted to speak to me.”
“You are not listening,” said Colonel Izorov. “I asked you if you had something to tell me.”
Fatiev opened his mouth to reply, but appeared to think better of it. Instead, he just shook his head and watched the policeman warily.
“Are you certain?” Colonel Izorov persisted. “Because I have to satisfy myself that there was no other way.”
Fatiev again shook his head slowly and did not reply. Berezovo’s Chief of Police looked at the bundle of rags on the desk and then back to his prisoner.
He tried for the last time.
“Just by admitting you know about them does not constitute a crime, Fatiev.”
“Know about who?”
With a gesture of regret, Colonel Izorov began to slowly unwrap the bundle. Fatiev’s eyes narrowed as he saw that it contained a second handgun. Smoothing the rags down on either side of it, Colonel Izorov picked up the gun and weighed it in his hands.
“Listen, boy,” he said, “I know what they told you. I know you believe that you won’t cooperate but everybody does, sooner or later. Maybe after an hour, or a day, or a week or a month; even sometimes a year. But everybody comes across, sooner or later. Everybody. But that doesn’t matter now. Do you understand? Today is different.”
Stretching out his arm, he levelled the gun at Fatiev’s chest, one eye closing as he squinted along his line of fire.
“Because today, you see,” he continued calmly, “I don’t have the time. So there won’t be any beatings, or solitary confinement, or any of that rubbish. That is why there is just you and me here, in this office, alone. Do you follow?”
Perplexed, Fatiev shook his head and watched with alarm as the Colonel’s finger tightened perceptibly around the trigger.
“Then let me make myself clear,” said Colonel Izorov. “If you don’t tell me what I want to know, in approximately two minutes’ time I am going to kill you.”
Still keepi
ng the gun aimed at Fatiev’s chest, Colonel Izorov stood up and walked around to the front of the desk. He saw Fatiev swallow nervously. Slowly lowering himself until he was sitting comfortably on the desk’s edge, he watched the young man’s face grow paler as the full meaning of his words sank in.
“While we’re waiting,” Izorov said conversationally, “you might like to know about this gun. This is the 7.65 millimetre Parabellum repeating pistol, designed at the factory of Ludwig Lowe in Berlin by a very clever man called Georg Luger. Perhaps you have already seen one before? This model has been standard issue to the Swiss Army since around 1900. There is a later model which came out about three years ago with a heavier calibre round, used by the German Imperial Navy. That is the nine-millimetre Parabellum. The Germans prefer nine-millimetre ammunition as they consider the 7.65 too light for armed combat. But this is a 7.65 and I assure you, my young friend, that at this range it is quite adequate for my purpose.”
Without taking his eyes off Fatiev, the Chief of Police leant back and picked up his service pistol from the desk. He held it up in front of Fatiev’s bruised face.
“My gun, as you can see, is different. It was originally designed and patented in the United States of America about ten years ago, by another ingenious man called Mr John M. Browning. The Belgian Fabrique Nationale d’Armes is licensed to produce it in Europe and this is one of theirs. You can see their initials on the butt. ‘FN’. See?”