The taverns along the waterfront were busy, testimony to the truth of the stories that Russia’s peasants were distilling hundreds of thousands of tons of precious grain into moonshine vodka while people starved. But pulling his attention from that side of the street, Daniel continued to peer through the fog toward the dim light he had noticed.
They turned down a finger of the wharf where about half a dozen boats, mostly fishing scowls, were anchored. The area fit Plautin’s directions and, sure enough, the boat with the dull light coming from a lantern in the cabin was the Ural Queen. Even in the foggy night it looked as if the fifty-foot steamer had seen several decades of hard service on the river hauling iron ore or coal from the many mines in the area.
“Plautin,” Daniel called in a low voice.
A head poked out of the cabin hatch, and, illuminated in the eerie light, appeared to be just as hardened as the boat itself—leathery skin, scored with wrinkles, peppered with a dingy beard, with dull light coming from dark eyes.
“Come aboard,” said the skipper in a discordantly refined voice. He came off as a man of culture in the skin of a derelict.
Daniel and Bruce scrambled aboard, and Plautin ushered them into the cabin, a cluttered, unkempt place with books crammed into every corner that wasn’t filled with other odd debris. Daniel tried to picture the tsar of Russia and his proud tsaritsa traveling in these quarters.
“May I offer some refreshment?” asked Plautin. He reached for a bottle of vodka and three glasses.
“We’d rather not mix vodka with business,” said Daniel.
With a shaky hand Plautin filled only one of the glasses. “I mix vodka with everything!” He grinned and sipped his drink. “So you intrigued me earlier when we spoke. What exactly do you want from me?”
“Passage out of Ekaterinburg for about a dozen passengers, as I said,” Daniel replied. “Preferably in a very covert manner.”
“Destination?”
“We would head north, eventually merging with Irtysh River and traveling north to the Barents Sea.”
“A long journey. Who are your passengers?”
“Is it necessary for you to know?”
“If they were nobodies named Ivan Ivanov, it would mean nothing. But if the surname were . . . say . . . Romanov—well, you can see that it would make a great difference. The risks would be multiplied immensely.”
“Then let’s just factor in the maximum risks.”
Plautin smiled, drained his glass, and quickly refilled it. “This will not come cheaply.”
“Does anything in this land?” Daniel replied, then translated for Bruce.
“Tell him money is no object,” said Bruce in English.
“That’s all he needs to hear,” said Daniel ruefully. “Let me barter just a little.”
“I swear,” countered Bruce good-naturedly, “you are becoming more Russian than American.”
“It was bound to happen.” Then Daniel turned back to the skipper, hoping that he could be just as canny as any Russian. “A thousand rubles,” he said in Russian, “before we leave town and a thousand rubles when my party is safely at the destination.” That was a total of just over two thousand dollars. Probably more money than the hapless Plautin had seen in years.
Plautin only laughed in response. “First, I want dollars—U.S. dollars. Nice new ones, no wrinkles. Twenty thousand of them—ten before we leave and ten when the job is done.”
“You must be joking!” Daniel exclaimed. “Why, that’s a king’s—” But he stopped short of the word “ransom,” realizing he was indeed bartering literally for a king’s ransom. He interpreted the proposed deal to Bruce.
“I thought this man was a loyal monarchist,” said Bruce.
“Loyal capitalist monarchist.”
“Make the deal,” Bruce conceded.
“I’m sure I can talk him down—”
“Don’t bother. I am willing to pay a lot more.”
Daniel hoped the refined skipper didn’t speak English, for he might decide to raise his price upon hearing that. Daniel said to Bruce, “It’ll take time to get that much money in dollars.”
“See if he will take pounds.”
“You have that much?”
“Perhaps we can work something out with the British consul here. It would be faster and safer than trying to work through the American embassy in Petrograd.”
Daniel made the proposal to the skipper.
“I’d rather have dollars,” said the skipper obstinately. “I plan to retire to America after this job.”
Daniel threw up his hands. “Never mind! We’ll find another skipper.”
“The only other decent skippers in this town are Reds,” argued Plautin.
“I’ll take my chances.” In a huff, Daniel turned, nudging Bruce to follow him.
He had started to climb through the hatch when Plautin called out, “All right. I’ll take the English money, but it must be good and new!”
With a victorious wink at Bruce, Daniel turned back. “Okay, when can we leave?”
“There is much to be done. Provisions must be procured, enough fuel to get us to the next port—and all in complete secrecy. This will not be easy.”
“It had better not be, for twenty thousand dollars,” Daniel grumbled under his breath in English. Then he added in Russian, “We’ll take care of the provisions. You do the rest.”
“Then as soon as you can get the money and provisions . . .” the skipper said casually.
And, of course, the skipper knew that would be the most difficult part of the deal, besides getting the passengers away from their present lodgings and to the boat.
Getting the money would be the most time-consuming. A backwater consul simply did not have that kind of cash lying around. Couriers had to be sent to Moscow. Because of this both the British and American embassies were contacted, and each was given written assurances by Daniel and Bruce for prompt repayment. The Trent and Findochty names hopefully would be enough to guarantee the loan. Whichever embassy came up with the money the fastest would determine if Plautin would be paid in dollars or pounds. Even at that, a departure in less than a week would be impossible. The Czech control of the railway also posed a problem. Some passenger trains were getting through, but there were long delays.
In addition to procuring the money, arrangements had to be made for the transportation of the Romanovs once they reached the mouth of the Irtysh. Daniel wished they could have begun the preparations long ago, but it was only recently that their final destination could have been decided. It had only been a couple of weeks since the British took control of the port of Murmansk, providing the perfect escape route for the royal family. A few coded telegrams from the British consul would get things rolling on that front.
Daniel decided to set an estimated time of departure for two weeks—July fourteenth. Not without a sense of irony did he note that it would be Bastille Day, the day that had launched the French Revolution.
42
When Andrei met with Daniel in the old barn that had become a regular rendezvous point, he seemed pessimistic about the feasibility of liberating the family from the heavily guarded house.
“I’ve been stewing over this since I arrived,” Andrei told his brother-in-law. “I’ve tried to get assigned to duty inside the house without success. I’ve been lucky not to have been recalled completely—I suppose we must thank Stephan for that. They are changing the guard frequently.”
“But you are Cheka, aren’t you, with authority from Moscow?”
“Yes, but I have no influence over the Ural Soviet, and apparently Kaminsky doesn’t wish to press his influence any further than merely allowing me to stay here. Anyway, the Urals have been assigned the key posts inside the house.”
“What about Talia?”
“I’d like her to be gone on the day of the escape.”
“So would I, but you know she would never accept that. We need her, Andrei. But she doesn’t have to be put in the line of f
ire, as it were.”
“Well, she can pass messages and such. But there is still the problem of the actual escape. I’m thinking of staging some kind of diversion—a fire or something.”
“That’s good. They’d have to clear out the prisoners if the house caught fire.”
“But we’d have to make a speedy exit from that point because we’ll have Reds hot on our tails. How fast can that boat go?”
“That’ll be a problem. I’ve talked to other prospective rescuers who have considered sneaking them out a window.”
“Remember, the boy can’t walk, and Talia told me that the empress’s sciatica has flared up, and she can barely walk as well. We are simply not going to get them to sneak away from anywhere.”
“Andrei, don’t tell me this is hopeless.”
“Nothing is hopeless, I guess. But anything short of a commando assault will be extremely difficult. And an assault . . . well, we all want to avoid bloodshed, and I have a feeling the tsar himself would veto blasting away fellow Russians in order to rescue him. But even if we should attempt this, there are ten thousand Red troops in town.”
“Whatever we do will have to be clandestine.”
“We could drug the guards. Dress the family in disguise . . .” It was obvious Andrei was clutching at fantasies. He’d probably read The Scarlet Pimpernel one too many times.
Daniel began to pace thoughtfully over the straw-covered barn floor. After a few moments he paused and asked, “Andrei, how safe is the tsar right now?”
“As I already told you, the Ural Soviet has voted for execution. But I’ve heard there has been more talk in Moscow about a public trial. That could buy time, but if there is a trial, I can’t see any result other than a death sentence.”
“All right,” Daniel said with more decisiveness than he felt, “we have a little over a week. Come up with something. I hear the White Army is drawing closer. Maybe they’ll save us a lot of trouble and rescue the tsar for us.”
The grim expression on Andrei’s face was unsettling. “Lenin does not want a live banner for his enemies to rally round. If the Whites get too close for the Ural Soviet’s comfort, they will dispose of their captives rather than see them fall into White hands.”
Silence fell between the two men. Nothing else needed to be said. The urgency of their mission was suddenly brought into new perspective. If ever the pressure was on, it was now. Daniel almost physically felt a noose being drawn tighter and tighter around them and the Romanovs. The weight of their undertaking was suddenly crushing. But he strode away from that barn with resolve and purpose, forcefully banishing the sense of defeat that threatened him from all sides.
Talia was mixing ingredients for bread when Tatiana and Anastasia Romanov wandered into the kitchen. She smiled at them. This wasn’t their first visit to the kitchen. They had indicated an interest in learning to cook and had received permission to do so. The other day they had helped make soup, but they really wanted to learn how to make bread, so the cook had informed them when the bread was usually prepared and welcomed them back.
“May we watch?” Tatiana asked politely.
“Of course,” said Talia. “If I had known you were coming, I would have waited to mix the ingredients. But it is just flour and water and a bit of sugar, and of course the yeast.”
“Sugar?” questioned Anastasia. “But the bread doesn’t seem sweet.”
“There is only enough for the yeast to feed on.”
“It sounds alive.”
“In a way it is—the yeast, at least. That’s what makes the bread dough rise.” Talia stirred the mixture until it was the right consistency, then turned it out on the board. “Now it must be kneaded.”
“Why is that?” asked Tatiana.
“So it will have a nice, smooth texture, and so the yeast is worked throughout. Would you like to give it a try?”
The girls nodded eagerly, and Talia divided up the dough so each could have a part.
“We’ve already washed up,” said Tatiana.
“Good, then go right ahead.”
At that moment one of the guards came into the kitchen with a box of groceries.
“Where do you want these?” he asked, then stopped, a bit embarrassed when he saw the girls. Talia wasn’t certain if his reaction was because he suddenly found himself in the presence of grand duchesses, or if it was just because they were two pretty young women about his own age.
“Thank you, Yevgeny,” Talia said. “Just put them over there.”
He placed the box where indicated but lingered a moment watching the girls. “Don’t tell me you are making the prisoners cook, Talia?” he said a bit brashly, probably to offset his shyness.
“We want to,” said Anastasia.
“We have always wanted to learn to cook,” added Tatiana. “We get so bored doing nothing.”
“Yes, I suppose it would be boring.” He watched a moment longer, then continued, “Don’t slap the dough like that. Use the heel of your palm.” He looked at Talia. “You’re not much of a teacher, Talia,” he said good-naturedly.
“And how did you get to be such an expert?” Talia said, half-mocking. This was one of the nicer guards of the new batch, a young man no older than twenty.
“My father was a baker,” Yevgeny replied. “I’d show you the proper way myself, but my hands are dirty.” He paused and watched the girls attempt to knead the dough as he had instructed. “Not so hard,” he said. “You don’t want to kill the yeast. Firm, but at the same time gently. That’s it.”
With a friendly exchange of conversation and banter, they continued the task for several minutes. It was like any group of young people anywhere having a good time. Talia nearly forgot the nature of their tragic circumstances. However, with sudden force, reality intruded upon them as a gunshot exploded nearby.
The girls screamed. Yevgeny raced from the kitchen to the yard to investigate. Talia put a calming arm around the girls and encouraged them to stay put until Yevgeny returned. In a few moments the young guard came back.
“One of the guards claims he saw someone poke his head from a window upstairs, so he fired,” explained Yevgeny. Seeing the grand duchesses’ shocked looks, he added quickly, “No one was hurt. He only fired in the air.”
“We must find our parents,” said Tatiana urgently.
The two girls started to leave but paused at the kitchen door to thank Talia and Yevgeny.
When they were gone, the guard shook his head. “They shouldn’t be treated like common criminals.”
“I know,” sighed Talia.
“They haven’t done anything. I think they should let them go.”
“Yevgeny, be careful what you say.”
“Will you turn me in, Talia?”
“Not I, but you never know who might be listening.”
“I don’t care. I’d prefer to be assigned elsewhere. I didn’t join the revolution to harm innocents.”
Talia lowered her voice. “Yevgeny, I think you ought to try to stay here as long as possible. Imagine what it would be like for them if there wasn’t at least one or two sympathetic guards.”
Later, Talia told Andrei about the encounter. It didn’t surprise him.
“Most of the outside guards—of which Yevgeny is one—tend to be more sympathetic,” he said. “Not enough to conspire to rescue the prisoners—I’ve tried to subtly feel them out. They don’t like the duty, but they won’t disobey orders either.”
“Should I work on Yevgeny a bit more and try to turn him to our side?” suggested Talia.
“Too risky for the good it will do. But I have talked to Yevgeny myself, and if the need arose, I think we could count on him. What we really need are some allies among the inside guards. But they are Cheka and of the Urals besides—as hard core as they come.”
“What can we do, then?”
“Keep closely apprised of the health of the tsarevich and tsaritsa. As soon as they seem able, we may just have to attempt a break when they are out in th
e garden. At least there we will only have the outside guard to contend with at first, and they might be counted upon not to fire on women and children. Not that the Cheka won’t be hot on us the minute we make an attempt.”
“They are such nice girls, Andrei,” Talia said sadly of the grand duchesses. “Even in the midst of the excitement today, they stopped to thank me for showing them how to make bread.”
“We’ll do everything we can for them,” assured Andrei.
“I know, but I am afraid it won’t be enough. The odds seem so much against them.”
43
Nicholas did not like the look of the new flock of guards to take command a week later. He’d heard they were Cheka—what those Bolsheviks were calling their secret police. Their commander was Yakov Yurovsky.
“He’s the worst we’ve had yet,” he murmured one night to Dr. Botkin, noting the commander’s sinister appearance, his cold dark eyes, and thin, hard mouth.
Nicholas, however, said nothing of his misgivings to Alix. When she came into the room, they talked about rumors of the approach of the White Army. The distant sounds of artillery boosted their hopes.
Andrei saw the replacement of the inside guard with Yakov Yurovsky and his Cheka troops as nothing more or less than what it was—an execution squad. But even more alarming was the news that a VIP was arriving from Moscow. Could this man be there to oversee the imminent execution of the tsar? What else could it be? Yet wouldn’t Moscow be more likely to play down their involvement in the execution? Perhaps, then, the man was here in an unofficial capacity. Moscow could keep tabs on the operation without appearing to be involved.
Regardless, the replacement of the guards and the arrival of the VIP could only mean that time had run out. The original date of their rescue attempt was already twenty-four hours past, and still Andrei had not been able to come up with a way to get the family out of the Ipatiev House.
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