The Margin of Evil!

by Simon Boxall

  So off they went and it became obvious that should the Whites breakthrough the cities outer defences, they could get into the city with relative ease. On they went through the snow, by lunchtime two factors hindered their progress. One was the snow fall was rapidly turning into a blizzard and secondly was the lack of cooperation from Trotsky's Red Army. The audit was abandoned and they returned and reported back to the Granite-Faced-Slag. Unusually for her she accepted their findings. They convinced her that maybe now was not the right time to be conducting an audit of this nature, which could only be interpreted as an unnecessary distraction in the face of an impending onslaught from Denikens army. She agreed without the usual argument, and dismissed the pair of them.

  Georgii returned to his desk and attempted to clear some of his paperwork. He looked over to where Trofimov was working and she seemed to be holding meeting after meeting with, he assumed, various visiting dignitaries. He turned around and reached for the file at the bottom of his in tray. He felt for it again, it was not there. Shit he thought, he carefully moved all the files and papers over from one side of the desk to the other without trying to draw attention to himself. It was definitely not there. He could only assume that whoever had placed it there had retrieved it when he had been off on this morning's 'Wild Goose' chase. He looked around him; everything in the office seemed to be perfectly in order. So he carried on as per normal himself; but he could not help thinking that someone was either trying to help him or they were trying to sabotage his enquiries. But he had told no one. The only person that knew was Gerhardt. But Georgii knew only too well that Gerhardt played his cards close to his chest when it suited him and, if he was doing it now, then he - Gerhardt - must be working in conjunction with other interested parties. Georgii sat there and wondered who these interested parties might be. He started to feel sick. He had sat there thinking for a long time, because when he returned to the land of the living, the 1st floor office was almost deserted, and Trofimov had got her coat and was heading to the door. He would wait for her to go; then he would go home. He gave her five minutes and then left. It was bitterly cold out on the street. He turned his collar up and decided to take the quick way home across some deserted wasteland. The snow had started to fall again and the flakes were pelting his face with a vengeance. He turned left, down at the end of the street, and hurried down a narrow lane. As he came to the wasteland the fresh snow crunched under his shoes. Georgii could now see the silhouette of the disused factory looming up in front of him. He walked in, something moved up in the rafters, probably pigeons he thought. They were the only things stupid enough to be out on a night like this.

  He hurried on through the middle of the factory. It was only when he had rounded a large idle machine that he thought he heard something. He stopped and listened. There it was again, but this time it was clearer. He wasn't sure but it sounded like a whimper. Georgii instinctively found himself moving towards the sound. At the same time he was reaching for his revolver[9]. Now he could definitely hear something. It was the sound of scuffling feet, and it was coming from over there. He peered around the corner of a giant lathe, and he was shocked at the sight that confronted him.

  Two men were holding Trofimov, one on each arm, and a third was laying into her with his fists. She was taking it defiantly. Georgii looked around him. On the floor was an empty bottle. He picked it up and threw it. The bottle sailed through the air over to the other side of the factory and smashed. The three men looked around to see which direction the bottle had come from. Georgii seized the opportunity and fired a shot at the man who only a second before had been working over Trofimov. He fell over like a sack of potatoes and lay on the floor clutching his belly. He then rushed them. Before he got to them the two men released her and she fell to the ground. They picked up their groaning colleague and made for the exit at the far end of the shed.

  Georgii looked at Comrade Trofimov. She had a bleeding lip and her eye was swelling up. He propped her up against a pillar. She moaned something unintelligibly at him. He looked around and saw it just in time. One of the assailants had thrown something at them. It was long and had a fuse attached to its end. Instinctively Georgii picked it up and threw it back in the direction it had come from. He threw himself on top of Trofimov and waited. She moaned. There was an almighty explosion, the force of which went upwards towards the ceiling. They lay there through the roar. Glass rained down from on high; a layer of dirt covered them both. Silence eventually returned to the building, they lay there and waited. When he was sure that they were both alone Georgii got up and dusted himself off. He looked down at Trofimov, she was slightly more composed. They were both talking, but they could not hear what the other was saying. He lent down and picked her up and, with his gun at the ready, they both headed for the outside.

  They walked in silence. Georgii thought the best thing that he could do would be to take her back to his place and get her cleaned up. She shook her head and tried to shake free, but he insisted that they were going back to his place.

  After about ten minutes they walked into a group of Red Army guards who were investigating where the explosion had come from. They told them what had happened and then headed on their way. Georgii was holding Trofimov's arm in a vice like grip.

  They walked into the foyer just as the writer, from upstairs, was walking out. God knows what he must have thought; the pair of them were covered in glass, dirt and cobweb. They shuffled past him and then went up the stairs, Georgii heard Rezhnikov mutter something. He opened the door.

  They walked in; the place was its usual plain self. He sighed, a heavy sigh of relief; thank god the two kids were not in. Trofimov immediately set about cleaning herself up. When she had finished Georgii offered her a drink. She declined and then said she had to leave. Trofimov slammed the door shut behind her. Georgii stood there in a bit of a daze. He was floored by her lack of manners; she had left without even saying a word of thanks. He looked out of the window and watched her walk off down the street. He turned around and nearly jumped out of his skin. The wardrobe door started to move and then Pyotr and Anna emerged. They had witnessed everything ...

  The following day Trofimov said nothing, she blanked him. Georgii just got on with his work. That night after supper he was sitting at the small table with the two kids. He decided to broach the niggling subject of the man they had seen before.

  The girl spoke first. 'All through the autumn we wandered the streets by day and slept anywhere we could by night. One day we were in Red Square there seemed to be a public meeting of some kind going on ...'

  'There were hundreds of people there. We were begging for food hoping that someone might take pity on us ...' Pyotr said.

  'We were near the speaking place and there seemed to be a lot of important persons waiting. We were walking around asking them all if they could help ...' Anna said.

  The boy interrupted. 'We got the usual Bolshevik answer. Clear off 'Besprizorniki[10]' scum!'

  'When the man, who we also saw at the dock, turned around, he smiled and put his hand into his pocket and gave us some sweeties. Then he told us to run along,' the girl said.

  'You would not forget a face like that. His face had shell holes in it and he had a 'Turned Up' moustache!' the boy said.

  'But he seemed very important. People were always coming up to him and shaking his hand or they whispered in his ear. He also spoke Russian with a funny accent!' The girl said excitedly.

  'You say you have seen this man before. Would you recognise him again?' Georgii said.

  'Most definitely ...' The two of them exclaimed.

  Since he gave us the sweets, we have seen him all over Moscow,' Pyotr said.

  After they had gone to bed Georgii lay on the sofa and thought. He went through the description of the man the two children had given him. He also wondered if there was a connection between 'The Man' with the funny accent, Goldstein, and these Kevshor crooks.

  The next day there was no contact between Georgii Ra
detzky and Anya Trofimov or, for that matter, the day after that. The second Thursday came around quickly and he found himself walking at a brisk pace to meet Gerhardt. By the time Georgii arrived at 'The Immaculate Winter Garden,' Auguste Gerhardt was seated on the bench patiently waiting for him. Comrade Radetzky was late.

  He looked up with a frown and then shook Georgii's hand. 'Georgii, I'm so glad that you could make it.' He paused, 'So now that you've got here, what have you got to tell me?'

  Georgii told him about his visit to 'The Cheka', and the mysterious arrival of the two files and their equally mysterious disappearance. Georgii Radetzky talked at length about Isaak Goldstein and his connection with 'The Kevshors. 'He believed that the whole key to the case lay with this organised group. But he had to be honest with Gerhardt he did not have a clue where all of this was leading. Gerhardt listened intently to Georgii's debrief.

  'Tuesday night I want you to meet me near the main railway yard on the Southside of town at four thirty. Bring some field glasses, and some warm clothes with you. What you will see will really open up your eyes. 'With that Gerhardt got up and left. Georgii followed shortly afterwards.

  The next day was Thursday and it was one of those drab Moscow days. On the way to work Georgii noticed that the mood on the street was worse than ever. Ironically later that morning he was dispatched with a group of Red Guards to quell a riot outside a bread shop. The usual form was to shoot first and ask questions later. They arrived at the scene to find the area deserted. The bread shop was nothing more than a smouldering ruin. The surrounding streets were deserted. Georgii decided that the best thing to do was to conduct a house to house search. He knocked on the first door. There was no reply. Georgii instructed two guards to force the door. Inside the house the group moved through rooms crammed full of old men, women and children. They were all bunched up and huddled together. No one seemed to know anything. These were the leanest of times and nobody wanted to volunteer any information at all. Instinct told him that these 'Comrades' were all lying. He also detected an undercurrent of seething malevolence in each building that they entered. He could have evicted the inhabitants; he could have ripped up the floorboards and strip-searched the women and children. But intuition told him that he would have been putting all of their lives in grave danger. They returned to the Militsya Station where he expected to receive a 'balling out' from Trofimov. He got no such thing. Something of greater significance had crept onto the agenda.

  'Comrade Radetzky, two boys have been reported throwing horse dung at visiting dignitaries going into and out of the Kremlin. I want you to go down there and bring these little rascals to justice. Do not come back until you have arrested them!' With that she pointed her finger towards the door. Georgii left. He departed for Red Square.

  En-route, Georgii asked himself some hard questions based on the morning events. The dark and dirty expressions on the faces of the people appalled him, as did their living conditions, and why did people stay in a city where death loomed around every street corner. Where the government, acting in the name of 'The People', had outlawed all personal liberty: free speech, free press, freedom of association and political plurality, freedoms that had been won during the last years of Tsarist state. Looking back on it now, the last years of Nicholas's reign seemed like a long gone 'Golden Age.' Where did it all go wrong he thought? The sad thing was, if he expressed any of these thoughts in public, it would have led to summary execution, followed by a shallow grave.

  Georgii had now arrived at Red Square. He headed towards the Kremlin. There seemed to be some commotion going on near the main gate. Georgii hurried over. There was a strange looking man waving a revolver at two teenage boys. A guard was holding them by the scruff of their necks. Georgii arrived at the scene just in the nick of time. There was no telling what this gun-toting-maniac might do.

  'Monsieur Comrade! These two young men are a disgrace to this fledgling, 'Socialist' state. They have humiliated me publicly. I will have you know that I am the 'General Secretary' of the 'French Marxist Internationale'. Never in all my days, have I been subjected to anything like this! Never! I shall complain to the highest authority! I demand that these two are harshly dealt with! Do I have your word on that monsieur!?'

  'You have my word that I shall deal with this in the proper way. Now, will you put that revolver away?' Georgii said.

  'Do I have your word on that?'

  'As I said I will deal with this in the proper way! Now will you stop waving that thing around, you`re making me nervous!'

  The man snorted and walked off in the direction of the river. Georgii turned around to face the boys.

  'Now ... will you tell me what's going on?'

  He dismissed the guard and the three of them walked off in the direction of the Militsiya station. They talked along the way.

  'We were only having some fun,' the taller of the two boys said.

  'We were throwing snowballs at each other. When this posh man wearing a funny hat came up to us ...' The second lad said.

  'He pointed with his umbrella at that lunatic, and said he would give us meat and bread if we would throw the horse dung that he gave us, at that Frenchman.' The taller of the two boys said.

  'We threw the dung and then the madmen pulled out a pistol and said he would shoot us. We made a run for it and ran straight in to the fat guard!, the smaller boy said.

  'He sent for help and took us over to face that foreign speaking lunatic!!'

  'The monsieur ranted and raved until you got here. He gave us a right old ear bashing.'

  'You know this monsieur is not going to let it go, don't you? The pair of you, no mistake about it, are in serious trouble,' Georgii said.

  'We know that and we are genuinely sorry. Not for him, but were sorry that no one seems to have a sense of humour in Russia anymore,' the tall boy said.

  'Can you describe the man that got you to do it?'

  'He was definitely foreign, he was very smartly dressed. He looked very posh. Spoke Russian with a heavy accent.'

  'So where's the food he promised to give you?'

  'The fat guard had it away,' the shorter boy said.

  'How do you two survive?'

  'We're not Besprizorniki! We're too old,' the tall boy said.

  'We are both cleaners. I work at the Abattoir and he works at the City Mortuary,' the short one said.

  'That's interesting,' Georgii said, 'I would like to ask you some questions about something else. But that can wait'

  They got to the Militsya station and Georgii took statements from the two boys. He also had a mini conference with his boss. She was all in favour of locking the two up until a trial date could be decided on. But Georgii reminded her that all the city prisons were full. Life in Lefortovo[11] was pretty much like the Bastille of 1792. The firing squads had to be fed, like the guillotine had been just over a century before. It was decided that the two boys would be released on bail, on condition that they both report to the Militsya station every day. He explained to the two boys exactly what would happen.

  On the station steps Georgii, acting on an impulse, decided to ask the boys one more question. 'Does the name Isaak Goldstein mean anything to you?'

  The two boys looked nervously at each other, the shorter one said, 'No we've never heard of him before ...'

  The taller boy said, 'Look we'll report in every day, but we have got to go!!'

  Georgii Radetzky watched the two boys scurry off down the street. He also knew that the two boys were lying. One minute they were happy, full of the joys of spring, next minute they were sad and withdrawn. There was a lot to be said for good, old, police intuition. Nine times out of ten Georgii's always right.

  On the way home, he decided that tomorrow he would pay the two boys a small visit. It was time that he had a good look around the city abattoir. He also decided that Anya Trofimov was going to furnish him with a letter of introduction. But before he did all of that, Georgii Radetzky knew he was going to be facing anot
her sleepless night.

  The City Abattoir was a grim looking building. It was set in the middle of wasteland. It made the mortuary look like a five star hotel. It was also a small fortress, barbed wire covered the walls. Guards manning machine guns were positioned on the roof and walls. Georgii surveyed the scene in front of him and then walked towards the gate. The Red Guards watched him walking towards them.

  'This place is off limits,' the guard shouted.

  'I want to see the Commissar in charge of this place. My name is Georgii Radetzky. Here are my papers.'

  'Cheka eh, you have no jurisdiction around here, this is a restricted area.'

  'If you could read you would see that. I also have a letter of introduction,' Georgii said, knowing that he had hit a raw nerve.

  'Wait here,' the guard said in a surly tone.

  After what seemed like an eternity, the guard returned and ushered him into the compound. Georgii looked around him. Lorries were unloading and loading, administrators were filling in ledgers. Carcasses were weighed in and out and at every stage the guards scrutinized.

  'Come with me!' The surly' guard said.

  He led Georgii into what seemed like a semi-refrigerated building. In the far corner there were some stairs that led up the side of the wall to an office that was positioned so it could observe the comings and goings down below. They climbed the stairs and the guard knocked on the door. A small balding man looked up and waived them in. The guard introduced him waved and then left.

  'Comrade Radetzky, pleasure to meet you. Marko Mendolovitch at your service. What can I do for you?' the little man said.

  'I'm tracing the last movements of an associate of yours,' Georgii said.

  'And who might that be,' the man said.

  'Isaak Goldstein.' Georgii examined the man's face closely. He thought he could see a bead of sweat forming on Comrade Mendolovitch's brow.