by Simon Boxall
As far as she was concerned it had been major stroke in prizing Nina Milstein out of Latvia. Milstein would appeal to Gardstein's vanity, Nina Milstein, because she was pretty and weak and completely in love with him, would conduct an affair that would keep his ego permanently inflated and his mind distracted; whilst at the same time she, Milstein, would weaken his resolve to argue with any of her plans.
The others, she felt sure, would also fall under her spell. Fritz Svaars was a Swedish weakling; she had rebuffed his, nauseating advances, back in Riga. Nina was besotted with Gardstein and he was besotted with himself. That left the other two Djugashvilli and Piaktow. Both were loners and both had killed before and the two of them gave her the creeps. It was common knowledge that both were dedicated to 'The Cause'. Let's face it; if there was one place where they all stood united, it was for 'The Cause'. But those two, especially 'The Georgian', she was never completely sure where his loyalties lay; she was also never sure how far she could push them. Both men were different. Piaktow was impenetrable and Djugashvilli had a nasty streak; but it was when you were in the room with him, she had noticed that Djugashvilli was always watching, he never took his eyes off anything, Gardstein used to joke that he was so paranoid that he slept with one eye open. When he got drunk, he boasted of gluing dog's eyelids together and throwing day old kittens into snake pits.
Svaars had now arrived, so that only left 'The Georgian'; but when all was considered both were pretty reliable and both men, no questions asked, would do the job.
She sat down and stared into the heart of the coal fire. As far as she could see the entire spadework had already been done. They would start off in Farringdon, then they would move on up to Tottenham and then they would finish off in Houndsditch. Once the three jobs had been done, they would lie low; when the coast was clear they would leave the country or simply move onto another city and start all over again. In her mind the important thing was to leave no trace, no clues and no pattern. Gardstein called from downstairs.
'Yes my love', she sarcastically muttered.
Downstairs Fritz Svaars was standing next to George. Both men talked like long lost brothers. Though both men, and she knew this, were wary of each other.
She greeted Svaars, 'So good of you to come Fritz.'
'How could I not come and be by your side. George only this minute has told me of the plan he's just cooked up.' Turning around, grasping Gardstein by the shoulder, 'Pure genius! It's the work of pure genius.' He turned to face Trassjohnsky. His eyes blazed at her.
She smiled; it was nice to see that, once again, George was taking all the credit for her ideas. But, that was fine as far as she was concerned. As long as George followed her instructions to the letter everything would be fine!
'How are things back home,' she said.
'Well since the revolution, everything has been quiet. But I do detect that change is in the air and I'd say that it is a change that is not at all for the best!'
'Why do you say that Comrade Svaars?' Gardstein said.
'Well it's as if 'The Autocracy' is regaining its confidence again. And you know, my friend that it is a cold wind that blows in from St Petersburg these days.'
'Cold Wind from St Petersburg! What do you mean by that? It always has been a 'Cold Wind', that has blown in from St Petersburg,' she said mockingly.
'It's like this, they have again started planting police informers into the universities; they are banning the speaking of Latvian in public places; they have closed down local newspapers and they have smashed up printing presses. Any suggestion that we secede from the empire is usually met by a heavy-handed response from the authorities. Take my word for it; 'The Autocracy' is getting arrogant again! It has not learnt from its past lessons! It's as simple as that, 'The Tsar', aims to crush us all and any hints of resistance to his rule is met by a 'High-handed' response.'
Peter got up at five. He went down to the kitchen and ate some rye bread. Mrs Brown had left a note on the kitchen table; his sandwiches were in the larder. Peter set off for work; he was in good time and arrived 'Bang-On' five forty five for his first day in 'The Mates' world.
Alf greeted him. 'Morning mate, nice to see you got 'ere on time!'
Alf showed him what to do. By six o' clock Peter was rubbing down a wall, getting it ready for its first layer of undercoat. Glad to be working, Peter kept his head down and got on with the job. Alf was never too far away and he got the idea that they were keeping an eye on him. Peter had been through this all before, so he just got on with the job. As the morning progressed, Alf was not seen so much, by the afternoon the only time Peter saw him was when he gave him a new job to do.
It seemed to Peter that his, 'Head Down', strategy was working well. All around him the building seethed with life. Plumbers came and went, architects wandered around with their plans, assistants copiously took notes. Scaffolding was erected and then moved slightly to the left and right. A group of Italians were down in the lobby erecting busts to god only knows whom. But Peter thought that when the building was finished, it would still astound anyone who came to visit and would still be impressing in a hundred years from now.
There was no doubt in Peter Piaktow's mind, that the owners of this building were men of substance and standing. There was too much evidence to suggest otherwise. In the lobby, as you came in from the street, the floors were made of Italian marble. The pillars that supported the first floor were marble also. Everywhere you turned there seemed to be a plinth with a Julius Caesar or a Marcus Aurelius, a Plato or a Socrates. It was a source of great wonder to him as to whom, or who, were the owners of this magnificent building.
On the third day he found out. Alf, whose full-name was Alfred J Horner, had taken a shine to this Russian lad. Of course every time he called Peter a Russian, the Latvian blushed at the charge hands ignorance.
He would correct his boss, 'I'm Latvian not Russian. We have our own separate culture and language.'
But this was lost on poor old Alf, 'No offence intended mate.'
'None taken,' Peter replied.
They were sitting out the back eating their lunches when Peter said to Alf, 'Who are the owners of this prestigious building?'
'Well it's like this, the owners are a long established company of importers and exporters. They have been in business for about ... let me see ... one hundred and fifty years. At any one time, they have shipped everything from 'Nigger' slaves from Africa to the Americas; they have shipped opium to the Chinese. Putting it politely lad, they have had their finger in about every pie there is. And, so legend has it, they had the 'Nouse' to survive the South Sea bubble'. Not bad eh! Is it, mate?'
A few days later Peter got a glimpse of his employers, Compstone, Compstone, Compstone & Weeks – Importers and Exporters since sixteen ninety-five. An elderly lady, who appeared to be chaperoning a young boy, entered the building. The Architect's were fawning all over them.
As they went past him he heard the woman say, 'That 'Mr Stephen' is away in the Orient right now, so it has fallen to me, in his absence, to take charge of things.'
'How is Miss Geraldine,' the Architect said.
The old woman replied, 'Miss Geraldine has been sent to a sanatorium you know.' She then gestured her finger towards her mouth. The old woman lowered her tone.' As regards her brain ... informed opinion says it has turned to sponge! Turned to sponge through lack of abstinence! Tis the Devils work! Lack of abstinence!' She shook her head and added. 'Very sad affair, very sad indeed .... ' Her voice just tapered off.
'Come on Peter, you`re slacking today,' Alf said.
Whilst the 'Old' woman had temporarily distracted Peter, the charge-hand had come around on his rounds.
'The Guv's, going to have your bits on toast, if you two don't shake a leg! Aint he mate!'
The signs were all there you could tell that the building was nearing completion. As the weeks went by there seemed to be fewer and fewer tradesman working there. In the end there were no major jobs to be
done, Peter found himself 'Snagging' around the building tidying up loose ends. Some days there was not much to be done. On those days Peter and Alf would take extended breaks. It was during those times, and away from prying eyes, that Peter Piaktow really got to know Alfred Horner. They often held 'Why did you come here', and 'What have you done in your life' conversations. These were often conducted over a Mrs Brown sandwich or a mug of tea got from one of the barrows over the road.
Peter was amazed to find out that Alf had fought with the Middlesex Regiment in the Boer War and had seen action at Spion Kop where his unit had relieved Ladysmith. Alf regaled the young Peter with stories of bayonet skirmishes fought in the unforgiving heat on distant hilltops. Alf, too, wanted to know why Peter always corrected him on being Latvian when Alf called him Russian. Peter in his broken English told him why.
'It's like his Alf', he paused while he collected his thoughts. 'How would you feel if someone walked into your house and started telling you what to do? Then they started telling you what you could do and what you couldn't do. And this is in your own house! The house that you have sweated and toiled for! Tell me Alf, how would you feel?'
'Well I would be pretty aggrieved. There is no doubt that I'd be pretty aggrieved,' Alf said. 'I would want to do something about it!'
'Easier said than done my friend! Easier said than done ... O.k. let's look at it another way. Maybe I'm not making myself clear,' Peter said.
'No, no, you're doin' fine,' Alf said, as he got out some tobacco to chew.
'In the beginning, we were a trading nation. We considered ourselves to be Northern Europeans, with a trace of the Scandinavian about us. We had our own language, customs and culture. We were, and still are, a very proud people. But we had a neighbour, whom over a long period of time became steadily more powerful. As his power grew so did his confidence. This neighbour was nothing more than a bear in sheep's clothing, all it craved was power. Power for the Russian bear meant the acquisition of more territory.' Peter fixed Alf with a penetrating stare. Alf was chewing his tobacco and listening intently to the young man. Peter carried on, 'More than anything else this bear of the forest wanted to be taken seriously by its European neighbours. The one thing the creature wanted was credibility. Not that anyone wanted to deny it credibility; it was just that neighbours could not take a neighbour seriously that did not take itself seriously. Do you see?' Alf nodded, 'Russia and Russians were obsessed by power, they wanted to move down, but they were always stopped. The only way for them to go was across. From Muscovy they headed east until they got to the Pacific. West from St Petersburg they took Finland and the Baltic states, but westward they could not achieve the cherished prize of a warm water port. They tried and tried but, to date, they have not succeeded.'
'Yes, but how did you get overpowered by Russia?' Alf asked.
'Well it was like this; in this part of the world tiny countries frequently changed hands. For a while we were part of Poland and then we were part of Sweden. When Sweden lost 'The Great Northern War' and the spoils were divided up; we found ourselves, grudgingly, part of Russia. There was nothing that we could do, we were simply too small to put up any real resistance. We could do nothing! So, overnight, we found ourselves swallowed up by the Great Russian bear and that's the way it is; but my friend we are a 'Stoic' enough people to believe that change will come soon.'
'Spoils of war matey, have a lot to answer for don't they? It's about time we got back to work. Otherwise 'The Guv' will fire us for idlin'', the Boer War veteran said.
Work carried on and the snagging was nearing its end. Alf had told Peter that he would have work until the end of the month and then he and the remaining tradesmen would be paid off. But he emphasised that the last day would be the best day. It would be a day of pomp and circumstance, brass bands and the Lord Mayor of London would be putting in an appearance. The day when a building gets signed off, Alf said, is always a grand day. He stressed for those who had been there from the beginning to the end, it kind of drew a line under everything.
At another of their all too frequent, soul-searching, lunchtime conversations. Peter asked Alf a question; a question that he'd been dying to ask for the last few weeks.
'What's it like to fight in a war?'
'Well I'll tell you mate. I thought it was always going to be a privilege to fight for Queen and Country. But what I saw forced me to reconsider.'
Peter felt that maybe he had gone too far, that maybe he had touched on a tender nerve. He looked across towards Alf. Alf was now looking at the ground; his boot was nervously playing with the dirt.
Alf continued, 'See I was young then. I wanted to see the world and the only way I could see it was to either join the army or the navy. I didn't like the idea of being stuck on a boat for three months. So I joined up and joined the Middlesex Regiment. Army to you son! I joined in ninety eight, and, by the time I'd finished me training, I was in time for the Boer war!'
Peter listened intently. The charge-hand had recomposed himself and was now finding his stride.
'It's been five years since I came out, but it still troubles me what I saw down in South Africa. It still troubles me a lot. I got on a troop ship from Dover and we disembarked in Cape Town. We were told that it was all going to be over in a month. In fact if we didn't step on it we might miss the action. When I think back on it now, I thinks to meself, how stupid we were! We were put on trains and we went on up country. Four days later we disembarked on the Veldt. Rolling grassland: North; East; South and West; goes on forever, we marched over it; all you could hear was the sound of the breeze blowing over this sea of grass. Then you heard it, in the distance, you could hear it. The sound of a shot, then another. Then there would be silence. Then another shot. At first we weren't that bothered by it. But it went on and on, you would be marching and there would be a loud crack of them 'Mauser' rifles and you would see one of your mates drop down dead in front of you. See, I remember the drill sergeant saying that an army fights on its stomach. But I'll tell you, Peter, the water was bad and so was the meat ...'
'But what was it like to fight the enemy?' Peter said.
'Well I'll tell yer. It's grim, for the most part we were fighting an unseen enemy. Distant silhouettes on horseback, twos and threes, on the horizon. They weren't no ordinary army like we were. They were known as irregulars; basically they was civilians, given a gun and told to take a pot shot at us. And that's exactly what they did most of the time. They would lay up and wait for you, take a shot; then they would jump up on their horses and clear off. That's what it was like every day! Every day! After a while it gets to you. You gets to thinking that you can't take anymore, but for the oath and all of that, you keep on going. There but for the grace of god go I, you know what I mean lad. But when you gets one of them up close, so close as you can see the whites of their eyes; so that you can see the fear on his face as you stick him with your bayonet and you are pissing your pants thinking if I don't do something now he's going to run me through. That's tough Peter, that's very tough indeed!
'But you still haven't told me,' Peter said.
'There's a kind of unwritten law Peter. I suppose it's a mark of respect for the fallen, comrade in arms, even if he does fight for the other side. It's personal, you keeps it to yourself; if you really want to know, you will have to fight in a war yourself. It's different for everyone, that's all I can say mate. But I tell you one thing I found out Peter, you don't think about Queen and Country, you just think of your mates! He looks out for your back and you look out for his! That's all that matters ... fuck Queen Victoria!
The day of the signing off ceremony was a strange one. Peter had had the feeling that at times he was being watched. Initially he had put it down to paranoia, but more recently he'd had the distinct feeling that he was being watched. Maybe it was all those years spent dodging the Okhrana. In his mind you just got a feeling for it, it was a sixth sense and there was definitely that feeling.
Mid-morning people had started t
o arrive at Compstone, Compstone, Compstone & Weeks new building on the corner of ... The band was striking up a nice Polonaise and the Lord Mayor was strutting around in all of his finery. Peter had decided to attach himself to Alfred Horner; the two of them stood at the back and made small talk. There was a tap on the upper part of his leg, Peter ignored it, but the tap tapped again. He looked down, to see a small street urchin staring up at him.
Before he could say anything the boy said, 'Bin' told ter give yer this.'
The boy thrust the note into his hand and, no sooner had he done so, then the brat was gone. Peter read the note.
Peter, the vacant seat has now been filled! Time to come home!
GG
'Alf, something urgent has happened. I have to go ... I will be in touch.'
With that, he screwed the letter up into a tight ball; got his things together and left. Alfred Horner would never see Peter Piaktow again, but he would hear all about what Peter did. Fortunately for Peter he would never put 'Two' and 'Two' together.
Chapter Seventeen
When she was a child, Nina Milstein had but one ambition in life. She wanted to be an actress. Miss Milstein also prided herself on the fact that she was a survivor. She had learned the hard way. The one lesson that life had taught her, was that everyone had their price. After the nineteen hundred and five revolutions, Nina had discovered, shortly after 'The Okhrana' had 'Turned'[19] her, that everyone had theirs; hers was freedom at any price. So a deal had been struck with an Auguste Gerhardt, that she would supply him regularly with information on Latvian revolutionaries and, in return she would be left alone. Occasionally she might be ruffed up, but that was purely for effect; she went on to become one of his prized agents.