by Glenn Meade
“We fear the prisoners scrambled aboard a train that passed here not five minutes ago. We’re carrying out a head count to check if they were alone.”
Yakov fumed. “Someone’s going to pay dearly for this. A firing squad if need be.”
“Commissar, we’re stoking the engine as we speak. Your driver says he can have a head of steam up within the next fifteen minutes.”
“He better work bloody faster than that if we’re to catch up.”
They came toward the end of the carriages and Yakov saw a circle of his Red Guards, a few carrying kerosene lamps. Some appeared dumbfounded, dread on their faces as he approached.
Yakov stuck his hands on his hips as he fixed them with a livid stare. “Why are you all standing around like dolts?”
The officer spoke. “Commissar, Andrev attacked two of our men when he escaped. One was Sergeant Mersk; he was almost strangled. The second man was stabbed to death.”
The circle of guards parted to reveal Mersk, who stood holding on to a carriage for support, looking pale as death and massaging his neck. Then one of the guards lowered his storm lamp, and the yellow light washed over a dead body lying twisted in the snow.
“Stanislas …” Yakov uttered his brother’s name in disbelief, and his heart jolted as he felt a lump in his throat that almost choked him. A crimson wound stained the back of his brother’s greatcoat, his face lifeless.
Mersk babbled hoarsely, “It was Andrev who did this, Commissar. He tried to strangle me and I almost passed out. Andrev took my knife and stuck your brother like a pig, then he and Tarku escaped.”
For a few brief moments Yakov looked numbed, an unreality to it all, and then he fell to his knees, clasped his brother to his chest, and rocked him back and forth in his arms. “Dear God. No … !” his voice cracked.
And then it sounded as if a terrible wound had opened and Yakov threw back his head and screamed, a haunting shriek of anguish that came from the very depths of his soul and seemed to echo without end in the frozen darkness.
PART TWO
15
LONDON
MAY 18, 1918
3:30 A.M.
It was raining that morning and still dark as the uniformed guards waved the dark green Rolls-Royce through the gates of Buckingham Palace. The car tires sloshed over rain-drenched cobble as the chauffeur drove toward the rear and halted within a private courtyard.
The driver climbed out and opened the back passenger door, and a small, sickly-looking man with bug eyes and an oversized nose stepped out into the rain.
Wearing a top hat, an elegant long black overcoat, and a silk scarf, he looked up at the distant night sky over London’s East End, his gaze drawn to two huge German zeppelins, their silver cigar shapes suspended in the glare of searchlights. The air erupted with the deafening explosions of British anti-aircraft artillery and the shriek of air raid sirens.
The zeppelins usually came during darkness to drop their bombs before they scuttled back across the North Sea.
Explosive flashes lit up the night as a palace aide, a plainclothes Guards’ officer, came forward and escorted the man into an oak-beamed hall. The officer helped him remove his overcoat, hat, and scarf. “Good morning, Mr. Ambassador. Another air raid, I’m afraid. It’s good to see you again, sir.”
There’s nothing much good about it, the man thought. “Is the king awake yet?” His accent was unmistakably American. North Carolina to be precise.
“Yes, sir. Allow me to take you to him.”
He followed the officer along a warren of passageways until they came to a paneled door. The aide stepped inside, flicked on an electric table light, and gestured to a nearby armchair. “I hope you’ll be comfortable, sir. I doubt that His Majesty will keep you waiting long.”
The officer withdrew, closing the door. The American slumped into the armchair and coughed, clearing his chest, clogged as usual from a ten-a-day cigar habit. He was in an anteroom to the king’s study, heavy with period furniture and oil paintings.
On a dais was a bronze bust of a drab-faced Queen Victoria, the walls adorned with paintings of kings and queens long dead, their portraits adding gravitas to the monarch’s office. The visitor had waited here on many occasions but none so early as this cold, wet May morning.
Walter Hines Page, U.S. ambassador to the Court of St. James’s, was beset by anxiety. He heard footsteps, slipped on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, stood, and checked himself in one of the wall mirrors.
His bespoke dark suit with tails and his waistcoat were immaculate, his body smelling faintly of soap after the steaming shower he’d taken soon after being wakened by a transatlantic telephone call. The report he received during that ten-minute call had carved deep worry lines into his skin.
He looked down at the black leather attaché case handcuffed to his right hand, and which was the cause of his distress. By nature a restless man, Page felt sweat rise on his brow as he thought about the contents. Glancing up, he saw the bronze bust of Queen Victoria stare back at him. Her dour face seemed to scold him for what he was about to deliver. The bad news is not my fault, ma’am, I’m only the messenger.
Outside, he heard the distant cracks of more explosions as the door opened and the officer reappeared. “His Majesty will see you right away, Mr. Ambassador.”
16
They were seated in the paneled study, a log stove blazing, the king at his desk, the Union Jack in a glass-and-wood frame on the wall behind. It was a battle-tattered flag that Page was sure had some historical significance, but that morning he didn’t care a hoot to ask.
The king wore a crumpled silk dressing gown and his sad, hound dog eyes looked puffy from lack of sleep. The uncanny likeness of King George V to his cousin Tsar Nicholas of Russia always unsettled Page. The men could have been twins—with identical features, matching beards and mustaches.
A silver tray with china cups, milk, sugar, and pots of fresh coffee and tea were placed on the desk. The king was in good spirits despite the air raid and dug a hand into his dressing gown pocket as he glanced beyond a leaded window, the night sky sparking with muffled explosive flashes.
“Take a seat, Walter. It sounds as if our anti-aircraft boys are having a busy night of it. Coffee or tea? Help yourself.”
“Coffee, thank you. I do apologize for waking you, Majesty,” Page replied in his mannerly southern twang.
“Your call to my aide said it was most urgent.” The king noted the handcuffs locked to the briefcase. “A bit dramatic, the bracelets, aren’t they, Walter?”
“I think you’ll understand when I explain, Majesty.”
Page unlocked his attaché case with a key from his waistcoat. Removing an envelope from the case, he unfolded the single page inside. “I received a phone call from President Wilson at two a.m. Our conversation concerned a secret coded telegram the president sent to my office prior to his call. He ordered me to reveal the contents to you personally, along with his instruction to discuss with you certain grave matters. I have here the decoded telegram. Perhaps you might care to read it, Majesty?”
The king frowned, took the page, and read:
FROM: PRESIDENT WILSON. REPORT URGENTLY TO HIS MAJESTY:
OUR AGENT CODE-NAMED DIMITRI CONFIRMS THAT THE TSAR AND HIS FAMILY—WIFE ALEXANDRA, DAUGHTERS OLGA, MARIA, TATIANA, ANASTASIA, AND SON, ALEXEI—WERE REUNITED IN THE SIBERIAN CITY OF EKATERINBURG ON MAY 23RD, AFTER BEING SEPARATED AT TOBOLSK.
DIMITRI SECURED INFORMATION FROM A TRUSTED HIGH-RANKING SOVIET OFFICIAL, WHO BELIEVES THE BOLSHEVIKS INTEND TO EXECUTE THE TSAR AND HIS FAMILY, DESPITE SECRET NEGOTIATIONS WITH THE ALLIES. INFORM HIS MAJESTY OF OTHER POINTS TO BE DISCUSSED. AWAIT CONFIRMATION INSTRUCTIONS HAVE BEEN FOLLOWED.
The king looked up, his voice husky. “You’re sure about the message concerning Nikki and the family? You know how notoriously unreliable the telegraph can be.”
“The message was resent three times to avoid ambiguity.”
The king sighed and handed bac
k the page. “If you don’t mind my asking, who the devil is Dimitri?”
“Our top agent in Russia. He managed to get close to the Romanovs for a time, by befriending Princess Anastasia before the Bolsheviks imprisoned the family.”
“He must have a death wish, dashing around Russia at a time like this.”
The United States, like Britain and Germany, had its share of spies in Russia. Since the Bolshevik uprising, nations had sent dozens of their intelligence operatives into the country to keep them abreast of the looming civil war.
The king sipped from his cup. “Not that I’d know much about our own agents. Sometimes I think my prime minister deliberately keeps me in the dark, fearing I’ll interfere. But if it’s true about Nikki?”
“I’m told we can take it as gospel, sir. Lenin’s fraught, his regime is being battered on all fronts. And desperate men take desperate measures. Besides, our agent’s reports have proven highly accurate in the past. His intelligence gathering is absolutely first-class.”
“That disturbs me. Nikki may not be the wisest of kings, but I’ve always known him to be a good man.”
Page didn’t care all that much personally for the Russian tsar—his own opinion was that recent events were chickens coming home to roost. Among most diplomats, the tsar had a reputation as a decent enough man. But Page considered him a weak fool who had allowed himself to be manipulated by Russia’s corrupt elite for their own ends.
Millions of working-class citizens had been kept in check by the Ochrana, the state’s brutal secret police: dissenters were purged, exiled to Siberian penal camps, tortured, or shot, while the tsar stood by like a dolt.
Page said, “I’m pretty sure it will disturb everyone, sir. But we face greater dangers. Since Lenin seized power we’ve all been biting our nails. We know that he’s in negotiations with the Germans to pull Russia out of the conflict. That would be devastating for us. The Germans could free up their divisions from the eastern front and move them west. The war could drag on for years.”
The king sighed and put down his cup. “You hardly need to remind me.”
“And then there’s the gold.”
“I was wondering when you’d get to that.”
Page said, “Britain accepted millions in gold bullion from the tsar for safekeeping, to make sure Russia’s reserves didn’t fall into Red hands if they seized power. A wise move as it turned out.”
Russia had the largest gold reserves in the world. Over sixty million pounds in gold bars had been shipped to vaults in Britain and Canada for safekeeping—a vast amount. Another forty million was deposited in Swiss banks.
The king took a silver box from the mantelpiece and lit a cigarette with a match. “We need that gold, Walter. Without it, the expense of the war will ruin us. But what’s your point?”
“Now that the Reds are in power, and they’ve found the coffers almost empty, they’ll want the gold back. This leaves America in something of a dilemma.”
“Go on.”
“We’ve loaned Russia millions to buy weapons for their war effort. They don’t just owe us, sir, but everyone. Look at France, for heaven’s sake. Half of all French households have purchased tsarist bonds. But the Reds could refuse to pay us all back. Or tell us to go to Britain instead and take it out of the gold.”
The king balked. “They could do that?”
“Lenin’s already discovered that his country’s in hock up to its ears. It’s bound to be part of his strategy. If Britain doesn’t pay, there’s a risk the American banking system would collapse under the strain.”
“It’s a complete mess.”
“And a two-edged sword. Give back the gold and you help the Bolsheviks and create a huge financial crisis in Europe. The simple fact is that Britain won’t have enough bullion to match its paper money. Your country will be bankrupt. How will you pay for munitions, weapons, your troops’ wages?”
“All right, don’t rub it in.”
Page stood. “Those are the simple facts, Majesty. We both know that Prime Minister Lloyd George is gravely concerned. However, my president has some thoughts on the subject and wanted you to hear them in private, without involving the prime minister.”
“What thoughts?”
“We know that the Reds haven’t got a firm grasp on power just yet and that the White royalist forces still haven’t given up the fight. We know that British troops will soon control several northern Russian ports and that American marines will join them shortly, to try to put a stop to the Reds’ gallop.”
The king warmed his hands at the stove and picked up his cup. “Your point being?”
“The game is still to play for. If we could get the Russian royal family out of the country, help bolster the Whites with weapons and training, and cut off all support to the Bolsheviks—create a stranglehold if you like—then it might be possible to defeat Lenin.”
The king looked horrified. “You know that I can’t publicly take sides. The Romanovs are a thorny issue—Lloyd George warned me not to grant my own relatives asylum. He claims that international propaganda has been mounted against the Romanovs by militant socialists. If I take a hand in their rescue it would cause street riots.”
“I’m talking about hidden hands, sir. Nothing to do with the politicians. But it would have to be kept totally secret and it would have to be done fast. We must find the right people who are daring enough to devise a rescue plan and execute it swiftly. My president wanted me to convey to you that any suggestions you might care to make would, of course, be treated with the utmost confidence.”
Page waited for a response but he didn’t get the one he expected. Instead, the king actually smiled and put down his cup. Page said in his charming North Carolina lilt, “I’m afraid I fail to see the humor, sir.”
“Tell me, do you believe in coincidence? My wife believes in all that rot but I didn’t. Not until now.”
“I don’t understand.”
The king stroked his beard. “You’ve heard about the rescue of the Romanian royals from Odessa some months ago, as well as the actress Hanna Volkov?”
“Of course. They were spirited out of Russia but no one knows quite how.”
The abduction of members of the Romanian nobility and a famous Russian stage actress from a hotel on the Black Sea had made international headlines. Held prisoner by a gang of Odessa Bolsheviks, the entourage was mysteriously freed from under their captors’ noses, only to reappear unharmed in Bucharest.
Page added, “I was relieved Hanna Volkov was freed. Didn’t she retire from the stage and marry some filthy rich Russian?”
“Yes, but knowing Hanna it had to be for love, not money. And the truth is she retired only when the Reds started to tell theater managers what plays to stage. Hanna didn’t like that; she’s a true liberal.”
“I saw her on Broadway once. She’s a gifted actress.”
“She’s much more than that, Walter. You don’t know the half of it.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“I’ll arrange for you to meet her. And the man responsible for her rescue. He’s quite a character. Definitely one of life’s adventurers. And able to think on his feet like nobody else I know.”
“Majesty?”
The king put a hand on Page’s shoulder. “Let’s take a stroll. I think it’s time I told you about a very remarkable but possibly insane Irish-Canadian named Joe Boyle.”
17
IRELAND
Ten miles north of Dublin, sheltered on one side by dramatic three-hundred-foot cliffs topped by a white-painted lighthouse, lies the busy fishing village of Howth.
A trading port since the fourteenth century, it attracted fierce invaders down through the centuries: the Vikings, the Normans, and finally the British. The latter’s occupation of Ireland had already lasted for over six hundred years, every successive Irish rebellion met with swift and harsh resistance by the mighty sovereign empire.
That same morning just before ten, two fit-looking me
n in civilian clothes sat in a covered black Model T Ford. They watched the bustling harbor as dozens of brightly painted trawlers chugged into port with their day’s catch, followed by noisy flocks of seagulls.
“Any sign of her yet?” Jackson, the taller of the two, wrinkled his nose, the harbor stinking of dead fish. He had a sharp, devious face, a black pencil mustache, and wore his hair brilliantined, the butt of a Webley revolver just visible in a shoulder holster under his overcoat.
His companion, Smith, his hair cut razor-tight under his cloth cap, was an ape of a man, a former bare-knuckle fighter from Manchester who had once beaten a man to death in the ring. He sat in the driver’s seat and watched the harbor with binoculars.
Both men were British military intelligence working out of Dublin Castle, their task to keep a check on Irish republicanism. It was a job military intelligence often carried out with extreme brutality, and worse was yet to come when Churchill freed legions of hardened criminals from British jails, promising them a pardon in return for helping to crush the Irish uprising.
Smith said, “I see it, Captain. A blue and white trawler with a black funnel a mile or so out to sea and heading our way. It’s the Marie-Ann, I’d take bets.”
Jackson raised his own binoculars and scanned the waters beyond the harbor. He spotted the vessel trailing a plume of muddy gray engine smoke as it powered its way toward port. “Good. Let’s go fetch Boyle.”
“Speak of the devil, sir,” Smith said.
Jackson turned to look toward the road that ran along Howth harbor. It was peppered with fishmongers’ shops, guesthouses, and tearooms, all dominated by an imposing white-painted hotel, the St. Lawrence. A tall, striking-looking man stepped out of the lobby, sidestepped a moving trolley bus, and strode briskly toward them. He was about fifty, tall, with broad shoulders, his tailored suit crisply pressed, and he wore a brown felt hat.
Smith watched him approach. “What exactly is Boyle up to, sir?”