by Glenn Meade
Most were of a striking young woman, some quite obviously posed. In one the woman was dressed in a flowing white robe, the photograph taken on a theater stage. Lydia picked it up, said to Boyle, “Hanna Volkov?”
“Yes. Chekhov said she was the only actress he trusted to play the lead in Three Sisters.”
“She looks like she could be in love with herself, and a bit of a diva.”
Boyle laughed. “Now there you’d be wrong. Hanna’s the most sensible woman you could meet, with not an ounce of pretension. Onstage, of course, she’s whatever persona she’s playing. Are you a theater lover?”
Lydia put down the photograph. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Boyle, there’s enough drama in my own life.”
Boyle smiled and put the kettle on the stove just as Hanna entered the room, her hair down around her shoulders, her face flushed.
Boyle said, “Speak of the devil.”
“Forgive me for being late. I was helping Mr. Andrev get his bearings.”
“Isn’t he with you?”
“He decided to make the most of the afternoon, but he’ll join us shortly.” Hanna’s gaze turned from Boyle to their visitor and she thrust out her hand. “You must be Lydia. I’m Hanna Volkov. It’s good to meet you.”
Lydia ignored the offered hand. “Boyle explained who you are. Whose idea was it to involve me? Yours or his?”
Hanna withdrew her hand, acutely aware of the tension in the air. “We can talk about that another time. Has Mr. Boyle gone over the sleeping arrangements?”
“He’s gone over nothing.”
“The two bedrooms in the back are for you and Mr. Andrev. I’ve left fresh towels and soap. Once you all get acquainted, you and I have important work to discuss, so come up to the manor house, Miss Ryan.”
“What sort of work?”
Hanna didn’t explain and moved to the door. “I’ll be expecting you and Mr. Andrev to join us at dinner each night in the main house, eight o’clock sharp.”
Hanna went out and Boyle raised an eyebrow at Lydia. “I’d say that went well, wouldn’t you?”
“Are you trying to be funny, Boyle?”
“Aren’t you the quick-tempered one?” He grabbed two mugs, slapped them on the table next to a sugar bowl and milk jug. “By the way, is that arm of yours on the mend?”
“Why?”
“I’ve left provisions in the kitchen cabinets, so it might do no harm for you to play the caring role and prepare a bit of lunch for Mr. Andrev. Get things off to a friendly start.”
Lydia flushed. “Are you trying to goad me, Boyle? Because you’re well on your way. I won’t be ordered around like some kind of domestic servant, as you and your lady friend seem to think I am.”
Boyle heaped two spoonfuls of tea from a greaseproof packet into an enamel teapot and poured in boiling water from the kettle before he put it down. “We have your best interests at heart. Being the actress that she is, Hanna thought it would be a good role-playing exercise for you and Uri to spend as much time together as possible, to get to know each other. A few cozy nights in, walks together, that sort of thing. I must say I agree.”
“Do you now?”
Boyle moved closer and took a fistful of Lydia’s thick hair in his hand, then let it fall and stepped back. “One other thing. Put your hair up, it’ll look better. And wear a little face powder to get rid of that flushed look you’ve got on your complexion right now. It doesn’t do you justice.”
Lydia fumed, picked up a plate from the table, and flung it at Boyle. He ducked and the crockery smashed to pieces against the wall. Lydia picked up another plate, was about to throw it when a man’s voice said, “I’d be careful or someone’s liable to get hurt.”
Lydia froze, the raised plate in her hand as she turned to the speaker.
Andrev stood in the doorway, leaning against the door frame, his hair dripping wet, his shirt drenched and clinging to his chest. As he came in he grabbed a towel from a kitchen rail and began to dry his hair.
Lydia felt something primitive stir inside her. It was a strange feeling, delicious and frightening almost at once, and she struggled to suppress it.
Boyle said, “You must be Uri.”
Andrev’s face illuminated with a smile of great natural charm. “I thought I’d take a swim, it was the perfect day for it. Only it seems I’m missing all the drama. You’re Boyle?”
Boyle shook the offered hand, sizing up his visitor. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. Welcome on board. Say hello to Miss Ryan.”
When Andrev offered her his hand, Lydia didn’t hold out hers, if only because she was aware that it would have trembled. As she looked into his face her stomach felt hollow, her throat dry, and for once she was unable to speak. The attraction was instant, like a crack of thunder.
Boyle said to her, “Well, are you going to throw that plate or not? Make up your mind.”
That seemed to be the last straw. Lydia let fly, and the plate smashed into pieces against the wall, barely missing Boyle. She stormed out, banging the door after her.
“I’m hoping that plate wasn’t part of a set,” Boyle said, unscrewing a pewter hip flask he took from his pocket and handing it to Andrev. “Don’t worry about her. Here—try a real Irish welcome. Whiskey. Uisce beatha in Gaelic. That means ‘the water of life.’” Boyle winked. “Keep the flask, in case of emergencies.”
Andrev swallowed a mouthful, then moved to the window and watched Lydia hurry across the lawn. “She’s got spirit, I’ll give her that. Did I say something wrong?”
Boyle joined him. “I’d say that was me. She’s a fiery lass. It’s the Spanish blood in the Irish, I always say. They’re the Latins of the north and thrive on a good argument.”
“Is that so?”
“A lot like your own people.”
Boyle smiled broadly, picked up the teapot, and began pouring tea into the two mugs. “Let’s you and I have some tea and I’ll tell you all about her.”
“What’s so amusing, Mr. Boyle?”
“Me? I’m just looking on the bright side, Uri.”
“And what’s that?”
“That it’s you who’s going into Russia with her and not me.”
42
Lydia had no idea where she was going, her mind unable to focus after she left the cottage. Her brain was a fog, her heart racing. It was a long time since she felt that kind of instant reaction to a man, and she couldn’t explain it in any rational way.
She felt flustered as she ran across the lawns to the manor house front steps. Ahead of her was a shiny black door with a brass knocker. Before she could reach the door it opened and Hanna Volkov appeared. “There you are. I take it you met Mr. Andrev?”
“Briefly.”
“You’ll be spending every waking hour together from now on, so you two better get used to each other’s company. Come inside.”
Hanna led them into a black-and-white tiled hallway, dominated by a sweeping staircase and huge chandelier. “Like many Irish manor houses, this one was built by the English aristocracy, an eighteenth-century earl no less. But I doubt you’ll want a history lesson.”
“I know enough about the English stealing Irish land, thank you.”
A wry smile appeared on Hanna’s face. “I had a feeling you might say something like that. This way.”
They moved up the staircase and when they came to the top, Lydia said, “Boyle told me who you are. I saw you onstage when I was sixteen.”
“Really?”
“Our headmistress took our class to see The Three Sisters at St. Petersburg’s Imperial Theater. You played a lead role.”
“And what did you think of the play?”
“I thought it was a lot of brooding old nonsense, seeing as you asked.”
Hanna let out a hearty laugh as they moved along the hallway. “At least you’re honest. Not exactly my best performance, but as an eager young actress of twenty-three I’d never have thought it back then.”
“Where
are you taking me?”
Hanna halted outside a door and reached for the handle. “I can only hope that you paid attention during your theater visit, Miss Ryan.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re going to need some acting skills for your journey. In fact, think of the next few days as rehearsals. We’ll strictly speak in Russian from now on, if you don’t mind. To do otherwise as a spy in Russia could cost you your life.”
They stepped into a bedroom with a huge period fireplace. A mahogany four-poster bed was set in the middle, the drapes a rich burgundy.
On the bed lay a cheap suitcase with leather straps. It looked out of place in the imposing room. Hanna undid the straps.
Inside were ladies’ garments: blouses and skirts, underwear, and a few plain headscarves, along with two pairs of sturdy-looking women’s boots. “These are personal effects for the journey. All the clothes are Russian-made. I think they ought to fit you. Try them on for size.”
“Now?” Lydia answered in Russian.
“No time like the present.”
Lydia plucked out a few clothes. They looked the kind of coarse garments a peasant might wear. She undressed down to her underwear and tried on the garments.
Hanna checked them for fitting. “Not bad. Your Russian’s excellent, by the way.”
“What about identity documents?”
“I was coming to that.” Hanna produced a set of papers and some items from the suitcase.
Lydia saw that they were travel documents and an identity card, a wad of Russian banknotes and some coins in a cloth purse, along with a fob watch.
Hanna handed them across. “The watch will come in useful. Later, Boyle will go over your background cover story. Familiarize yourself with it.”
“Thanks to you and Boyle I don’t have much choice, do I?”
Hanna said evenly, “You asked whose idea it was to involve you. It was mine. I heard about you through Vasily, my husband—he’s the one who arranged for you to work as a governess for the Romanovs. Naturally, when we needed someone, I thought of you, even if it turned out that you’d made yourself a career smuggling guns.”
“You have a problem with that?”
“No, quite the opposite—it showed courage. But the British certainly resented your work. You were on their wanted list. In fact, you and your brother would likely be dead by now if it weren’t for Boyle. He managed to convince the right people of your usefulness. And permit me an observation: don’t you think it’s time you took off that suit of armor you wear?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve been long enough an actress to know that we all hide our true selves. It’s part of our natural defense mechanism. But with you, I think it goes even deeper. There’s a wound buried inside you that you’re hiding. It makes you angry with the world and it makes you defensive. The sooner you confront it, the better.”
Lydia blushed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I? Very well, have it your way. Just one more thing, Miss Ryan. And I gave Uri the same warning I’m about to give you.”
“What’s that?”
“Where you’re going is a kind of hell. There’s terror on the streets of Russia and police informers everywhere. Innocent victims are arrested at random. Men, women, children are thrown into prison cellars for the slightest reason, and some are even executed.”
“What’s your point?”
“Once you cross over that border, trust no one but yourself and Uri. Measure every word you speak. The smallest error on your part, the wrong answer to a Red soldier or a secret policeman, could have dire consequences.”
“I’m no fool. I understand.”
“Make sure you do. Your life and the lives of those you’ll try to rescue could depend on it.”
43
EKATERINBURG
Sorg’s wound felt on fire.
Stopping in an empty alleyway, he leaned against the wall. He wore his black overcoat to hide his blood-drenched shirt, and the heat was unbearable. He pulled up his shirt to examine his side.
Blood dribbled from a purple gash. He pressed his shirt to the wound, but it didn’t stop the bleeding, just caused him a knifing pain that made him almost pass out.
He needed to find medical attention or he’d die. But almost every street he entered he saw armed Red Guards patrolling the sidewalks, and so he was forced to keep to the backstreets.
Sorg hurried on, sweat drenching his clothes. His legs began to hurt and his wound throbbed. Eventually he came to his destination and stopped to rest against a wall.
Across the street was a huge convent with whitewashed walls and enormous blue and gold minarets topped by the Russian cross. A Red Cross ambulance was parked on the street.
The Novo-Tikhvinsky Convent was famous—a vast complex staffed by over a thousand nuns who ran almshouses, an orphan asylum, workshops, a school, and a hospital. Their hospital was on another side of the square, but Sorg felt too exhausted to reach it.
He approached a wide archway with an oak door, the ancient wood split with cracks, a wrought-iron crucifix nailed above it.
Sorg summoned all his energy and yanked a bellpull on a rope. Tinkling sounded beyond the doors, mixed with the raucous sounds of noisy children.
He heard footsteps approach. A bolt scraped, a peephole opened in the door, and like a vision, there appeared the beautiful face of a young nun wearing a black wimple. “Yes?”
“I—I need your help, sister,” Sorg said weakly.
“It’s late,” the nun answered. “We only tender alms to the needy before noon, not at this hour.”
“I don’t need charity, Sister—”
The peephole banged shut.
Sorg gritted his teeth as an agonizing pain blossomed in his side. He touched his shirt and his fingers felt drenched.
The whole thing was a disaster.
I’m afraid I’m going to die, he thought.
I want to see Anastasia again.
A second later his senses faded, his eyelids fluttered, and he was engulfed by a black tidal wave.
COLLON, IRELAND
The shooting range was in an old paddock at the back of the manor.
Boyle laid out a Nagant revolver and two boxes of ammunition on a trestle table. Fifteen yards out was a line of five tin cans, inches apart.
While Lydia and Andrev looked on, Boyle began to load rounds into the revolver. “No doubt you know it but this is a Nagant, the standard sidearm for the Russian army. It can be deadly enough up close but like most handguns, it’s not very accurate beyond ten or fifteen yards unless you’re a marksman.”
Boyle cocked the Nagant. “You’ll have one each for your journey. That said, if at any time you think the weapon’s going to cause you trouble, get rid of it at once. Guns are everywhere in Russia these days. With a little ingenuity you’ll get your hands on another.”
Boyle aimed and fired in one fluid movement, snapping off seven shots and hitting four of the five cans. “I’ve done better.”
He reloaded the revolver and handed it to Lydia. “The lady’s turn.”
“Do I have to, Boyle?”
“No, you don’t, but practice makes perfect.”
Lydia accepted the Nagant.
Boyle said, “You want to line those cans up again, Uri?”
Andrev walked out to the tin cans. He replaced four of the cans but before he could set down the last one, Lydia’s right hand came up wielding the gun and she called out, “Stay exactly where you are. Don’t move a hair.”
She fired four shots in quick succession, sending the cans on the ground skittering across the grass. Then she called out to Andrev, “Toss the last one in the air, to your right, away from you.”
“Are you joking? Hitting a moving target that size with a Nagant isn’t easy.”
“Toss it.”
Andrev lobbed the can through the air. Lydia’s Nagant cracked, sending the can skewing before it landed in t
he grass. The moment it did, Lydia fired another two rounds, each puncturing the metal.
Boyle said, astonished, “How the heck did you learn to shoot like that?”
Lydia ejected the spent cartridges and laid the weapon on the table. “A misspent childhood on a Kentucky farm, Boyle. My father believed that a woman should always be able to defend herself.”
Boyle tipped back his hat. “I suppose you know that you just broke every safety rule on the range?”
“I know the rules, Mr. Boyle. And when to break them, don’t you worry.” And with that Lydia turned and strode back up to the manor.
Boyle looked on, speechless.
Andrev smiled. “Now there’s a woman who knows how to look after herself.”
44
Dinner was a simple affair in the manor’s kitchen. Hanna served roasted chicken, potatoes, and cabbage, followed by dessert of stewed apples and custard. Boyle opened a bottle of Burgundy and when they finished their meal he stood and filled their glasses from a decanter of port. “I think the fact that we’ve managed to get this far calls for a special celebration. Drink up.”
Andrev said, “Who are you, Boyle? Who are you working for? Isn’t it time we knew?”
Boyle placed a foot on the chair and rested a hand on his knee. “I’m a businessman, an adventurer, a man of too many parts for my own good. I made my fortune in the Klondike gold rush in Canada and used part of it to invest in railways, about which I managed to acquire considerable expertise. That led to the Russian provisional government asking me to help organize their entire railway system, which was a badly run mess. Later, I did the same for the Bolsheviks.”
Lydia said, puzzled, “You worked for the Reds?”
Boyle’s jaw was set in an angry look. “Until I witnessed their brutality—entire towns destroyed, villages wiped out, their inhabitants executed. The low point came when I visited a town where a thirteen-year-old boy had the audacity to hang a royalist flag on the local square. A Red commissar had the child put up against a wall and shot him, then hung the body from a telegraph pole as a warning to others.