by Glenn Meade
Trotsky’s lips twisted in a mocking grin. “We believe it may be an old friend of yours. A Captain Uri Andrev.”
Yakov’s face drained.
Trotsky added, “According to Inspector Kazan, Andrev escaped from St. Petersburg on a vessel bound for England. His description matches the male passenger. Who his female companion is, we’ve no idea, but she speaks Russian.”
Yakov was rigid.
Lenin said, “This rescue can’t happen. I won’t allow it. Very soon we’ll finalize the Romanovs’ fate. We must ensure that they can never rule Russia again.”
Yakov asked quietly, “How can you be certain it’s Andrev?”
It was Trotsky who answered. “An Orthodox priest recruited by one of our cells in London identified him as likely one of the conspirators.”
Lenin placed a hand firmly on Yakov’s shoulders. “You know Andrev better than most. Such knowledge can work to our advantage. You’ll also have help from Inspector Kazan in Ekaterinburg. You’ll have absolute authority in this case, but he’ll act as your deputy.”
“Why him?”
“The inspector has his uses, and two heads are always better than one. The letter, Leon,” Lenin said.
Trotsky made a show of producing a sheet of paper from the desk. “If anyone doubts your authority, Comrade Lenin and I have signed an order. Study it.”
Yakov accepted the letter, and read.
“Commissar Leonid Yakov of the Cheka is acting on a mission of special importance. Should he demand assistance from any quarter, be it military or civil, it must be given without question. Anyone who fails to obey this order will be shot.” It was signed, “Vladimir Lenin and Leon Trotsky.”
Lenin gestured at the wall clock; it read 5:30 p.m. “It’s almost thirty-six hours since the crash. If a capable man like Andrev is involved, I imagine he’s made swift progress. He could be anywhere by now. But his file says that his wife and son are in Moscow.”
“Yes.”
“After Andrev’s escape you tracked him down to St. Petersburg. There was a confrontation, shots were fired, but he escaped.”
“A mistake on my part. It won’t happen again.”
Lenin hooked his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets and the steel that was never far from the surface flashed, his eyes glinting dangerously. “I know it won’t. I’m sure Inspector Kazan will make certain of that.”
Lenin stepped over to the window, looked out. “Your wife was a brave and loyal party member. A true martyr. It’s on her account I’m giving you another chance.”
Yakov said nothing, simply stared ahead.
Lenin turned back to face him. “You’ve made more than one mistake. But so did I, seeing that I was stupid enough to be swayed into showing Andrev mercy. Then he makes a fool of us both and escapes. But this time, there will be no mercy, you understand? This time, you liquidate him.”
63
MOSCOW
The overnight train from St. Petersburg clattered into the station just after ten that morning with a belch of steam and a squeal of brakes.
Andrev stepped down from the train and scanned the crowded Moscow station. Imperial gilded eagles still adorned the vaulted walls, some with scarlet banners hanging high above them. The platforms were crowded with unhappy-looking, shabbily dressed peasants with bundles of their belongings.
He saw no sign of any Cheka security or checkpoints. He pulled his cap down over his eyes and hefted his bag on his shoulder. “So far, so good.”
He clutched Lydia’s arm and guided her out the station entrance doors and across the busy street, crowded with horse carriages and motorized taxis, to a grim-looking beer hall where they found a window table. The place was packed with railway workers and passengers and a handful of off-duty soldiers.
The only menu offering was a watery stew made of horse meat and cabbage with cuts of black bread, which Andrev ordered for them both, along with a beer for himself and tea for Lydia.
When the surly waiter finally returned with their food and drinks, Andrev sipped his beer and saw that Lydia looked distracted. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s a miracle we’ve made it this far without being stopped or having our papers checked.”
“The crash won’t go unnoticed. If the mechanic survived he’s probably talked by now. That means they may be searching for us. At least he didn’t know our plans, but the crash of a big aircraft like the Muromets is bound to arouse suspicion. How’s your arm?”
“Bearable.” Lydia touched her bandaged left forearm, where a six-inch strip of her flesh had been scorched by metal debris from the aircraft blaze. Otherwise she was unhurt. In St. Petersburg, Andrev cleaned and dressed the burn with some alcohol, iodine salts, and cotton gauze they bought at a pharmacy, but the pain was still a dull throb. She felt exhausted.
They’d slept fitfully in the previous thirty-six hours, almost half of it spent on the crowded overnight train from St. Petersburg—even the few stinking toilets were occupied by passengers who had to be begged to vacate them when the lavatory was required. All during the night Lydia feared the train would be halted by the Cheka and searched.
The beer hall food tasted terrible—Lydia couldn’t even bring herself to eat the horse meat—and she pushed away her plate. She looked at the scene beyond the window. It was absurd. In the clutches of a brutal civil war, Moscow seemed so normal: the trams were running, cinemas were open, and on a nearby lamppost the Bolshoi Theater advertised an evening performance.
But the closer you looked you noticed the bullet-ridden buildings and the grim faces of passersby—everyone on the streets and in the beer hall seemed on edge, under duress. What few stores that were open had long lines, and most of the people were poorly dressed women with babies in their arms, others with children holding on to their skirts.
Andrev left his meal unfinished and stood. “There’s a street full of lodging houses not far from here. We’ll try to find a room and figure out our next step.”
The sign in the window of the Odessa Boardinghouse said “Comfortable, well-appointed rooms and running water” but in truth it was a shabby affair, badly in need of a paint job and the ceilings yellow from cigarette smoke.
The elderly owner who greeted them was a bony woman with warts on her cheeks, and she smelled of vodka. She led them up stone steps along a grimy passageway into a filthy bedroom with two rickety chairs and a greasy cupboard. The unwashed window offered a distant, murky view of the gilded domes of St. Basil’s and the Kremlin’s red walls. “It’s one ruble a night, clean sheets extra. Payment in advance.”
Lydia recoiled. The bedstead had no blankets, the floorboards were bare, and peeling paper hung in damp strips from the walls. She saw a parade of insects on the floor below the grimy window. “Thank you. We’ll take the sheets.”
“The shared bathroom’s down the hall. There’s a curfew at ten, mind you, on Bolshevik orders. And the electricity goes off pretty frequently, so be prepared with a candle.”
The woman showed them a ruin of a bathroom, then fetched a set of sheets before Andrev paid her and she left. He said to Lydia, “Not exactly home, but beggars can’t be choosers. Here, let me take a look at your arm.”
She sat on the bed and he removed the dressing and took the iodine, alcohol, and gauze from his bag and went to work. “You’ve really been through the wars, haven’t you? Shot at and now this. No way for a young woman to live.”
“Can I tell you a secret? When I volunteered for the republican movement, I was put to work as a courier, along with a handful of female volunteers. We used to smuggle ammunition and messages past British lines. I was never more terrified and death seemed a constant companion. But do you know the strangest thing? I never felt so alive. I loved every minute of it. I lived more in a day than I did in my entire life. Existence became real, and perilous and exciting. I couldn’t get enough.”
“Like a drug?”
“Yes. Sometimes when I was in danger, when I seemed to be staring death
right in the face, I’d get the oddest feeling. It’s as if I wanted to reach out and take his hand. Does that sound strange?”
Andrev shook his head and finished tying her dressing. “I remember my father telling me something he once read, that those who truly live are always on the edge of danger.”
“Were you close to him?”
“More than that. He was called up in the first three months of the war because of a shortage of medical doctors at the front, even though he was far past conscription age. He was badly gassed and invalided home a month later. Nina and I were with him when he died.”
She looked into his face, her emerald eyes dark, intense. “Tell me about you and your father.”
The question caught Andrev by surprise. “I was six when my mother died. An influenza outbreak plagued St. Petersburg. Her death devastated my father. He adored her, you see. We both did. What made it so poignant was that he was a doctor. His business was saving lives, but he couldn’t save my mother.”
“That must have been dreadful for him.”
“For a long time after her death I used to hear him crying in his room at night. He was desolate, inconsolable. Soon after he packed me off to relatives in Moscow for a time. I didn’t realize it but he was only trying to protect me, didn’t want me to see him so grief-stricken.”
Andrev looked straight at her. “I can still remember him waving good-bye from the station platform, and the sound of the train whistle the night I left for my relatives’. It always haunts me, that sound, it seemed to echo how lonely we both felt. But that’s life, isn’t it? It’s like a broken jigsaw puzzle. Somehow there’s always a piece missing.”
“And afterward? He didn’t remarry?”
“He should have. He was the kind of man who needed a woman’s love in his life. But instead he threw himself into his work. Sometimes he drank too much to forget his pain.”
Andrev stood as if to shake off the memory and reached across for his jacket. “We need to figure out how to reach Ekaterinburg without attracting too much attention.”
“How do we do that?”
He offered a smile. “I think it’s time I introduced you to an old friend of mine.”
64
The run-down street near the Trans-Siberian Railway station was home to some of Moscow’s busiest pawnbrokers.
The universal sign of three golden balls that hung outside the storefront had seen better days, the gilt paintwork flaking, the windows protected by rusting metal bars, but the sign behind the front door said Open for Business.
Andrev pushed in the door, Lydia behind him, and a bell tinkled overhead. They entered a cramped store, racks of garments hanging on poles suspended from the ceiling—everything from velvet ball gowns to working clothes.
Glass display cases contained an array of personal belongings: eyeglasses and watches, jewelry and rings, even a wooden leg.
Seated behind a counter protected by a metal trellis was a man with wire-rimmed glasses. Two of the fingertips on one hand were missing, and the frostbitten stumps were blackened flesh. He wore a dark, shabby suit flecked with cigarette ash, and he was engrossed in examining a ring with a jeweler’s eyepiece.
Andrev said, “How much for the typewriter in the front window?”
The man didn’t look up. “Fifty rubles and not one less. We don’t sell garbage here, you know. It’s an American Remington, the best.”
Andrev smiled. “You drive a hard bargain, Corporal Tarku.”
The man’s head came up and his jeweler’s loupe fell from his fingers, his mouth open in shock. “Well, I’ll be … ! Captain Andrev. What are you doing here?”
Andrev slipped shut the steel bolt that locked the front door and flipped over the Closed sign. “I need your help. Can we have a quiet word?”
Tarku came round from behind the counter and shook Andrev’s hand vigorously. “I never thought I’d see you again, Captain. You came at the right time. I’m usually working in the back, out of sight, but my boss is gone on business.”
Andrev gestured to Lydia. “A lady friend of mine, names are unimportant.”
“Of course, whatever you say.” Tarku inclined his head. “Enchanted, madame.” He slapped Andrev’s back. “This calls for a celebration. I’ve got a bottle of Ukrainian vodka that’ll make your nose bleed. Have a drink? You will. You must.”
A train whistled as it pulled out from the railway yard across the street, while Tarku rummaged for a vodka bottle in a desk drawer and wiped three small shot glasses with a handkerchief before he filled them to the brim. He handed out the glasses and raised his own. “A toast. May that power-hungry swine Lenin roast in hell. He promised bread and peace, and all we got was famine and civil war.”
Andrev knocked back his vodka in one gulp, slapped down the glass, and looked around the cluttered store. “How is life treating you these days?”
“A lot better than we endured together, Captain. And it’s safer here in a big city than in Kiev, easier to hide. I keep my head low.”
“Busy?”
“As a one-handed jockey with an itch. Everyone needs cash for something or other these days.” Tarku refilled his own glass. “What happened after we parted? Did you see your family?”
“Don’t ask me to explain, it’s complicated. Can you help me, Abraham?”
“Anything for an old comrade, especially you.” Tarku looked at Lydia. “He’s a true mensch, this one, to borrow from my Jewish friends. Always put his men first. Another drink, madame? A bear never walked on one paw.”
Tarku went to pour but Lydia placed a hand on top of her glass. “If I do I’ll be on the floor.”
“At least it’s clean, swept this morning. Captain?”
Andrev held out his glass. When it was refilled he wandered over to the window and peered at the railway yard, his mind ticking over.
A long line of cattle wagons were being loaded with supplies from trucks and horse-drawn carriages, the Red troops working busily. “Are the trains on time these days?”
“More or less. The Reds shot a few striking rail workers, which improved the service no end. Ironic, considering they once urged the same rail workers to strike to help Lenin seize power.”
“What about the trains to the Urals?”
Tarku shrugged and joined Andrev at the window. “Depends. The Trans-Siberian passenger ones aren’t always running on schedule. Troop reinforcements and carriages loaded with hospital supplies and ordnance seem to get priority these days. They run all night on Trotsky’s orders on account of his troops having a hard time of it against the Whites in the east. Don’t tell me you’re headed there to help the cause.”
“Maybe.”
“You wouldn’t be the only one. Ever since the tsar’s imprisonment, volunteers have been heading to the Urals. Including little old ladies, nobility, and religious people who want to be close to their former emperor. Insane, I know. The tsar’s finished.”
Andrev swallowed his vodka. “When exactly do the troop trains leave?”
“Usually in the evening, after ten. Why?”
Andrev considered, finished his vodka, and slapped down the glass. “The less you know the better, Abraham.”
“As you wish.”
Andrev looked up at the clothes racks. “Is this everything you have in the line of clothing?”
“Are you joking? We could clothe half of Moscow with the stuff we’ve got in the back.”
“I need a change. The lady, too. But first, I want to borrow that typewriter. Can you give me twenty minutes of privacy and some typing paper?”
“Paper, for what?”
“I have an important letter to type.”
65
The warehouse at the back of the shop was bursting with garments, packing crates, and glass cases filled with more belongings.
Tarku hauled in the Remington typewriter, placed it on a writing table, and rummaged in a drawer filled with paper sheets and brown envelopes. “What about the lady?”
�
�See if you can find her some fresh clothes. She’ll know what’s suitable.” Andrev placed a neat stack of rubles on the table. “For your trouble. These are hard times.”
Tarku pushed away the money. “I couldn’t take a kopek from you, and it’s no trouble. I’ll be back.”
He left, and Andrev wound a sheet of paper onto the roller. His brow wrinkled in thought for a few minutes and then he pecked at the keyboard.
When he was done he unwound the typed page from the roller and slipped it in an envelope. As he stood, Tarku came back, carrying the vodka bottle. “All finished? How about another?”
“Not for me or I’ll be on my knees. How are you two getting on with the clothes?”
“You know what women are like; they take their time in that department. She’s trying to find her size. A friend of yours, you say?”
“Yes.” Andrev didn’t elaborate, tucked the envelope in his trouser pocket, and moved along a rack of men’s clothes. He found a dark tan leather jacket and tried it on for size. “This feels about right. Have you a leather cap?”
Tarku found a black one among a pile of hats, dusted it with his sleeve, and handed it over. “Try this.”
There was a mirror in the corner and Andrev slipped on the leather jacket, tugged on the cap at a rakish angle, and studied his reflection.
The transformation was astonishing, a sudden chilling arrogance to his appearance that made Tarku step back to regard him. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’d pass for a Cheka.”
“I’ll try to take that as a compliment.”
“They all have that look, you know. Sullen arrogance. A sideways glance almost gives you a heart attack.”
Andrev’s eye was drawn to one of the glass cases that contained a silver locket and chain. “May I?”
Tarku unlocked the glass case with a key and handed the locket across. “It’s a handsome piece. Belonged to a lawyer’s wife. She pawned it before fleeing the country.”