by Glenn Meade
Andrev smiled, tossed the locket in his palm. “How much do you want?”
“For the captain, I couldn’t accept more than ten rubles.”
“You’re cheating yourself. I’ll give you twenty, and I insist or you’ll hurt my feelings.”
“Very well. I’ll even inscribe something on it if you wish. It won’t take a minute.”
“Perfect. Now, I need just one more thing. A bag of workman’s tools.”
They walked back to the lodging house, the trams too crowded, Uri wearing the leather jacket and cap, tipped back, and on his shoulder he carried a grubby canvas bag that contained workman’s tools.
Lydia wore a fresh dark blue peasant skirt and cream blouse, her hair tied back under a headscarf. As they passed the Moscow River, they stopped under the trees and Andrev leaned on the stone bank. She said, “Do you trust Tarku?”
He lit a cigarette and looked out at the view. “More than most. I always found him loyal. Besides, he hates the Reds.”
Lydia recognized a look of fear that ignited in the faces of anyone who passed, noticing Andrev’s leather jacket and cap. “I’m not sure I like you wearing that outfit. People seem scared of the sight of you.”
“You’re not meant to. It’s because I look like a Cheka. Do you know why they always wear leather?”
“It sets them apart. Emphasizes their power.”
“Exactly. And it’s a power we can use to our advantage. Wait here.”
He stubbed out his cigarette and crossed the road to an elderly woman selling vegetables. Curiously, Andrev bought a handful of potatoes that the woman wrapped in dirty newspaper. On the stand were also single lilies wrapped in greaseproof paper and on impulse Andrev bought one. He strode back and presented Lydia with the flower.
She took it. “What’s this for?”
“Something to remember me by.”
She smiled, genuinely touched, and smelled the scent. “You’re very kind. But it’s the potatoes that have me puzzled.”
“If you think I’m about to cook you a stew, you’re sadly mistaken.”
She laughed suddenly, for the first time he had known her, and for that moment it seemed as if she were a different person.
He said, “Let me show you what they’re for. A trick that might come in useful someday.”
They reached the lodging house and went up to their room. Uri took one of the potatoes and opened a penknife he slipped from his pocket. He laid both on the side table. “I’ve been thinking about what Tarku said about the troop and supply carriages running to the Urals all the time. We’ll try and board one bound for Ekaterinburg.”
“But we’re not military.”
Andrev took the envelope from his pocket, opened the typed page, and showed it to her. “With any luck, it won’t be a worry. Read that.”
Lydia read the page aloud, “To whom it may concern: The bearer of this letter, Nicholai Couris, is acting on the highest Cheka instructions. All military and civilian personnel, regardless of rank, will aid him in every way possible. Signed, Vladimir Lenin.”
The letter was signed with a flourish.
Andrev said, “We’ll bluff our way on board.”
She looked at him, her face deadly serious a moment, and then an amused smile crossed her lips. “You’re a devious man and it sounds impressive enough. But haven’t you forgotten something? It’s got no official stamp.”
Andrev held up a single potato. “It’s about to get one. Watch this.”
He sliced the potato in half with the knife and, choosing one of the halves, he wiped away the excess moisture with the old bedsheet. From his pocket he took his discharge notice, the one with the red-inked War Ministry stamp on it.
He laid it flat on the table and placed the exposed inside part of the potato over the red stamp. He pressed it hard against the inked stamp for several minutes.
When he removed it, the exposed potato had absorbed the red-ink image. Andrev placed the potato over the lower right corner of his own typed page and held it there for at least a minute, until the image was transferred onto his typed page. “Voilà, as the French say. It’ll look perfectly official when it dries. The starch in the potato absorbs the ink.”
He waved the page in the air to dry the moist red stamp. “If there’s one thing the Bolsheviks are masters at, it’s inciting terror. This ought to strike the fear of the devil into anyone who reads it and get us on board a troop train.”
“Do you really think it’ll pass for an official document?”
“I saw my own death warrant signed by Lenin, and believe me this will do the job. Besides, it’s all about attitude, as my old grandmother used to say.”
“When do we leave for Ekaterinburg?”
“Tonight. After I see Nina and my son.”
66
MOSCOW
The tenement flat near the Arbat district was on the second floor. The two rooms were barely furnished but they had a homey feel, scrupulously clean, with earthenware flowerpots in the windows.
On top of the table were the remains of a small birthday cake, some cheap toy trinkets, and a couple of plates of sugary biscuits baked by Zoba’s wife.
Yakov, his shirt collar open, a glass of vodka in his hand, studied his daughter with tender fascination as she played with a half dozen children milling around the kitchen, all of them wearing party hats made of old newspaper.
Katerina was no longer an infant. She was developing a mind all her own: going to school, talking, arguing. Yakov thought to himself, Years in the trenches changed you, made you forget there was anything beautiful in the world. But sitting by her bed sometimes, stroking her hair, gazing down at her sleeping face, he never ceased to be amazed by how much he loved her.
The loss of her mother had been hard on her. Had it not been for Zoba’s wife he didn’t know what he would have done: his daughter called her “Auntie,” but the woman had become a substitute mother.
Katerina skipped over, clutching the rag doll he’d bought as her birthday present, her huge eyes devouring him. “Papa, will you stay tonight? Auntie says you can sleep by my bed and she’ll make you supper. Will you?”
He swept her up in his arms, kissed her cheek. “Papa told you, sweetheart, I have work to do.”
“But Auntie says you and Zoba never stop working for Comrade Lenin. Can’t you stay? He must be a very selfish man to want you to work all the time. Is he selfish, Papa?”
“No, he’s going to change the world for the better, Katerina.”
“Some children in my class say that he’s a good man for getting rid of the tsar. But others say he’s evil because he’s killing so many people. Is he evil or good, Papa?”
Before Yakov could reply, Zoba, leaning by the window, glass in hand, beckoned with a wave of his palm. “You better take a look at this.”
Yakov put Katerina down, her interest already drawn back to her companions. She gave him a puckered kiss and scampered off to rejoin her friends.
Yakov wandered over to the window. A chauffeured, open-topped black Mercedes pulled up in the street, its polished black paintwork gleaming. Two Fiat trucks loaded with troops rolled up behind. They jumped down, keeping watchful guard.
The familiar, wild-haired figure of Leon Trotsky stepped out of the Mercedes. He was wielding his officer’s baton, wearing his Sam Brown leather belt and holster.
Zoba said, “Nothing but the best for Trotsky. He swans around Moscow in that Mercedes as if he’s the tsar himself. Me, I have to make do with a filthy tram seat.”
“You’re beginning to sound disillusioned.”
Zoba sipped his vodka, smiled. “Give me a car like that and I wouldn’t be. Still, I never thought I’d see the day when the defense minister came calling. I thought you did all your business at the Kremlin. What does he want?”
Trotsky climbed the tenement steps, a pair of armed guards leading the way. Yakov buttoned his shirt collar, straightened his jacket. “We’ll soon find out.”
The
clatter of footsteps halted out in the hall and a knock came on the door. Zoba’s wife went to open it. She put a hand to her mouth and stepped back as she recognized Trotsky. He looked as arrogant as ever as he removed his hat, tucked it under his arm, and strode in to meet Yakov. He gave Zoba a dismissive stare. The Georgian took the hint and moved away.
Trotsky observed the children. “Have I disturbed your afternoon, Yakov?”
Yakov indicated Katerina. “My daughter’s birthday.”
Trotsky stripped his leather gloves from his fingers. “I met your wife at party rallies. She was a good woman. Her death must have been a terrible loss for you both. You need to find another wife, Yakov. Children need parents.”
“Katerina and I manage. To what do I owe the honor, Comrade Minister?”
Trotsky’s tone suddenly bristled with annoyance. “To be honest, when I heard you were still in Moscow I was disappointed. I would have thought you’d be well on your way to St. Petersburg by now, hunting down Andrev.”
“My train is ready to leave at a moment’s notice, but I believe that would be pointless.”
“Why?”
“Andrev’s a shrewd and capable man, and he’ll keep on the move. But he’ll try to make contact with his family. Their apartment is being watched day and night.”
Trotsky’s dark eyes glinted. “So you’re going to sit and wait, hoping he’ll take the bait? But what if he doesn’t?”
“I know the kind of man he is. He wouldn’t return to Russia without trying to see his wife and child, especially after he failed the last time.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it. But to business. After you left, Comrade Lenin and I finalized an important matter—the Romanovs’ execution goes ahead. The entire family will perish.”
“When?”
“This very week in Ekaterinburg, and the bodies secretly disposed of. The guard komendant at the Ipatiev house, Yurovsky, will be charged with carrying out the order. Though at all times you will be in command. Once it’s done, and you’ve witnessed the disposal of the bodies, you’ll return to Moscow immediately. Comrade Lenin and I will be waiting for your final report.”
Yakov fell silent.
“You’re an ambitious man, Yakov. A senior post needs to be filled—Commander of the Moscow Regional Cheka. Foil this plot, direct the execution to Lenin’s satisfaction, and the post is yours. Frankly, I’d hate to see a turncoat like Kazan best you in this matter.”
“I’ll do my duty, you can be sure of it.”
Trotsky started to turn toward the door but hesitated. “One more thing. Once this is over, I want you to make the arrangements for Andrev’s child and former wife to be deported to a Siberian camp, on Lenin’s personal order. Understood?”
“Is it really necessary?”
Trotsky tapped his baton in his palm, and the evil threat that always lurked beneath his dark, intense eyes flared. “They’re bad seed. And the only way to deal with bad seed is to destroy it.”
Trotsky’s baton reached out and its tip touched Yakov’s chest. “You better do more than your duty, Yakov. I expect great things of you. I don’t want to see a man of promise such as yourself fail, and end up keeping Andrev’s family company in some cold and brutal corner of Siberia.”
Trotsky removed his baton, gave a sideways glance at Katerina, playing with her friends, and a tiny, malicious grin twitched in the corners of his mouth. “I’ll make sure your daughter is looked after in your absence. I’ll have my men check on her while you’re busy with your duties. I hope we understand each other?”
67
EKATERINBURG
The hand-painted wooden sign on the redbrick courtyard building said Oleg Markov & Son, Undertakers.
Markov senior was busy in the mortuary that evening, applying his skills to the corpse of a young girl no more than fifteen. A tall man of sixty with a neatly trimmed black mustache, he wore an apron over his coarse dark suit, and had a well-practiced, mournful look.
On a wooden table next to him was a selection of mortician’s implements: a rubber mallet, a jar of embalming fluid, and pots of makeup and brushes. The child’s body lay on a metal trolley, a white sheet drawn up to her neck.
Such a terrible waste of youth and beauty, Markov reflected with a sigh, but then death was all too common these days, since the barbarous Reds came to power.
When he finished applying a touch of rouge to the young woman’s cheeks, Markov tugged on a ceramic bell pull hanging by the door. Moments later a pale-faced young man wearing a dark suit a size too large for him appeared. Karl Markov was endowed with a dour look as practiced as his father’s.
“We have two more corpses due shortly, Karl. A pair of White officers executed this morning. Be a good lad and finish the young lady while I see to the paperwork.”
“Yes, father.”
Markov senior removed his apron and turned to a washbasin. As he scrubbed his hands with warm soapy water, the echo of a bell tinkled from somewhere deep in the mortuary and he came alert.
Grabbing a towel, he arched an eyebrow at his son. “It seems Lazarus has come back to life. Take care of things while I attend to our guest.”
This time when Sorg awoke he was lying on a mattress on the floor of a room that smelled of disinfectant, the walls covered in glazed white tiles.
As he tried to take in his surroundings he felt something tied to one of his big toes. He saw it was a piece of string that snaked across the room and entered a piece of metal tubing. A puzzled Sorg moved his toe and heard a distant bell tinkle.
The door snapped open and a dark-suited man with a mustache and desolate eyes entered. He carried a small glass bottle in his hand. “So, you’re back with us. For a while there I was certain I had another coffin case on my hands.”
Sorg said groggily, “Where am I? Who are you?”
“Karl Markov, undertaker. You’re in my mortuary.” He knelt, put down the bottle, and untied the string from Sorg’s toe.
“What’s going on?” Sorg demanded.
“An interesting contraption this, used when medicine was less of an exact science and doctors sometimes wrongly diagnosed death. Should the corpse move the string pulls on a bell in the hall.”
Sorg shook his head, as if to clear the fog in his brain. “You learn something new every day.”
“In your case, I used it because I’ve been far too busy to keep watch on you. How do you feel?”
“Like I’ve been clubbed with rifle butts.”
Markov smiled. “My son, Karl, and I brought you from the convent in our hearse, along with some bodies from the cellar. One of the nuns found you hiding in a nearby alcove. Sister Agnes didn’t think you’d live. You were in a bad state—your wound had opened. Don’t you remember?”
“I remember being shot at by a Cheka swine.”
“Yes, Sister Agnes mentioned that. Fortunately for you, he missed. Here, sniff this. It’ll help clear your head.”
He removed a cork stopper from the bottle and thrust it under Sorg’s nose. The smelling salts hit Sorg’s nostrils like a blow and he came sharply to his senses.
Markov put the cork back in the bottle. “Can you stand?”
Sorg’s eyes watered as he swung his legs off the mattress and stood. The moment he did so he felt lightheaded.
“You look weak,” Markov commented.
“I’ll be fine.” Sorg’s lightheaded feeling passed, but then a twinge stabbed his side. A fresh dressing had been applied, and this time the bandages looked new. He felt well rested, better than he had in days.
Markov said, “Sister Agnes came and tended to you. You’ll remain here for now. It’s too dangerous to stay at the monastery in case the Reds return.”
Sorg stared at the undertaker. “How do I know I can trust you?”
Markov held out his left hand. On his wedding finger he wore a silver ring, inset with the ancient Tibetan symbol.
“Does that answer your question? I’m here to help you in any way I can.�
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Sorg rubbed his jaw and felt stubble. “How long have I been here?”
“Almost three days. You slept most of it. Thankfully your wound’s healing nicely.”
Markov offered a cigarette from a silver case.
Sorg accepted. “What have I missed?”
Markov tapped a cigarette, lit both, and exhaled smoke. “White forces and Czech troops are less than twenty miles from the city now, maybe a week away from liberating us. Even less, if the rumors are to be believed, so time is precious.
“We’re certain the Reds won’t go to the trouble of moving the family again. It’s too much of a risk. Instead, they intend to execute them here in Ekaterinburg and dispose of the bodies, before the city falls.”
“Says who?”
“The Brotherhood has its sources, even among the Reds. Extra Cheka have arrived from Moscow. The new komendant, Yurovsky, is making trips into the woods outside the city. Especially to an area of old, unused mine shafts called the Four Brothers. We believe he’s looking for a suitable burial spot.”
A piercing siren suddenly shrieked like a banshee, startling Sorg.
Markov said, “The eight o’clock curfew. You must be starving. I’ll have my son bring you some food. By the way, Sister Agnes said you’d need these.”
He slipped a hand inside his coat pocket and handed Sorg some folded sheets of paper. “Detailed drawings of the Ipatiev House.”
Sorg took them eagerly as the siren ended.
Markov shook his head. “But I’m afraid they won’t help us. Only Vilim Ivanovitch de Gennin can do that.”
“Who?”
Markov blew out smoke, crossed to a cupboard, and removed what looked like some rolled-up parchments, stained amber with age.
“One of Ekaterinburg’s original founders. This city goes back to 1723, when de Gennin oversaw its design as a fortress. He was a military man and a fortification engineer, who insisted on a number of secret tunnels being built to serve as escape routes in case of siege.”