by Glenn Meade
When he reached the barn, Lydia appeared unconscious as Mersk knelt over her in the hay, clawing at her underclothes like a frenzied animal.
He turned his head back and stared as Andrev burst in.
“Move away from her before I take your head off.”
His voice sounded dangerously calm as he shouldered the rifle.
Mersk’s eyes burned with hate. He rose to his feet, dragging Lydia up with him, one arm around her throat, using her as a shield. “Throw down the rifle or I’ll snap her neck.”
Andrev hesitated, and in an instant the nagaika appeared in Mersk’s free hand. The whip flicked through the air like a serpent’s tongue and coiled around Andrev’s neck. Mersk jerked the whip, Andrev lost his balance, and the rifle exploded, kicking up dirt.
Mersk reeled him in, Andrev’s eyes wide as he struggled to breathe, the whip choking him.
At the last moment Mersk flung Lydia away and his free hand palmed his Cossack dagger. “It’s time you got what that stupid brother of Yakov’s got.”
His face beamed as he raised the dagger. A distinct click sounded.
He didn’t see Lydia get to her feet, but he felt her hand slip into his jacket pocket. When he jerked round she was pointing the Mauser at his face, and he knew he had just made the worst mistake of his life.
She said calmly, “If you had even an ounce of human decency, I’d give you time to say your prayers. But an animal like you doesn’t deserve that. You can go to the devil.”
Mersk twisted his head sharply away just as Lydia squeezed the trigger.
His head snapped back, and the bullet rutted the right side of his skull, scouring flesh, blood everywhere. He reeled back, dazed, letting go of the whip and dagger.
But the moment he regained his balance he was like an angry bear and he moved in for the kill, all reason gone now, his fury seething.
As Andrev tried to struggle free of the whip, fighting for lungfuls of air, Mersk went after Lydia, not giving her a chance to aim the Mauser, his huge hands grabbing at her wildly.
She stumbled, losing her balance, and as the Ukrainian lunged at her Andrev picked up the dagger. “Mersk!”
The Ukrainian turned and Andrev crossed the distance between them fast, using the dagger like a sword, thrusting it deep into Mersk’s chest.
The Ukrainian’s eyes snapped wide open as he stared down at the blade embedded in his chest. He staggered back against a wooden post and slid to the ground, the life going out of him.
Andrev helped Lydia to her feet. He looked down at Mersk’s body. “So much for my only witness.”
“It couldn’t have ended any other way. Mersk’s the kind of wild animal you have to put down.” Lydia examined her ripped clothes.
“Did he … ?”
“Rape me? No, and I can’t even bear thinking about it.”
Andrev grabbed a gray blanket lying on the hay and draped it around her shoulders. “That’ll have to do until we find you some clothes.”
They heard raised voices, Mersk’s men roused by the gunshot. “I counted at least nine more men. Any second now they’re going to be swarming in here like angry bees.”
Sweat beading his face, Andrev tore off Mersk’s pistol and ammunition belt. He jumped into the Fiat truck parked on the far side of the barn and checked the Maxim machine gun. He loaded a belt of ammunition and yanked the cocking handle. “Can you drive one of these trucks, assuming it’s working?”
“Yes.”
He jumped down and grabbed the Fiat’s starting handle. “Get in the front. Be ready to back through those wooden gates when I tell you.”
“But they’re closed.”
“They won’t be for long.”
Andrev moved to the front of the Fiat, grabbed the starting handle, and gave it a couple of turns. The engine ignited just as one the gates leading to the garage tore open and the remainder of Mersk’s men appeared.
They opened fire as Andrev ducked for cover behind the Maxim’s armor plate. He fired off a sustained burst, the stuttering machine gun cutting down the men and shredding the wooden doors.
Two of the soldiers managed to duck behind the doors and one lobbed a grenade toward the truck.
It erupted like thunder, and in reply Andrev tossed the grenade from his pocket, lobbing it just past the gates. It exploded seconds later, wounding both men. As they staggered out, still firing, he finished them with the Maxim.
He shouted, “Back up now, out through the gates, keep going until I tell you to stop!”
She put the truck in reverse and revved the engine, the Fiat picking up speed. It burst through the shattered wood, out into the garage forecourt and onto the deserted street, where it smashed into a wall.
Andrev remained with the machine gun as he tried to take stock. The blaze was getting worse, spreading everywhere, as ammunition exploded like firecrackers. The timbers in the back of the crashed Fiat were smoldering from the grenade blast and he jumped down. “Time we got away.”
They crossed the forecourt and came to the motorcycle and sidecar where they left it, by the water pump.
When he climbed onto the saddle and tried to start the engine, it gave a sputtering cough and died. He tried again but this time the engine didn’t even splutter. He dismounted and said in despair, “I’m wasting my time. There’s the problem. Probably a ricochet.” He indicated a bullet hole drilled into the engine block.
Tight-lipped, he moved out into the middle of the street.
The neighing of a horse carried on the night air. Andrev’s gaze settled on the opposite end of the village, near the railway station. “It goes from bad to worse. See what’s coming?”
Lydia followed his finger. A hundred yards away she saw shadowy horsemen advance like specters.
Andrev said stone-faced, “Yakov’s surrounding the village.” He strode back toward the bodies of Mersk’s men, sprawled where they had fallen.
All the corpses were bloody, some of the uniforms stained worse than others. He began to remove one of the men’s tunics. “Try and cobble together a complete uniform, one in reasonable shape that’s near your size. Nothing we can do about the bloodstains, just pick the best you can. And tie back that hair of yours and keep it hidden under a uniform cap.”
“Why?”
“We’re about to join Yakov’s army.”
88
As the train idled half a mile from the village, Yakov’s instinct told him that something was terribly wrong.
Flames erupted into the night sky as buildings were consumed by fire, the crack of ammunition exploding. Then a green flare exploded, the signal bursting into the sky.
He shouted to one of his men watching from the carriage steps, “Tell the driver to get moving. Everyone remain alert.”
The train gathered momentum, and in no time it chugged into the village station, a dismal-looking place pockmarked with bullet holes, every window shattered.
Even before the engine halted, Yakov snapped open the carriage door and jumped down, followed by dozens of troops from the other carriages.
A sober-looking Zoba appeared on the platform, his pistol drawn.
Yakov said, “It looks like bedlam here. Any sign of Andrev?”
“You better see for yourself.”
Andrev held on to Lydia’s hand as they moved toward the rail track, careful to remain in the shadows.
Half a dozen of Yakov’s guards were posted on the platform and along the tracks, but they seemed preoccupied by the village blaze. Andrev moved toward the front of the train and hauled himself aboard a carriage. He gave Lydia the all-clear, she ran to join him, and he held out his hand and pulled her up.
“Are you sure this is wise?” she whispered anxiously.
“We’ll soon find out.” He turned and softly clicked open the carriage door.
As watchful as hunters, Yakov and his men advanced through the village.
It was eerily deserted, and as they approached the military garage, they saw bodies strewn everywhere. “They�
��re all dead,” Zoba announced.
The entire village looked ablaze, and on the garage forecourt Yakov saw the shells of burning, fire-damaged trucks, empty gasoline cans strewn about, the heat almost unbearable. They passed a crashed Fiat truck with a Maxim machine gun mounted in the back, spent cartridges everywhere.
A British-made Douglas motorcycle and sidecar was left abandoned near a village water pump, and Zoba kicked at the rear wheel. “Andrev and the woman escaped from Moscow on something similar.”
“Have you searched the entire village?”
“We’re still checking, building by building. He isn’t among the dead. If you ask me, he’s been and gone.” Zoba jerked his head at the flaming wrecks. “Most likely in a stolen vehicle.”
A couple of ammunition rounds cracked like whips, sending ricochets flying, and they ducked instinctively.
“Show me what else you found.”
Zoba led him to a barn.
Mersk’s body lay slumped against a wooden post. He’d been shot once in the side of the skull and a dagger was planted deep in his chest.
Zoba said, “We counted over ten dead, not a single survivor. Andrev’s on form, I’ll give him that.”
Yakov looked enraged as he tipped Mersk’s body with the toe of his boot. “He probably killed Mersk, too. That knife looks personal.”
Zoba grunted. “Renegades like these are the scum of the earth. Mersk was hunting with the wrong hounds.”
Yakov kicked at a mound of hay, sending straw flying, his face crimson with frustration. Then he turned and strode out of the barn, flames beginning to lick at the timbers, the heat becoming unbearable.
“Where do we go from here?” Zoba asked.
Yakov strode out into the street toward the stationmaster’s office. He saw wooden telegraph poles, the cables in place. “Check if the telegraph’s still working. I’ll need to use it.”
“Anything else?”
Yakov said bitterly, “If you’ve no luck finding Andrev in the village, assemble the men. We’re leaving.”
“Where to?”
“Ekaterinburg.” Yakov angrily punched his balled fist into his open palm. “That’s where Andrev will head. That’s where we’ll find him.”
Andrev stepped into a luxurious private carriage.
A samovar bubbled in a corner, charcoal scenting the air, a bottle of vodka and some glasses on a nearby side table. He crossed the polished walnut floor. “Leonid’s done well for himself. This thing looks like a fortress on wheels.”
“This is his?”
Andrev slapped a palm against one of the window’s steel-hinged plates, complete with gun ports. “It probably belonged to some duke or prince, but with a few unsociable modifications by the Bolsheviks.”
On a walnut desk lay a Trans-Siberian Railway route map, open on a page. Andrev picked it up and studied it.
“What is it?” Lydia asked.
Andrev smiled. “I think we could be in luck.”
“I’d love to know exactly what’s going through your mind.”
“When I’m sure, I’ll let you know.”
Lydia noticed a crumpled photograph frame discarded in a corner, the glass completely shattered. A curled-up ball of photographic paper lay nearby. She opened it, studied the faces, Andrev easily recognizable as a child. “Does this bring back memories?”
He took the photograph, his mouth tightening. “It certainly does.”
“I have the distinct impression Yakov isn’t a happy man. What have you got in mind, Uri?”
He crumpled the photograph and replaced it exactly where Lydia found it, and a sudden spark in his eyes seemed to enliven him. “I’m working on it.”
“You know what frightens me? The worse the danger, the more you come alive.”
He offered her a smile. “I know. Troubling, isn’t it?”
“Are you going to tell me what you intend?”
“We wait.”
“For what?”
“Yakov.”
“Are you insane?”
Andrev crossed to a door, opened it warily. A bedchamber lay beyond, furnished with a simple soldier’s cot, gray blankets folded neatly on top. “We’ll wait in here for now.”
“And when Yakov appears?”
“A difficult thing for you Irish, but leave the talking to me.”
89
AMERIKA HOTEL
EKATERINBURG
Kazan’s footsteps clattered down the basement steps. The guards admitted him through the iron gate, and when he entered the cell a bitter stench of ammonia drenched the air.
The doctor was busy with the smelling salts, sweat on his brow as he wafted the open bottle under the prisoner’s nose. He stopped what he was doing and looked up, distinctly uncomfortable once he saw Kazan.
“Well?” The Inspector’s mouth was tight with impatience.
“He’s stirred a few times. But I have to be careful not to overdo the ammonia. Too much could damage his lungs.”
“How long before I can start work on him?”
“Difficult to say. But I’ll need a little time to get him stable once he awakens.”
Kazan grunted. “I’ll be back.”
As Yakov’s train thundered through the night, the carriage rocking side to side, he poured vodka into a glass.
As he replaced the cork in the bottle, he stared at his reflection in the carriage window. He looked haggard, his eyes dark, tiredness wearing him down.
Seething with frustration, he went to take a drink. As it touched his lips he changed his mind and flung the glass against the wall. It shattered just as Zoba knocked and entered.
“Well for some, throwing it away. You don’t look happy.”
“Should I be? We lost him again. Lenin’s wrath will be unforgiving.”
“We can still finish this thing, Leonid. You sent the cable?”
Yakov nodded and rubbed his eyes. “Every stationmaster from here to Ekaterinburg will know to keep the rail lines open, or risk being shot. With any luck, we ought to get there by this afternoon. Check on our prisoners. Make sure they’re all right.”
Zoba paused at the door, then stared back at an exhausted Yakov. “Can I give you some well-meaning advice? You’ve hardly slept in two days. Try to get some rest or you’ll collapse.”
As the door closed, Yakov unbuttoned the top of his tunic and wandered into his bedchamber, overcome by fatigue.
As he entered he heard the soft click of a firearm being cocked.
His heart chilled.
“Don’t move or make a sound, Leonid.”
Andrev stepped out from behind the door, a gun in his hand. “Take his weapon and tie him up.”
The woman appeared and removed the pistol from Yakov’s holster. She tied his hands behind his back with a leather belt, then pushed him into the chair by the bed. Andrev took the bedsheet and used it to tie him to the chair.
Yakov said vehemently, “You’re dead. You must know that?”
“It comes to us all. But a little gratitude might be in order, considering that I didn’t kill you just now.”
“Like you killed Mersk?”
“He deserved it. Mersk killed Stanislas in cold blood. He’s paid the price.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
“Because that’s always been your problem, Leonid. You’ll only believe what you want to believe.”
“I know what you intend. But it won’t work. You haven’t a chance. The odds are stacked against you.”
Andrev arched his eyebrows. “Don’t dismiss me just yet. Where are Nina and Sergey?”
“Safe and unharmed. Whether they stay that way depends on you.”
Andrev’s expression darkened, in fury. “Like that, is it? My threat stands. Harm them and I’ll tear your heart out.”
“It’s Lenin, he gives the orders.”
“And you follow blindly, even if it means harming women and children?”
“I’d never willingly harm Nina or Sergey.”
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br /> “Why do I suddenly find that hard to believe?” Grim-faced, Andrev checked the Trans-Siberian Railway map. “This is quite a machine you’ve got. But machines can always go wrong, can’t they?”
Yakov said in frustration, “What are you scheming? You’re playing with fire. The train’s full of my men.”
Andrev slipped the map in his pocket and opened the door at the far end of the bedroom. “You’ll know soon enough. I’ll be back. You and I aren’t finished yet.”
A ferocious clatter of metal wheels screamed into the room from the unseen engine. A coal wagon lay beyond, a rush of white steam flurrying overhead the train, the air thick with the smell and heat of burning coal.
Andrev moved toward the tender and said to Lydia, “If he tries to escape, shoot him.” He fixed Yakov with a stare. “She’s an excellent shot. Do yourself a favor and behave, Leonid.”
Seven carriages away, Zoba halted outside the compartment.
Two guards stepped away, giving him privacy. Zoba stared in through the glass, the compartment lit by an oil lamp.
Nina sat on the lower sleeping bunk next to the window, holding her son as the medic examined Sergey’s chest with a stethoscope.
Every now and then the child gave a wheezing cough and his mother looked fraught with worry.
When the medic finished his examination he spoke briefly with her, then he stepped out into the carriage hallway while Nina remained, rocking her child in her arms.
Zoba put a hand on the medic’s arm as he slid shut the door. “Any change?”
The medic was a rake-thin, twitchy man with a nervous blink. He stuffed his stethoscope in his pocket and guided Zoba farther along the corridor.
“For the worst, I’m afraid. His temperature’s raging. His lungs are severely congested. If you ask me, it’s TB. I’m certain he’s had it awhile.”
“Is there anything we can do?”
“A trip to a decent Swiss sanatorium would help.”
“Don’t be smart.”
“I wasn’t. The boy needs to be in the hospital.” The medic took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, lit one, and blew smoke. “As I’m forever telling Yakov, I’d give my right arm to leave this country. There’s nothing but sickness and despair.”