The Red Gods

by Christopher Nicole

  “From Russia?” He frowned.

  “No, no, I left Russia with the Princess Dowager in 1919. We have been living with my cousin Joseph, in London.”

  “Would that be Joseph Cromb?”

  Anna was surprised. “Do you know him?”

  “I served with him also, well, briefly, in the Civil War.” He grinned. “We shared a compartment, once, for several days, on a train from Sevastopol to Voronezh. Well, as near to Voronezh as we could get.”

  “He is a detestable fellow,” Colin remarked.

  It was Holzhach’s turn to be surprised. But he recovered immediately: it was not his business to argue with Prince Bolugayevski. “Indeed he was.”

  “But...are we not committed to rescuing his sister?” Anna asked.

  Colin snorted. “We are committed to discovering if she can be rescued, which I personally doubt.” He called for a second round of cognac.

  “Will you explain, Your Highness?” Holzbach asked.

  “It is simply that this stupid cousin of mine, Jennifer Cromb, Joseph’s sister, eloped to Russia, with — you will hardly believe this — Alexander Nicolaievich, that murdering thug Gosykin. Her mother was a menace to society, and now it seems that this girl is also setting up to be a menace. Well, if she gets nipped in the bud, it will do her good. We must go.” Colin drained his second cognac and stood up. “You will attend the meeting tonight, Alexander Nicolaievich?”

  “Indeed. I…I...ah…” Holzbach was flushing. “Perhaps I could pick you up? You will be attending, Your Excellency?”

  Anna raised her eyebrows, and Colin gave a shout of laughter. “Yes, you pick us up, Alexander Nicolaievich. We will expect you at half-past seven.”

  “What do you think of him?” Colin asked, as he unlocked the door of his apartment.

  “Am I supposed to think of him?” Anna took off her coat and hat and threw them on a chair. The cognac was still tingling in her veins, exciting her brain.

  “He was taken with you.”

  “That is very flattering.”

  Colin also took off his coat and hat. “I think it would be a good idea for you to accept his flattery. He would like to be your lover. That is why he is coming here tonight, you know. I will bet you that instead of half-past seven he is here at seven. To get to know you better.”

  “To be my lover?”

  “Accept his advances, up to a point. I said he wishes to be your lover. I did not say that you should agree. But you should play him along.”

  “Why? You said that in Paris we could do what we liked.”

  “Up to a point. It would not be good for our image if it were known we are lovers.”

  “Oh,” she said. “All right, I will flirt with this German lout. But as we are lovers, Colin dearest...”

  Anna thought there could not possibly be any better way to spend a cold afternoon than nestled up in bed, naked, with one’s lover. They had had breakfast, well, croissants and coffee, and there would be food at the meeting tonight... she was excited about that. Her first meeting. Where she must flirt with Holzbach. Well, that might be quite amusing...She awoke with a start. It was dark outside. And as the fire had burned down it was chilly in the bedroom. But not in the bed. What had awakened her? There it was again. “Colin,” she said into his ear. “There’s someone at the door.”

  He raised his head, then reached past her to where his fob watch lay on the table. “Half-past six? That lout is even more anxious than I thought.”

  “Shall I go?”

  “No. I said you should flirt with him, not drive him out of his mind with desire.” He rolled out of the bed, taking a blanket with him, which he wrapped round his waist. “I’ll tell him to wait. But I suppose you should get dressed.”

  He opened the door and went out, leaving it slightly ajar. Anna continued to nestle in the bed, where she was so warm and comfortable. Time enough to get up at seven o’clock, surely. She was almost asleep again, but vaguely heard Colin pad across the living-room and open the door. “Prince Colin Bolugayevski?” a man asked.

  Anna frowned. The voice was vaguely familiar, although she could not immediately place it. “I am he,” Colin said.

  There was a dull sound, immediately repeated, and then again. Then there was a thump. Anna stared at the ceiling, eyes wide, as she tried to work out what was going on. Then there was another of the dull sounds. Anna lay still for several seconds, trying to understand what was happening. Then she sat up. “Colin?” she asked.

  There was no reply. Anna kicked the sheet and remaining blanket aside and leapt out of bed. She pulled the door wide and stumbled through, regardless of being naked. The door of the apartment swung open. Colin lay on his back on the floor immediately inside. Anna stood above him, unable to believe her eyes. He had been shot four times. Twice in the chest, once in the groin, and once between the eyes.

  Anna gave a shriek and threw herself on to the body. She was still lying there half an hour later when Alexander von Holzbach arrived.

  Chapter 8 - But Even Gods Die

  Jennie was waiting on the snow-covered platform of Moscow Central when the train pulled in, Baby Tatiana in her arms. Both were wrapped up warmly against the bitter January wind, as was everyone else awaiting the incoming train from Warsaw, via Brest-Litovsk and Smolensk. And like them, she wore a black band on the left sleeve of her coat. It steamed to a halt, and a moment later Andrei had his arms round them both. “Has it been very bad?”

  “Bad? Oh, no. Sombre. And confusing. No one seems to know what is going to happen. There is even talk that Krupskaya may take over the government.”

  Andrei hefted his small suitcase and escorted his wife and daughter towards the exit.

  “I am so glad to have you back,” Jennie confided. “I know you don’t celebrate Christmas in Russia, but it has been so lonely without you, especially with everyone so preoccupied. Was your trip a success? Did you meet with the man you went to see in Prague?”

  Andrei presented his ticket and then led them on to the street; the apartment was not very far from the station. “Yes, I met with the man.”

  “Was it a successful meeting?”

  “I think so.”

  “But now Comrade Lenin is dead...”

  “I shall report to the Party Secretary,” Andrei explained. “Did you go to the funeral?”

  “Well, no, I didn’t want to go alone, and I had nobody to leave Baby with.” She gave him an anxious glance. “I didn’t do wrong?”

  He squeezed her hand. “They all love you, anyway.”

  Guards presented arms beneath huge black flags drooping in the cold, still air, and then they were hurrying up the steps to their apartment. Immediately Tatiana began to cry. “She’s hungry,” Jennie said.

  “Then feed her,” Andrei said. “And then come to bed. Business always make me randy.”

  *

  Joseph put the newspaper on the table in front of Priscilla. She read:

  Self-styled “Prince” Colin Bolugayevski, well-known Russian emigre, was yesterday shot dead in the doorway of his Paris apartment. The French police have no clues as to the identity of his assassin, or to any motive, hut they are anxious to interview a young woman who may have been in Prince Bolugayevski’ s apartment at the time of the crime. This woman was seen by neighbours on several occasions during the past month, and it is even supposed she may have been living with the Prince. But she has disappeared. Prince Bolugayevski was the head of one of Russia’s oldest princely families, and one which has strong English and American connections. An officer in the White Army of General Denikin, he fled Russia when the Whites were finally defeated, and has been earning a living as a taxi-driver in Paris. His death leaves the princely title to his half-brother, Alexei Bolugayevski, but the whereabouts of this new prince are presently unknown…

  Priscilla raised her head. “My God! Who, do you suppose?”

  “One thinks immediately of the Reds. Although with the kind of demi-monde life Colin was living it’s
impossible to be certain. But the missing woman is certainly Anna.”

  “You think Anna killed him? Her own brother? I can’t believe that.”

  “Neither can I. But I’m pretty damn sure she knows who the killer is. So she’s either been kidnapped or herself murdered and not yet been found.”

  Priscilla clasped her hands. “What are we to do? And if Colin is dead, then what about Jennie?”

  “It’s a mess. But, as the paper says, if Colin is dead, then Alex is Prince Bolugayevski. There can be no argument about that, now. And in the circumstances, I think we should make sure he stays out of harm’s way!”

  “My God! You think they’ll come after him?”

  “It’s a possibility. Priscilla...” he held her hands. “I think you should go back to Boston.” She raised her head, her features rigid. If the States had been unthinkable when she had first left Russia, it was even more unthinkable now that the dead hand of Prohibition had closed on the country. “Not permanently,” he said. “Only until this business sorts itself out. For Alexei’s sake.”

  It was a powerful argument. But she was a lover as well as a mother. “While you do what?”

  “Well, I think it is my duty to go to Paris and arrange for Colin’s burial. Do you have any preference as to where he should be interred?”

  “If he can’t be buried on Bolugayen, it doesn’t really matter. But shouldn’t I come with you?”

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea. As I said, you are the Princess Dowager Bolugayevska. I think the sooner you put the Atlantic between you and Alexei and the Bolsheviks, the better.”

  “But you’ll come with us.”

  “I can’t, right now, darling.”

  “You mean to go after Jennie yourself. Joe, you cannot do that!”

  “I’m not going to put my head in a noose if that’s what’s bothering you. I think that Lenin’s death may have changed a lot of things. You won’t deny that he was the absolute ruler of Russia while he lived. Whatever happened, it was because he wanted it to happen. Even Trotsky, and therefore Sonia, dared not go against Lenin’s wishes. But now...Trotsky is his natural successor. I know Trotsky. I know Sonia. Now they have the power I believe they may well be able to help us. The point is that we know that Gosykin was Lenin’s hatchet-man. Now he is without a boss or a job. Sonia dared not interfere where it was a case of the wife of Lenin’s Man Friday, but now...”

  “You’re making it up,” Priscilla said. “Imagining how you would like it to be. But you don’t know.”

  “I know that Sonia will help me, if she can.”

  “Then why hasn’t she answered any of your letters?”

  “Because she could not, as I have said.”

  Priscilla frowned at him. “What did happen, between you, when she saved your life?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “You had sex with her! My God! Your own aunt? And a woman old enough to be your mother? And you never told me!”

  “Am I allowed to offer a defence? In the first place,” Joseph said, “there is no blood between Sonia and I. In the second place, we did not have sex in the sense you mean. But I think she wanted it. And in the third place, when I did it you were a married woman, and you had just made it plain to me that you would not cheat on your husband, for which I thoroughly respected you.”

  “And now you wish to go back to Russia to complete some unfinished business,” Priscilla grumbled. She was being illogical, but she was so desperately frightened.

  “I think we need to use every asset we have,” Joseph said. “I believe Sonia is, well...at least fond of me. And I believe that with Lenin dead she may be prepared to help me. I have to do something about Jennie, whatever the danger.”

  “Cannot I come with you?”

  “Oh, really, darling, you must know that is impossible. You’d be putting yourself at grave risk, and Alexei as well. If the Reds really are out to destroy the Bolugayevskis, then he must be got to a place of total safety.”

  She sighed. “Boston.”

  “That’s what I’d recommend.”

  “Oh, Joe, if anything were to happen to you...”

  He kissed her. “I mean to make sure it doesn’t.”

  *

  “Andrei Vassilievich!” Stalin came round his desk to embrace him. “Is the news good?”

  “My news, Comrade Stalin. I am sad about Comrade Lenin.”

  “But we knew he was dying, so it is less of a shock than it might have been.” Stalin gestured Andrei to a chair, and returned behind his desk. “It is a shame you missed the funeral. But still, Nicolai is to be embalmed and lie in state forever more, so you will be able to pay your respects as often as you wish. It is the future that now concerns us.”

  “What is the present situation?” Andrei asked.

  “Nothing has changed. The government continues to operate as it did throughout Comrade Lenin’s long illness. It will, of course, have to be resolved, and various meetings are taking place with that in mind.”

  “You have work for me?”

  “Yes. But not what you think. If I am to obtain what I wish, it must be by a vote in the Politburo, not by the elimination of the Politburo.” He grinned. “We can start thinking about that after I have achieved power. However, it appears that our late lamented leader, although refusing to nominate a successor, did write down his opinions of all of us over the past year. No one has been allowed to see these opinions, which are in the possession of Krupskaya, but there have been leaks of what some of them were, and I regret that Lenin’s opinion of me does not appear to have been complimentary. In fact, I have been informed that he describes me as arrogant, rude and untrustworthy, and a man who has already concentrated too much power in his own hands. I find that very disappointing. Lenin and I were never close friends, but I have served him most faithfully for over twenty years, and he writes that about me! However, we must be realistic: if that opinion were to be widely circulated it would do our ambitions immeasurable harm.”

  “You wish me to obtain and destroy that document,” Andrei suggested.

  “I think you will find that difficult. Krupskaya keeps it under lock and key in her apartment.”

  “Well, then...”

  Stalin smiled. “You would like to dispose of Krupskaya? Andrei, you would be lynched. She is at present the mother goddess of the Party.”

  “Then what is it you wish me to do? If she publishes that document...”

  “As she is threatening to do, should I seem to be gaining the necessary support to become Chairman.”

  “Then, we must act.”

  “Of course. But the action we take must not in itself jeopardise our chances. Do you play chess?”

  “Of course,” Andrei said, every Russian played chess.

  “And is one of the axioms of chess that the threat is greater than the execution? I think you should have a talk with Krupskaya. Be subtle. She is an intelligent woman. But she is also an old woman, perhaps not in time but in years of suffering and anxiety. Even being Lenin’s wife since he came to power has been no relief for her because she has long known he was killing himself with overwork. Now he is gone, and she is alone. And afraid. She may be aware that she is the most revered woman in Russia, but she also knows that there has to be a new leader, and that this new leader will undoubtedly diminish her role until she is forgotten, and once she is forgotten who knows what may be possible. It will be your task, Andrei Vassilievich, to make her understand these points, to impress upon her that her future prosperity, perhaps even her survival, depends upon the friendship and support of the new leader.”

  “Will she not suppose I am speaking of Trotsky?”

  “If she does, you must correct her.”

  “Then what of Trotsky? Would your life not be much simpler if he were not around? Or that Jewish mistress of his?”

  Stalin stroked his moustache. “You are so eager, Andrei Vassilievich. It will be the undoing of you. I have said my rise to power must
be accomplished within the Party rules. When I am there I will give you Trotsky, and the Jewess. You have my word.”

  *

  Sonia sat at her desk and read the letter a third time. What memories it brought back! As had his earlier letters, so much so that she had immediately burned them. Now he was writing again...and now things were surely different. Did she again wish to hold him naked in her arms? There would be a confession. She was fifty years old. But her life had made her sensual, and that was not something one could simply shrug away. Her relationship with Trotsky had dwindled. She had never loved him, only ever belonged to him, the price she had been prepared to pay for the survival of her family and indeed herself.

  Now Colin was dead, if this letter was to be believed. But why should Joseph say such a thing if it were not true? Anna had disappeared. According to Joseph, she might also be dead. It was six years since Sonia had seen either of her children, and more than twelve years since she had lived with them as their mother. She knew they had long since ceased to regard her as mother. But they were her children — had been her children. Now they were gone. And she was not weeping. Perhaps she had already shed all the tears one is allowed in a lifetime. She was more concerned with who could have done such a thing.

  The door opened and Trotsky came in. He slammed it behind him, went to the table without greeting her and poured himself a glass of vodka. Sonia watched him, trying to ascertain his mood. He had been under a lot of stress recently, but going on what he had told her, and what she had learned for herself, he held a few trumps. Or at least Krupskaya did, on his behalf. He drank deeply and poured himself another. “How did it go?” Sonia asked.

  Trotsky sat down. “I was shouted down. The fools cannot understand. Lenin understood, but he was so cautious. He wanted to see what would happen in the rest of Europe, in China...that is not how revolutions are made, by being cautious. One does not wait on events one creates the events. You were in Leningrad in 1917, but I don’t suppose you remember: when the Tsar abdicated in March we had the whole country in our grasp. I wanted to act then, declare the Revolution, shoot everyone who opposed us. Lenin wanted to wait on events! The result was that I was arrested and he fled to Finland. That we were given a second chance in October was pure luck and Kerensky’s incompetence. Four years ago the opportunity for carrying the Revolution the length and breadth of Europe was there. They were singing the Red Flag in Trafalgar Square. France was a wreck, ready to collapse. And we did nothing. Now what has happened? The right wing has regained control of all those countries. Even in China, Chiang Kai-Shek has taken over since Sun-Yat-Sen’s death.