“Where is he, now?”
“Gosykin is in hell.” Priscilla’s voice took on the note of brittle hatred that had surprised him when first they had met.
“Then Jennie...”
“Jennie is one of them now, Joe. There’s nothing we can do about her. If it is any consolation, she also thinks you are dead. Even Stalin said you were dead.”
“And he should have known. He sent Dagmar to kill me.”
“The bastard! Will you tell me of it?”
He nodded. “In time. I said, she was a thug, but we even managed to become friends, towards the end. Anyway, she was just a messenger girl. Stalin is about the biggest thug the world has ever seen.”
“They’re saying that about Hitler.”
“Well maybe the two thugs will slug it out one of these days, and kill each other off. That would be a sight to see.”
Priscilla squeezed his hand. “But you’re only going to look at it, Joe. You and I have to catch up on a lot of living.” She giggled. “I never did settle your debt with the madame.”
Epilogue
The drums beat and the bugles blew; the huge red, white and black flags fluttered in the breeze; the Unter den Linden trembled to the crash of marching feet. The uniforms were black, as were the belts and boots and accoutrements. And marching in front, bearing the standard, was Alexander! Anna clapped her hands for joy.
She remembered how uneasy she had been when he was recruited out of Roehm’s Stormtroopers into Himmler’s Schutz Staffel. He had explained that he was going from the ordinary to the special, that his duties would include guarding Hitler himself. Anna hadn’t liked the sound of that, as Hitler had risen step by step to supreme power he had made a lot of enemies. But it had been a wise move. When Hitler had moved against Roehm and his brownshirts on the Night of the Long Knives, Alexander had been on the right side: he had done the killing, instead of being killed. And now he was marching off to war: his regiment was known as the Waffen SS, the Fighting SS. True, they were only marching on Poland, and Anna was still confused by the Nazi-Soviet Pact, which had seemed to indicate that the regime was allied with her enemies. But Alexander had explained that it was a necessary step to take, until they were ready. Hitler still intended to crush Russia, when the time was right. Securing Poland was a step in the right direction.
How exciting it was, Berlin, all of Germany, on the way to conquest. Anna had long got over her fear of being found to be half-Jewish. Because Hitler regarded the Jews as a canker, they were having a very hard time of it; people were having their genealogy examined for generations back to discover if they were Jews, so that they could be dismissed from their jobs and locked up in camps. But there was no genealogical table available for her. She was the Countess Anna Bolugayevska von Holzbach. There was no one going to argue with that. And meanwhile, revenge! She had gloried in reading about the great trials in Russia, especially the trial of Gosykin, and his subsequent execution by firing squad. It was better than the bastard deserved. But there were others who equally deserved punishment. Jennie for one. When the German army marched into Moscow, as it surely would one of these days, then they would deal with Jennie as well. Anna could hardly wait.
*
“There is a letter from Joe,” Jennie said.
“Another one?” Ivan Ligachev snorted, and gave his stepdaughter a hug.
Tatiana resisted the temptation to push him away. She was eighteen now, and even more beautiful than her mother; her hair was her father’s black, although sometimes streaks of red became visible, but her features were all Bolugayevska. She disliked her stepfather. She did not blame Mother for marrying again, for wishing to regain the position she had held when Father had been one of the most promising young men in the Party, even if she could not understand how Mother could share a bed with and yield her body to such an unprepossessing man as Ivan Ligachev. But she did not like being too near to men, any men. She was confused by the death of her own Father. She had loved him, respected him...and now she was told that he had been a vicious mass murderer. She didn’t know if she could believe that, but as she was a willing member of the Comsomol, the youth movement, and as she believed utterly in the goodness and indeed the greatness of Uncle Josef, she had to accept it. But the knowledge made her wish to keep to herself, and this man was constantly pawing her. Mother did not seem to notice. She was still looking at the letter. “I wonder if I shall ever see any of them again,” she said.
“I should hope not,” Ivan said. “Certainly your brother, in view of what he has been writing about us.”
Jennie’s mouth twisted. “There is no chance any of it is true?”
“Of course it is not true. Has not Josef told you that himself?”
“But my brother claims he was actually in one of those camps.”
“Indeed he was. He was sent there by your late husband. As soon as it was discovered he was released. This story of his escape is nonsense. People do not escape from Russian prisons.”
“But this cousin, Dagmar...I remember Dagmar, when we were children.”
“Dagmar Bolugayevska died in the Revolution, Jennie. She is certainly a figment of your brother’s imagination, as are his tales of beatings and deprivations in the prison.”
Jennie sighed. “I would so like to see Joe again, just once.”
“Well, it is not possible. Certainly not until this war ends.” Jennie held his hands. “We’re not going to become involved, are we, Ivan? This trouble in Finland...”
“Is a border difficulty. No, my pet, we are not going to get involved. No country in its right mind would ever dare attack Soviet Russia.”
“But Trotsky and Aunt Sonia keep urging Germany to do so.”
“Trotsky,” Ivan said, “is a relic from the past. So is your Aunt Sonia. Forget Trotsky and Aunt Sonia, Jennie. Soon the world will as well.”
*
Sonia hummed as she cut flowers in the garden. There were not many flowers, as the soil was sandy and poor, but it was well irrigated. The heat was the greatest problem; she wore a broad-brimmed, high-crowned sombrero against the sun. But the climate, rigorous as it was, was worth it. Here at last, at this villa outside Mexico City, was safety, had been safety, for six years. It was not merely the isolation. There was also the electrified fence, and the several armed guards who were always on the premises. Not to mention the distance from Russia.
From Turkey they had first gone to France, which had also offered them asylum, and which was preferable to Mexico, from Trotsky’s point of view, as being still at the centre of things. Sonia had enjoyed France, too, as she had been able to visit Colin’s grave — there was still no certainty as to Anna’s eventual fate — but the French stay had been a short one, as the authorities had taken fright at Trotsky’s rabble-rousing articles. So it had been Mexico after all, and peace.
Peace brought contentment. She and Trotsky were no longer lovers. But they were companions, as they had been companions in triumph and then companions in distress. Now they were companions in their old age. There was even sufficient money, at last: Trotsky’s writing was proving successful. Even now, he was still working away. She had no doubt he would one day drop dead over his typewriter. Right now he was engaged in a huge tome concerning the faults of Stalinist Russia. He wanted to make his old comrade-in-arms squirm as much as possible.
Sonia took the flowers into the house and arranged them in a vase, looked with some affection through the open office door at Leon, hammering away. She had never loved him, but after so many years — nearly thirty, now, since he had so strangely appeared at the door of her house in the then St Petersburg, seeking asylum — she really felt as if he were her husband. She knew he was very bitter at having been shunted to this political backwater when there were so many great events taking place. He had been furious when he had learned of the Nazi-Soviet pact, signed in the autumn of last year. Any relations with Hitler’s Germany was abhorrent to him, and the idea that Stalin had in fact given Hitler carte
blanche to start a general European War he regarded as criminal madness. Now, Hitler had overrun virtually all of Europe, and if Britain seemed to have survived the initial aerial onslaught, no one really doubted that Hitler would invade next year. Then there would be only four great powers left in the world: the United States, Germany, Russia, and Japan. And Russia would be caught between Germany and Japan. With his sense of history, Leon had to feel uneasy about that.
But nothing that could possibly happen could affect them here. America, guarded by two oceans and the might of the United States, was quarantined from what might be happening in the old world. And now that Priscilla had got Joe back — what a tale he was telling, even if, sadly, no one seemed prepared to believe him — even the entire family was safe, except for Jennie and her daughter. But they were Reds, now.
“Lunch in half an hour,” she called, having checked with the cook, and heard the doorbell ring. Conchita the maid had answered it by the time Sonia reached the drawing-room door, looking embarrassed as always; every visitor to the villa was carefully searched by the guards, and some of them resented it.
But the young Hispanic man who stood there, smiling, did not appear the least embarrassed; he was still holding his jacket open. “Forgive me,” he said. “You must be Senora Bolugayevska.”
“Yes,” Sonia said.
“My name is Ramon Mercador. I am from a newspaper. To interview Senor Trotsky.”
“Of course,” Sonia said. “You telephoned, yesterday.”
“That is correct. May I come in?” He gave a winning smile. “I have been searched.”
“Of course, Senor Mercador.” Sonia went towards him, and gave him her hand to kiss. “I did not expect you until this afternoon. But as you are here, you must lunch with us.”
“That is very kind of you, Senora.” He followed her into the lounge.
“Senor Mercador is here, Leon,” Sonia called. The clacking of the typewriter ceased; Leon was very partial to giving interviews. “Would you like something to drink?” Sonia asked. “Coffee, or sangria?”
“I think sangria would be very pleasant,” Mercador said. “It is a hot day.” He followed her to the bar. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No, no,” Sonia said. “I am an expert at making sangria.”
“But you will need ice,” Mercador said.
“There is a block in that wooden bucket,” Sonia said. “If you wish, you may chip off a few pieces.”
“Of course.” Mercador looked around the bar, selected the ice pick, and moved the sacking which covered the block of ice. He had only chipped a few slivers of ice, however, when Trotsky appeared.
“Senor Mercador.”
“Senor Trotsky.” Mercador straightened, still holding the ice pick.
“That is women’s work,” Trotsky told him. “Come and sit over here, and we will have our interview.”
“Of course, senor.” Mercador gave Sonia an apologetic smile. “You’ll excuse me, senora.” He stepped round the bar, still holding the ice pick. Sonia opened her mouth to remind him of this, and then gasped in horror as he raised the pick and stepped forward. Before she could grasp what he intended, he had slammed the pick into the back of Trotsky’s head. The blow caused only a glancing wound, and Trotsky turned in surprise and dismay, blood flooding his collar. Mercador struck again, and this time the ice pick entered Trotsky’s right eye.
Trotsky gave a strangled gasp and fell to the floor. Sonia screamed for help, but even as she did so, she was striking the assassin on the head with the half-filled sangria jug. To her surprise, he made no effort to defend himself, or to withdraw the ice pick from Trotsky’s face, but merely fell to his hands and knees beside his victim.
The room filled with people, seizing Mercador’s arms and dragging him to the door. Sonia knelt beside Trotsky. “Leon!” she gasped. “Oh, Leon!”
“We have sent for a doctor,” one of the guards said. But Sonia knew a doctor could not help now.
“Leon,” she said a third time.
Trotsky sighed, and one eye opened; the other was a mass of blood. “After all these years,” he muttered. “Avenge me, Sonia.”
The eye drooped shut.
If you enjoyed reading The Red Gods, you might also be interested in The Seeds of Power by Christopher Nicole, also published by Endeavour Press.
Extract from The Seeds of Power by Christopher Nicole
PROLOGUE
The trumpet blared, and the horses trotted out of the drive of Blaistone Manor, following the pack of dogs, already yelping with excitement. The riders made a vast splash of colour against the green of the meadows, blue and red, tall hat and cap, hallooing to each other. Behind them, the servants streamed out of the yard, making across the broken ground for various vantage points; the villagers would already be in position, to oversee the hunt.
Colin MacLain’s sympathies were entirely on the side of the fox—but as a cornet in the 11th Hussars, the famed Cherry-Pickers, as well as the nephew-in-law of Lord Blaistone, he was expected to take part, and indeed to lead the cavalry charge like the horseman he was. Today he wore civilian clothes, red jacket and white breeches. But Colin MacLain wore any clothes well. Six feet tall, dark-haired and well-shouldered, he had slim hips and long legs. His face was a trifle long and inclined to be serious, but he waved and smiled at his companions. The hounds began to bay as the hunt charged downhill towards a distant copse. One of the riders pulled aside from the group, and rode to the left, seeking the shorter, steeper route. ‘It’s that damned Russkie!’ Lord Blaistone shouted. ‘He’ll be in Three-mile Bottom before he knows it. Colin, fetch him back!’
Colin pulled his horse aside and directed it to the left of the hunt-track. It was a matter of clearing several low hedgerows as well as scattering through muddy patches, before he reached the bottom of the slope. In front of him was the deep bog which was avoided by any rider who knew the surrounding countryside.
But the Russian visitor did not know this country, and he and his horse had galloped straight into the mire. Colin took in the situation at a glance as he pulled on his reins. The horse, already half submerged in the oozing black mud, had broken its neck going over. Its rider had been pitched some twelve feet from the bank, and had regained his feet, his hat gone and his head and shoulders covered in mud; he was already waist deep, and with every attempt he made to gain the bank he sank deeper. ‘Keep still, for God’s sake!’ Colin shouted.
The Russian seemed to notice him for the first time. ‘Then get me out!’ he bawled in good English.
Colin dismounted, and looked to the left and right. There were no trees close by, and he had no rope. He was considering his alternatives when he heard feet behind him. ‘Took a fair old tumble, he did, Mr MacLain,’ the girl panted; she had been running.
Colin looked down at her. He recalled that she was one of the scullery maids at the manor. She was not an easy young woman to forget, for with her curling red-brown hair and her full body went an extremely attractive, finely-chiselled but strong face. ‘He’s going down,’ she said.
‘Help me!’ shouted the Russian, who was now embedded almost to his chest.
Colin unsaddled his horse, and took off his jacket to tie it to the harness. ‘That’ll not reach him,’ the girl said.
‘No, it won’t,’ he agreed, and sat down to pull off his boots before dropping his breeches. The girl hastily looked away. Colin tied one leg of his breeches to a sleeve of his jacket, held on to the other leg, and swung the improvised rope round his head. The Russian grabbed at it, but it fell a good four feet short, and now he had sunk to his shoulders.
Colin pulled the clothes back in. He could use his belt as well, but he knew that wasn’t going to reach either. That left him with his shirt, which was not of very strong material, or... ‘I’ll need your gown.’
The girl gazed at him, carefully keeping her eyes from drooping to his drawers and exposed legs, her cheeks pink. ‘Or the man will die,’ Colin said.
‘I’ve nothing else,’ she protested.
‘Would you stand here and watch it happen?’
The girl drew a deep breath and scooped her gown from around her thighs and lifted it over her head. Hastily Colin turned away from her, and tied the top of the gown on to the other trouser leg. Then he tied his belt, which was of leather with a heavy buckle, on to the hem of the gown, reversing his previous arrangement as the harness was slippery with mud. ‘Catch the belt!’ he shouted, wrapping his hands in the rein and again swirling the improvised rope round his head. ‘Hold on!’ Without the bridle Colin could not control his horse. ‘You’ll have to help me,’ he told the girl.
She stood beside him, bare shoulder against his shirt, as they heaved on the makeshift rope. Sweat streamed down their faces, as the man began to move. It’s going to rip,’ the girl gasped.
‘He’s coming.’
The Russian had emerged to his thighs, and was being drawn across the surface of the mire. He had travelled only a few feet when there was a tearing sound, and both Colin and the girl fell, the remnants of her gown settling on the bank.
The Russian was almost within reach. He scrambled up, grasped the gown, and threw the other end, together with the bridle and reins, across the mud. ‘Got it,’ he grunted, grasping the reins.
‘Come on,’ Colin said. ‘Heave!’
The girl put her arms round his waist to lend her weight to his, and with a great squelching sound the Russian gained the bank, bringing with him the rest of Colin’s clothes and the remnants of the girl’s gown. He crawled up the bank, and fell on his face, panting. Colin sat down, equally exhausted, leaning against the girl, who had also fallen down. For several seconds the only sound was of their breathing, and the nervous stamping of Colin’s horse.
‘I’ll buy you a new gown,’ Colin said when he had got his breath back. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Jennie, sir. Jennie Cromb.’
The Red Gods Page 30