The King's Commissar

by Duncan Kyle

  I walked to the nearest carriage, swung half up and tried the door. Locked. Damned Hun stayabeds, I thought, and banged at the door with my fist until a baggy-eyed orderly swung it open, looked irritably down at me and demanded to know my business.

  'I must see the commander of the train. '

  'Who are you?' Then he added a tentative, 'mein Hen,' in case I held rank.

  'From Goloshchokin, Commissar for War,' I snapped. 'Is the commander asleep?'

  'I don't -'

  It was all plain enough. They'd been here for weeks and were bored stupid. I sent the orderly to rout out his master, found the saloon, and took a seat.

  The commander came in his dressing-gown - and a great ornate affair it was in figured brocade. The fat crest on his left breast pocket had enough gold and silver wire in it for a Bulgarian admiral and he was screwing a monocle into his right eye. There was a duelling scar from the eye to the lip. If you were caricaturing a German general for Punch, here was your model.

  All the same, he'd heard of me. When I told him I was Yakovlev, he gave me a level look and said: 'You came close, my friend, so I hear.'

  'And this time we'll do it,' I said.

  He gave me a glare that was all surprise. 'We?'

  'You haven't been told - from Moscow?'

  'I'll tell you what I think,' Beloborodov said. 'I think that now he's living only for the thought of killing them. And relishing the how and when of it!'

  So that was that. If the Imperial Family was to be brought out of the Ipatiev House it seemed it must be done despite the guard.

  Which meant - by force.

  And by me ...

  I went next to Berzin, seeking a soldier's eye and memory, and spent a whole day racing on a thin, scraggy pony from one distant defensive emplacement to the next before I ran him to earth at last, seated on a wooden stool outside a smallish tent which was his present headquarters. He looked tired to the point of collapse, but yet had the soldier's way of sloughing off weariness in a second. Then, in ten minutes' work with a sketch-pad, Berzin produced for me a plan of the interior of the House of Special Purpose - and it was one, furthermore, which showed the positions occupied by guards. The outside I had seen for myself, with its double stockade fronting the arched entrance. When we were finished I tucked the drawing into my pocket and swung into the saddle of my sinewy pony, and then Berzin called and I wheeled to face him again.

  'Make a close inspection of that aspect of the house which shows itself from the side alley,' he advised. That alley's name is Voznesensky Street, I think.'

  'Go on,' I said.

  'There's a stair there, rising from the garden to a verandah up above. It's not guarded, or wasn't when I saw it. Good luck.'

  'Thank you,' I said, and waved and wished him the same with a hypocritical tongue.

  He smiled tiredly. 'Luck won't help me. I need ten thousand men and five hundred guns.'

  I rode away then, with the rumbling sound of White gunfire ringing me on both sides and to the rear. Only 'Oh yes. Reliable fellows for dirty work, our Lithuanian friends." Then he added unexpectedly, "Good luck.' He spoke in English and I must have reacted and looked at him in surprise, for he laughed shortly. 'You are British, aren't you?'

  I disdained the remark and turned to leave. Von Kleber followed me to the carriage door and there said quietly, 'Don't worry, my British friend. I'm here at the Kaiser's own request. To succeed in this task I'd make an ally of Satan himself!'

  Now time began to be lost more than I liked, but there was much to arrange with many people, all of them too busy to be free with their time. First Goloshchokin and Beloborodov went off together to the Ipatiev House to talk to Yurovsky. For ammunition they had with them a telegraph message received that day from a plainly-worried Sverdlov to the effect that if anything happened to Nicholas, then Beloborodov, Goloshchokin and Yurovsky would answer with their necks.

  I was waiting at the Hotel American when they returned. My fingers were crossed, for if they had succeeded in conveying to Yurovsky the wider issues involved, then perhaps the Family would be released, and my delivering of them to von Kleber's train would be no more difficult a task than ordering a cab or two.

  But I knew at once that they had failed, for Goloshchokin came slowly into the room and stood shaking his head. His hands lifted from his sides, then fell again helplessly and he said, 'Yurovsky's alerted.'

  'What? How can he be?'

  'Or maybe he guesses, I don't know,' Goloshchokin said. 'I think the man's gone mad. He was talking of waiting until the Whites march in, then summoning the White generals and executing the whole Romanov family before their eyes.'

  'And what of Sverdlov's message - doesn't Yurovsky value his own life?'

  I’ll tell you what I think,' Beloborodov said, I think that now he's living only for the thought of killing them. And relishing the how and when of it!'

  So that was that. If the Imperial Family was to be brought out of the Ipatiev House it seemed it must be done despite the guard.

  Which meant - by force.

  And by me ...

  I went next to Berzin, seeking a soldier's eye and memory, and spent a whole day racing on a thin, scraggy pony from one distant defensive emplacement to the next before I ran him to earth at last, seated on a wooden stool outside a smallish tent which was his present headquarters. He looked tired to the point of collapse, but yet had the soldier's way of sloughing off weariness in a second. Then, in ten minutes' work with a sketch-pad, Berzin produced for me a plan of the interior of the House of Special Purpose - and it was one, furthermore, which showed the positions occupied by guards. The outside I had seen for myself, with its double stockade fronting the arched entrance. When we were finished I tucked the drawing into my pocket and swung into the saddle of my sinewy pony, and then Berzin called and I wheeled to face him again.

  'Make a close inspection of that aspect of the house which shows itself from the side alley,' he advised. 'That alley's name is Voznesensky Street, I think.'

  'Goon,' I said.

  'There's a stair there, rising from the garden to a verandah up above. It's not guarded, or wasn't when I saw it. Good luck.'

  'Thank you,' I said, and waved and wished him the same with a hypocritical tongue.

  He smiled tiredly. 'Luck won't help me. I need ten thousand men and five hundred guns.'

  I rode away then, with the rumbling sound of White gunfire ringing me on both sides and to the rear. Only ahead, to the north where the city lay, was there no threatening firing.

  Next morning I was ordered to see Goloshchokin, who demanded to know if I yet had a plan. I told him I had.

  'Explain it.'

  'No,' said I. 'I will not explain. Once it's told, even to you, then it's out and somebody could carry the tale to Yurovsky. I'm not risking it!'

  He glowered at me, but he was no fool.

  'When?' he demanded.

  "When I am ready. There are things still to be done.'

  'Then do them," Goloshchokin said.

  When I reached the German train in its siding at the station, General Baron von Kleber was about to take a comfortable breakfast and invited me to join him. When I declined, he insisted it was the merest Imbiss and I must at the very least take a cup of coffee. His breakfast table groaned: cheeses and cold meats, a variety of breads and pastries and fruit - and four soldier servants to heap his plate. The coffee was quite excellent.

  Clearly first things came first with von Kleber: the filling of his plate he watched hawk-like, and only when all was to his satisfaction did he look across at me. 'Go on.'

  I said, 'Tonight, probably.'

  He gave a slow nod. 'You want my Swabian veterans?'

  'Yes.'

  'Your plan?'

  'Is secret.'

  'The best way, always.' Von Kleber compressed his lips. 'Tell me what you can.'

  'I intend to bring the Imperial Family to you, here, in the early hours of tomorrow. You should have steam up on
the engine and be ready to leave.'

  'Certainly.'

  'Your men, your Swabians - I would prefer they be

  I’m dressed in the same drill khaki worn by the Bolshevik forces, but-'

  'No buts,' said von Kleber. 'We have khaki.' He must have seen my surprise, for he added, "and sailor suits, my friend, and field grey. We came prepared.'

  'Good. Have you arms?'

  'Of course. Good German - or poor Russian?'

  'German will suffice. You said twelve men. Arm ten with pistols, two with rifles.'

  Von Kleber nodded and placed a morsel of game pie in his mouth. Speaking round it he said, 'Paraded where?'

  'Paraded nowhere. They are to walk, one by one and from different directions, to Ascension Square. In front of the church, which stands opposite the British consulate, I shall meet them.'

  'You'll be conspicuous, my friend.'

  'No,' I said. 'There are no street lights at that point. And they'll be there only a moment.'

  He picked up his glass. 'Think you can succeed?'

  'I can try.'

  Despite the early hour, von Kleber now called for cognac. When it was poured, he raised his glass formally. 'To your success, my friend. And to their freedom.'

  We drank to it and I departed.

  At noon, at my request, Beloborodov took himself to the House of Special Purpose to sample the atmosphere.

  He came back with a pale and hunted look about him and as he entered the room at the Americana, his first words were: 'The barrage is getting very near. This -' and he gestured at the double windows of the room - 'this muffles the noise. It's loud in the street.'

  'What of Yurovsky?' I demanded. By now I was beginning to know Beloborodov, and understood that with the city about to fall and much to be done, he wished only to get on with it. The Romanovs were merely a burden to him. Already now he was bending over a map.

  'Yurovsky?' I said again.

  He raised his head. 'Determination. Nothing is changed, except that Yurovsky's grip is tighter.'

  It was difficult to see how it could be made tighter. 'How?'

  Beloborodov said, 'I went to the stairs, intending to go to the upper rooms to inspect the prisoners. He stopped me.'

  I frowned. 'How far does his authority stretch?'

  'There was a revolver in his hand. That stretches authority.' Beloborodov smiled grimly. 'I was in no danger. But if I had insisted I doubt if Yurovsky would have hesitated. He has the Romanovs marked for his own killing. Nobody else goes near to them.'

  'Then why does he keep them alive?'

  Beloborodov shrugged. 'I asked him, don't imagine I didn't! He said to me "I hold them only in trust for the people, until the enemy arrives. At that moment, when it is clear I cannot hold them - then as the people's Commissar for Justice, I shall dispense justice." '

  I said to Beloborodov, 'I'm the enemy. Even with you behind me, even with Sverdlov and Lenin himself behind me. I'm still the enemy - to Yurovsky!'

  Beloborodov game the ghost of a smile and said 'Then move softly and discreetly.'

  I had one more question for him and asked it despite his obvious impatience. 'Did you notice anything changed there?'

  He flicked me a glance. 'In what way?'

  'In any way.'

  He gave a small nod. 'I should have mentioned it. There was hammering from above - from the floor where the Romanovs live.'

  'Did you ask what it was?'

  Beloborodov nodded. 'Yurovsky said he was reinforcing his prison. I told you he's obsessive to the point of madness! He's boarding up all the windows on the side overlooking the garden.'

  'What!' This was shattering to me.

  He repeated: 'Boarding up the windows. He says he fears an attack.'

  I said, 'Does he guess - about us?'

  He shook his head. 'It's the Whites he fears - a raid into the city.'

  But now my plan was in ruins! I had intended to decoy the guards at the south entrance, and then to lead von Kleber's Swabians up the stairs from the garden to the balcony. Once there, and in the house, there would be a dozen men to guard the family, to hold the interior stairs if Yurovsky's men attacked, and to take the Romanovs to safety down the garden stairs to where Ruzsky would be waiting with a truck at the south entrance in Voznesensky Street.

  Angrily I told Beloborodov the rescue was now impossible.

  'You mean your plan is impossible.'

  'Yes.'

  'Then find another!'

  And against the odds. I did, though it was not a plan as the other had been. That had been based upon calculation of the dispositions, and the proper use of strength and surprise. It was a military plan. Now talk would count more and action less. And Bronard was involved . . .

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  -----------------

  Out of the myths of time . . .

  Gossips were apt to say in the pubs of the City of London that to rattle Gibraltar would be a good deal easier than to rattle Sir Horace Malory. Even so, he became rattled on occasion, but he was good at concealing it and only those who knew him most closely were aware of the infallible sign: when upset, Malory had a tendency to sibilance.

  Lady Malory, to whom after fifty-five years of marriage his mind was an open book, had asked sharply at breakfast: 'What on earth's the matter, Horace? You're hissing like a snake!'

  He had mumbled an answer. Something of a problem at the office, m'dear, nothing to worry about.

  At which she spoke his name in a peremptory way. Busily scavenging in the obituary column of The Times, he did not look up, but she continued to repeat his name, each time more loudly, until he did.

  'Yes, m'dear.'

  'You should finish it quickly, Horace, whatever it is.'

  'What, The Times obituary . . . ?'

  'I mean the problem at the office. Finish with it - or it will finish with you. You will, won't you?' Lady Malory was at her most commanding.

  'Yes, m'dear,' said Malory.

  But it was easier said than accomplished. About as simple as trying to finish with gout, thought Malory (who occasionally suffered from it) as his chauffeur Horsfall and his Bentley car made velvet of the morning traffic. Of late, and not without cause, the Siberian adventures of Henry George Dikeston had been intruders in his mind at all sorts of unlooked-for times. He found himself unable to take luncheon, or a walk, or even a nap, without Dikeston and his unlovely and disturbing story tapping rhythms in his head like so many demented drummers. It was no wonder he was hissing!

  Yesterday he'd attacked the matter with quite a bit of determination, summoning Felix Aston from Oxford and then spending the entire day in what the historian had described as analysis. Aston had arrived staggering under the weight of no fewer than three large briefcases, all of thorn filled with books. Sir Horace had then proceeded to ask him straight questions, beginning with the straightest.

  'Were the Romanovs slaughtered at Ekaterinburg?'

  'Er - well, Sir Horace. The general opinion has always been, you see, that they, er - were. But there's a certain amount of doubt, more recently. Mangold and Summers, for instance -'

  'Who are they?'

  'Two BBC reporters, Sir Horace. They produced a book. The File on the Tsar-*

  * Victor Gollancz, Ltd, 1976

  'I read that one. Nicholas shot and the rest survived, eh?'

  'I'm not sure they'd like that summary. But they reviewed all the evidence most carefully.'

  'Nobody knows then, is that so?'

  'Yes, Sir Horace.'

  'Any ideas about why it's all so mysterious?'

  "Well, if they were killed, it was to the Bolsheviks' advantage if nobody knew. They were very worried at the time about the Germans.'

  'I know.'

  'And if the Germans didn't know -'

  'I understand. But tell me about their money.' Malory now listened with all the riveted attention he gave to matters monetary. The Romanovs at the time of their disappearances had money, or so it was sa
id, in half the banks of France, Britain and America. Banks tended, naturally, to say nothing. The Tsar was the richest man on earth in those days, and the Romanovs the richest family.

  Which raised another pertinent and very straight question: 'Who inherited?'

  'Well - nobody, apparently,' said Aston.

  Malory was now sitting a trifle straighter. Lady Malory would have noticed. 'It has all been sitting there, untouched, since 1918!'

  'Or before, Sir Horace. This is the point, so some would say, about Anastasia, if she is Anastasia, who has spent half a century proclaiming that she is the Tsar's youngest daughter.'

  'And failing to establish it, eh?'

  'So far.'

  'Any other lawsuits from frustrated heirs?'

  'None of significance.'

  Malory brooded for a moment. 'Would that be because Anastasia's claim made others impossible?'

  'Well, my own discipline is history rather than jurisprudence, Sir Horace, but inevitably, yes. While the case was sub judice no others could be determined."

  'Let me get this entirely clear,' Malory said. 'There's a great deal of money -'

  The historian interrupted him. 'There may be money, Sir Horace. It's not proven.'

  'All right, all right. And if there is, then the surviving Romanovs couldn't go after it while Anastasia's case was sub judice?'

  True.'

  'And moreover, the case was sub judice for -?'

  'Decades. There were two verdicts - in 1967 and 1970. Of course,' the historian went on, 'neither accepted her as the Tsar's surviving daughter. If they had -'

  'She'd have taken the lot!"

  If she wanted the lot, yes.'

  The conversation became lengthy. References to particular points were sought (by Malory) and produced (by Aston). That, however, was the nub of the long talk. Still, before he left 6 Athelsgate for Paddington and the Oxford train, the historian produced two further nuggets of information. The first came in the form of a lengthy extract from The War Memoirs of David Lloyd George.

  'Met the old rascal a time or two,' said Malory reminiscently. 'After he was done, of course. He was PM when?'