CHAPTER 63
The White House the official residence of the Turkestan Republic was an imposing stone building that had been the former residence of the Governor-Generals of the Imperial Government. The building inside was imposing but as the four men climbed the stairs they noticed the walls were marked with what appeared to be dried blood and human hair; occasionally bullet holes could be seen.
When the Britons and the American entered the Government Leader’s office they saw the man Compton had accurately described as Bogdanovich, sitting in a huge wooden chair at his desk; a desk empty of papers. Bogdanovich did not get up merely thrust a finger at the four newcomers to sit in a row of chairs opposite him. The four men sat in silence as if sensing that a very unpleasant interview with a school headmaster awaited them. The sun streamed through the office windows so that when the Anglo-American party all sat down they had to squint to see Bogdanovich. Plasov sat discreetly to the left of his leader while the man who sat on Bogdanovich’s right was secret police chief Chevosky. Plasov nodded a surreptitious greeting, Chevosky merely scowled.
Bogdanovich stared at the four allies before he summoned Plasov to him with a jerk of his head. Plasov crept demurely to Bogdanovich’s side and began to whisper in his ear. Suddenly Bogdanovich screamed and Plasov took a step backwards and spoke in a louder voice; Plasov was obviously identifying each member of the Anglo-American party by name. Bogdanovich ended Plasov’s conversation the same way as he had started it with a jerk of his head. Plasov crept back to his chair. Bogdanovich stood and Edrich noted that the man had a long body and very short stubby legs encased in gleaming leather boots; Edrich also noted that the man had both a revolver and a bayonet attached to the belt he wore round his trousers.
Bogdanovich moved slowly round to the front of the desk and perched on it with neither leg quite reaching the floor. As if by magic another man appeared from behind the desk where he had been sitting on the floor; this second man had a face that was bathed in sweat. When Bogdanovich began to talk the second man standing on Bogdanovich’s left, began to translate.
‘I have here a document from Moscow,’ Bogdanovich snapped his fingers behind him and held his hand out to receive something, nobody moved. Bogdanovich snapped his fingers again before turning round and glaring at Plasov. The interpreter moved towards the desk but stopped abruptly when shouted at. A cowed looking Plasov moved forward, opened the desk drawer, extracted a sheet of paper and leaned forward with it in his hand. Bogdanovich who had turned back to face the Britons and American clicked his fingers. Plasov nervously placed the paper in Bogdanovich’s hand. Bogdanovich looked cursorily at the paper then stared at the group before him. Edrich nearly smiled because the whole thing seemed theatrical.
‘It seems that there has been another invasion of Russia,’ Bogdanovich paused and waved the paper, ‘can you explain it?’
Silence hung in the air like as Bogdanovich waited for someone to speak. Edrich exchanged glances with Compton whose look said, “The British Empire at it again.”
Edrich took a deep breath. ‘Comrade Commissar we have been discussing with Commissar Plasov about the alleged invasion by British troops of Turkestan. I can only tell you what I told Commissar Plasov. We know nothing about the earlier invasion or anything about this one. We are surprised that the British Government would contemplate doing such a thing or, how or, why we would invade Russia twice.’
Edrich waited for an explosion that did not come. Bogdanovich crossed his arms and looked not at Edrich but at Compton to whom he spoke. ‘We are surprised that a President such as Hickson is supporting the invasion of Russia by troops of the Imperial Powers.’
‘Knowing our President’s policy I am sure he would have objected to any invasion by the British or indeed the French. But, they are our allies,’ replied Compton whose surprise registered clearly in his face, ‘so we have to support them but I am sure in words only and not with soldiers.’ Compton shook his head.
Bogdanovich smiled. ‘Really Mr Compton perhaps you are too junior to be kept abreast of events. American troops are reported to be with the Imperialists.’
Compton gave a wry smile. ‘I am surprised at that. We speak English so it is possible that your sources somehow confused British soldiers for American ones. There are no American soldiers in India or Persia so they cannot have been part of the invasion force. Colonel Edrich and Sir Walter Robbins will support me on this.’
‘Mr Compton’s statement is completely accurate - there are no American soldiers in either India or Persia,’ Robbins espoused hammering his right forefinger on the arm rest of his chair.
Edrich who had been thinking about what Bogdanovich had said now spoke. ‘Commissar you said Imperial troops. Are you saying French troops are also involved?’
‘Yes.’
‘I am extremely puzzled by your statement. I have no knowledge of any French troops in the area of South Russia or over the border in Persia and certainly not in India where we fought them for years for control of the country. Whilst France is our ally we have different interests which both countries adhere to.’ That was a lie because the two countries were always at loggerheads over something.
Edrich made a show of focusing his look on Plasov deeming it time to change the subject. ‘I have told Commissar Plasov that we have not heard from our government since we arrived here’
‘Nor I from mine,’ added Compton.
Chevosky said something at which Bogdanovich nodded and spoke to Edrich. ‘Commissar Chevosky reminds me that that is not true. You sent a telegram to India the other day.’
‘We did, but I have not yet had a reply.’
Bogdanovich said nothing just turned, got up and walked over to Plasov to be joined by Chevosky. For a few moments the three Russians talked quietly. None of the Anglo-American party spoke to each other being too busy watching the Russians. Eventually Bogdanovich returned to his chair and sat down heavily before putting his elbows on the desk and addressing the men in front of him.
‘The invasion I am talking about has occurred in North Russia round the port of Archangel.’
The sound of a horse neighing in the distance indicated how quiet the room had become after the last statement. Edrich stole a look at Compton and Robbins who both looked as flummoxed as he felt.
‘I could have all of you shot as spies and that includes you Mr Compton because American troops are very much part of this invasion. So what have you to say?’
Again silence filled the air. Edrich noticed Plasov lean forward and Chevosky pat his pistol holster with a grin.
Eventually Robbins broke the silence. He spoke with a firmness which Edrich and Compton approved. ‘Commissar, a spy is someone who comes to a place in secret to collect information and transmit it secretly. We have come to see you openly and you have a copy of our one transmission by telegram to India. We have also very specific questions about certain things that whilst we are here today we would like to discuss with you.’
‘You have been talking to Commissar Plasov have you not? He represents the Tashkent Soviet’s views on all subjects so I am dumbfounded by your request for the same information.’
‘It is always nice to clarify things with the head of the government,’ Compton said keeping his eyes on Plasov whose face remained set but whose eyes flickered.
A ghost of a smile flicked across Bogdanovich’s face for an instant. ‘I am not the leader I merely chair the meetings of all the Commissars. I may also remind you that Moscow is the seat of our government and it is they who provide me with direction and guidance. What would you want to ask me?’
‘The POWs,’ said Edrich.
Bogdanovich turned to Plasov who shrugged and held his hands out palms upward. Bogdanovich turned back to Edrich. ‘We want them in our Red Army but we do not force them to join. Those that join will, after all the counter revolutionaries are defeated in Russia, go home to spread the revolution.’
‘I thought Moscow ordered that the POWs were to be sent home a
nd were not allowed to join the Red Army,’ Robbins said.
Bogdanovich’s eyes narrowed, he turned to stare at Plasov who shrank into his seat. He turned back. ‘From where did you get that information?’
‘Not from Commissar Plasov I assure you. I think it was from amongst the German prisoners, or the Austrians, or the Serbs, or the,’ Edrich proclaimed.
‘Very funny,’ barked Bogdanovich.
Compton added, ‘I think it possibly came from Sailer,’ mentioning Sailer as the source might get him into trouble.
‘Yes, I am sure that we had heard that he had passed it on to his men,’ Robbins bobbing his head vigorously in support of his colleagues.
‘So you are spying on Sailer?’
‘No, but we do keep our ears open. Sailer is of no interest. Our interest is the Imperialist Beckelmann because he wants to resume fighting us.’ Robbins’ use of the word “Imperialist” made his companions want to laugh but a glance at the sour look on Bogdanovich’s face checked them.
‘I hope he does so. Imperialists fighting one another will surely ease the arrival of freedom for the masses everywhere. Enough of talking about Imperialists relationships, you have asked Commissar Plasov about the cotton and whether either Britain or America might buy it.’ The Anglo-Americans all nodded as one. ‘I am afraid until this Archangel invasion is satisfactorily cleared up neither of your two countries will be allowed to buy it.’
‘What about the Indian Traders, subjects of the British crown, who complain that your officials are confiscating their money and their goods.’
‘Do you have their names?’
‘No,’ Robbins responded.
‘If they made their money here they should keep it here. Why anyway should they receive different treatment from Russians?’ Bogdanovich folded his arms.
‘Well they are British subjects.’
‘Subject is the right word. We seek to free all colonized peoples and in the interim if they have traded here they must submit to our laws. Is there anything else?’
‘Yes,’ said Robbins. ‘I am retiring from my post in Kashgar, as you may know. I wanted to travel home via Moscow can I do that?’
Bogdanovich laughed as he shook his head, ‘Sir Walter Robbins we have received orders from Moscow that you all must return to Kashgar – we could or will shoot you if you disobey that order. We gave you a week but I suggest that you leave sooner before Moscow changes its mind. You may, if you wish, not travel back together,’ his eyes narrowed, ‘there are many bandits between here and the border. In this case safety may not be in numbers but by being in different caravans.’
Bogdanovich stood up and said that Plasov wanted to talk to them. Then without a backward glance and with Chevosky by his side the Turkestan leader left the room without a goodbye.
Once the two Commissars were gone Plasov pointed out that Bogdanovich had deliberately not mentioned the issue about the British troops in southern Turkestan fighting against the legitimate Russian government because Plasov had already mentioned it at their previous meeting. Again Robbins and Edrich denied all knowledge of the invasion and that they had received no reply to the telegram they had sent to India about this matter. They suggested that another telegram be sent. Plasov was non-committal about sending another telegram claiming it was a committee decision to allow such a thing. For the next half an hour Plasov and the Anglo-Americans talked about all the subjects they had raised at previous meetings and as before it was fruitless.
As the Anglo-American mission left the White House Chevosky was waiting by a horse drawn cart in which were a number of rough timber coffins. As soon as Chevosky saw them he shouted a command and two men appeared from the far side of the wagon and clambered aboard. The two men struggled with one of the coffins and lifted up one of the ends. Chevosky screamed at the men again and they opened the flimsy lid and showed the coffin’s contents to the four men.
‘Good God,’ cried Compton, ‘who is that?’
‘It is Dr Aziz-ul-Din, the Afghani who came to see me yesterday. We thought he was a Bolshevik agent,’ Hutton sounded shocked.
Compton whirled round to look at Edrich whose face was set in anger as he glared at Chevosky and shouted in English, ‘you bastard Chevosky!’
For a moment the Russian’s face hardened and then it suddenly broke into a broad grin. Edrich watched in horror as the policeman reached into the coffin pulled the corpse up by the shirt and pointed at two bloody bullet holes in its chest; dropping the corpse Chevosky pointed his fingers at Edrich and pulled an imaginary trigger. Chevosky turned away and barked an order. The two men who had opened the coffin now nailed it shut before they assumed their seats in the wagon, which then lumbered slowly down the street. Chevosky stood oozing unpleasantness as the Anglo-American group passed him by without any further exchange of words.
The Cotton Spies Page 64