The Romanov Conspiracy (46 page)

“Don’t ask me to explain, it’s complicated. Can you help me, Abraham?”

“Anything for an old comrade, especially you.” Tarku looked at Lydia. “He’s a true mensch, this one, to borrow from my Jewish friends. Always put his men first. Another drink, madame? A bear never walked on one paw.”

Tarku went to pour but Lydia placed a hand on top of her glass. “If I do I’ll be on the floor.”

“At least it’s clean, swept this morning. Captain?”

Andrev held out his glass. When it was refilled he wandered over to the window and peered at the railway yard, his mind ticking over.

A long line of cattle wagons were being loaded with supplies from trucks and horse-drawn carriages, the Red troops working busily. “Are the trains on time these days?”

“More or less. The Reds shot a few striking rail workers, which improved the service no end. Ironic, considering they once urged the same rail workers to strike to help Lenin seize power.”

“What about the trains to the Urals?”

Tarku shrugged and joined Andrev at the window. “Depends. The Trans-Siberian passenger ones aren’t always running on schedule. Troop reinforcements and carriages loaded with hospital supplies and ordnance seem to get priority these days. They run all night on Trotsky’s orders on account of his troops having a hard time of it against the Whites in the east. Don’t tell me you’re headed there to help the cause.”

“Maybe.”

“You wouldn’t be the only one. Ever since the tsar’s imprisonment, volunteers have been heading to the Urals. Including little old ladies, nobility, and religious people who want to be close to their former emperor. Insane, I know. The tsar’s finished.”

Andrev swallowed his vodka. “When exactly do the troop trains leave?”

“Usually in the evening, after ten. Why?”

Andrev considered, finished his vodka, and slapped down the glass. “The less you know the better, Abraham.”

“As you wish.”

Andrev looked up at the clothes racks. “Is this everything you have in the line of clothing?”

“Are you joking? We could clothe half of Moscow with the stuff we’ve got in the back.”

“I need a change. The lady, too. But first, I want to borrow that typewriter. Can you give me twenty minutes of privacy and some typing paper?”

“Paper, for what?”

“I have an important letter to type.”

65

The warehouse at the back of the shop was bursting with garments, packing crates, and glass cases filled with more belongings.

Tarku hauled in the Remington typewriter, placed it on a writing table, and rummaged in a drawer filled with paper sheets and brown envelopes. “What about the lady?”

“See if you can find her some fresh clothes. She’ll know what’s suitable.” Andrev placed a neat stack of rubles on the table. “For your trouble. These are hard times.”

Tarku pushed away the money. “I couldn’t take a kopek from you, and it’s no trouble. I’ll be back.”

He left, and Andrev wound a sheet of paper onto the roller. His brow wrinkled in thought for a few minutes and then he pecked at the keyboard.

When he was done he unwound the typed page from the roller and slipped it in an envelope. As he stood, Tarku came back, carrying the vodka bottle. “All finished? How about another?”

“Not for me or I’ll be on my knees. How are you two getting on with the clothes?”

“You know what women are like; they take their time in that department. She’s trying to find her size. A friend of yours, you say?”

“Yes.” Andrev didn’t elaborate, tucked the envelope in his trouser pocket, and moved along a rack of men’s clothes. He found a dark tan leather jacket and tried it on for size. “This feels about right. Have you a leather cap?”

Tarku found a black one among a pile of hats, dusted it with his sleeve, and handed it over. “Try this.”

There was a mirror in the corner and Andrev slipped on the
leather jacket, tugged on the cap at a rakish angle, and studied his reflection.

The transformation was astonishing, a sudden chilling arrogance to his appearance that made Tarku step back to regard him. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’d pass for a Cheka.”

“I’ll try to take that as a compliment.”

“They all have that look, you know. Sullen arrogance. A sideways glance almost gives you a heart attack.”

Andrev’s eye was drawn to one of the glass cases that contained a silver locket and chain. “May I?”

Tarku unlocked the glass case with a key and handed the locket across. “It’s a handsome piece. Belonged to a lawyer’s wife. She pawned it before fleeing the country.”

Andrev smiled, tossed the locket in his palm. “How much do you want?”

“For the captain, I couldn’t accept more than ten rubles.”

“You’re cheating yourself. I’ll give you twenty, and I insist or you’ll hurt my feelings.”

“Very well. I’ll even inscribe something on it if you wish. It won’t take a minute.”

“Perfect. Now, I need just one more thing. A bag of workman’s tools.”

They walked back to the lodging house, the trams too crowded, Uri wearing the leather jacket and cap, tipped back, and on his shoulder he carried a grubby canvas bag that contained workman’s tools.

Lydia wore a fresh dark blue peasant skirt and cream blouse, her hair tied back under a headscarf. As they passed the Moscow River, they stopped under the trees and Andrev leaned on the stone bank. She said, “Do you trust Tarku?”

He lit a cigarette and looked out at the view. “More than most. I always found him loyal. Besides, he hates the Reds.”

Lydia recognized a look of fear that ignited in the faces of anyone who passed, noticing Andrev’s leather jacket and cap. “I’m not sure I like you wearing that outfit. People seem scared of the sight of you.”

“You’re not meant to. It’s because I look like a Cheka. Do you know why they always wear leather?”

“It sets them apart. Emphasizes their power.”

“Exactly. And it’s a power we can use to our advantage. Wait here.”

He stubbed out his cigarette and crossed the road to an elderly woman selling vegetables. Curiously, Andrev bought a handful of potatoes that the woman wrapped in dirty newspaper. On the stand were also single lilies wrapped in greaseproof paper and on impulse Andrev bought one. He strode back and presented Lydia with the flower.

She took it. “What’s this for?”

“Something to remember me by.”

She smiled, genuinely touched, and smelled the scent. “You’re very kind. But it’s the potatoes that have me puzzled.”

“If you think I’m about to cook you a stew, you’re sadly mistaken.”

She laughed suddenly, for the first time he had known her, and for that moment it seemed as if she were a different person.

He said, “Let me show you what they’re for. A trick that might come in useful someday.”

They reached the lodging house and went up to their room. Uri took one of the potatoes and opened a penknife he slipped from his pocket. He laid both on the side table. “I’ve been thinking about what Tarku said about the troop and supply carriages running to the Urals all the time. We’ll try and board one bound for Ekaterinburg.”

“But we’re not military.”

Andrev took the envelope from his pocket, opened the typed page, and showed it to her. “With any luck, it won’t be a worry. Read that.”

Lydia read the page aloud, “To whom it may concern: The bearer of this letter, Nicholai Couris, is acting on the highest Cheka instructions. All military and civilian personnel, regardless of rank, will aid him in every way possible. Signed, Vladimir Lenin.”

The letter was signed with a flourish.

Andrev said, “We’ll bluff our way on board.”

She looked at him, her face deadly serious a moment, and then an amused smile crossed her lips. “You’re a devious man and it sounds
impressive enough. But haven’t you forgotten something? It’s got no official stamp.”

Andrev held up a single potato. “It’s about to get one. Watch this.”

He sliced the potato in half with the knife and, choosing one of the halves, he wiped away the excess moisture with the old bedsheet. From his pocket he took his discharge notice, the one with the red-inked War Ministry stamp on it.

He laid it flat on the table and placed the exposed inside part of the potato over the red stamp. He pressed it hard against the inked stamp for several minutes.

When he removed it, the exposed potato had absorbed the red-ink image. Andrev placed the potato over the lower right corner of his own typed page and held it there for at least a minute, until the image was transferred onto his typed page. “Voilà, as the French say. It’ll look perfectly official when it dries. The starch in the potato absorbs the ink.”

He waved the page in the air to dry the moist red stamp. “If there’s one thing the Bolsheviks are masters at, it’s inciting terror. This ought to strike the fear of the devil into anyone who reads it and get us on board a troop train.”

“Do you really think it’ll pass for an official document?”

“I saw my own death warrant signed by Lenin, and believe me this will do the job. Besides, it’s all about attitude, as my old grandmother used to say.”

“When do we leave for Ekaterinburg?”

“Tonight. After I see Nina and my son.”

66

MOSCOW

The tenement flat near the Arbat district was on the second floor. The two rooms were barely furnished but they had a homey feel, scrupulously clean, with earthenware flowerpots in the windows.

On top of the table were the remains of a small birthday cake, some cheap toy trinkets, and a couple of plates of sugary biscuits baked by Zoba’s wife.

Yakov, his shirt collar open, a glass of vodka in his hand, studied his daughter with tender fascination as she played with a half dozen children milling around the kitchen, all of them wearing party hats made of old newspaper.

Katerina was no longer an infant. She was developing a mind all her own: going to school, talking, arguing. Yakov thought to himself,
Years in the trenches changed you, made you forget there was anything beautiful in the world
. But sitting by her bed sometimes, stroking her hair, gazing down at her sleeping face, he never ceased to be amazed by how much he loved her.

The loss of her mother had been hard on her. Had it not been for Zoba’s wife he didn’t know what he would have done: his daughter called her “Auntie,” but the woman had become a substitute mother.

Katerina skipped over, clutching the rag doll he’d bought as her birthday present, her huge eyes devouring him. “Papa, will you stay tonight? Auntie says you can sleep by my bed and she’ll make you supper. Will you?”

He swept her up in his arms, kissed her cheek. “Papa told you, sweetheart, I have work to do.”

“But Auntie says you and Zoba never stop working for Comrade
Lenin. Can’t you stay? He must be a very selfish man to want you to work all the time. Is he selfish, Papa?”

“No, he’s going to change the world for the better, Katerina.”

“Some children in my class say that he’s a good man for getting rid of the tsar. But others say he’s evil because he’s killing so many people. Is he evil or good, Papa?”