The Last Train to Kazan. Stephen Miller
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squad at work. It was a woman they next led out. Her thin wail came to them on the summer breeze.
‘Honestly, Pyotr, the problem is knowing which revolutionary tiger to back. Guessing as best you can who will come out on top in the internal struggles, or what might be going on beneath the surfaces. So all of us, we’re being put in a situation where we need to protect ourselves.’
‘So as better to serve the people.’
‘Yes, yes, yes, and so on.’
The bullet, the clashings of the bolts on the rifles. The men bending to their work. The motor started up and the guards climbed in. He didn’t think it meant that she’d be the last one they killed for the day. There was always another truck waiting.
‘These much-vaunted personalities…privately I know they are acting strangely. Trotsky is curious. Dzerzhinsky is irritable. Comrade Sverdlov in his capacity as secretary to the Central Committee is the most overworked, and Comrade Stalin is nowhere to be seen. Necessarily, Comrade Lenin is constantly in touch with all sorts of people, the Germans and a lot of others as well. We are in Moscow, this is the centre of the world stage at the moment. Just so you are aware, Ryzhkov…’
‘So what’s this all got to do with me? Why did you save me? What do you want, comrade…Noskov?’
‘Yes, good. You remembered. I’ll tell you what I want on your way to the barracks. You’re Cheka now. We have to start a brand new file on you. We’re in a hurry, but let’s quickly get you cleaned up and into better clothes. Nothing too bourgeois, however,’ Zezulin said as they walked out of the prison.
Woozy from the sudden intake of food, Ryzhkov floated deliriously through the Cheka baths, a somewhat cramped facility, and made an effort to stay awake during Zezulin’s recital while he tried on some newish clothing that had been obtained for his use.
‘As you probably know, last year the Imperial Family was moved from the old capital –’
‘Petrograd.’ Ryzhkov said. The word would never sound quite right on his tongue, patriotic as it was. It would always be St Petersburg for him. ‘Yes, I remember that. That was done secretly.’ He almost laughed.
‘Yes. Typical of secrets in Russia, everybody knows everybody else’s. Blinded by clouds of secrets, no one can recognize the real ones. At any rate, they were, yes, moved. The architect of this scheme was the unfortunate criminal Kerensky. He did it either because he was afraid the advancing Germans would capture the Tsar, or because he realized that possession of the Imperial Family might be an advantage in hypothetical negotiations,’ Zezulin muttered and shrugged.
‘Where were they moved?’
‘To hell and gone. Into Siberia. The town of Tobolsk, district capital, just beyond the Urals. I have never been there, of course, and I don’t know anyone who has. No, that’s not true. Rasputin, he was from a town on the Tobol. That’s the name of the river. There’s no railroad, they come down and get you there by steamer. Last year someone in the Provisional Government decided that Tobolsk was far enough off the face of the earth to be safe, so they loaded the Romanovs onto the train, pasted a Japanese Red Cross banner on the sides, kept the shades drawn when they went through the stations. Still, there were crowds waiting to throw flowers at them when they got off the boat. Big secret.’
‘Fine.’
‘They had their friends follow and take up residence across the street. They had their books, personal effects, their dogs. And they obviously must have taken some valuables with them. We have lists, of course, but lists, being what they are, never include everything.’
Ryzhkov was studying himself in the mirror. Still in reasonable condition, he thought. Newly shaved but not shorn. It would take some time for his weight to come back. He fit his simple suit well, the kind of thing a clerk might wear to and from his office: a shirt that was worn but free of actual holes, a homburg that made him look like an idiot, and that he resolved to get rid of as soon as possible. Only the shoes were out of place. Not a clerk’s lace-ups with mandatory shiny toe caps, but heavier workman’s boots. Still muddy from use. Shoes made for walking, and heavy socks to match. They sat on a low stool beside the mirror. Zezulin had recommended them.
‘Then in April, as soon as the ice broke and they could get a steamer back downstream, they were moved again, this time to Yekaterinburg,’ Zezulin said.
‘Yekaterinburg? Why there?’
Zezulin shrugged. ‘Different people say different things, but you might think of it as a philosophical tug of war, a jurisdictional dispute. The city of Yekaterinburg is held by the Ural Soviet, a very committed bunch of hard-working, hard-drinking miners, men who have spent their proletarian enslavement toiling for the mineral barons. They have grievances. They pulled the hardest, got the least, etc…’
‘All right.’
‘And, as far as anyone knows, that is where they are now.’
‘Yekaterinburg?’
‘Unfortunately Yekaterinburg is an unfashionable city, but revolutions bring hardships on us all.’ Zezulin stepped in front of him and tugged on Ryzhkov’s cravat, trying to get it straight. ‘A great many people would like to possess the Romanovs. Several persons in various countries have offered them sanctuary. Unofficially, of course. And, naturally enough, sums of money are mentioned. We’re not sure exactly. It’s all secret. Remember these are aristocrats. People with the best pedigrees have persuaded all their friends to lend a hand. The British, who are always into everything; your masters the French; all sorts of people are coming up with rescue schemes.’
‘So…bribes?’
‘Of course, it takes the form of bribes, payments for some sort of safe passage, a definite possibility, but also…some of these same people, people of the bluest blood, are ready to pay for a guarantee of the Tsar’s death. That way they could take over the throne for themselves, right? You can be sure money is at the root of it. We know of substantial deposits in foreign banking houses. Call yourself a Tsar in exile? It might not be a bad job for someone with the right qualifications. Worth fighting for, worth raising an army, hiring a few strong men, I’d say.’ Zezulin smiled again. His hand grasped Ryzhkov’s sleeve, turned him so that he could get a better view of the latest parody of himself.
Zezulin had gone serious. ‘You’d better know that at this moment Czech legions are threatening Yekaterinburg. They may have already taken the city, we don’t know. The telegraph links to the city have been sporadic at best.’
‘So no one knows exactly where the Romanovs are?’
‘Correct. That’s what you’re going to find out for me – you’re going to Yekaterinburg and you’re going to find out where they are and how they are. You are going to report that information back to me. You are going to pay particular attention to their security and whatever possessions, and if it comes to it you are going to safeguard them and wait for instructions.’
‘Oh, that doesn’t sound like much. You’ve got to give me some help. Who do you have there?’
‘The Ural Soviet, if they’re still in the district.’
‘If you can’t get anything in, how am I supposed to get anything out?’
‘Your contact in Yekaterinburg is a man named Nikolas Eikhe. He’s a metalsmith there. He lives on the edge of the city – it’s small, he won’t be hard to find. I’m sure you will do what you can. I have faith in you, Ryzhkov.’
‘I only get him to help?’
‘It all depends on what you learn. If you don’t learn anything, I’m not going to be able to get you anything, am I? Come on, spare me.’
‘I’m doing this for the people, I suppose.’
‘It goes without saying. That’s good enough,’ Zezulin said to the tailor. He steered Ryzhkov out and back up the steps, still in a hurry. ‘Are you tired?