The King's Commissar Page 12

  'The deeds.' Malory's smooth hand, brown-spotted with age, manicured throughout a lifetime, patted twice at the manila envelope which lay upon his desk. He took the gold hunter from his waistcoat pocket and consulted it. 'I don't think,' he added, 'that you should waste too much time.'

  Graves, baggy-eyed and dopey with jet-lag after the seven thousand-mile overnight trip, reached for the envelope. 'Where was the address again?'

  Malory looked at him reprovingly. 'A good memory,' he said, 'is extremely important in our profession, Mr Graves. Perhaps you'd better write it down.'

  As the train travelled north to Liverpool, Graves's tired mind wrestled with images of Dikeston. Graves had never before in his life been subject to the feeling that he was being oppressed, but he felt it now. By some means or other, he thought savagely, anything that had its roots in Dikeston turned out to be uncomfortable, difficult or humiliating. It was evening when the train arrived in Lime Street.

  He awoke refreshed in one of the big high beds of the old but comfortable Adelphi Hotel in Liverpool; he breakfasted well and afterwards took a taxi to the premises of the Irish Linen Bank. The morning was bright; Graves felt cheerful; the dark, Dikeston-based delusions had been sloughed off by sleep and he was on his way to a bank to collect papers. What could be simpler?

  Yet it happened.

  'I have an appointment,' Graves said, presenting his card, 'with Mr O'Hara.'

  'One moment, sir.'

  The girl who came over to him was O'Hara's secretary. Mr O'Hara would not be in until after luncheon. Yes, she knew Mr Graves had an appointment; yes, she realized he had come from London; indeed an attempt had been made to call his office and warn him. No, it was impossible to get a message to Mr O'Hara. But he would be in after lunch.

  O'Hara arrived, finally, at a quarter to three and Graves, who had been cooling his heels with growing impatience for four and three-quarter hours was shown in. O'Hara, a big open-faced Irishman, was very apologetic and extremely sorry to hear that the warning message had not reached Graves at Hillyward, Cleef.

  'But what is it I can do for you, Mr Graves?'

  Graves removed two envelopes from his slender document case. Handing the first, and fatter, envelope to O'Hara, he said, 'We are fulfilling the terms of some old and somewhat, er, odd instructions. These are the deeds of a house, which you are to inspect and be sure they are what we say they are. And this -' he offered the second envelope - 'is our cheque for the sum of fifty thousand. Both are to be passed to the holder of an account here.'

  'Lucky fella,' said O'Hara. 'Whose account is that?'

  'I don't know.'

  O'Hara smiled. 'As you say, odd. But if you can't tell me the name -?'

  'There's a number. It's a special -'

  He was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone on O'Hara's desk.

  'Excuse me.' O'Hara picked it up. 'Yes,' he said. Then, 'No.' Then 'Two and one, my dear, a diplomatic defeat.' Then, 'Well, nobody can go round Birkdale without -' He stopped, the open face suddenly flushing. 'I'll call you later, dear.'

  'Golf?' Graves said, anger almost erupting. 'You were playing golf?'

  O'Hara's explanation was as full as his apologies were fulsome. 'Called out at the last minute, terribly sorry, but the General Manager . . , and one of our most important customers . . , promotion in the wind, you know .., no way of refusing . . . Now, you were saying?'

  'I was saying there is a special account at this bank. It's number is X253.'

  'An X account is it? Well, well. First time I've encountered any business with one of those. So these -' he held up the two envelopes - 'go to the account holder.'

  'The cheque does. The deeds are to be inspected by you. And in return there should be some papers.'

  'I see.' O'Hara rose. 'You'll excuse me a moment?'

  He came back two or three minutes later, a deed box in his hands. 'The old and held file, that's what we call this, Mr Graves. Real mystery stuff. Now -' He found a key on a big ring and turned it in the lock.

  There was a fat foolscap-sized envelope in the box. It was sealed with wax, which O'Hara broke. He took out a sheet of paper and read it, then looked across the desk. 'Very well, Mr Graves.' From inside the envelope he took another, its shape familiar by now to Graves. 'I am to give you this. Perhaps you'll sign for it?'

  Graves took out his pen. 'Yes. Oh, by the way.'

  'Hmmm?' O'Hara glanced across.

  'Whose account is it?'

  A slow smile spread across the Irishman's features. 'Oh, now, Mr Graves! You know I can't tell you.'

  'Then I'll just have to find out,' said Graves.

  'Do. If you can.' O'Hara laughed. 'We're as tight as the Swiss here, and twice as difficult!'

  'You wouldn't care to make it easier?'

  'No.'

  Graves put the new packet of papers into his document case, and left the manager's office. Outside, in the main business area, he picked up a copy of the Financial Times and took a seat, from which he had a good view of the whole floor. Carefully, he surveyed the staff of the Irish Linen Bank. Quite a number, he knew from experience, would regard an offered chance of a move to Hillyard, Cleef as one of life's great wonders. Few, however would have access to information about secret accounts.

  But somebody must - in case, for instance, O'Hara dropped dead on the golf-course. As Graves profoundly wished he would. The question was, who? The assistant manager, the accountant?

  O'Hara, meanwhile, was at his desk. The deed box still stood open before him. The foolscap envelope which had held the packet had also held something else: another envelope. His sheet of instructions told him to post it. He looked at the address before placing it in his out-tray.

  It was addressed to Coutts & Co., The Strand, London.

  All very mysterious, O'Hara thought.

  But he was more concerned with another mystery: O'Hara was in line for promotion, that much he knew. The question was: would it be to London or Dublin? It occupied his mind.

  Later his eye fell upon the envelope again as it lay waiting for his secretary to take away. Coutts, it occurred to him, were the royal bankers, and O'Hara enjoyed little flights of fantasy.

  Could this be a royal mystery?

  CHAPTER SIX ------------•+,-------------

  Third instalment of the account, written by

  LtCdr H. G. Dikeston, RN, of his journeyings

  in Russia in the spring of 1918

  I have observed before in these papers that to set eyes upon the Grand Duchess Maria Nikolaevna was to be aware on the instant that here was a human being of the finest. Something curious was there in the face and one can always tell ; one can look at a man of position and know him at once for a rascal, at a tramp and know him for a decent fellow. Some people are incapable of giving importance to words over which they labour long; there are others whose lightest remark is worth attention. All this is difficult to convey, and indeed there is no real need to attempt to do so, for all of us know the truth of it.

  Thus when, in the corridor of the train, moving through the night between Kulomzino and Tyumen, the door of the royal compartment opened and the Grand Duchess spoke, her words, though simple, conveyed much.

  'May I talk to you?' was all she said. Yet I at once understood much more from certain subtleties of emphasis. I understood that she felt disloyal in leaving her parents even briefly; that such a brief escape was none the less necessary to her; that she sensed a future in which free talk would be rare for her. Many things.

  'Of course. Your Royal -'

  'Oh no!' she protested. 'I'm not a royal anything.' Then she laughed quietly. 'Except perhaps a royal relic. My name is Marie.'

  I found myself smiling. 'Very well, ma'am.'

  'Marie. Say it.'

  I said it.

  'Good. And you are Henry, I know that. Oh, so English a name! I've been there, you know. To England, I mean.'

  'I know.'

  'Father says you are a sailor. I met a young
English sailor once - Prince Louis of Battenberg. You know him?'

  'No. But I know of him.'

  'I liked him. I think I like the English. Do you like Russians?'

  'Some more than others."

  'Oh yes.' She laughed. 'Some much more! You know, Henry - this is very wrong.'

  'What is?' Though I knew.

  She giggled. 'Why - standing in the dark talking to a sailor. Oh, shameful! And unique, I think.'

  'Unique. A girl talking to a sailor? Hardly that.'

  'Not an opportunity much granted to me,' she said. Then: 'Have you seen the world?'

  'Some of it.'

  'Tell me. I have seen so little. Have you been to China?'

  'Yes.'

  'Tell me about China.'

  I can remember every second of it, that hour we passed in the Siberian night. In her lay a magical gaiety and attention and time went like the wind. How she could be so disposed, at a moment when only the most dangerous uncertainty lay ahead, is hard to understand, except that it was her nature. She wanted to know: I had seen and could tell. She was full of questions and swift insights following upon my answers. Nor would she allow talk of the present or the future: it was the wider world she wanted to know about; the world and the bright and exciting things in it. And so for a time we chattered and laughed, until she said suddenly. 'I must go,' and spoke my name. 'Good night, Henry.'

  'Good night - Marie.'

  She paused. There was scarcely any light, but I could dimly see the pale outline of her face.

  She said softly, Thank you.' And kissed me on the cheek. And was gone.

  I stood for a while beside the closed door. Much of the magic of the night had departed with her, and realization that there was a dangerous time ahead came flooding back to me. I went at last to find Ruzsky: if nothing else, he could tell me about the city of Ekaterinburg and so keep from my mind the suddenly-gathering and fearful images which now crowded in. But he was asleep and snoring.

  I lay on my bunk and tried also to sleep, but could not. Then, for I must have been more weary than I knew, I did indeed doze for a little while, only to be awakened when the train halted.

  Yet I had given orders that it proceed without stopping to Ekaterinburg, and this was only Tyumen! And while I was still rubbing sleep from my eyes, the train was boarded by a dozen or so men and I recognized some of them as part of the Ekaterinburg detachment which had been at Tobolsk.

  They recognized me too, and just as quickly. Before I could move from where I stood, there was a pistol in my ribs and a voice snarling at me: 'Commissar Yakovlev, you are under arrest!'

  'By whose orders?"

  'On the authority of the Urals Soviet.'

  I began my ritual protest. I was an emissary of the Central Executive Committee. Death awaited anyone who impeded -

  'Keep it for your trial!' I was told.

  I was shoved roughly back and the door of the wagon-lit was slammed.

  Thus imprisoned, I came to Ekaterinburg. They opened my door as the train halted jerkily, and I was pulled into the corridor. Through the carriage window I could see that there was a jostling crowd around the train; a noisy one too. There were yells of 'Bring him out!' 'Hang the German bitch!' 'Show us Bloody Nicholas!' Truly it was a most frightening sight.

  A moment later I was pushed to one side by the bearded lout who was guarding me, and as I turned my head I saw the Imperial Family coming towards me along the corridor, Nicholas first and carrying his own luggage, his face set.

  I thought, Damn this rabble! and stood to attention and saluted.

  Nicholas stopped and looked at me.

  I said. 'I have informed Moscow. They're bound to intervene, sir.'

  His face darkened, and he gave me a look filled with hatred. 'We are under arrest, you treacherous pig!' he said, and stepped past me, adding over his shoulder, 'You've killed us all!'

  In the end, they changed its name. Ekaterinburg was founded by Peter the Great and named for his wife. Now -and what irony there is in this! - now the city is Sverdlovsk, named for Yankel Sverdlov.

  Oh yes - the same. The Sverdlov who had sent me to Tobolsk, the Sverdlov who had christened me Yakovlev, the Sverdlov whose signature lay upon the paper which demanded all men assist me.

  They spat upon his signature that day - and laughed openly at mention of his name ! When I brandished Lenin at them, and Trotsky, they were no more impressed. Times have changed indeed. . . .

  But then - well, I was flung in to prison, and a real prison, too, with stone walls and clanging iron door. When the iron door opened again it was to admit two men. I had seen neither before.

  I was sitting on the grubby cell floor, for there was no chair and no bed. Scrambling at once to my feet I faced them angrily. 'How dare you imprison me!'

  One of them - he looked like a superior clerk: fat, with a dark moustache and a creased suit-stood forward. 'Dare?' he said. 'The Urals Soviet does not dare. It acts - in full Soviet legality.'

  'Doesn't Sverdlov?' I demanded. 'Doesn't Lenin? Are their actions illegal! Tell me, whoever you are. And I'll pass the message on!'

  He surveyed me angrily. 'I am Alexander Beloborodov, chairman of the Urals Soviet, lawful government of the Urals region. Comrade Goloshchokin here is also a member.'

  'I travel on direct orders from the Head of State!' I insisted, and showed my paper.

  'To set Bloody Nicholas free!' said Goloshchokin. He was another type, this man: thin and intent. 'You know as well as I do what they're doing. It's a dirty deal with the Germans, made because the damned Tsarina's a German.' He turned on me angrily. 'Isn't it?'

  I gave anger for anger. 'How do I know what's in their minds in Moscow? I do as I'm told. Maybe they have got one eye on the German army. To them it's too damned dangerous and too damned near. I am under orders to deliver the whole Romanov family to Moscow. When they get there, I don't know if they'll go on trial, if they'll go to the Germans - or if they'll be sent to Timbuctoo, for that matter.'

  'Ah, but what do you want?' asked Beloborodov softly.

  'Want?'

  'What should be done?'

  I thought for a moment, and thought damned carefully. These two would string me up, as soon as not, I sensed that with no difficulty. Their anxiety to demonstrate independence from Moscow was manifest.

  'Me?' I said. 'I'd put them on trial before the world. There's evidence enough. But it's not my task to decide.'

  'It's mine,' Beloborodov said. His round face glistened, though there was little warmth in the cell.

  I shook my head. 'Why? Why you? Upon what basis?

  Are you Commissar for Foreign Affairs or is Comrade Trotsky? You merely want to kill for vengeance -'

  'Yes.' They said it in chorus. 'That damned German woman,' Goloshchokin went on angrily. 'How many deaths can be laid at her door?'

  'And you want more?' I demanded. 'She's a German princess! If they want her back as the price of peace, what then? If she can be used to save the lives of our soldiers, why not? Because you want revenge, eh? And you are safe - a thousand miles from the German army.'

  He scowled at me, and I turned to Beloborodov. 'You think I'm a traitor, do you?'

  'Perhaps.' He said it quietly, threateningly.

  'And Sverdlov - he's a traitor too? And Lenin? If they are not, I am not. Look at that signature!'

  'How do I know it isn't forged?' Beloborodov said.

  'You will know if you telegraph Moscow. There must be a telegraph available here.'

  'He's bluffing,' Goloshchokin said.

  'Am I? It's easy to find out. Send a telegram to Moscow!'

  Whether or not they did, I have no way of knowing. What I do know is that they left me in that malodorous cell and as the iron door clanged behind them, I felt near to despair. All had gone dreadfully wrong. I was in prison, as the Tsar and Tsarina and Marie must now be. And it was I who had allowed them to fall into the hands of men who desired their deaths. No wonder the Tsar thought I had betrayed the
m.

  I spent time staring unseeing at the stone floor before the thoughts came. What of Ruzsky? The prospect of Ekaterinburg had worried him not at all - as it would not, since like Goloshchokin and Beloborodov he was actually a member of the Soviet.

  Whatever else he was! The man was a riddle: on the one hand a fanatic, on the other some kind of agent. And French, to boot! What was it he had said? After some thought I could even remember his words: 'I serve various interests,' he had said. 'For the moment, I am to help you when you need help.' And also: 'You were told to look out for a man before you left London.'

  What could I make of it? It was all true enough. I had been told to lookout for a man upon reaching Tobolsk. I had also been told the man would be able to help me. It was in the sheet of instructions given to me by Mr Basil Zaharoff.

  And Zaharoff was known, to the Press at any rate, as The Man Who Peddled Death!

  'I serve various interests!' So Ruzsky, or Bronard, or whoever he was, was Zaharoff's man, of that much I was now fairly certain. But what was he doing here? How did it come about that Zaharoff, the arch-capitalist, had his own man as a member of a Soviet in the middle of Siberia? I know now that nothing was beyond that man. There will be Zaharoff agents among the ranks of angels; yes, and the devils, too. It seems extraordinary enough now, years later, when I know more of him. Then it seemed to be beyond believing.

  But of course I got no further with my thoughts, not then. Hours went by before once more that iron cell door was thrown open. Goloshchokin appeared, looking at me grimly. I thought him to be alone, but in a moment it was Ruzsky who slouched into view, that smirk of his much evident.

  I came to my feet. 'What did Moscow say?'

  Neither answered. 'Personally I'd hang you, Yakovlev,' Ruzsky suddenly said to me. He turned to his companion. 'You should have seen him bow and scrape to the Romanovs.'