The King's Commissar Read online

  The King nodded and took a seat. 'Sit down, please, gentlemen.'

  We were grouped round a low table, the King in an armchair, the rest of us on small, high-backed and rather flimsy and uncomfortable chairs of gilt.

  'Tell me about yourself, Commander,' the King instructed me.

  I cleared my throat. 'In what respect, Your -'

  'No Majesties,' he said. 'Sir will suffice! I want a brief summary of your life.'

  It is not an easy thing to give. 'From birth?'

  He nodded.

  'I was born,' I said, 'in St Petersburg in Russia, in 1893. My late father was a merchant in the fur and timber trades, and my late mother the daughter of an officer of the Royal Navy.'

  'You have brothers and sisters?'

  'No, Sir.'

  He nodded and I went on. 'When I was a child, my family moved from St Petersburg to the town of Perm where my father was for some years the British Consul. I was educated there, in the main by private tutors, until the time came for me to return to Great Britain and enter the Royal Naval College at Osborne as a cadet.'

  The King smiled a little at that. Osborne, as was well-known, was always close to the Royal heart.

  'I became a midshipman in 1909, Sir. Sub-Lieutenant the following year, and Lieutenant -'

  He raised a hand to stop my discourse. 'How good is your Russian?'

  'It is a second tongue, Sir.'

  'Good as your English?'

  'If anything,' I ventured, 'it is better.' And wondered: where the devil is this leading? Already I was beginning to harbour premonitions.

  'Have you visited Russia since?'

  'Yes, Sir. For two years I was on the staff of the naval attaché in St Petersburg.'

  He was looking at me in a speculative way. Then he asked suddenly, his voice gruff, 'You know of the plight of my cousin?'

  'I do.' As who did not, I thought.

  'And where they are - the Imperial Family?'

  'What I read, Sir - in the newspapers.'

  George the Fifth sighed heavily. 'The reports are all too correct. We ourselves know little more. Tell me this, Commander: have you at any time, in St Petersburg or elsewhere, come into contact with any one of the leaders of these - Bolsheviks?' He spoke the word as though it were a vile expletive, as well he might.

  'I have not, Sir.'

  He brooded for a time and I glanced briefly at the other two. Zaharoff sat still, and watchful as an eagle, the startling eyes half-hooded. Poor little Clark, on the other hand, appeared entirely preoccupied with the handle of his stick, twisting it this way and that, prey to extreme nervousness.

  At length the King said, 'I can trust you, Commander?'

  'My life, Sir, is at your service.'

  'Good.' He became abruptly brisker in manner. 'You will know, since the newspapers have discussed the matter at length, that the imprisonment of my Imperial Cousin is not merely a matter of personal injustice, but also a high affair of State. The Bolshevik leadership is even now treating with the Germans, thus freeing German armies to fight against ours on the Western Front.'

  'Yes.'

  'Forgive me, Sir,' Zaharoff cut in, speaking for the first time since I had entered the room. Since he had not been addressed, the interruption showed a measure of the man's nerve. 'There are sufficient German troops still on Russian soil to menace the Bolsheviks. That, you will recall, Sir, is the basis -'

  The King raised his hand, himself interrupting the interrupter. 'I was about to say to the Commander that strictly political and military considerations enter further than one could wish into the question of negotiating the release of the Imperial Family.'

  Zaharoff bowed his head a little. I had the distinct impression such a movement did not come easily to him. Perhaps the King felt it, too, for he at once went on. 'I cannot and must not interfere with the deliberations and decisions of the War Cabinet, though I am certain you will understand my anxiety for the safety of the Tsar, the Tsarina and their family. But the possibility appears to exist of a private negotiation which has a chance of achieving their release. Before I tell you more, have I your word that nothing of this will be spoken beyond these walls?'

  'I swear, Sir.'

  (I am solemnly aware that I am now breaking that oath sworn to my Sovereign, but I do so in the knowledge that no harm can now come from my personal treachery. In any case, I was to have so much of treachery and so soon that I could legitimately regard any oath as void. Except one: and that, an oath to myself, I am keeping as I write.)

  'Very well,' said the King, continuing, 'It appears that if the Imperial Family is to be rescued and brought to safety, it is necessary, however distasteful it may prove, to treat with this Bolshevik, this Lenin. And to do so privately.'

  I stared in astonishment. The notion of the King of England himself engaged in clandestine negotiation with the bloodstained leader of a revolutionary mob, was so unlikely I could scarce believe my ears.

  'Fortunately,' he continued, 'the means to communicate informally with this Lenin is to hand. And also, it seems, the possibility that there exists something to be offered -' He broke off, quite abruptly, and it was apparent that King George was under deep emotional stress. When he continued, his voice was very low, not much more than a whisper, '- to be offered to Lenin, in exchange for the persons and the safe conduct of the Imperial Family.' He coughed and his voice strengthened as he asked me: 'You will do all you can to further this?'

  'Of course, Sir.'

  He rose then, and all of us rose also. 'It would be entirely improper,' the King then said, 'for me to know what is to happen. I can only give my blessing to the brave and generous men who may yet save the Imperial Family.'

  He walked to the door. 'I thank you, gentlemen. And wish you Godspeed.'

  The door was no sooner closed than Zaharoff took instant command. From beside his chair he took up a small attaché case and carried it across the room to the table at which, earlier, the King had stood. He pulled out a chair and then, from the case, produced stationery, pen and ink.

  'Sit down, Clark,' he said, 'and write as I dictate. This letter -'

  'But I really don't see that I can,' Clark protested, his voice high and even squeaky with trepidation.

  Zaharoff ignored him and turned to me. 'Clark is about to write a letter to his friend Lenin, which you will -'

  'His friend?'

  Zaharoff said evenly, 'During his half-century in the Reading Room at the British Museum, Clark befriended and served first the German Jew, Marx, and his jackal Engels, the men who wrote the creed, and then their follower Ulyanov, now named Lenin, who is putting it into practice.'

  'I can't, don't you see?' The little man protested again, with some vehemence, and I could see the tears start in his eyes.

  'For the last time, Clark,' Zaharoff said, 'think of your wife!”

  Clark shivered. And to tell the truth, so did I, for in Zaharoff's quiet voice lay such a wealth of command, of threat, of power, that it is impossible to describe. He then said mildly to me, 'Clark is entirely persuaded by these men. But he has a wife, and she is ill and I am able to help her. Still, he appears to have difficulty in reconciling his wife's great need with his own loyalty to the Bolshevik cause. But he will write the letter - won't you, Clark? - and you, Dikeston, will deliver it to Lenin in Russia!'

  I felt as though I had been sandbagged. First the introduction to His Majesty's presence, then the grave courtesy of hic conversation, and now this blatant brutality, and the King barely out of the room ! Not to mention the news that I was to be sent as emissary to Lenin! I had suspected for some minutes that I was bound, willy-nilly, for Russia, but hardly for that purpose.

  'Now, Clark,' Zaharoff went on, his voice soft but still instinct with menace. 'You use the patronymic form, I expect?'

  Clark nodded.

  'You're quite certain?'

  Clark nodded again. I watched him with a certain pity. Bolshevik though he might be, I was certain that this abundan
tly fearful old man was at that moment incapable of deception. But Zaharoff was taking a paper from the case. 'Yes,' he said, I see that you do. So begin, "Dear Vladimir Ilyich," yes, that's right.' He was peering over the wretch's shoulder. '"This is to introduce Lieutenant-Commander H. G. Dikeston, RN, who comes to you with my full knowledge and approval."' He waited while the poor fellow's pen scratched across the paper. 'Now - "I know how busy you must be with great affairs, but I beg you, for the sake of our friendship, to consent to receive Commander Dikeston. He bears a document of the greatest importance which I am certain you would not wish to pass into hands other than your own.

  ' "My wife has been ill recently, but there is promise now of better treatment for her. She sends you her warmest greetings and we join to congratulate you yet again on the first steps to the achievement of all our dreams."

  'Now, let me see, how do you sign yourself. Ah, yes. "In affectionate brotherhood". Very suitable. Write it, Clark, and sign it.'

  Clark did as he was told; he wrote a fine old-fashioned copperplate. Altogether the letter was of a neatness which belied the strain under which it had been written.

  'Now the envelope,' said Zaharoff. 'Your name in the top corner, Clark. "From William Clark, British Museum, London." And now, just "V. I. Lenin." Yes, that will do nicely.'

  Zaharoff blotted the letter and its envelope carefully. 'Now you may go, Clark. Your bag is in the car, is it not?'

  'Yes.' Clark rose from the chair looking beaten, and Zaharoff picked up a small bell and rang it. A footman appeared at once, and it occurred to me that this imperious old man was making himself quite remarkably free of the Palace. 'Escort Mr Clark to my car,' he said.

  When the door closed, I said, 'Where are you taking him?'

  'Spain,' said Zaharoff. 'To my house there. His wife will benefit from seclusion in the sunshine. So will he, though he doesn't believe it. And so -' here something like amusement seemed to pass momentarily across those strange eyes - 'and so will we, I fancy.'

  Basil Zaharoff then produced from his attaché case two envelopes. 'You will deliver these unopened, you understand, to the men to whom they are addressed. Here is your passport. Here are the documents.'

  He handed them to me: two heavy envelopes, each sealed with red wax. The first, not surprisingly, in view of earlier talk, was addressed to Lenin. But the sight of the name on the second envelope rattled me to my toes.

  'But how -' and I am certain I stammered - 'am I to deliver this?'

  "You must persuade Lenin to permit its delivery,' said Zaharoff bleakly. 'It must be handed over unopened - and then brought back to my hands duly signed.'

  I stared at it in utter incredulity. On the envelope appeared the words: 'To His Imperial Majesty Nicholas II, Tsar of all the Russias.'

  Those eyes of his were on me as I stood there. I could feel them and his attention, as certainly as a man feels the warmth of sunlight. But no warmth emanated from Zaharoff: the reverse indeed, for across my shoulders passed that shudder attributed to the passing shadow of a grey goose's wing. I heard a rustle and looked up to find he was holding out a sheet of paper. 'Your route,' he said.

  Again I felt the shiver. The October Revolution in Russia was about six months past and the great spaces of that vast country were a prey to warring factions, into which I was to be plunged at this man's will. For already I sensed that Zaharoff, the great salesman of war and death, was truly the hand behind my mission. I had pledged my life to my Sovereign, but it was now to be at Zaharoff s disposal.

  'Go at once,' he said urgently, 'and you may save the life of the Tsar and his Family. I can put it no higher. When His Imperial Majesty signs the document, and only then, will the opportunity come to us.'

  'Yes, sir,' I said, though I did not understand, and turned and left the room.

  When, long afterwards, I returned to England, he had been knighted—by a grateful King, one must suppose, though I know now that it was that devious Celt, David Lloyd George, who conferred honour upon him. Behind every man, it seems, there stands another, strings in his hands, to pull by means of some deeper knowledge.

  But all that was far ahead. The paper in my hand already had me on the midnight train to Thurso in the far North of Scotland; yet first I had to outfit myself for the journey. I had no clothing suitable for Russia; indeed, I had access to little more than a weekend's changes of socks and underclothing lodged at the Russell Hotel. Now, in the next few minutes, I was to have a foretaste of Zaharoff s ways. The Daimler still stood in the courtyard, and though the odious Stott had vanished, the driver clearly had instructions.

  'Gieves, first,' he said to me. 'Be quick, sir, if you please. We haven't much time.'

  So it was up St James's this time, with my wristwatch now showing twenty minutes to eleven o'clock. Gieves would surely be shuttered long ago! But as the car stopped a minute or two later at 27 New Bond Street, lights blazed inside and a man in shirtsleeves stood in the doorway, tape-measure round his neck. Inside, to my amazement, there appeared to be an entire workroom staff!

  The outfitting, I swear, took only minutes. A big suitcase was produced, and into it there tumbled a torrent of socks, underclothes, handkerchiefs, all of the choicest. Shirts of wool taffeta, fine as linen, yet of wonderful warmth. Three suits came. 'From the peg,' said the tailor regretfully, 'but you may rely on us, sir, to do our best.' I slipped on the jackets, watched him make his swift chalk hieroglyphs, and then they were whisked away as I tried trousers, whose length was adjusted with equal speed. From a long rack of ties I chose six in silk foulard, then collars to my size and taste. How many people laboured at stitching behind the mahogany I cannot know. But the jackets were quickly back for further fitting only seconds, it seemed, after they were taken away. And meanwhile I was being fitted with a thick topcoat of soft wool, the material from Crombie, the cut unmistakably Guardee, and of ankle length. Finally there were boots, soft leather and in the Russian style.

  Dazed, I asked the tailor whence they came. He only smiled and said, 'We carry a large stock, sir. Our gentlemen come in many sizes and we try to meet both taste and need.'

  By a quarter past the hour I was out of the shop, I swear it, and with a full kit in my case and not a bill to sign. It struck me, as we bowled away down the 'Dilly, that not Admiral Beatty, nor Jellicoe himself for that matter, could have commanded such service, even at Gieves.

  At the Russell Hotel a man waited in the entrance. At first sight of the Daimler he started forward, opened the door as the car stopped, and handed me my toilet valise. 'The rest will be looked after, sir, unless there is something you need.'

  'The bill?' I asked.

  'Attended to. Don't concern yourself.' He held out the receipt for examination, and while I satisfied myself that it had indeed been paid, he passed a wicker hamper into the car. 'In case you feel peckish on the train, sir.'

  And by Jove, but I was peckish. Stott had robbed me of my supper and in the press of events there had not been a moment to think of the inner man. Now hunger was growling inside me.

  Again the Daimler moved off, quick beyond appearances, along Guilford Street, into Grays Inn Road, then towards King's Cross Station.

  The terminus, and the night train too, seethed with people, but the Daimler was met by a detachment of military police who cut a way for me and my baggage through teeming masses of soldiers and sailors of all ranks who were bidding farewell to wives, sweethearts and children. Any man who travelled on the wartime trains will recall how dense the crowds were and how uncomfortable the conditions. Already, as I proceeded along the platform, I could see that even the corridors were crowded.

  'Here, sir,' the Daimler's driver said, laying a hand upon my arm; our small party halted beside a first-class carriage two back from the engine. A door was opened for me, and I found myself entering what, in a ship, might be described as a small stateroom: possessed of bed, two comfortable seats and a tiny bathroom-cum-lavatory. The driver, entering behind me, drew down blinds on the
corridor windows. 'No one will disturb you now.'

  'But this is unfair!' I protested. There were many brother officers on the train, men bound for Scapa Flow and the hardship of duty at sea, who now faced a night and a day of discomfort in this jammed train, while I travelled in comfort.

  'You are to have privacy, sir,' said he, shaking his head. 'Those are my orders.'

  'From Mr Zaharoff?'

  He did not answer, and was already backing out of the compartment. 'Safe journey, sir,' he said, touching his cap, and was gone.

  A minute or two later I heard a whistle, followed by a great belch of steam and the sound of the wheels skidding for grip upon the rails. The train was moving, and I was off. I divested myself of hat and overcoat, hung them in the wardrobe, and flung myself into one of the two seats. So much had happened in so short a space that my mind was in turmoil, and I wanted only to sit quietly and seek to unravel the astounding events which, in a single evening had turned me from an officer on leave, with nothing before him but a day or so of rest, into the Emissary of my King, sent to encounter the bloodiest revolutionary alive and thence to the rescue of the once-mighty monarch of all the vast lands of Russia! In an attempt to focus my kaleidoscopic thoughts and fancies, I put my hand to my pocket for cigarettes, and then swore, for the pocket was empty. I could recollect, on considering the matter, that the packet had lain on the table at Jameson's club when I was called to see Stott. A night without tobacco, when so much was swirling through my head, was unpleasant to contemplate.

  * * *

  Mention of tobacco drew Horace Malory's attention to the fact that his own cigar was out. He, too, swore—though mildly and under his breath. Disliking both waste and relit cigars, he tossed the stub irritably into the large silver ashtray on his desk, an ashtray which commemorated the victory of his first racehorse, Sir Basil, over a long-ago mile at Newbury, and busied himself extracting another Romeo No.3 from its aluminium tube. When it was lighted, he closed his eyes for a minute or so to rest them, and then resumed reading.