The King's Commisar Read online

  Malory looked as she rattled on: its glance was fatal to any man - and to any animal except a weasel. Its breath was poisonous and killed all vegetation except the rue. It could only be killed by -'

  Basilisk. Basil, Malory thought. Basilisk the embodiment of evil. Oh, Dikeston, Dikeston!

  He held up his hand. "We can start here, I think, where the shadow's on the wall. And I hardly think we'll need the bulldozer.'

  CHAPTER FOUR

  -------------------Second instalment of the account, written by LtCdr H. G. Dikeston, RN, of his journeyings

  in Russia in the spring of 1918

  So they had been promised weapons, these Bolsheviks, that much was plain! And what a figure: fifty million sterling, in arms It was no wonder I had seen eyebrows raised in pleasure and surprise on those hard, determined faces. For Lenin, then trapped in a nutcracker between the White Russians and the Germans, it was the gift to save both his revolution and his Tartar hide. Trotsky, commissar for an army near empty-handed in the field, beamed like a child in a chocolate factory, and Yankel Sverdlov, Head of State to a tottering conspiracy, must on the instant have felt the ground grow firm beneath his feet. Not Zaharoff the war-monger now: Zaharoff the Saviour!

  All haste was made at once to propel me along on my journey.

  I was in Sverdlov's hands, and busy hands they were! No sooner had I been waved from his presence with the admonition that I must on no account be late next morning, than I was approached by a male secretary. I saw this man on that one occasion only, and for but a moment or two, yet I remember him, clear as can be, as though there were a camera in my brain. He had a tall, narrow head without a hair upon it anywhere, a white imperial beard upon his chin which reminded me of Zaharoff s own, and pince-nez upon his nose, attached to his lapel by a wide ribbon of brilliant crimson silk. If I waste time here upon the man, it is only because in Moscow it was the only item of striking personal adornment that I saw: in that great city, a mere two feet of silk ribbon! He called a man with a camera and my photograph was taken.

  The man passed me on to a messenger: a sailor in uniform who said in a curt manner, 'Follow,' and set briskly off. Striding behind him, I left the Kavalersky Building and after some five or six minutes' brisk walking, was brought to another, the name of which I do not know. The sailor said only, 'Enter,' and left me there.

  Inside I was greeted by what I judged to be some kind of petty officer in the Fleet. 'From Comrade Sverdlov's office?" he demanded.

  I nodded.

  'This way, then.' He pointed to a door. 'And help yourself. It's all there. Take what you need. Oh, and here -take this.' He handed mea valise and turned away.

  I raised my hand. 'One moment. You have instructions about me?'

  He looked round in surprise. 'Naturally.'

  "What are they?'

  The man took a paper from his pocket. There was handwriting on it, somewhat grubby and likely I guessed to be his own. He read slowly, 'Officer's uniform, winter journey east.'

  I said, "What rank?'

  'No ranks in there, Comrade. Help yourself, I told you.'

  I did as he bade me and passed through the door to which he had pointed. Inside, in a dim-lit chamber of some size, I was struck first by an overpowering smell of wool, sweat and human bodies. Great racks of dark clothes stood everywhere: and when I came to examine them it was at once apparent that all were naval officers' uniforms.

  I wondered soberly, as my hands moved over the heavy, soft, navy-blue doeskin, where the men might be whose garments these were. It was hardly a thought to offer reassurance, for there were hundreds, perhaps thousands of them. I sniffed cautiously at one or two and without exception they had been much worn and little cleaned.

  Still, it was my task here to outfit myself and I began to hunt among them for jackets and trousers of a size appropriate. I tried clothing on, then boots, for though my own were excellent, no man ever came to harm by equipping himself with good spare boots. And I know that I was struck, standing there in the gloom amid all this second-hand rag-merchant's stock, by the contrast between this dingy outfitting and that splendid efficiency at Gieves' the night before I left London. I did not trouble to seek out a greatcoat, for it was doubtful whether in this odorous hall there would be the equal of mine from Gieves, with the full Guardee cut. At last, my valise full of cast-offs, I left the hall. The petty officer awaited me. 'Put them down on the table, Comrade.'

  I did so and he went over the two tunics, the trousers, and the cap carefully. He was looking for something. I asked what.

  'Making sure there are no rank badges, no stripes, no braid.' he said. 'Here, they're all right. You can take them.' He directed me back to the Kavalersky Building, where I collected my own suitcase and was told I had been allocated a bed for the night in the guard barracks. At mess I was given borsht and a kind of solyanka, which should be made with fine beef steak but was not. It was also cooked without wine, but I have had worse in RN wardrooms often enough, so all I had to complain of was that my bed had neither sheets nor blankets and that because of the cold I must perforce sleep in my clothes. I fell asleep thinking of Vassily Yakovlev, the name that Sverdlov had told me to remember. Who, I wondered, could he be?

  I woke uncomfortable. Sleeping in day clothes is a habit perforce to be acquired in service at sea in time of war; so too is the hasty eating of half-prepared food. There was no way to wash more than face and hands, and that only in bitterly cold water. Breakfast was rough bread and a sliver of cheese washed down by sadly weak tea without lemon. We in Britain had heard much of the discomforts of the new Russia and it occurred to me then that discomforts is what they were. Certainly not hardships. All the same, as I made my way to the Kavalersky and my morning appointment with the Head of the Soviet State, I felt far from fresh, less than clear-headed, and in truth somewhat dull of mind. I knew in general what might lie before me. The envelope containing Mr Basil Zaharoff s document lay safe in my travel case, and I had known from the beginning, of course, that it was Zaharoff's intention that I be sent to the Tsar. It seemed also, from the previous day's events, that I was indeed to be sent east. But that morning, with my creased clothes sticking to my unwashed body, it was difficult to care. I presented myself ten minutes early, was kept waiting for fifteen and then was shown in to Sverdlov, who was breakfasting at his desk.

  'I have been here since six,' he told me. 'It is the best of disciplines to wait for food.' He was peeling a hard-boiled egg as he spoke, and when it was done, inserted it whole in to his mouth. Accordingly further conversation was postponed for several moments. Then he said, 'The name - you remember the name?'

  'Yakovlev,' I said. 'Vassily Vassilievitch Yakovlev.'

  'Good, good.' He opened a drawer in his desk and extracted a large envelope of yellowish-brown paper. This he placed at the edge of the desk, close to where I stood. 'Open it.'

  I took it up, and lifted back the flap. Naturally enough, the envelope contained papers, the first of which bore a photograph and a seal. I took it out. It was a combined laissez-passer and identity document. The photograph was of my own face, and could only be the one taken on the previous day. The paper bore the name Yakovlev, Vassily.

  I looked at Sverdlov. 'I am to be Russian, then?'

  He was busy with another egg.

  'It is safer. Read while I eat. A man works up an appetite at a desk.'

  The laissez-passer held further and surprising news. I was, it seemed, to be no ordinary Yakovlev, but Commissar Yakovlev! My eye travelled down the lines, making further discoveries as it went. I was on a mission of great importance for the Soviet Central Executive Committee, whose seal, in black wax, decorated the bottom of the paper, and whose chairman, Sverdlov himself, had signed it. I held in my hand a paper issued by the most powerful men in Russia demanding that my every requirement be met by whomever I encountered.

  But there was more even than that. There was the threat - no, it was more than a threat - it was a plain statement: tha
t summary execution awaited those who defied the wishes of Commissar Yakovlev!

  I must have looked as astonished as I felt, for when I raised my eyes, Sverdlov was regarding me sardonically. 'We must hope that it works,' he said.

  'I beg your pardon?'

  'You are going to Tyumen, to Tobolsk,' he said. 'And both are a long way from this desk and from the Kremlin.'

  'But surely, with such orders -?'

  He raised a hand, amused. 'You think that suddenly the word of Comrade Lenin is law from the Ukraine to the Pacific? My friend, it all takes time. The regional soviets are made up of men who have never governed, who have spent their lives in secret activity and in fear of their lives. They are in the open now, but the old instincts remain. They fear and distrust the ruler in the distance, even when it is Comrade Lenin himself. They will govern the Urals, Georgia, the Ukraine.' He gave a low, rumbling laugh. 'Oh, they will listen. Or anyway they will say they are listening. Oh yes, Comrade Sverdlov, well naturally. .

  .oh yes, they say it all the time. When they are here. But let them get off the train and it's a different matter. In their own territories they are independent and mean to stay so. Word from Moscow will be considered, sometimes it will be accepted, but sometimes the order is destroyed and the messenger with it. You'll be in danger, Englishman, whatever papers you carry. Be in no doubt of it.'

  I nodded. To be in danger would be no great novelty after three years of war.

  'What am I to do?'

  He considered me for a moment. 'What is your relationship to Zaharoff?'

  'None, sir. I am a messenger only.'

  He gave a little snort of disbelief. 'That fellow would not send anyone but his own man.'

  I protested. 'I am a serving officer, sir. I have been three years with the Grand Fleet. A month ago I was patrolling the Heligoland Bight on coastal bombardment. I met Mr Zaharoff only on the night I left London!'

  Sverdlov waved an arm dismissively. 'It doesn't even matter. You are Yakovlev now, and Zaharoff too is far away. The matter is simple. You must have understood at yesterday's meeting that you had brought with you his promise of arms. The price is Nicholas Romanov and his family.'

  I nodded; it was likely enough.

  'But-' Yankel Sverdlov wagged a finger. 'There is more. Nicholas Romanov himself will pay for the arms. He has a hidden fortune in London. He releases the money to Zaharoff, Zaharoff releases arms to us, we release Nicholas Romanov and his family to his cousin, the English King. The former Tsar must sign your paper, so you must reach him at Tobolsk. And there are people in that region, members of the Soviet at Ekaterinburg, for instance, who would want only to stop you. They want Romanov dead. They think it matters that an ex-Tsar lives on. It doesn't. Nicholas Romanov counts for nothing. Except -' and Sverdlov produced again that sardonic smile - 'in so far as he can be useful. That is why he lives.' He lit a cigarette and glared at me for a moment. 'He lives and you live. But it would take very little to change that. Be very careful.' Then he gave me a sudden grin full of genial cunning. 'And give an increase in pay to the guards at Tobolsk, eh!'

  And then, abruptly, his attention had switched to other things upon his desk. The interview was clearly at an end, and I was left standing with my papers. I bowed and withdrew and in the outer office stood in a corner and gave my own attention to the other papers in the envelope. They gave specific instructions to certain officials of the Trans-Siberian Railway; they gave me my command; they conferred upon me all the power and authority necessary to this strange mission of mine. When I had read them, nothing remained to be done except to depart. There was no car, no arranged transport, not even, I was told, the possibility of summoning a taxi.

  So Commissar Yakovlev walked to the station with his valise and his new power of life and death. It is needless, I believe, to describe the journey by rail eastward from Moscow, along the endless track of the Trans-Siberian. This account is not a travel journal and I kept no notes of the food nor of anything else. I had a soft seat in what had been a first-class carriage, but that was all. I sat on my documents for safety and remained in my seat, sleeping for much of the time. The journey was uneventful. Tyumen, on the far side of the Ural Mountains was heralded by much snorting and clanking from engines and coaches. As the train drew in, I took papers and valise and, alighting, saw a heavy-set man, booted and spurred like a hussar, standing beside the track looking keenly round. From the top step of the carriage it was possible to see his troop of horsemen drawn up not far away, for the steaming breath of many close-ranged horses made a considerable mist in the cold air. I made for him and introduced myself. 'I'm Yakovlev.'

  He turned and saluted; he was a veteran by the look of him of twenty and more years as a cavalryman. He said, 'Welcome, Comrade Commissar,' but said it awkwardly as though, like myself, he would be more at home with a simple 'sir'. As I buttoned myself together I saw his eye resting doubtfully on the naval uniform and I laugh cheerfully and slapped his shoulder and said, 'Don't worry. Comrade. I can ride!' For now I must play a part, and confidence was of importance. 'You have a good horse for me?'

  He smiled and I saw an imp of mischief in his eye.

  'One of those, eh?' I said. 'A stallion, I'll bet!'

  'A fine animal, Comrade.'

  'You ride it,' I said. I’ll take yours.'

  He grinned in embarrassment, but he took it like a sportsman. He had spoken the truth: it was a fine stallion. But his was better, and with a long ride ahead I was glad not to have to battle a wayward beast. We set off at once, he and I in the van, the rest strung two abreast behind: one hundred and fifty of the fine horsemen of the steppes - and under the command, now, of a naval officer. I could not help wondering what they would think had they known I was a British naval officer.

  'You were sergeant?' I asked.

  'Yes, Comrade Commissar.'

  'Your name?'

  'Koznov.'

  'Good. How far to Tobolsk?'

  'Two hundred versts.'

  That is a distance of about one hundred and thirty miles, the Russian verst being approximately two-thirds of an English mile; and the saddle was hard, with wood in its construction. Also, it was years since I had spent even a day on horseback. I would be sore, and walk accordingly, by the time Tobolsk was reached. That was unfortunate, for upon arrival I would need all the dignity, authority and confidence I could muster, and few things are so irresistibly comic, especially in central Russia, as the man who is saddle-sore.

  Again, there is no need to describe the journey. We rode, we ate, changed horses, slept briefly, and we rode again. And so, at mid-morning on April 22nd, we rode into Tobolsk. I made direct for the Governor's House, where the Imperial Family was held under guard. By the time the house was reached we were awaited, for even when the earth is snow-covered, a hundred and fifty horsemen do not travel quietly and our approach had been seen and heard.

  I reined in at the gate and called to one of the two guards on duty to summon the officer in command, a Colonel Kobylinsky.

  The man demanded my name and my business.

  'Tell him Yakovlev,' I said, 'from Moscow. Commissar. On the business of the Soviet Central Executive Committee!'

  I dismounted then and told Koznov to get his men settled and fed. A moment later Colonel Kobylinsky was before me. Knowing a little of his story, I looked at him with interest. He was a big man, healthy-looking, but with the white whiskers of an older man. Like his master the Tsar, the Colonel had assumed in recent months a far lower station in life than he was used to. Once he had commanded at Tsarskoe Selo, the great palace of the Tsars; but he too had been exiled by Kerensky, like his master, and was with him still. But the guards now were not the fine, shiny soldiers of more prosperous days. According to Sverdlov's situation papers, Kobylinsky now had two sets of men in his nominal charge: the first group was from Omsk, in western Siberia, the second group came from Ekaterinburg and it was these, the so-called 'Red Guards,' who presented the greatest threat to the Romanov
s and, indeed, to me.

  'Commissar Yakovlev,' I said loudly, and held out my laissez-passer. 'Here on the instructions of the Central Committee.'

  'Kobylinsky. ' He looked down his nose at me, clicked his heels, then took the paper and held it at arm's length while he read it. As he was doing so a man came to stand and read at his shoulder, glancing at me several times.

  'Who are you?' I demanded.

  'People's Soviet of the Urals,' he said, 'That is who I am.' He said no more, and indeed a moment later he had turned and was moving away; but there was something in his manner I found disturbing.

  'Come inside,' Kobylinsky said, taking my arm. 'Let us give you refreshment. Come - your men will be attended to.'

  He gave me breakfast. The bread was warm and fresh, the coffee hot, and he did not force questions upon me. It would have been most pleasant had we not twice been interrupted by members of¿he rival guard factions intent upon inspecting my papers once again. One of them was the fellow from the gate, and having examined my pass once more, he said softly, 'You come direct from Comrade Sverdlov?'

  'Yes.'

  'You met him?'

  'Yes.'

  'Who else did you meet?'

  'Comrade Lenin,' I said. 'And Comrade Trotsky.'

  He gave a nod and a little smile. 'Remember you are beyond the Urals now, my friend.'

  Again he sidled away. 'Who is that man?' I demanded of Kobylinsky.

  'Ruzsky,' he replied. 'From Ekaterinburg. He is a member of the Urals Soviet. I can tell you no more, except that he sometimes calls himself Bronard.'

  'You can tell me,' I said, 'of the former Tsar. He is well?'

  'Yes.'

  'And his family?'

  'They, too, except the son. You will know, I imagine, that the boy is haemophiliac, subject to bouts of severe illness and only now beginning to recover from the most recent.'

  This latest bout was hardly welcome news. 'The boy is in bed?'

  'And will be for some days,' Kobylinsky said. 'He suffers great pain still.'