Reilly

Relinsky, as we found out later, was Sidney Reilly, about forty, wiry, with a chiselled face as hard as that of a statue, and eyes of such sharp intelligence, that, as Holmes told me later, he immediately sensed an intellect of the first order.

When Reilly removed his cap in the auto, he revealed coal black hair combed severely straight back; an indication of how this man kept his own persona so rigidly in check. And though, at the time, neither Holmes nor I had any idea of who this man really was, I found out much later how singularly important he was not only to our task and to Britain - but to the entire Allied cause.

In fact, in the complete history of my human contact, Sidney Reilly ranks as the only man who I truly believe was as extraordinary as Sherlock Holmes.

There were, however, many differences: while Holmes was brought up on the inside of society, Reilly was shunted to the outside (he had been born in Russia, the son of an Irish sea captain and a Russian woman of Odessa); Holmes, though born with a superlative mind, cultivated it through learning and books until he had gained more practical experience, while Reilly it seems, almost from the beginning, was thrust into enough practical experiences to last many lifetimes; Holmes used his knowledge and powers solely for good and aid to his fellow man, while Reilly used his, including a startling fluency in seven languages, complete with sub-dialects, not entirely for the betterment of his adopted country of England, but most certainly for the betterment of Sidney Reilly.

Yet he was so important an asset to Britain and the Allies that he could virtually name his price. Permit me to give you just three instances of the powers and incomparable exploits of this man Reilly, as I would learn later.

First, before the war, the Admiralty needed knowledge of Germany’s submarine construction plans. It was Reilly who conceived of the method to obtain these plans completely shunning the usual cloak and dagger. He simply secured the post of naval armaments purchasing agent for a very important Russian boat-building firm. As such, he was feted at the Hamburg shipyards by the company of Bluhm and Voss, who, wanting to secure a rich, Russian contract, willingly gave Reilly all the plans England sought.

The second instance found Reilly entering Germany through Switzerland at the height of the war in 1916, gaining entry to the German Imperial Admiralty by posing as a naval officer, and making off with the entire German Naval Intelligence Code.

The third, and most incredible instance, involved Reilly being put into revolutionary Russia by the British. Reilly became Comrade Relinsky of the Cheka, heirs to the Tsar’s Okhrana, the secret police, and rose so high so quickly, that an organized plot of his almost put him into supreme power. Lenin would have been dispensed with.

Such were the abilities of the man who now stood before us and continued his address.

“We heard of your near miss. I hope you weren’t scathed.”

“Only our souls,” I said.

“Tell me,” said Holmes, “if you may, just how does an officer in the Red Army...”

Reilly cut him off, “Not the Red Army comrade, the Cheka.”

Holmes and I both knew of the infamy of that sinister organization, and wondered into what situation we had walked.

“Are we under arrest then?” asked Holmes.

Reilly laughed. “On the contrary, Mr. Holmes, you are under my very special protection.”

“And how come we, British subjects, to be under the special protection of the Bolshevik Cheka?”

“By the same humour of the fates that has brought all this madness about.”

He was answering in riddles. Was he talking about the task Holmes and I had to perform, about the revolution, or about the Russian Civil War? Holmes pressed on.

“Well, then, how do you come by such perfect, Etonian English?”

“Ah, your ear is quite practiced, sir, and the answer is simple. I am half English, well Irish, to be exact, and I spent many formative years in the vicinity of very proper Englishmen.”

These were clearly half-truths and evasions, so Holmes pressed him further.

“Then perhaps you may tell us this, are you working for us, or for them?”

At this, Reilly really laughed. “I say, Mr. Holmes, you are certainly not a man to lay soft with words, are you?”

“When the lives of two people are at stake, namely mine and Dr. Watson, I have no time for courtesies.”

Reilly then looked hard and cold at Holmes. “Only two lives, Mr. Holmes?”

There was a long pause at that, until Holmes again spoke.

“Where are you taking us, Colonel Relinsky?”

Mockingly, I believe, Reilly said, “Comrade, if you please. We are all comrades here. And I am Comrade Relinsky.”

“Well, I’m not your comrade,” I said huffily.

“Oh yes you are, Dr. Watson. And indeed you will be. Gentlemen, you have nothing to fear from me or my men. They are true Russians and speak no English. But they do speak fluent Relinsky.”

“Why I am a high ranking officer of the Cheka, and who exactly I am, is of no concern to you. What is your concern is that I will be your compatriot on every foot of your journey in Russia. There are many still in Russia who feel, as do some of my men, loyalty to the former government of this country. They are Whites. They wish for the return of the old order, or at least some noble to their liking. Privilege and power are hard commodities to accrue, and infinitely more difficult to accept the loss of. That is why a civil war rages in this land. It is barbarism run rampant and is all for power and privilege. The rest is but rhetoric.

“I know why you are here, and I am placated that I will be aiding such men as yourselves in accomplishment of your task.

“Things are not always run as they should be by our comrades in England. But this time, it seems that someone has found some common sense. A marginal attribute of many, I have found.

“Now, to answer your question, Mr. Holmes, I am taking you to a safe place where you will both rest until you’re visited by someone who has been instructed to meet with you. He is very important to our mutual endeavour, for he holds much power at this precise time. However, that power, which is implied, may vanish at any instant, based upon the prevailing political winds of the moment. On this topic I shall not say more. You will know as much as needed when the time is right.

Now we must board a small vessel to take us to the mainland, where we have quite comfortable lodgings for you; what in Petrograd is now considered a feast, and you will be as safe as if you sat in Parliament itself. The only other words I can give you at present are these: trust no one who is Russian, trust one tenth those who are British. As for myself then, by law of percentages, you should be able to trust me only one time in twenty.” Reilly chuckled to himself on that.

We made the next stage of our journey without incident. Presently, with our guards front and rear, we stopped at what had once been a house of much means. There were discernible scars of battle about the house and its immediate environs, and other guards waited at the ready.

We followed Reilly in and found that the feast to which he referred was potatoes, onions, and some meat. Reilly watched as we ate, asking if the fare was to our liking, and remarking on how the room in which we dined, which I thought must once have been spectacular, but now was greasy and bullet marked, had recently been used as a makeshift morgue.

For all intents and purposes, our meal ceased upon that disclosure. And since it was now rather late, Reilly asked if we might not like a nightcap before retiring. I was amenable, and Holmes needed no coaxing at all, so fascinated was he, as was I, with our new companion.

Though the immediate soldiers about were, and acted, as his junior in rank, we sensed an unspoken compact between them that seemed welded as steel. Holmes said later that for all we knew, they might all be British agents; although, we both doubted that strenuously. We also dismissed the idea of mercenaries. Holmes felt that at times such as these, men with strong beliefs on both sides had, perhaps, even stronger hidden motives for their actions. Whatever they might be, we would have to trust in Reilly’s control of his men and of the situation.

After pouring what Reilly assured us was one of the last bottles of Napoleon brandy in all Petrograd, and with some of his guards moving about quite freely, Holmes continued the conversation.

“Tell me, Comrade Relinsky, what is your exact rank?”

“I already told you, a mere Comrade Colonel.”

“Come, come, now,” prodded Holmes, “there is nothing mere in that, at all.”

Reilly laughed again. “True, you are absolutely correct. How I shall enjoy our precious time together, comrades. I have not lately had my wits sharpened verbally by so skilled a rhetorician.”

“Well, perhaps it’s just the company you keep,” said Holmes. We all laughed. The brandy was relaxing us all.

“I tell you, comrades, these are interesting times. My men are completely devoted to the work I do; although none are completely aware of precisely what work it is. Within my cadre of cut-throats, there are those I must trust with my life. And on any number of occasions, I have.

“The rather small man in back of me with the clean-shaven head is Stravitski. I knew I could trust him from the beginning because he had killed his own father.”

“What?” I gasped incredulously, almost spitting the precious brandy into oblivion.

“Oh, it was all very political and perfectly acceptable. The only other man who has saved my life, but only once mind you, so he still has a way to go before he’s trusted only that much,” he held up his index finger and thumb so that the distance between them would not permit paper through, “is the man standing behind the both of you right now with a revolver in his hand.”

Holmes moved not a muscle and sat perfectly still watching Reilly. But I quickly turned to see this menace, an imposing brute with prematurely white, curly hair, a typical peasant-type, down-turned moustache, but who gave off not one vibration of malice. He indeed held a revolver, but it was pointed downward. He looked at me looking at him as if I were a naked bushman who had wandered into a royal cotillion.

“His name is Sergei Alexandrovich Obolov.”

“And what is his crime?” asked Holmes.

“None that you or I would consider a crime, Mr. Holmes. But when the Bolsheviks, in their turn, overthrew Kerensky, Obolov here, called a comrade major a pig. So his tongue was ripped out.”

“You mean?” I spoke no more, yet continued looking at this man.

“He is dumb. But highly intelligent.”

“So even though these two fine specimens of Russian manhood have saved your life before, they are in no way to be trusted, even though you jest that you do?” asked Holmes.

“Absolutely not,” said Reilly, “after all, what you do today is no guarantee of what you will do tomorrow.”

“Life here must be very constricting,” I said.

“That is one word. I prefer the term ‘magnificently precarious,’” said Reilly.

We were now growing weary from our trip and our sips, and Holmes suggested that we make our way to our chambers. Reilly concurred, and as he personally led us up a magnificent, circular stairwell of marble, with Stravitski and Obolov bringing up the rear, he said to both of us, over his shoulder, “But pray tell, comrades, what do you think of Mother Russia so far?”

“So far?” I said. “So far we have met nothing but soldiers, killers and martyrs.”

Reilly stopped, turned, and after a laugh that tilted his head to the rooftops, looked down at me with eyes stretched wide and said, “But Dr. Watson, those are the only manner of beings who inhabit this nation.”

Holmes and I had adjacent rooms, and I slept quite well that night in spite of the mid-summer phenomena when the sun refuses to hide itself in night. I also think that at some time the door to my room was opened for an instant while eyes peered to examine the state of affairs within.

June 20, 1918

Upon making my way downstairs in morning, I found Holmes and Reilly in animated conversation over coffee, tea, and some black Russian bread.

Both bid me good morning and I do believe that the omnipresent Obolov nodded. I sat and poured some tea while Reilly explained the day’s agenda.

“I was just informing Mr. Holmes that your visitor should be here in approximately,” he glanced at a most magnificent watch he kept in his tunic pocket, “one hour. In the interim, whatever questions I am permitted to answer, I will happily do so.”

I turned to Holmes, “Well, what have you dug out of our comrade, so far?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. Comrade Relinsky is blessed with occupational lockjaw.”

“Now, Mr. Holmes, from what I know of you, your mandible would prove as immobile as mine.”

“Touché,” said Holmes, “humour aside, you will not tell us more of yourself or your connection with our government, which, of course, Dr. Watson and I are at liberty to surmise. Allow me, from my own humble knowledge of the situation to put our positions to you for your own expert assessment.”

“So you wish to attempt an analysis of the current political climate here?” asked Reilly.

“That is easy enough, and difficult enough,” said Holmes, “since currents here, I understand, alter course with alarming frequency.”

Reilly returned to our table, and Holmes, in a spellbinding mixture of satire, sincerity and suspense, laid out all of Russia on our table for our digestion.

“For Russia at the moment, to paraphrase Dickens, this is the best of times and the worst of times. Russia stands at the epicentre of its destiny. A move to the left, liberty; a move to the right, repression.

“The Supreme Soviet has moved the government to Moscow where it is desperately trying to keep power over, and order in, the whole of the Russian Empire. It is a virtually impossible task. Russia is not England, nor the British Empire.

“On one side, you have the Reds, the revolutionaries; wanting a new world for the people, and telling the people what this new world will be. Make no mistake, they would achieve their new world even if they had to kill every Russian, including themselves, to do it.

“On the other side, you have the Whites, the would-be restorers of the old order, supposedly made up of nobles and those loyal to the Romanovs and Christ; not necessarily in that order. In fact, while there are some of the aforementioned, many more are renegades, soldiers of fortune, and misguided opportunists believing that aristocratic titles lie in the crimson snow, ripe for the snatching.

“Between the two groups, Russia is being ripped to shreds. But there is more. Within the Reds and the Whites there are factions pulling centrifugally. Imagine, if you will, Russia as a giant carousel spinning so wildly out of control, that the Reds and Whites are flying straight outward, fully extended, and are holding on with only one hand; the other being used to flail about at the closest enemy.

“The Supreme Soviet in Moscow issues orders to the regional

Soviets thousands of miles away, and if the regional or local Soviet agrees with the order, all well and good. If they do not, the lines go suddenly dead. Communication is cut for a time, until more satisfactory orders may be received. These local Soviets are fiefdoms in themselves.

“The same holds true for the Whites, basically, except that they have all the power and money of the combined Allies behind them. And therein lays the other mortal danger.

“The United States, Great Britain and France would have supported the devil in this war against Germany. So you had the three greatest champions of liberty in the world allied with its single greatest tyrant. The axiom about politics making strange bedfellows found no greater conundrum in all of human history to prove its truth. Although, of course, it really isn’t a conundrum, is it? The enemy of my enemy is my friend, and so on.

“But here come along the Bolsheviks and dissolve that alliance. They make peace with the Germans, releasing a hundred hardened divisions to the Western Front to kill the boys of freedom. Even worse, the Bolsheviks are a capitalist’s philosophical anti-Christ.

“So suddenly Russia no longer has any allies, which means she no longer has any money. This also means she no longer has any credence with anyone about anything, except, of course, with the people in power, and the people the people in power have their boots upon.

“Now, not only has Russia lost its allies, but those allies may quickly become enemies. Because as I’ve said, the allies are capitalists, and what could be better to capitalize on than the wealth of the Russian Empire with no hand upon its purse? What self-respecting capitalist could refuse such an opportunity? Certainly not England, the founder of the philosophy; nor America, its most ardent adherent in the world.

“So in summation, the very civil strife that renders this nation prostrate, that starves its population and robs much of its next generation of its very life, is our friend. It shall shield us and hide us in very plain sight. And if luck were a tangible commodity, we should require but a thimble full to complete our endeavour with success.”

I sat almost slack-jawed at perhaps the greatest single piece of analytical oratory I had ever heard. While Reilly, whom I suspected to be extremely knowledgeable of politics in the extreme, simply looked at Holmes and quietly said, “Bravo.”

Reilly was as good as his word; for within the hour, our visitor arrived. As Holmes and I watched from a window, a Rolls Royce pulled up to the house, ostentatiously flying the Union Flag. The motor car was saluted by the guards and its passenger emerged stiff and formal, and strode in. He was none other than the British Ambassador to Russia, Sir George Buchanan.

Holmes knew of Sir George through one of the many acquaintances one makes in Holmes’ line of work, and later confirmed my feelings about the man that I derived solely from our meeting: that he was ramrod Raj, a certain term of disparagement we used in the army to describe martinet officers; that he was cold, calculating and cautious; and that he knew his business hands down.

Of his appearance, it bespoke the man: fair, greying parted hair, a generous, upturned, Edwardian moustache, perpetually pursed lips, eminently formal attire, even for an Ambassador of the Empire, and a slim, hard physique on a moderately tall frame. His eyes were ice grey, the colour of the Arctic.

After a very brief talk with Reilly, Sir George was brought to us.

“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, may I have the honour to introduce, His Excellency, the British Ambassador to Russia, Sir George Buchanan.”

We received firm, curt and correct handshakes and then Reilly bade us sit. Sir George spoke immediately and succinctly with not a word wasted.

“Gentlemen, your roles as envoys in this forbidding hour are much needed. Of course I know of your true intent and extend my personal thanks for what must best be termed a great humanitarian mission. I have been in contact with our consul in the Urals capital of Ekaterinburg, Thomas Preston, and he has been informed of your expected arrival between now and July 1, some ten days hence, barring any unforeseen problems.

“Colonel Relinsky and a small cadre of his men will be with you on your undertaking; and you shall be guided by a plan devised by Colonel Relinsky himself. After all, it is the Colonel who knows the Russians better than we do; and he has had some experience in these matters. I have not given him permission to divulge his plan to you, but will shortly do so.

“Upon successful completion of your task and your arrival at Archangel, you shall board a waiting ship which will take you all to safety out of this God-forsaken country.”

He then abruptly stopped talking and with the swiftest of turns of the head to Reilly, and then back to us, as a gesture of indication, said, “Your plan.”

Reilly nodded an acknowledgement.

“Yes, well it’s as simple as a machine with only a few moving parts. The fewer the parts, the less chance of a breakdown.

“The particulars of the plan will be discussed on the train to Ekaterinburg. But the idea is simply this: we arrive as the Supreme Soviet’s special detachment of the Cheka. We are to remove the Romanovs from Ekaterinburg because the Whites are coming too close and the Supreme Soviet has decided to put them on trial for the entire world to see. If the local Bolsheviks at Ekaterinburg refuse to turn over the Romanovs, they shall be told that they then will have to deal with a large contingent of regular Red Army troops being sent south to counter the Whites’ advance north. It will not seem a happy prospect.

“Since my men and I are already Cheka, we should be convincing. If the locals wish to telegraph the Urals Soviet for affirmation, they will find that the lines have been cut. This will be blamed on White partisans, of course.

“Our information says the men guarding the Romanovs are mere jailers, not first-rate troops or first-rate minds. And, as Mr. Holmes has so eloquently expressed it, with just a thimble full of luck, we shall carry the day.

“As to the chase, should there be one, that is part of the specifics you will be informed of later.” After a moment’s pause and that unique Reilly grin, he asked, “Any questions?”

Holmes said nothing and I followed suit, suspecting that he had reasons for his silence.

“Good, well, there’s more I should impart, gentlemen,” said Sir George to Holmes and me. “I am sure that this is the most significant and urgent assignment of your lives. It comes from the highest authority and carries the fullest weight imaginable. It has been kept in the strictest of secrecy and there are but few in the entire Empire who know of its particulars. We are all counting on you and you must count on the Colonel and his men, with your very lives. I trust them implicitly.”

Sir George rose. “I shall take my leave of you now. I must return to Vologda before Comrades Lenin and Trotsky. There will be much to do then.” He shook hands with us all, and was gone. I looked at Holmes, he looked at me, and then we both looked at Reilly.

“Well, Comrades, so what did you think of the British

Ambastardor?”

Holmes needed to think and made his excuses. He headed outside and into the gardens at the rear of the mansion. As he did so he beckoned me to follow,

Once outside I spoke. “Well, Holmes, what do you make of all this? Especially Relinsky’s remark about Buchanan?”

Holmes furrowed his brow and said, “Watson, I am now certain that Buchanan is one of Lloyd George’s invisible others; as was Captain David. And though, as yet, I have not made the connection between them all, they are all in it.”

“Together?” I asked.

“My dear fellow, I am afraid that ‘together’ may be the domino that sets all the others to fall into place. For while they are all most assuredly in this thing, are they all in it, literally, together? I am convinced that Relinsky knows much, but not all. I feel that he may well be the single most important link in our chain. And that deduction is not the most pleasant, by any means.

“Furthermore, I suspect that Relinsky knows there is something interesting afoot here, and that he will follow his orders, if orders there are, to see if the true meaning of this poison can be extracted.”

“Holmes, I still cannot see it. I do not understand how the King is involved in this ‘poison,’ as you call it, whatever it is.”

Holmes froze and smiled.

“That’s it, Watson! Why, of course, that’s it! The King is not at all in on it! I have foolishly allowed my mind to wander down an alley without an exit. Oh, the time I wasted trying to decrypt the King’s direct role, and now the simple answer is there is no direct role. I am absolutely now positive that the King knows nothing of what is unfolding here before us.

“Of course, he cannot know because he should not know, but he does not know! And that is the important thing here.”

“Holmes, please explain yourself.”

“It’s perfectly simple, Watson. The King, being the King, should never know of any arcane government activity that may endanger, or even embarrass, the throne. He is supposed to be above it. Therefore, since he should not know, it is believed, through constitutional law and tradition that he cannot know; although, in fact, he may indeed know. It is a charade that governments play at and sincerely believe when addressing the public.

“But in our case, he truly is ignorant of events, officially and unofficially.”

“Holmes, once again you are being opaque.” We both smiled. I was at least assured the King was not involved in any underhand plot.

Holmes too seemed pleased. He produced his old, black pipe, filled and lit it and then resumed his walk around the gardens.

According to Reilly, we were free to tour Petrograd for a few hours, and we would have a small guard with us to be sure there would be no problems. He reminded us, as if he had to, that as yet, there was no great influx of British tourists into Petrograd, and that without the proper protection, we might be taken for something other than what we truly were; which, of course, was backwards since what we would have been taken for, should we have been taken for anything other than Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, was what we now truly were: British agents.

Reilly informed us further that after our tour that day, there would be one more person for us to meet. He would probably be waiting for us upon our return.

We drew Stravitski as the man in charge of our guards, and for the next several hours, Holmes and I were treated, if that is the right word, to the still-living history of the Tsars; and the signs of torment attesting to the Bolshevik Revolution and the birth of their new world order.

Our first stop was the Winter Palace, the Romanov official residence in the capital, built by Peter the Great. Compared to this incredible edifice, Holmes and I were forced to admit, Buckingham Palace seemed nothing more than a cosy, aristocratic cottage. However we were pleased this was so, because as Englishmen, we felt that such ostentation and indulgent opulence was totally inappropriate. It suited the tastes and requisites of slothful, oriental potentates swathed in silks; not the vigorous dynasty of the Windsors.

It seemed as if gold covered all, including the exterior of that monument to megalomania; the ceilings, the doors, the walls, the very air itself. Where gold was not visible, there were the most precious examples of marble, onyx, gems, and inlaid woods. There were objects of art everywhere, masterpieces covered the ceilings, and the Winter Palace housed the largest collection of Rembrandts in the world; this thanks to Peter, a contemporary of that incomparable Dutch genius, who he had become acquainted with while studying shipbuilding in Holland.

We were later told by Reilly that the gold would be stripped from all surfaces for the good of the people, and anything of any value would be sold or traded to keep the Revolution alive. Yet his words seemed as rote. They lacked spark or conviction, and were recited as perfunctorily as a schoolmaster giving a lesson for the thousandth time. Surely this was not the way of a fiery Red.

The tour continued through what seemed like countless numbers of rooms, until at last we stood in the very heart of the palace itself, the throne room. Here, indeed, was a throne for an emperor - or a god.

Peter had been nearly seven feet tall, and the throne, and room, were as immense as any Roman or Greek temple. I can easily see how the first instinct of any being, not free-born, would have been to fall on one’s knees in abject supplication to the Tsar. This place would easily dwarf any to follow Peter who could not make up for want of gargantuan size with will or intellect; the former being no guarantor of the latter.

We knew from pictures that Nicholas II was a man of somewhat less than medium height; indeed, he was about the same height as our Sovereign; and when younger, the two were almost as identical twins. From the history of his rule, he seemed a man with distinct lack of judgment or even basic common sense.

That he was the autocratic Tsar of All the Russias was as undisputed a fact as that of George V of England being a constitutional King-Emperor. But what of the real man and his wife, the Tsarina? Were the stories true? Were the press reports accurate? Was he truly “Bloody Nicholas?” Had she been the dupe, or worse, of that blackguard Rasputin? How did they really fit into this Victoria Station of a throne room? Did they fill it with all the mystical pomp of imperial majesty? Or were they humbled by being void of true majesty from within?

We knew that we must leave these questions unanswered until we met the Tsar and Tsarina. This, of course, depended on whether we lived long enough for that to actually happen.

We slowly made our way back to our guarded motor car, and as we thought of what we had seen, Stravitski watched us intently, as if he were trying to gauge our thoughts. Whether this was for himself or for his master, Reilly, I did not know. But what we had seen deeply affected both Holmes and me. For all that unearthly wealth had been stripped from Tsar Nicholas and his family, and now, like countless millions of Russian peasants, they were reduced to helplessly waiting for their fates; in their case, death.

I thought about the regicides of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette and the parallels between them and the Romanovs. I recall feeling decidedly pessimistic about their future given such precedents.

We were next shown the cruiser Aurora whose Bolshevik guns had honed in on Kerensky and his government and made them finally realise that their noble democratic experiment was soon to be a victim of infanticide. Holmes indicated to Stravitski he had no desire to stop; indeed, he wished to return to our base. He was no longer in the mood for a tour.

The inactivity coupled with our conundrum was taking its toll on Holmes. He needed to feel physical movement of some sort to replace real progress in our task. Perhaps the train would be ready to take us way from this bacillus of a capital. Holmes would then gain the movement he required. He could feel the velocity and hear the clatter of track. He could feel that he was speeding towards his destiny; whatever that may be.

Stravitski did immediately as indicated and we were shortly back at the mansion, now a virtual armed camp. There were Red Guards and regular Red Army soldiers everywhere. Reilly was waiting for us at the door when we arrived. He came forward to greet us and before Holmes or I could ask anything, Reilly said we had a visitor; and that he was waiting, most anxiously to see us in what had once been the library. I shrugged at Holmes and we both followed Reilly.

The door was blocked by eight armed guards who came to attention upon seeing our Cheka Colonel; one opened the door. Reilly gestured us in, then came after.

As we entered and the door closed behind us, a small, bald man, with a short, pointed beard, and a fringe of red hair about his egg-shaped head, looked up from a book and with a big smile rushed toward us; one hand outstretched to Holmes, the other waving the book. He looked like one of those crazed, star fanciers you avoid at Covent Garden or the more fashionable music halls.

Reilly stepped to one side, and trying to compose himself said, “Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, I have the honour to introduce Comrade Lenin.”