TWO

 

 

KAMO WAS ENJOYING himself.

It wasn’t often the Outfit were all together like this—for that was what they were calling themselves, the brief era of the Tiflis Expropriator’s Club already a fading memory. The Outfit was a more suitable fit for the pack of revolutionary outlaws that Koba had gathered around him, a term Kamo threw about with cheerful abandon to anybody who’d listen, just as now he was gleefully sharing the tale of his recent adventures.

“So we had guns and we had bullets,” he continued, “but how were we to get them here, all the way from Varna? Nearly two thousand verst, as the crow flies? Obviously, the answer was by boat: sail right across the Black Sea, how difficult could that be? Except it turned out that decent boats aren’t so readily come by in Varna, not for a cargo such as that. Shit boats, on the other hand? Those were easy to find.”

Kamo took a long sip of vodka, which he let sit in his throat, relishing its warmth, then swallowed with a tip of the head.

“Her name was Zara, the old hag! A name I’ll remember to my dying days. She’d barely float before we got her loaded, and afterwards it seemed she might sink out of sheer bloody-mindedness. And would you believe it, her captain was a sailor off the Potemkin? A proper hero of the revolution, stuck with that rotten wreck! Though from how he strutted about, you’d have thought she was a battleship herself.

“I wasn’t taking chances. Better a watery grave than to be caught with that little load. And if she was to go down, I’d rather it be thanks to me. I had all those explosives, and time to kill, and what else was I to do but rig her up and guarantee that, if anyone got in our way, we’d take them with us to the last man?”

Kamo scanned the small room, absorbing faces. Koba was in one corner with his back to the wall, where he could see everybody without being watched in return. Kote Tsintsadze, by contrast, was toward the centre, and the rest had found places for themselves as well as they could given the limited space available. Mikha Bochoridze and his wife Maro, who were presently Kamo’s landlords, were keeping together, as were the girls, Patsia, Anneta, and Alexandra, who Kamo himself had recruited to their ranks. Those three beauties seemed to be enjoying his tale the most; Patsia gave him a wink to convey as much. The remainder, he sensed, were waiting for the punchline, or for what would follow, assuming they’d already heard how bitterly this story ended.

“But truth be told,” Kamo resumed, “I’d have been glad of an excuse to take that decrepit piece of junk down with me. So you might say I got lucky when we hit the storm. At any rate, it was apparent that we were headed to the bottom; hardly an hour had gone by before she’d sprung a leak and water was pouring in. What could I do? We were nowhere near land, and everything would be ruined anyway. I triggered the detonator and cursed that witch of a tub as I did it!”

He laughed at the recollection, and a few of his audience laughed too, though it occurred to him that theirs was a less relaxed laughter, as of people wondering just what they were listening to. But that was all right. Not everyone could be like Simon Ter-Petrosian, also known as Kamo, also known as the Robin Hood of the Caucasus. Not everyone could embrace death as he did.

“Only, the detonator didn’t work. I pressed it and pressed it, sure that the next time would do the trick. I was sitting there, up to my waist in water, surrounded by boxes of guns and boxes of bullets, convinced that at any second I’d be blown sky high. But no such luck! And eventually I realised my choice was to sink or swim. What good is there in drowning for guns and bullets? Fortunate that a passing sailing boat happened to spy us and pick us up.” He grinned. “And fortunate that my girls there, Anneta and Alexandra, managed to lay their hands on a shipment of bombs, or you’d have been truly angry with me, Koba.”

Much as he’d taken pleasure in the telling, this was the crux of Kamo’s yarn, the awkward moment of confessing in front of the entire Outfit that he’d returned empty-handed. He’d done so to Koba in private, and harsh words had been spoken, but that was one thing and this was another. If Koba should let him off in front of this gathering, that would be the end of the matter. And if he didn’t...

But Koba, whose lupine eyes were glittering dangerously, wasn’t the one to reply: Kote Tsintsadze got there first. “Maybe it’s for the best,” he said darkly.

Suddenly, he was the focus of the room, Kamo and his story all but forgotten. Or rather, the focus was on both Tsintsadze and Koba, since the latter was on his feet and peering down at the man he’d appointed leader of the Outfit. “How so?” he enquired, and the danger that had been in his eyes was in his voice as well.

Tsintsadze got up also, with the lazy motions of a cat unfolding itself from a comfortable spot. “Because what were we to do with all those weapons, fight a war? We tried that and saw how it went: the Black Hundreds, massacres, blood running in the streets. The setup we’ve got going on now is more profitable than that, and we can keep it up as long as we like.”

The events Tsintsadze was referring to—Tiflis’s transient slip into civil disobedience and an uprising that had fizzled to nothing—were so recent, yet seemed the product of another age. He’d had the discretion not to acknowledge that Koba had left before their climax, but the reproach was there in his tone. Anyhow, what of it? Kamo thought. No-one can be everywhere at once. However, he had enough gumption to keep out of this, and to be grateful he was freed from being centre stage.

Koba took a step closer to Tsintsadze. “You do know why we’re here, Kote?”

Tsintsadze was briefly perplexed. “Sure I do. We’re making money, sending it to high command. It’s useful business, and we’ve been doing it well.”

Koba sighed deeply. “What we’re doing,” he said, “is the work of the revolution. No revolution ever happened without guns and bloodshed. If that’s too rich for your tastes, perhaps I chose the wrong man to lead the Outfit?”

Tsintsadze blanched. “That’s not it. I fought last year and I’d fight again. But we’re bringing money in and nobody’s getting hurt... or nobody on our side. All I’m saying is, we start drawing too much scrutiny and where does that leave us? Back in jail, and then who’ll send fat piles of bills to your man Lenin? What we’ve been doing is paying off, and we’re fine with the guns we have.” He patted his belt, from which the grip of a pistol jutted.

Koba’s expression was impenetrable. But it seemed he’d lost his fervour for their debate, and certainly the fire in his eyes had died. “Maybe you’re right. Yes, maybe. Better out of prison than in. Better Georgia than Siberia. Better keeping our heads down. And at least we don’t have any Okhrana mutts sniffing around our heels.” Abruptly, he released Tsintsadze from his gaze. “So, what little jobs can we be pulling? Let’s hear what you’ve all been up to.”

As members of the gang reeled off rumours they’d encountered and schemes they were midway through concocting, Kamo kept watching Tsintsadze. It was clear he’d been snubbed in some way, but what had really been said? Knowing him as he did, he could see Tsintsadze striving to comprehend where he’d gone wrong and what it meant.

Kamo could have explained it to him. He’d talked like a coward, and there was no room for cowardice at the head of the Outfit. They were bandits warring for a revolution, not petty thieves aiming to keep their pockets lined from day to day. Kamo saw that with perfect clarity, and Tsintsadze ought to have seen it too.

His musing was sharply interrupted by Koba. One of the speakers had snared his attention, and Kamo was pleased to note that it was Anneta, Anneta with her chestnut-brown hair and her soft black eyes, which made her appear even younger than she was. How could anyone not listen when she spoke? Yet it took him a moment to catch up with the thread of her speech, and to what Koba had just asked her.

“Go back,” he was saying, “that name... what was the name you mentioned?”

Anneta looked uncomfortable in the face of his intensity. “This was at the banking mail office. You told us to hang around places like that, to flirt with the men, so I was doing that. But this one, he didn’t seem very interested.”

“Yes, but what was his name?” Koba repeated, with forced patience.

“I’m not sure. He didn’t like giving me it much. I got the impression he didn’t like talking to girls at all.” Before Koba could prompt her again, Anneta finished hurriedly, “I think he said his name was Voznesensky.”

Koba rubbed thoughtfully at the stubble on his chin. “So. Voznesensky, eh?”

“You want me to have another try?” Anneta said puzzledly. “I will, but I don’t imagine I’ll get anywhere. Frankly, I doubt he’d have noticed me if I’d ripped off my shirt and stuffed his nose between my—”

“No. Leave that to me. And good work.”

Then, as though remembering something he’d temporarily disregarded, Koba turned to Kamo.

“As for you, I’m glad you didn’t blow yourself into a thousand pieces. I’d sooner have my friend than all the guns in the world. And we have bombs, that’s better than nothing.” His lips twisted to form the semblance of a smile. “Now all we have to do is find a use for them.”