EIGHTEEN

 

 

KOBA HAD KNOWN they’d come for him. The only question had been when.

No, that wasn’t quite true, he thought, as he opened the door in response to the savage hammering on its other side. There was also the question of how far they intended to go. One of the Okhrana’s many eccentricities was that, in their own unfathomable way, they tended to play more or less fair. They might bully, blackmail, fake evidence and falsify testimony, might arrange the most disproportionate punishments for petty offences and turn a blind eye to anything up to murder if they believed a bigger fish could be snared by doing so; but essentially they focused their attentions on those they perceived to be legitimately guilty and kept the innocent out of it.

But now they’d come to his home, rather than adopting a modicum of discretion. Clearly, all bets were off.

There were four of them, they were stout men, and it didn’t take the bulges in their jackets to inform him they were armed. For an instant, Koba was genuinely alarmed. Would they push their way inside? Would they drag Kato and little Iakob into this? Kato was already shaken, since their apartment was close to the square and she’d heard the explosions at first hand. Traditionally the Okhrana showed restraint when it came to families, but again, it was evident the robbery had consigned such traditions to the past.

Thankfully, they made no attempt to enter. The man in the lead, the least thuggish of the lot, pronounced, “Joseph Djugashvili? You’re coming with us.”

So, they didn’t aim to search the apartment. That could mean any number of things, none of which were unequivocally good. “Let me get my hat and coat,” Koba said.

He’d half expected an argument. Instead, the four watched him like hawks from where they stood. As he pulled on his coat, Koba caught Kato’s eye. She was in the doorway to the apartment’s second room, hidden from the entrance, with Iakob cradled in her arms. Her bearing was one of dogged determination, and Koba experienced an enormous surge of pride. He’d married a brave woman, a woman fit to be the wife of a revolutionary.

But he said nothing, didn’t so much as acknowledge her. He strode to the outer door and kept going, leaving the four men no option except to be collided with or to part. It took them only a moment to gather their wits, and for two of them to dart in front of him, trapping him in their midst, but still Koba felt he’d achieved a minor victory.

As before, there was a carriage ready. Unlike the other, this wasn’t open, and a pang of trepidation afflicted him as he clambered in, as though he were stepping voluntarily into a cage. Yet all that happened was that the four agents got in after him, one sitting to either side and the remaining pair opposite, so that they could peer at him with overt hostility throughout the journey.

They seemed to be travelling for a long time, and Koba gave up keeping track of the twists and turns. Plausibly their sole purpose was to disorient him and let the menace of his circumstances sink in. He feigned indifference, and after a while closed his eyes. Maybe there was no feigning about it; he really couldn’t bring himself to be concerned. He thought he might even have gone to sleep if it weren’t for the carriage’s vibration.

The fact was that they’d won, that he had won. The money was theirs and soon would be Lenin’s, once they’d concocted a method to transfer it out of the country. These things he believed with imperturbable faith, as if they’d already happened. He had secured his position in the upper echelons of the Bolsheviks, and nothing these men did to him would impede his destiny. Lock him up and he’d escape. Exile him to Siberia and he’d find a way back. And if they chose to execute him? Well, perhaps he’d find his way back from that, too.

When they eventually stopped, it was again in a residential area, giving the forceful impression that this might not be real, but a recurring vision that would haunt him indefinitely: every few weeks, phantoms would come and haul him off on a trip such as this, to a building such as this, to an encounter such as that which lay within. And likely there was an element of truth to that, if he should stay in Tiflis, and if he should somehow get through the next minutes.

They led him upstairs, to a landing and a particular door. He got the sense that they owned the entire building, and the stairs had been scuffed with the marks of regular passage. This place was more upmarket than the last, and Koba wondered if there was any significance to that. Had he graduated to some higher level of official interest? Certainly, the apartment beyond the door was positively dignified. Yet a glance around confirmed that nobody lived there, or not permanently. It had the air of a façade, and only compounded his feeling of being caught in something illusory.

The setting was comfortable, not like an interrogation room at all. There were stuffed chairs and even a sideboard. The man who sat waiting, however, didn’t look the least bit at ease. As Koba had been ushered inside, he’d reacted with a twitch of his whole body, as though he wished to get up and kept himself from doing so by an act of intense willpower. Koba recognised Mukhtarov from their previous interview, and the Okhrana officer was distinctly the worse for wear.

Was he supposed to sit? Koba liked the notion of standing better, and no-one was giving him an indication either way. As a compromise, he paced farther into the room. The agents who’d brought him made no move to follow, and he stopped when he was well clear of them. There was a large double window, and it struck him that, in a pinch, he might be able to fling himself through it. Granted they were on the third floor, but it might still be preferable to what they had in mind.

“I imagine you’re aware of why you’re here,” Mukhtarov said. The tension in his posture was there in his voice also.

“I’ve no idea,” Koba replied, quite honestly. No need to add that he could think of several possibilities.

Mukhtarov’s attitude was unsympathetic. “Yes, you do. You were seen watching Erivansky Square when the robbery occurred. Will you deny it?”

Koba didn’t, but he did shrug, as though the question were a trivial one. “I was nearby. So were a lot of people. And who wasn’t watching? There were explosions, obviously I was curious as to what was going on.”

Mukhtarov’s eyes narrowed. “You knew precisely what was going on.”

“Oh, I knew it must be the robbery,” Koba confessed blithely. “But who’d have guessed they’d make such a show of it? So, yes, I hung around for a minute to watch, before the bullets really started flying. Is that a crime?”

“It is,” Mukhtarov said, “if we decide that it is.”

Koba had no retort. Mukhtarov was right; if the Okhrana chiefs felt they’d save themselves best by punishing everyone they suspected of being remotely connected to the robbery, then they’d do so without hesitation.

“And this man,” Mukhtarov said, “the one you referred to when last we met as Kamo... Ter-Petrosian, that’s his real name, isn’t it? The description you gave us must have been false, or else he wasn’t leading the attack. Nobody was identified by any of the witnesses who matched that depiction.”

Koba had to stifle a smile. How could he have predicted that Kamo would attend in a borrowed costume? The lunatic was a law unto himself. Koba spread his hands in a gesture that asked, And what am I to do about that? “I’ve never met him. How could I describe him perfectly? They say he’s a master of disguise, so probably he was in disguise when he led the robbery. But if you have his name, why can’t you track him down?”

The answer was that Kamo was in hiding and would remain that way until the heat had subsided enough that he could flee the city. Koba didn’t know where he currently was and wouldn’t have revealed the information if he had. There’d been a time, not so long ago, when he’d been willing to sacrifice the Outfit’s unreliable and hazardously insane leader, trusting that his captors wouldn’t get anything out of him and might conceivably relax their efforts in the belief they had the ringleader in custody. Yet Kamo had, against all odds, not only led the Outfit to success but played a crucial part, and that earned a degree of loyalty, in the short term anyway.

Mukhtarov, though, wasn’t done. “I think you know more than you’re letting on,” he said. “We’ve evidence that the two of you have been seen together. Why shouldn’t we suppose that you deliberately misled us?”

“Why should you? I realised when you last dragged me in that if I didn’t help you, I’d end up in trouble. So I spilled my guts, and it’s unlucky for us both that there wasn’t much of value to be found there.”

“Not much?” Mukhtarov snapped. “There was nothing! Nothing you told us was the slightest use. Even the location you gave was wrong. We wasted men on your word.”

“Truthfully, I’m at a loss as to what you want from me. If you wasted men on my word, you ought to have listened when I told you my word was no good.”

Koba hadn’t meant to sound quite so exasperated or contemptuous as he had, but still he was taken aback when Mukhtarov jolted from his chair and lurched toward him, face crimson, with a garbled cry of, “You rotten bastard!”

Then Mukhtarov’s fist was pounding into Koba’s jaw. Mukhtarov was strong for a man of his age, and he’d had surprise on his side. While there was no doubt that Koba could have handled his adversary in a straight fight, the blow sent him reeling, and by then the Okhrana officer was on him, planting a couple of clumsy kicks before wading in with his fists. Even so, Koba could have defended himself, and done more, as well; since they hadn’t bothered to search him, he had a small and viciously sharp knife tucked into the back of his trousers. But he promptly resolved that he was best off letting this run its course, so long as he was never in true danger.

He wasn’t. Though Mukhtarov’s initial punch had been solid enough, after that he was basically flailing, and in any case, his associates wouldn’t allow him to keep this up forever. Koba struggled to observe what was happening, with his arms wrapped around his head and one bruised eye squeezed shut, but he still enjoyed the sight of four junior Okhrana agents endeavouring to restrain their superior without appearing to, and it only improved as it became obvious that Mukhtarov had no intention of being so easily rebuffed.

They hadn’t expected this and hadn’t a clue what to do. Koba could see the mounting dismay in their faces, replacing all their studied confidence. And with that knowledge, he understood that he’d walk out of here—that, ultimately, he’d triumphed. Mukhtarov had gone off script, and whatever ending the Okhrana had written for this play, whatever Koba’s preordained role had been, it would never come to pass.

The fight went out of Mukhtarov with startling suddenness, as if he’d reached the same conclusion. Viewed calmly, Koba’s involvement might have been all too manifest, but calm was a privilege nobody could afford just now, and so Mukhtarov had snatched up his suspect prematurely and asked the wrong questions and finally had thrown away his authority altogether, with his own men as much as with Koba.

Koba got to his feet and batted dirt from his jacket. He sought to look hurt, emotionally as well as physically. “There was no call for that,” he mumbled, wiping a trickle of blood from his split bottom lip.

“Shut your mouth,” Mukhtarov demanded, rather weakly. He seemed feeble and deflated.

“Absolutely.” Koba refused to be denied the last word.

Mukhtarov could have regained the initiative if he’d tried, but his eyes were glassy and his cheeks were fiercely red and he’d apparently lost all interest in the situation. A few seconds went by, and one of the lackeys who’d brought Koba took it on himself to put an end to this farrago.

“Come on,” he said to Koba. “We’re finished with you for the moment. But we’ll be watching, do you hear? You’ll be seeing us again, and soon. So, if you truly don’t know anything, you’d better start learning what you can, because next time we won’t be this gentle.”

Koba didn’t look at Mukhtarov, his defeated enemy, as they escorted him out the door. He maintained his hurt expression as they descended the stairs, but couldn’t keep a spring from his step. He was over the final hurdle. More than that, he beheld his future clearly. The night had confirmed what he’d already surmised: he and Tiflis were done with each other.

It was time to leave, and time to sever certain ties, at least for the present. The Outfit was too hot to handle and so was the money it had acquired with such unforeseen efficiency. Henceforward, both would be Kamo’s problem.