Enotayevsk had a high stone-faced quay with room for the river steamers to berth on it, and stone steps leading down to a landing-stage for small boats. It was a long flight of steps because of the height of the land at this point, which of course explained the village having been sited here, connected to other villages by the levee road.
The land was black and silver now. Half an hour ago, when they’d been passing a smaller waterside village, the sky behind it had been scarlet. The Count had made some comment on the dramatic quality of the scene, and old Mesyats had growled, ‘Reminds me… Can you guess why they’ve changed the name of your house from Riibachnaya to Krasnaya?’
‘Red’s the colour of the revolution, isn’t it?’
‘That’s not the reason. Fact is, it was the village people began calling it Krasnaya Dacha. Red being the colour of blood, that’s why.’
‘Blood…’ A pause. Splash of the oars’ blades, and the regular thudding of their looms against the pins. Even the droplets flying from the blades were pink. The Count asked him, ‘So what happened?’
‘There were eleven officers recuperating from wounds in that house of yours, and a doctor and two nurses looking after them. I’m talking about October last.’
‘I can guess now…’
‘Doesn’t take much doing, does it? Seeing as it was the pattern all over – according to what one hears… But this crowd – thirty or forty comrades, they say – came up from Astrakhan by boat. A little steamer, it’s still there, some rich man’s toy before this, the Cheka have it now… Well, there’d have been some of ’em in that mob, I dare say. And what they did was – look, this isn’t a nice story…’
‘Go on.’
‘As you wish. At least no kin of yours were there… Isn’t there a staircase that leads up to a gallery – musicians’ gallery, is it? Looking down on your dining-hall?’
‘Not my dining-hall exactly. But – yes.’
‘So. What they did was they hung the officers by their feet – ropes tied to the ankles and then led round a gallery balustrade – if that’s what you call it – so they could hoist ’em up like you’d hoist so many pigs. Then – taking their time about it, so each man had notice of what was coming to him – and setting out buckets below to catch the blood, d’you see – they slashed these fellows’ throats, one by one. But of course the buckets—’
‘May God have mercy…’
‘Well, one mercy for you is none of it could’ve been Solovyev blood.’
‘Disappointing for them.’
‘Perhaps. As I said, they weren’t local men, what they’d come for was those officers. And as far as any of us knew, there wasn’t even one of you still alive. Unless your mother was with – a certain person… But not even Maroussia, she can’t know, whatever news we’d get would be from her, d’you see, so it’s clearly her belief you’ve all been – taken… You had an older brother – Count Vladimir?’
‘He was killed in March ’16.’
‘God rest him… And a sister?’
‘She was in Petrograd. No word from her or of her, so…’
‘I’m very sorry. Except – as far as your brother’s concerned, much better killed in action than…’ He’d paused. An heroic, dramatic figure against that blood-red sunset. Too dramatic and the colour too apposite, Bob thought – watching them and listening, telling himself It could be some dreadful nightmare tale, and this setting specially chosen for its telling, but it’s the truth, it happened… The old man was telling Nick, ‘The doctor and the nurses got the same treatment. Except the nurses – well, you can imagine, before they hung them up…’
‘I can imagine.’
‘I’m sorry. I warned you it wasn’t – pretty… But there’s a practical reason you should know about it – on account of poor Maroussia. She was called in to mop up, the day after, and she was still at it the week after, so people say… Old Ivan was dead by then, she was alone, and – it changed her. So I’m told. Haven’t seen her myself, you see – well, I said, didn’t I… But if it happens that you do see her – as well to be prepared…’
Approaching the quay at Enotayevsk, Mesyats pointed. ‘The Swede’s place is through there. There’s an alley leads through, and where it gets to the road beyond those houses you’ll find it on your left.’
‘And we’ll wait there until—’
‘Until you get tired of waiting.’ Shipping his oars, shifting round on the thwart to face the landing-stage as they glided in towards it. Getting there, Bob climbed out and took the painter to an eye-bolt.
‘This one?’
‘Good as any.’ There were about a dozen other boats there. The old man told the Count, ‘Remember, now. She’ll get the message – if she’s there to be given it – but then it’s up to her what she does about it. If anything. You won’t see the boy, and you won’t see me again if I can help it.’
‘Understood. But I want to say this, Leonid Timofeevich—’
‘Better not, sir. There’s no – sentiment.’
‘What is there, then?’
‘An old fool, that’s all. And be warned – if my own kith and kin were endangered…’
‘You’d inform on us.’
‘Without thinking twice. Where’s the sentiment in that?’
‘In the fact that actions speak louder than words, batushka.’
‘All right – so you can repay the favour…’
‘By sodding off.’
‘Vanishing. Please…’
The Swede’s tavern – Shvedski traktir – was a long, narrow room entered directly from the road and containing four long tables with benches, and at one end of the room a stove big enough for a family of six to sleep on. In winter, of course. The Swede himself, Torkel Rasmussen, was a man in his late forties – smallish, with greying temples to his blond hair and grey streaks in his beard, and watery blue eyes. He’d been in Russia twelve years now, he told them, having come originally to set up a caviar-exporting business. The war had interrupted that, but in the interim he’d married a local girl and didn’t want to leave, so he’d turned this place into a pub and – he explained – was hoping, please God, to be allowed to continue with it and also relaunch his caviar business before long.
‘When things are settling down a little, huh?’
‘Will it be allowed?’
A wide, white smile: ‘Which?’
‘Either.’
‘I think. Because I am foreign. Also to bring in money. All right, maybe for the caviar we have a co-operative, some sort. But soon, I hope.’
‘Well – good luck, comrade. There’s certainly no doubt we’re winning.’
‘Oh – I’m sure. Are you comrades – passing through?’
‘On our way to Moscow. But an aunt of mine used to live somewhere around here, we’ve stopped off to see if I can find her.’
‘What is this lady’s name, please?’
‘Vetrova. Lizaveta.’
‘No. No, I don’t believe—’
‘I’ve put certain enquiries in hand, we may have some news brought to us here later. If not, can we sleep here?’
‘Of course.’ He gestured: meaning sleep anywhere, just stretch out. They still didn’t have beds in a lot of places of this kind. That toothy grin again: ‘Not grande luxe, but…’
‘Fine. Now, some food, and beer?’
Fresh fish, baked in that stove, and turnip. And the Swede’s beer wasn’t bad. There were between a dozen and twenty other customers. Most of them were fishermen, the Swede had said. ‘With money in their pockets – for a day or two, huh?’
The Count murmured, when he’d left them, ‘The Bolsheviks won’t allow private businesses to continue for long in areas they control. And the caviar’d certainly be State-owned, if they had the power. He must know that.’
‘So he must be reckoning on your lot winning.’
‘I suppose so. And when one hears stories of the kind we heard this evening – surely God can’t allow such filth to prevail.’ He shut his eyes. ‘Christ…’
‘I know. I feel the same. But here and now, Nick…’
‘We can only wait for Maroussia. Yes. And keep our voices down. You’re quite right.’
‘Also keep in mind that it was back in October they perpetrated that horror. When they were all really running mad. Well, weren’t they – everywhere? Getting on for a year ago. And we know your mother and the others were with Maroussia when she sent you the message – just over three months ago, so—’
‘So what?’
‘Well – in detail, God knows, but—’
‘Exactly. God knows. Anything…’
‘What’ll we do if Maroussia doesn’t respond?’
That, in the immediate situation, was the biggest and least answerable question. What to do if Maroussia got the message that the Count was here, and ignored it. Or wasn’t able to respond to it, because of her own situation… Bob thought that if this proved to be the case, and if he personally had then to make the decision, it would be to cut and run. Rather than throw away two more lives – get out, now.
That would be the logical, sane decision; and Leonid Timofeevich Mesyats would have agreed. But the Count wouldn’t. He’d be outraged at the mere suggestion.
Understandably. His own flesh and blood, and the girl he loved…
‘Krasnaya Dacha… To think that in the house where we spent such happy, carefree times – even in that big staircase hall, children’s games…’
‘Same must apply all over. In hundreds of homes, Nick. Thousands, even… Mesyats was right, it’s been the pattern. You’ll have heard about the Black Sea fleet mutineers, what they did to their officers – marching them off a jetty in chains with weights on them, and cracking their skulls under the lid of a grand piano in the sailors’ club. It’s the same… syndrome. Peasant bestiality. Not to mention the more deliberate brutality, all the poor wretches the Cheka have tortured to death or shot in the back of the head. It’s a fact of these times, Nick – what I’m saying is this particular horror was perpetrated in your house, but – look, that was just one more drop in an ocean of blood, you should put it out of your mind just as you do with the other stories. As the old man pointed out, your family weren’t there, thank God, so—’
‘Yes. Thank God.’
‘I’ll admit there’s one aspect of it I can’t reconcile in my mind – the idea of a house in which the Cheka have set up shop, and in the same place—’ he dropped his voice even further – ‘two of the Tsar’s daughters. That really does seem – so utterly incongruous.’
‘Well, I—’
He’d started, then checked himself. Retreating into his own thoughts – fears, visions, whatever… Hands flat on the table, and staring down at them. It was a habit of his, Bob had noticed more than once, that when he didn’t want to look someone in the eyes he picked another object on which to focus his attention. Instead of just looking away, he looked at something.
And here and now, anyway – in his shoes…
But in anyone’s, Bob thought, who had any depth of feeling for this country. The Count shook his head: ‘No more impossible, though, than that the others should be there. My mother, Irina, Nadia.’
‘I suppose not.’
Sipping at his beer. Struggling to shut out awareness of the surrounding nightmare: shut his mind to it, concentrate not on the wood but on the trees – on the problems that had been nagging away in his own thoughts for two days and nights – how to get away from here, with or without the women: to get even the beginnings of a plan…
‘Except for one thing.’ The Count nodded slowly as he spoke. ‘One thing I haven’t mentioned. It may not make all that much difference, but…’
‘What are you talking about?’
The green eyes dropped again.
‘Bob, I think at this time I won’t talk about it. If you don’t mind. If it came to the very worst – if for instance you and I were arrested – well, the knowledge wouldn’t be any use to you here and now – and if all goes well you’ll see for yourself quite soon – so really there’s no point – burdening you, with—’
‘I agree.’ He nodded. ‘Whatever the deuce it is you’re talking about… But incidentally, another thing you never told me was that you had a brother.’
‘Vladimir. Three years older than me. He was killed in the fighting around Lake Narocz – in March ’16, that was. You know where – on the Polish border? It was a very costly attack. We launched it primarily to take German and Austrian pressure off the French, who were in bad trouble at Verdun. Vlad was one of a whole list of good men killed.’
‘Where were you at that time?’
‘In the south-west. Brusilov’s front. We were up against the Austrian Seventh Army, in the Bukovina. We smashed them, you know. And this was by way of helping the Italians – they’d begged us to do something to stop the Austrians reinforcing their Trentino front.’ He shrugged. ‘When you reckon it all up, I’d say we weren’t so bad, while we were in it. Considering how inadequate our equipment was, and the supply problems.’
‘Like shells that didn’t fit the guns, we heard.’
He nodded. ‘Must be quite a joke – if you don’t happen to be there at the time.’ He began nibbling at a thumbnail. ‘I wonder how long we’re going to have to wait here, Bob.’
‘Well.’ Glancing over at some men who were playing dominoes – slamming the pieces down, crashes like gunshots over the growl of conversation… ‘Might pass some time with a game – if the Swede has another set?’
‘I don’t think so. Unless you particularly—’
‘No. I’m easy. But – could be hours, you know. Could be all night – and that wouldn’t necessarily mean she isn’t coming. We don’t know what circumstances apply out at the house, when she can or can’t get away, or—’
‘I know. I know.’ Hands flat on the table again: in an effort not to bite his nails, perhaps… ‘Unfortunately, patience is one of the virtues I don’t have in abundance.’
The arrangement – the old man’s scheme – was that he’d give his grandson Andrei a verbal message for Maroussia, simply Nikki’s waiting at the Swede’s. If the boy was unlucky enough to get caught, he’d say he’d sneaked in to see if there were any raspberries left on the canes; they’d believe him, knowing that he and his friends had been in the Riibachnaya gardens dozens of times before, had their own ways in, under or over the wall. If he was caught he might get his ears boxed, but no more than that; he’d risked that penalty often enough just for a hatful of fruit. And his task would be finished when he’d whispered those half-dozen words in the old woman’s ear; after that he could go and pick berries, if he felt so inclined.
The Count said, after a long silence, ‘That was a damn stupid mistake I made, wasn’t it? Blurting that out, about our marvellous raspberries?’
‘Easy to do, though. Relaxing, forgetting for a moment.’
‘Exactly what we can’t afford.’
‘It’s turned out well, anyway. What would you have done, without the old man and his grandson?’
‘Well, I’d thought of getting a message out to her somehow, and the obvious way would have been by the hand of some child. Bunch of flowers for a supposed birthday – something of that sort. I’d have had to ask around first, that’s all – how do I get hold of my aunt Maroussia, all that stuff. So there’d have been a certain risk, I grant you – if one had asked the wrong person… For instance – in here, now, which one of these characters would you take a chance on?’
‘Frankly, I wouldn’t.’
‘There you are, then. You’re right, it’s turned out well. If we’re right to trust Mesyats, that is.’
‘I’d say we’re safe enough with him.’
‘I agree. But – you can’t be certain… If his wife, for instance, didn’t agree with what he’s doing. Or suppose the boy gets caught and they don’t believe he’s come for raspberries. They’d get the truth out of him, all right. Or if they suspected he’d brought her a message – they’re not stupid, they’d watch her, and—’ he pointed at the door – ‘it wouldn’t be just my old aunt coming in there, would it.’
‘Trying to work yourself up into a party mood, Nick, are you?’
‘Trying to be realistic. Cigarette? Here… You get fewer sudden shocks that way. Nothing like this is straightforward, ever… Besides, Mesyats told us the old girl’s a bit—’ he touched his forehead – ‘didn’t he?’
‘He said she’d changed. I took it to mean she may be slightly – you know, odd. If he thought she was actually sumashedshaya, I doubt he’d be risking his own neck, would he?’
‘I hope you’re right.’
‘So do I.’ Leaning down to the match in the Count’s cupped hands. ‘Thanks.’
‘We should have pipes.’ Looking round at the Swede’s other customers. ‘Be more in keeping, wouldn’t it?’
‘I don’t smoke much. Cigar, when I’m offered one.’
‘Well – if I’d known…’
‘You’d have brought some Cubans along, I know. You’re a great disappointment to me, Nick.’
‘I’ll tell you one thing – seriously…’
‘Go on.’
‘None of them will be here. When we talk to Maroussia – if we do – she’ll tell us – well, either the worst you can imagine, what I’ve seen in nightmares for months now – or simply that they left, at some time or other… She wouldn’t know where, they wouldn’t have told her… I’m certain now, Bob.’
‘One gets that kind of certainty sometimes, at crucial moments. Comes of having wanted a thing too much for too long. And being so close now – naturally you’re scared.’
‘It’s simply not possible that they’re here. Apart from the logical aspect – I mean, Cheka in the house, for God’s sake…’
‘Main problem is we’re both tired. We’ve only had catnaps, no proper sleep.’ He put a hand on the Count’s shoulder. ‘And you’re a touch overwrought. Just relax, wait.’
‘For her to come walking in that door.’ The Count nodded towards it. ‘Look around you, Bob. No female gets to show even the tip of her nose in a place like this… Why in hell didn’t I think of this before? She can’t—’
‘She’ll go to the side door and talk to the Swede, surely. She’d hardly want to show her face in here. I’d never imagined she would, to tell you the truth.’
‘So then the Swede knows what’s going on?’
‘Not enough to be any danger to us. Anyway he’s more likely to be anti-Bolshevik than for them.’
‘For whichever side his bread’s buttered, I’d say. And as this is Bolshevik country—’
‘Nick…’
Expelling pungent smoke… ‘Want me to shut up, do you?’
‘Wouldn’t do any harm. Oh, hang on, Nikolai Petrovich – stay more or less as you are, don’t look up… Leonid Mesyats just walked in.’
The old man was talking to the Swede. Standing, just inside the door – having to stoop slightly, under the low ceiling. The Count, despite the warning, had jerked his head up and was staring in that direction. Bob looked, to reduce the degree of interest; being aware that any of these others could have been Cheka, or Cheka informers. He watched the domino players, who were still shouting like excited children as they crashed the pieces down.
‘He wouldn’t want us to know him, Nick.’
‘Teach your grandmother.’ Drawing hard on his papirossa. Glancing at Bob now. ‘But we weren’t going to see him again, were we? Let’s hope it doesn’t mean something’s gone wrong. Like the grandson couldn’t get in – or out – or she wouldn’t come, or—’
‘What’s going on now?’
‘Swede’s gone through to the back. Mesyats is jawing with some other fishermen. Hasn’t once looked our way.’
‘Well.’ Bob picked up the remains of his beer. ‘Might as well finish this, it’s too good to waste.’
‘The Swede’s back. He’s brought a sack of – God knows… Could be turnips.’
‘Yes.’ Bob was allowing himself to watch too, now. ‘I’d guess turnips.’ The old man took the sack from the Swede, swung it on to his shoulder. He was glancing around the room, nodding to friends here and there. When his glance met the Count’s and Bob’s he moved his head slightly, a gesture towards the door.
He’d turned that way himself. Bob and the Count already on the move, calling goodnight to the Swede.
Very dark, and river-haze to thicken it; stars visible overhead, and the onion-shaped dome of the village church in vague silhouette against them. No moon: moonset would have been within about an hour of sunset.
‘I’m here.’ Mesyats – low-voiced, waiting for them at the corner where the alley ran through to the quayside, his big frame flattened against the wall and the sack of turnips at his feet. He muttered as they joined him, ‘Coming now. Hear it?’
Iron-shod wheels on the hard-baked earth, and light trotting hoofbeats. From the alleyway, the soft, night-time murmur of the river. The old man growled, ‘Don’t waste time being sociable. When the telega stops, get in quick – under the tarpaulin. Then—’ he pushed at the sack with his foot – ‘mind your heads, I’ll be dumping this on top.’
‘Thought we weren’t going to see you again.’
‘You wouldn’t have, if it hadn’t become unavoidable. And you won’t after this, don’t worry… Here she is.’
‘Whoa-up.’ Scratchy old voice… The old woman was perched up on the front of the cart, which had a donkey in its shafts. ‘Whoa-up…’ Addressing it in a whisper – which still carried well, in the quiet night. There was a very strong ammoniac reek of donkey.
‘Leo?’
‘Maroussia Sergeyevna, you’re a marvel. In with you, comrades.’
‘Nikolai Petrovich?’
‘Maroussia – I’ll embrace you later. Just tell me, though, quickly—’
‘Holy Mother of God, it is—’
‘No gassing – if you don’t mind…’ The old man loomed over the Count. ‘Get in… Maroussia, listen – if you’re wise, you’ll send ’em on their way damn quick. Remember that, now. And here are your turnips – it’s what you came for, the Swede promised you a free sackful and you suddenly remembered, got scared he might run out before you could take delivery – right?’
He dumped the sack on the tarpaulin that was stretched across the top of the cart; the middle of it sagged almost to the floor, under that weight. Bob was on one side, and the Count the other; there was just enough space for each of them to crouch down on his own side, with the tarpaulin pressing down between them.
The cart jerked, rolled forward – bouncing and crashing over rocks and ridges. With about three versts of this to come, Bob remembered from the Count’s description. A mile and a half, say. Jolting and bouncing getting a lot worse, too, as the old woman whipped her donkey into a trot. Hard, splintery boards, acrid farmyard stench, the tarpaulin over his head unpleasantly slimy to the touch: better not to make any contact with it anyway, one didn’t want any impression of a body or bodies to be visible from above. The patter of the donkey’s hoofbeats was a soft drumming rhythm beyond the closer, harsher clatter of the wheels. Then – surprisingly – it was all slowing, getting easier. Cries of ‘Whoa-up, whoa-up!’ drifted down to him as Maroussia reined in, bringing the animal back to a walk after what couldn’t have been more than a few hundred yards.
‘Nikolai Petrovich?’
‘Yes, Maroussia!’
‘So you did come, at last!’
‘Had a long way to come – and it wasn’t simple. But listen—’
‘That’s not Boris Nikolai’ich with you.’
‘No…’
‘I thought it would be. When he said two of you…’
‘Boris died – of wounds. He was dying when he reached me. I think they’d caught him at some stage and he’d got away somehow, but… Maroussia, please, tell me about the others – my mother…’
‘Your sainted mother is with God, Nikolai Petrovich.’
A sound like a groan…
‘It was in His divine mercy that He took her. She’d been so ill. Poor lamb – such agony… We did all we could, but – it was only three weeks ago…’
‘Nadia? Irina?’
‘Irina’s shaking with excitement that you’ve got here. We hardly dared believe that little boy.’
‘Nadia?’
‘She doesn’t know yet. She may be back by now – in which case—’
‘Back from where?’
‘She works for them in the house, see. She’s my—’
‘For them… D’you mean the Cheka?’
‘—my niece, I tell them. Yes – them. What they believe is your mother was my sister and Nadia was her daughter. So they leave us be, and I get rations for her.’
‘This is – astonishing… What about Irina, where does she fit in?’
‘They don’t know she’s with me. Doesn’t show her face. We use the Hole, see, and—’
‘The Hole? You mean—’
‘The ice-cellar. They don’t know it exists, so—’
‘Irina lives in it?’
‘She could be recognized, you see. She’s a Solovyev, after all, there are plenty round about who’d know her – see the likeness… What don’t you understand?’
‘I’m beginning to… They knew my mother was with you – and ill – and that her daughter, so-called, but actually Nadia…’
‘That’s right. And they think I’m mad. Suits me – I’m no danger to them, so they don’t worry me – or mine, see… I work for ’em too – have to, I’d be on the garbage-heap if I didn’t… I cook for ’em, launder clothes, clean the house, feed the prisoners… Quick, get down – automobile…’
Crouching, back in the noise and smell. Stifling, in contrast to the cool night air. Thinking – that last word, prisoners… The two young girls? Bob was feeling the same surprise that he’d heard in the Count’s voice, at the thought of his fiancée working for those – creatures… He was hearing the motor now: the sound emerging from closer, surrounding noise and rising fast to a passing climax with light showing briefly between the telega’s planks: then it was dark again, and that racket dwindling away into the night.
‘All clear, Maroussia?’
‘All right now.’
‘Was that some of them?’
‘Cheka or military, yes. There’s more military in the house than Cheka.’ Bob was struggling up again: hearing as he got his head back into breathable air, ‘Mother of God, how we’ve dreamt of you getting here. Your mother’s last words, even—’
‘What did she die of?’
‘Some growth inside her. Some foul, malignant thing.’
‘Did she have a doctor?’
‘Yes – but once only, and—’
‘You said something about prisoners?’
‘The old storerooms are cells now. Bars on their windows. Czechoslovaks locked in there now – but they say they’ll shoot them soon. Nikolai Petrovich, you’ll take my darlings away with you now, will you?’
‘As soon as we work out some way—’
‘Excuse me.’ Bob broke in. Seeing the shawled head jerk round, startled… ‘Nick, what about the children, the two young girls?’
‘What’s he say?’ Her head turned back the other way. ‘They’re young girls, but he’s wrong to call them children. What’s he asking?’ Bob could see the small, swathed figure above him against starry sky. Her hoarse voice putting another question on the heels of the first one: ‘Who is he – if I may ask…’
‘A friend, Maroussia. I couldn’t have got here without him. His name’s Robat. It’s not his real name but it’s the one we’ll use. He’s a good friend.’
‘What was it about children?’
Bob began again: ‘The Tsar’s daughters – aren’t they with you too?’
‘Tsar’s daughters?’ She flipped the reins: ‘Come on, come on… Did he say the Tsar’s daughters – with me?’
‘Nick…’
‘Maroussia – the message I had from Boris referred to “the two children”…’
‘Irina and the Princess Nadia.’
‘No – as well as them. At least, I thought… It sounded like a coded reference – and there did seem to be good reason to assume my mother had brought two of the Grand Duchesses here with her. I couldn’t see what else—’
‘I can tell you where you’d find the Tsar’s children. At Ekaterinodar, that’s where. Somewhere close by, anyway, is where you’d find their remains. All shot to pieces. I won’t say it’s common knowledge exactly, there’ve been denials and some choose to believe them, but my Czechs know all about it. Their Legion took Ekaterinodar from the Bolsheviks only five days after. No bodies – they’d hidden them or buried them somewhere, in the countryside nearby most likely. They didn’t have to clear up like I did. Not that it would’ve been a mess like I had, not with bullets – although there was some stabbing too, my Czechs believe. Finishing them off – must be rotten shots, they say, there were dozens of shots fired in that room – revolver shots, the walls all pitted… It was in a house belonging to a man called Ipatiev – he’s back in it now already, would you credit that? They’d had the family imprisoned there for weeks – Cheka, I mean, not the Ipatievs – and that night they called them to the basement and shot them, all together. His Majesty and the Tsarina and the poor little sick Tsarevich, Aleksei Nikolaievich, and his four sisters, and their doctor and two footmen, and the Tsarina’s maid – oh, and the little one’s little dog – Anastasia’s, she called it Jemmi – wasn’t that cruel, now?’
‘One might have thought – unnecessary.’ The Count began, ‘Bob…’
‘There were never any children. Am I right?’
‘Seems so. But the message – I explained it to you – it was a matter of interpretation.’
‘I’m sorry about your mother.’
‘Thank you. But Bob, you must understand this…’
‘I think I understand it very well. But this is hardly a good time or circumstance—’
‘Nikolai Petrovich – and you, sir – please get inside now. And keep still, don’t speak, we’ll be at the guard-post in a minute, don’t move again until I tell you. They probably won’t stop me, but—’
‘All right.’
Bob wriggled down, manoeuvred the tarpaulin back into position above his head; they’d been passing through trees, he realized, as he crouched down on the boards where he’d been before. He’d barely noticed the trees, or any other features of their close surroundings. Meanwhile the old woman had forced her donkey back into a trot, whipping it and shouting imprecations at it, and the cart was careering along again quite fast. Less erratically than before – plenty of noise and vibration, but less of the earlier violence about it. Better surface to the road, obviously. Maroussia adding to the din now by bursting into song: while Bob recalled the compelling glint in the Count’s green eyes as he’d explained – only six days ago, although it felt more like a month – Personally I wouldn’t have bet on any of them being alive, until this message… if the two children were anyone else, why would she not have named them? D’you take my point? Then when he, Bob, had agreed with him that this interpretation seemed to hold water, he’d snapped, Of course it does! This was also the view taken by General Denikin, I may tell you. We discussed it from all angles – what might be done and how, and by whom…
By the Royal Navy, had been his – the Count’s – answer. And persuading Denikin to fall for it must have been three-quarters of the battle. The rest of them – Bicherakov, the Commodore and Dunsterville – had gone over like toppling dominoes. Thus launching the attempted rescue of Count Nikolai Solovyev’s mother, sister and fiancée. No one else.
Maroussia was still screeching out her song. The same old song that they’d heard Bolshevik sailors warbling a few days ago, down there in the delta: such a well-known, all-Russian ballad that it was almost an alternative to the national anthem, but it still belonged here on the Volga more than it did elsewhere. She was going full-blast at it now…
‘Volga, Volga, matts rodnaya,
Volga, rooskaya reka!
Nye vidal reku takuyu—
A man’s commanding shout, from somewhere up ahead: ‘Stoi!’
‘Whoa-up. Whoa-up there, damn creature…’
Slowing, stopping.
‘You’re in great voice tonight, babushka.’
‘My Ivan used to say I had a lovely voice. God rest his fine old soul… What’s up, what d’you want?’
The cart rocked as the guard leant his weight against it, leaning over the top to get at the sack. Bob crouching on the stinking boards, thinking of the cost to date of the Count’s single-minded devotion to his loved ones – two lives already lost, and a good chance he mightn’t have much of a lease left on his own.