‘I wouldn’t know, sir,’ said Paul.
‘I wasn’t asking, Ross, merely surmising.’
‘Of course, Colonel. What do you think will happen now?’
‘I think a lot will depend on how the Legion reacts. That’s why I was looking for you. I want you to sound them out and report back. In the meantime my men have the square covered. If there’s any move on us, or towards the Stavka headquarters, no matter who makes it, we can deal with it. General Knox’s men, Colonel Nielson and Captain Steveni, are with Stavka at this minute. Their opinion is that the local SRs won’t take this lying down. There are also a lot of Bolshevik sympathisers among the working classes here. They might see this as an opportunity to stir the pot.’ He fell silent and gazed down at the map. ‘As the ranking representative of the British Government here I don’t think we can sit idly by while Russian Ministers are murdered in cold blood. How would the British electorate react if they thought we’d just sat on our hands?’
Ward stared at Paul. Paul stared back before realising that this time the question was not rhetorical.
‘Not favourably, sir?’ he hazarded.
‘Not favourably at all, Ross. That’s why I’ve sent a note to Stavka asking them for assurances as to the Ministers’ safety.’
Although Ward still watched him, Paul decided a reply wasn’t necessary this time and kept silent.
Ward sighed impatiently. ‘Well, get along Ross,’ he said, ‘get along.’
The Legion in Omsk was quartered in sidings at the main railway station. They kept an armoured train and sufficient men to defend the station with reserves in close contact along the line at outlying stations. Back in the summer Syrový had been in command of the échelons holding the line from Ekaterinburg to Omsk although, following his promotion his deputy, the Russian Voitzekhovsky, had succeeded him. But then Voitzekhovsky had taken over the 1st Czech Division based in the Urals when Čeček had been recalled to Vladivostok. Syrový and Diterikhs were based in Chelyabinsk now so Paul had no idea who was presently in charge in Omsk. Not that it mattered. It wasn’t likely that whoever was in charge would be inclined to consult with a junior English officer as to the Legion’s tactical thinking. He still had his letter from Masaryk, of course, quite worn and crumpled now from the many hands through which it had passed, but he wasn’t sure how much weight that now carried. The Czech National Council’s volt-face over the Legion forming a front against the Bolsheviks had lost it support. Even more so now the war in Europe was over and Czechoslovakia had been born. All anyone in the Legion wanted was to get home. Those whose political sympathies had tempted them to make common cause with either the Bolsheviks or the SRs had already left to join them. It was only loyalty to their immediate superiors that kept the remainder of the Legion fighting and, in some places along the Trans-Siberian, this loyalty had begun to wear dangerously thin.
After consulting Ward’s map, Paul decided that both the safest and most direct route back to the main station was the one he had used to walk into town — along the spur line. No locomotives were running, Ward presently allowing nothing to either leave the centre of Omsk or to approach his cantonment. Paul thought he might have found a droshky, always assuming that there were still some cab horses in Omsk that hadn’t been eaten, but he didn’t want to run into another detachment of Cossacks and decided to travel on foot. That way he had the best chance of avoiding them.
It hadn’t surprised him in the least that Mikhail was acquainted with Krasilnikov, the presumed leader of the coup. It would also mean there was a very good chance that Kolchak had been involved, too. That was neither here nor there though; what was more disturbing to Paul was the thought that his name had been on a list the Cossacks were carrying. He couldn’t help but think of the Shakespeare he had read in school, of Julius Caesar and of the lists Octavian and Mark Anthony had drawn up following their war with Brutus and the conspirators. They had calmly traded names of those to be proscribed following their victory. Proscribed, of course, had been a euphemism for killing, just as the Russians preferred the word liquidated. He, it seemed, was to be liquidated. But on whose orders, and why?
There were many people washing up and down the branch line and he mixed in with them as they trudged through the snow, giving soldiers a wide berth by cutting behind the wooden huts that lined the track. When he reached the Legion trains it became obvious they were on alert. Guards were posted at outlying points in front of the trains and men manned the machineguns mounted on flatcars. Digging into his pocket for Masaryk’s letter and opening his coat to show his Czech uniform, he waved the dog-eared paper above his head and approached the guards slowly.
46
The atmosphere in the commissariat was subdued. The men and officers, messing in together as was the Legion way, hardly spoke. Morale hadn’t been good in recent weeks, but there was something more oppressing the men.
Everyone knew about the coup, perhaps even from the moment Krasilnikov and his men pushed their way into Rogovski’s rooms. News and rumour spread through the Legion with the rapidity of a virus. The staff captain Paul had spoken to knew the names of the arrested ministers and that command of all Russian forces had been offered to Admiral Kolchak. The admiral had been offered it, in fact, even before the coup had taken place, although Kolchak had apparently declined the post suggesting Boldyrev was a better candidate. Whether the refusal on Kolchak’s part was a genuine reluctance or merely a ritual of manners in the expectation of the offer being made again, no one seemed sure. The Legion officers were divided on the issue. Their opinion was unanimous, however, in believing Boldyrev would not be a suitable candidate in the eyes of the plotters — too left-wing was the consensus. But if not Kolchak, then who? Viktor Pepelayev, the brother of the general at the front and already a minister in the deposed government, was thought a possible substitute. No one mentioned Gajda’s name and Paul found the omission deafening. When he had asked the staff captain — at the behest of Colonel Ward — what stance the Legion was likely to take, Paul was met with evasions on the pretext that the General Council needed to be consulted. Paul pointed out that by the time Syrový in Chelyabinsk got a decision from the General Council and had passed it on to Omsk, the town could well be in the middle of a civil war. Besides the one they were already in the middle of, he had found himself adding. It had done him little good. They were busy, the staff captain said, and had hurried Paul out. Perhaps if he returned later…
In the commissariat, an officer who looked vaguely familiar caught his eye and made room for Paul next to him at the table where he was sitting. Paul carried over his lunch — a rather greasy mutton stew — and sat down.
‘Kazan,’ said the officer, jogging Paul’s memory.
Paul looked at his long, almost funereal face over a spoonful of the stew.
‘The barge,’ said Paul. ‘I remember.’
‘Gavenda.’
‘Ross, or Rostov, take your pick.’
‘Liaison to the Allies,’ said Gavenda, managing not to imbue the comment with too much irony. Paul found himself smiling anyway.
‘Been in Omsk long?’
‘A month,’ Gavenda shrugged. ‘At the front until now.’
‘Me too,’ said Paul.
‘What’s it like in town?’
‘Quiet when I left. There are troops on the streets. Bodies, too.’
‘What’s new?’