‘Will the Legion come out for the SRs?’
Gavenda mournfully inspected his plate. ‘They ignored us the last time.’
Paul supposed Gavenda was referring to how, just before the Directory had taken office, the right-wing de facto head of the West Siberian Government — an ambitious politician named Mikhailovsky who was unhappy at the prospect of sharing power — had objected to the appointment of an SR minister. Mikhailovsky had had his security police murder the SR as soon as the man arrived in Omsk. The Legion had sent the Directory a report showing Mikhailovsky’s complicity in the death but it had been diplomatically shelved.
‘Besides,’ said Gavenda, ‘after Gajda’s threat it was decided we should stay out of it.’
‘Threat?’
‘Apparently Gajda has given those who planned the coup a guarantee that the Legion will not intervene. There was talk of his marching on Omsk if we did.’
‘What? Not with Legion men, surely.’
Gavenda’s lip curled sourly. ‘You would hope not, although he has his supporters. But he has Russian men, too, thanks to his pal the admiral.’
‘And would he have?’
‘Intervened?’ Gavenda shrugged again. ‘Who knows? He’s an ambitious man. After all, what was he in Bohemia, a student of chemistry then a clerk in the army…? Russia has made him. Perhaps he thinks in return he can make Russia.’
‘Is he coming here?’
‘Maybe. They say he’s in Chelyabinsk now, getting a bollocking from Syrový and Diterikhs.’
Paul left Gavenda to his stew and started back for town. The overcast had thickened and snow was falling heavily. With it came a wind that carried the breath of the arctic.
So Gajda had shown his hand. And played his cards too soon? He had been a hero of the Legion just weeks before. Now he was looking like a common adventurer.
The crowds of refugees had thinned. There were fewer soldiers too; sheltering in their barracks, no doubt. Paul put his head into the wind, envying them.
He had just reached Ward’s perimeter in the square when he saw Admiral Kolchak emerging from the Stavka headquarters. Dressed in a British uniform he was walking down the steps beside a British officer who was carrying a bottle of Champagne. A staff car waited at the foot of the steps, belching exhaust smoke like a bonfire into the frozen air. Kolchak and the British officer climbed into the car and drove out of the square. Paul turned towards Ward’s train only to see the colonel on the steps of his carriage watching the departing admiral and his companion. The sight seemed to have etched a deep frown into his forehead.
‘Ross,’ he called, spotting Paul, ‘what have you learned?’
Paul recounted his inconclusive meeting with the Legion staff officer and said he had learned more from his acquaintance in the commissariat.
Ward drummed his fingers on his moustache. ‘Now, did Gajda and the admiral cook that up on the tour of the front?’
‘It looks that way,’ Paul said.
‘There’s rarely smoke without fire, even if there aren’t always signals,’ Ward replied cryptically.
‘As you say, sir,’ Paul agreed.
‘Well, Admiral Kolchak is the Supreme Governor of all Russia now. He informed me that he accepted the post at two-thirty this afternoon.’
‘Was the post Stavka’s to give? What about General Deniken? Has he agreed?’
‘At the moment, that hardly matters.’
‘Well, the SRs do,’ Paul said, ‘and I’ll be surprised if they think much of it. Never mind the Bolsheviks.’
‘Ah, but we have to mind the Bolsheviks, don’t we? With Kolchak as Supreme Governor at least these squabbling factions have the opportunity to unite under one command. The greater good?’
Paul still had his doubts. He had seen enough of Russian politics to know that the only thing a Russian politician would accept as greater than himself was his own ego. There was nothing to be gained in passing his opinion on to Ward, though, so he kept silent. There was already enough cynicism to be found in Omsk without him adding to the pile. Instead he asked:
‘Who was the British officer with the admiral?’
Ward’s frown reappeared.
‘That was Lieutenant-colonel Nielson.’
‘From General Knox’s staff?’
‘Yes. Doesn’t look good, does it, carrying a bottle of champagne as if they had something to celebrate?’
Paul didn’t suppose it did. The French were already suspicious of Knox’s influence with Kolchak. Seeing a British general’s staff officer celebrating a successful coup against a legitimate government — no matter how weak and inefficient it might be — was hardly likely to send the right signals.
‘By the way, Ross,’ Ward said, ‘you have a visitor. ‘A lady. Miss Rostova. She says she’s your cousin.’
Paul found her in Ward’s private saloon, sitting on the sofa in her high-necked Edwardian dress. She wore gloves and boots. A fur coat and hat lay draped over a neighbouring chair and Moorman, Ward’s servant, had set out a tea tray on the low table beside her. He was hanging around outside the door in case she needed him; Paul didn’t supposed the ‘Hernia Battalion’ had seen too many ladies since leaving Singapore.
Sofya was drinking tea and nibbling at a pastry.
‘Sofya?’ he said, pulling off his coat as he walked in.
‘Pasha.’ She put down her tea and stood. He reached for her hand and would have kissed it but for the glove. He just held it instead.
‘Yesterday…’ she began.
‘Don’t speak of it,’ he said. ‘I was a fool. I shouldn’t have said what I did.’
‘That’s not why I’m here.’ She pulled him gently down beside her. ‘Never mind what you said yesterday. I came to tell you that Mikhail had a visitor after lunch. An army friend of his, an unpleasant Cossack colonel he has dealings with.’
‘Krasilnikov?’ Paul asked.
She looked surprised. ‘You know him?’
‘Only that he engineered the coup,’ adding almost before he could help himself, ‘with Mikhail’s help, I suspect.’
Sofya scowled at him. ‘Are you always willing to think the worst of my brother?’
‘I don’t want to argue again,’ he said. ‘Not if you’ve come to make things up.’
‘Make it up?’ She jerked her hand out of his. ‘You’re insufferable, Pavel! Do you think I’d come into this armed camp just to make things up between us?’
‘Then why have you come?’
‘To warn you.’
‘About what?’
‘Krasilnikov. I overheard them talking. He has one of these loud voices that carry all over the hotel.’ Her nose wrinkled. ‘It was impossible not to hear.’
‘Hear what exactly, Sofya?’
‘Them plotting.’
‘The coup?’
‘Of course not!’
‘Then what?’
‘To have you killed!’
‘Kill me! Why, for heaven’s sake?’
‘If you don’t know…’
And she wondered why he was always willing to think the worst of Mikhail. ‘Know what, Sofya?’
‘We’re cousins, Pasha. And Mikhail believes my honour has been compromised.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘He believes you made advances towards me after we left Petersburg.’
‘Why should he believe that?’
She looked down at her lap and Paul thought he saw a little colour rise in her cheeks.
‘I may have led him to believe that… that…’
‘That what, Sofya?’
‘That you cared for me.’
‘But I do! Isn’t it obvious? Why should Mikhail care? Because we’re cousins? That’s hardly unusual, especially in Russia.’