She took off her glove and reached for his hand again. ‘Because he never liked you and…’ she looked away, ‘and because Colonel Krasilnikov has declared himself.’
Paul fell back into the sofa in surprise. ‘Declared himself?’ Had he wandered into a Jane Austen novel? ‘And you,’ he felt compelled to ask, ‘what do you feel for Krasilnikov?’
‘Nothing, Pasha! The man’s contemptible. He calls himself an ataman, but he’s nothing but a barbarian.’
‘But Mikhail regards this Cossack a match?’
She gave a muffled cry. ‘Never mind Mikhail. I came to warn you that you have to leave Omsk. Krasilnikov will have you killed for whatever reason. That you’re English is enough for him.’
‘Not entirely English,’ he said.
‘Enough for Krasilnikov,’ she replied.
Paul poured himself some tea. At least it confirmed his name had been on the list the Cossacks were carrying that morning. He had always known that Mikhail had disliked him but it had never occurred to him that his cousin would stoop to murder. Simply because of his feelings for Sofya? He found that hard to believe. Was there more then? Did Mikhail find Paul’s acquaintance with Admiral Kolchak awkward for some reason? But then, what about Knox and Ward, Nielson and Steveni? They were all British, all here under the auspices of the British government and all acquainted with Kolchak. What was so different about him? All he could think of was that he had been sent by Cumming, but how could Mikhail know that? About his mission, perhaps. That was an open secret by now: Poole and the Legion, Kolchak and his gold…
‘You will have to leave,’ Sofya said.
‘Leave? What do you mean? I was sent here. I can’t just up sticks and do as I please because some Russian believes me a rival.’
‘You can’t stay,’ Sofya insisted. ‘Colonel Ward told me he can send you to Vladivostok.’
‘You told the colonel? Sofya, how could you? What is he to think now, that I’m some philanderer who has to run away because of a jealous suitor?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Pasha. What if Krasilnikov had come here and asked to see you?’
‘He’d hardly kill me in front of Ward and his men. He can’t be that stupid.’
‘You don’t know Krasilnikov. He’s capable of anything.’
Ward knocked upon the saloon door. Paul stood up and Ward bowed slightly. ‘Miss Rostova… excuse the intrusion. It’ll be dark soon and I’ve taken the liberty of arranging a car from Stavka to take you back to your lodgings. It isn’t safe on the streets and as they are acquainted with your brother they said they’d be happy to escort you to your hotel.’
‘That is very thoughtful of you, Colonel,’ she replied in English. She began putting her glove on.
‘There is no hurry, I assure you,’ Ward said, making to leave the saloon again.
‘I believe my cousin has told you, sir,’ Paul said to him quickly, ‘that I’m in some sort of danger. I’m sure there’s nothing to it.’ He could feel Sofya’s eyes boring into the side of his head but resolutely resisted looking at her. ‘No doubt it’s nothing more than an idle threat.’
‘Fool!’ she said in Russian.
‘I wouldn’t be too sure it’s an idle threat, Ross,’ Ward said. ‘If men like Colonel Krasilnikov get the upper hand then old scores will be settled. I’m having to send some of my sick men back to Vladivostok. I was going to give young Cornish-Bowden the job but it might be as well to have you command the detail.’
‘I hardly think that’s necessary,’ Paul protested. ‘Cornish-Bowden is a capable fellow. And what would I do in Vladivostok? I’m not attached to the Middlesex and—’
‘I’m sure General Knox will find something useful for you to do,’ Ward said.
Knox would have him counting pith helmets, or something equally ludicrous if given the opportunity. According to Valentine, the general did not care for agents of another service operating in any sphere under his command. If Paul had been a civilian he might be able to ignore Knox, but as a soldier…
‘I must respectfully remind the Colonel,’ Paul said, ‘that I was sent here by a government department with specific orders…’ he faltered, deciding it best not to elaborate on his specific orders as they no longer had any relevance.
Ward eyed him sardonically, his tone threatening to slip past irony into sarcasm. ‘Might I remind you, Ross — respectfully, of course — that ten days ago you asked if it might be possible to join my Middlesex. Perhaps the changed situation here has rekindled your enthusiasm for your “specific orders” although precisely how escapes me.’
It was a tenuous lifeline but Paul grabbed it.
‘If you recall, sir, I was sent to liaise between Admiral Kolchak, the Czech Legion, and General Poole in Archangel. Given the present state of trust between the admiral and the Legion, I believe it only my duty to remain and attempt to resolve any differences there may be.’
Ward’s eye had turned from sardonic to jaundiced. He made an open-handed gesture to Sofya — paradoxically, Paul thought, as Ward was suggesting his hands were tied. Sofya, who had been listening to the exchange with a growing air of exasperation that Paul recognised from past association, picked up her fur coat and started for the door.
‘Thank you Colonel Ward. If the car is ready?’
‘Sofya…’ Paul said, starting after her. But she didn’t stop. On the edge of the Middlesex perimeter a black vehicle waited, a soldier at the wheel, its engine running. The man got out and opened the door for her. She paused a moment and looked back to where Paul was standing. Then she climbed into the car. Paul watched it drive away.
PART SEVEN
The Wind from Omsk (II)
— November 12th 1919 —
47
‘Why did we draw the short straw?’
‘Someone had to.’
Paul’s reply, meant as an expression of stoical acceptance, instead sounded almost callous. Nevertheless it was true. Someone had to draw the short straw.
He was squashed into the teplushka with a couple of dozen other men. The smoke from pipe tobacco, cigarettes and the leaky burhzuika made the atmosphere thick enough to bite and chew. He lit another cigarette. If he was going to smoke he might as well do it first-hand.
They were moving along the line slowly, like an elderly snail. Behind them was the Red Army. In front lay Omsk. They had heard the town had been evacuated for the most part although Paul suspected that those who had vouchsafed the information had meant evacuated by people who mattered and that they numbered themselves among them. All along the railway line they had passed refugees who hadn’t yet even reached Omsk. But, Paul supposed, these were the kind of people who didn’t matter. The strong among them were almost managing to match the crawling pace of the train; the weak were losing ground. Many had dropped from exhaustion in the snow. Paul noticed that the flow of refugees was unceasing and that attrition never seemed to effect their numbers. It was as if, somewhere out in the Ural mountains, a machine continued to churn out the homeless and the destitute in some never-ending cycle. Ragged, they carried what they could on their backs. Most wouldn’t reach Omsk, never mind evacuate out the other side. Those that fell rarely moved again. They lay in the snow like discarded dolls frozen in grotesque attitudes.
The ‘short straw’ they had drawn, to Karel Romanek’s disgust, was to have been chosen to defend the rear of the retreating army as Kolchak evacuated his capital. His generals, undecided whether to attempt to defend the capital or abandon it, had vacillated between the two so long and done neither that it was now too late. The retreat had become precipitous.