“From whom do you get your mandate?” Arbatov challenged Komarov.
“From history,” he retorted drily.
Arbatov grinned. “Once perhaps, but what if history changes its mind? Would you give up your power then? But then how would you know that history had forsaken you when you no longer listen to what it’s telling you?”
Komarov smiled at the table. “No party, no individual, can keep itself in power against the will of history.”
“Not forever, no. But for an hour, a year, a decade? What if you can hold power for that long? The peasants are against you now; the bourgeoisie always has been. And after Kronstadt it seems that most workers have lost their faith in you. My presence here on this train proves that at least half of Russia’s socialists have turned against you. A handful of incorruptibles in charge of a million careerists—it doesn’t sound like a recipe for socialism, does it? It sounds like a way of holding on to power.”
A succinct analysis, McColl thought. He wondered how Komarov would counter it.
“We do not hold this power for our own gratification,” the Cheka boss said, sounding defensive.
“Not yet. Oh, I know that you are sincere, Yuri Vladimirovich, but sincerity is an overvalued attribute. I’m sure the Spanish Inquisition was staffed by sincere men. And gratification comes in many forms. Power for its own sake, for one.”
“Which corrupts those who hold it? Of course it does. But impotence corrupts just as surely as power, Ivan Ivanovich.” Komarov smiled again. “And absolute impotence—perhaps that corrupts absolutely. Those who had nothing—no wealth, no power, no education, no hope—they must learn how to use the power we now hold in their name. You don’t learn kindness and cooperation from capitalism, and if we want a kinder, more cooperative world, these things must be taught. By the party. Who else is there?”
Arbatov looked incredulous. “Do you really believe that a handful of incorruptibles can hold such power in trust? You can’t even stem the tide you have already unleashed.”
“We can only try,” Komarov said, and McColl could feel the quiet desperation behind those four simple words.
“And where will our Russia be when you fail?”
“Where it is now?” Komarov rejoined. “Where we are is where we are. We can’t turn the clock back four years and start again from scratch.”
Returning to her compartment after the conversation with the young officer, Caitlin sat staring out at the moonlit hills. He had reminded her of someone, and it took her several moments to realize it was Sergei. The old Sergei, the one she had met and shared so much with in their fleeting times together.
It was good for her to remember that Sergei, she thought. Especially now, as part of the pack chasing the one he’d become.
For all the holding back she’d done, her affection for him had been real. If there hadn’t been the passion she’d felt for Jack, there had been liking, and there had been desire. The sex had always been good with the old Sergei. There had been an innocence about him that was truly touching; he had taken such joy in giving pleasure to her that she could hardly feel otherwise.
What had become of that man? He was in there somewhere, trapped in his desperate successor, occasionally breaking out to leave Pushkin verses on pillows. She missed that man. That friend.
The train left Ruzayevka Junction late the following afternoon and, for the rest of the day and night, meandered at not much better than walking pace through wooded hill country. Troops were frequently in evidence, milling at the small stations, camped in farmyards and fields, but only one burning building, glimpsed at the distant end of a valley, suggested that the Antonov rebellion was still alive.
In midmorning their train reached Batraki, where an armored cousin simmered on the adjacent track. With the latter leading, they left in tandem, emerging from the uplands to drum their way across the iron bridge which spanned the mile-wide Volga. With the hills receding on the western horizon, a straight run across flat farming country brought them back alongside the river in the outskirts of Samara. The sky was rapidly darkening, and as the train pulled into the city station, rain began falling in sheets.
Komarov and Maslov went in search of the Transport Cheka office, fighting their way through would-be passengers huddled in the shelter of the platform canopy. A report on Brady was waiting for them.
Komarov half-sat on the edge of the table to read it through. “Information gathered from Vecheka files and American comrade Michael Kelly, now teaching at Petrograd State University,” the cable began. “Aidan Brady, age around forty. Originally from Boston, Massachusetts, USA. Union activist (American Industrial Workers of the World union) in years before war, served short prison terms in Oregon, Illinois, and New Jersey for related activities. Also active in Irish republican politics, in both USA and Ireland. Broke with IWW in early 1918 over leadership’s refusal to sanction armed resistance. Arrived in Russia soon after. Served with Red Army on Volga front that summer and later transferred to Samara Cheka. In Ukraine 1919–20, position and duties unknown due to loss of records. Left Russia toward the end of 1920, with the stated intent of fighting for the republicans in Ireland’s War of Independence. Return to Russia unrecorded but probably in May of this year. Entered politics as a socialist and has subsequently shifted his position further to the left, with links to anarchist and utopian communist groups. During civil war proved intelligent, courageous, and popular with fellow soldiers. Carries an American revolver, which he usually wears tucked into the back of his belt. Family circumstances unknown. No record of marriage in Russia.”
Komarov sighed and passed the cable to Maslov. Lots of facts, but nothing that really helped. The Brady described sounded decidedly forthright, but Komarov’s own abiding impression, gathered at their only previous meeting three years before, had been of a man held well inside himself, forever calculating, with more than a hint of slyness. He might have misread Brady, but Komarov doubted it. The biography in the cable sounded more like agitprop than real life.
When you boiled it down, a solitary truth remained—the man was a classic renegade.
Komarov turned to the local Chekist who was hovering anxiously by his side. “When did the last train leave for Tashkent, and when will it arrive?” Komarov asked.
The man scurried off to find out, returning five minutes later. “It left six days ago and should arrive sometime in the next three.”
Komarov thought for a moment. “Chances are they know someone there,” he muttered.
“Other anarchists?” Maslov suggested.
“You may be right, Pavel Tarasovich,” Komarov said as thunder rolled in the distance. He turned to the local man. “I want to send a message to the Tashkent Cheka.”
Returning to the train some twenty minutes later, Komarov noticed that the man he still thought of as Davydov was farther up the platform, chatting with the locomotive crew. During the first few days of their journey, Komarov had not seen anything in the man’s or Piatakova’s behavior to suggest a previous relationship, but if they had known each other for years, they would both be doing their best to disguise that fact. They certainly seemed to be enjoying each other’s company, but that was hardly suspicious in itself. He himself had thrown them together, and traveling in the Cheka section of the train didn’t invite interaction with other passengers.
It was barely morning when McColl climbed from his bed, the dim dawn light filtering through the shutters on the window. He rolled them aside and leaned his head out. They were still ascending the Samara valley, the line twisting to follow the river, the locomotives straining at the incline. The hills that rose to the south were wrapped in amber light.