He nodded again.
“Yes,” he replied.
“I understand perfectly. I recognize your voice, but I cannot remember your name. Who are you?” He thought the man had sounded nervous, as though something was wrong.
“My name is Nikolai Zamyatin, a Burial representative of Comintern. We met last year when I came here to negotiate with you concerning your possible role in the coming revolution. You denied me then. You shall not deny me this time.”
“Yes,” he said.
“I remember you. You talked about giving power to the people. But then I had no power to give: the Chinese held it all. And now you have taken away whatever power I might have gained. Who will be the new ruler here? You?”
“The people will rule themselves,” Zamyatin said.
“Yes,” he replied.
“But who will rule the people?”
“We’re wasting time! I’ve already instructed your secretaries to prepare your study. There are papers you must sign.”
He did not move.
“You are early,” he said.
“I was not expecting you until tomorrow.
I understood you intended to have me arrested after the ceremonies in the Tsokchin. Has something happened to make you change your plans?”
There was perfect silence. He imagined the Burial staring al him. There was a note of increased nervousness in the voice when it resumed.
“How did you obtain that information?”
“I know everything,” he answered.
“Didn’t anyone tell you?” He smiled evenly. Strangely, he was not afraid. After all, this had happened before. And this time at least his caplors were Mongols.
It was a pity they had come tonight, though. That had rather upset his plans.
Someone stepped up to him and took his arm.
“Come with me, my Lord.” It was Bodo. He could sense the embarrassment in his voice. Bodo would not last long, he thought.
He would be one of the first to fall when they brought out the guillotines. A pity, he mused; I should like to have seen a guillotine in operation. He loved mechanical things. And he had heard that guillotines were particularly efficient. Perhaps he could purchase one and have it sent out. It might entertain him for a while. And then he remembered he was blind.
They began to walk, arm in arm, down the corridor. He could hear the footsteps of more than one person in front. When the strangers had first entered, he had guessed there were about eight of them. One was a woman, he thought. And two of them children.
In less than a minute, they reached his study. Bodo helped him find his chair, though he could have done so perfectly well without assistance. Someone else opened his drinks cupboard and took out a glass and bottle.
“I would prefer some port,” he said.
“The decanter on the top shelf He had first been introduced to the drink twelve years earlier by an English explorer called Barnaby or Farnaby or something.
Barnaby had sent him several cases of what he called ‘vintage tawny’ through the Chinese am ban who had kept a couple for himself. He was down to his last case or two now, but with care they should last some time. In fact, it was quite likely that they would outlast him.
The port arrived on his desk and he took a tiny sip. He kept it for special occasions. This, he fancied, was as special an occasion as he was likely to experience for some time. The problem was, how to get Ungern here to share it. He had planned everything for tomorrow, and now here they were already, stamping over his carpets, opening his bottles, sampling his wine, and, for all he knew, redistributing his wealth.
“What exactly is it you wish me to sign?” First the Chinese, then Ungern, a saviour turned monster, and now a home-grown menace. They all wanted him to sign something. Two years ago, Hsti Shu-tseng had given him thirty-six hours in which to sign a list of eight articles relinquishing sovereignty to the Republican government in Peking. He had refused; and his ministers had been forced to sign instead. In the end, it amounted to the same thing:
he had no real power, only what others chose to give him.
The Buriat answered him.
“This is a document in which you acknowledge the sins you have committed during your reign as Khutukhtu. In it, you state that, as a result of these sins, you have ceased to be a khubilgan and that the Jebtsundamba Khutukhtu has incarnated in another body.
You accept that this is so and freely permit the reins of power to pass into the hands of the true incarnation, who is to rule in your stead, assisted by the people’s government led by Sukebator. The new Jebtsundamba Khutukhtu and the people’s government in their turn acknowledge the help rendered to them by the People’s Soviet of Russia and seek to establish a special relationship with that country. You yourself shall become a private citizen, living in your summer residence and relinquishing your other properties and your Shabi fiefdom.
“We shall deprive you of nothing but your title and your power.
You may continue to drink. You may have as many women and boys as you like. You may keep all your toys and baubles, although you may not add to them. The state will repossess them on your death.”
And how soon would that be? he wondered. There must be a way to get Ungern here. Let them sort it out among themselves.
What had all this to do with him? He knew now who one of the children must be, of course. He had expected as much. But who was the second child?
“And if I refuse to sign?”
“You have no choice, you know that. But if you co-operate, it will make life considerably easier for you: a comfortable home, a generous allowance, gratification of worldly desire. In a way, I envy you.”
“Do you?” he said.
“Perhaps you will change places with me, then. Your eyesight for my blindness, your power for my comfort, your humanity for my divinity and my drunkenness.”
The Buriat said nothing. He had not expected him to.
“So,” he said, ‘what else do you want me to do? What other papers are there for me to sign?”
“You can help us prevent bloodshed,” said the stranger.
“Your soldiers are still loyal to you. Most of them are disaffected with von Ungern Sternberg the Khalkha Mongols, some of the Burials, the Tibetans, the Chinese you gave an amnesty to. He tries to buy them with booty, but they owe an allegiance of faith to you. Tell them to lay down their arms or to join the People’s Army. The baron will have nothing left but his Russians and the handful of Japanese he brought to Urga in February. I have a decree here in your name, instructing all Buddhist troops to stand down and await further instructions from you or one of your representatives.
It only wants your signature and your seal.”
And if there is bloodshed, he thought, whose body will be first on the gibbet?
“You have a khubilgan of your own,” he said.
“Let him sign the decree. Let him rally the faithful.”
“You know that will take time. We don’t have time. We must act now if lives are to be saved.”
Whose lives? he asked himself. Mongol lives? Or the lives of Soviet troops? He knew Red forces were already moving into the north of the country.
“That is none of my concern. But if you will permit me, I want to speak to my Minister of War.”
He reached out a hand and lifted the telephone. Dandinsuren would understand. He would send Ungern. And then he could sit and listen as they bickered for power.
The receiver was dead. He should have guessed.
“I’m sorry,” said the Buriat.
“Your telephone has been temporarily disconnected. You’ll have to make your own decisions tonight.”