“Romanovs down!”
Daniil stuck around for the after action review. He didn’t have a lot to say, himself, beyond, “Well done. After everything I’ve seen, yes, we can do this. Oh, yes, we fucking can.”
“Captain Cherimisov?”
“Sir.”
“Dismiss the men. Squad leaders on up, battalion mess for our movement orders.”
“Sir!”
PART III
Chapter Twenty-one
Tobolsk
The negotiations were for appearances’ sake and nothing but. With the amount of money on hand, Turgenev—for once in a position where his aristocratic accent and manners weren’t a handicap—could have bought considerably more than two warehouses and one safe house.
As it turned out nothing worthwhile was for sale. There were, however, places to lease. There were, in fact, two warehouses for lease, perhaps twenty-five arshini by thirty, in one case, and thirty by thirty-five, in the other. One was near the pretty much abandoned for the fall, winter, and spring river docks, the northernmost set, sitting inside a little apparently artificial bay. The other was at the southwestern edge of the town, perhaps a versta and a half from the Irtysh River.
The safe house, a decent sized log building with a good Russian stove in the center of the main room, was a bit to the south and several blocks to the east of the Cathedral of the Annunciation. It was two floors, with a basement, the basement having a kind of root cellar to it. The rent was appalling but, as the realtor explained, “It does at least have a winter’s worth of firewood with it. That’s something, this year.”
“Can’t you…?” began Turgenev, forcing a tone of exasperation into his voice that he really didn’t feel.
“Sir,” replied the realtor, who recognized “quality” when he saw it, “if I tried to drop the rent a kopeck the owner would skin me. And if I told him I was renting to a competitor—you gentleman are in the fur trade, yes?—he’d pour salt on the freshly exposed flesh as he cut.”
“But I’m taking a lease for a whole year!”
“Even so. Sir, I can’t.”
With feigned disgust, Turgenev pulled out some of the oversized currency exchanged with Saskulaana and proceeded to peel off five hundred and one hundred ruble notes.
“Can you direct me,” he asked, as he passed the wad over, “to where I can buy a large quantity of food? We’re going to be bringing in a hundred hunters and trappers for two months and they’ll need to eat.”
“Oh, sir, this is the worst time to try to buy food in Tobolsk. We have no rail line so everything must come down the river or be pulled by animals. The river stays frozen for another two, maybe two and a half months. Yes, of course there will be some for sale, but you can expect the price to be outrageous.”
“Even so, they must eat. I don’t suppose…?”
“I’ll make some discreet inquiries.”
Turgenev translated this as, “I will consider which of my relatives to favor and will jack up the price accordingly.”
“You could, too,” said the realtor, “do some hunting yourselves for meat. The animals, too, will be a little thin but still.”
“Rostislav Alexandrovich?”
“Yes, Maxim Sergeyevich?”
“Since we have a couple of rifles, why don’t you and one other of our party take a few horses, rent a sleigh, and do a little hunting.”
“Define ‘a little.’”
“A thousand pood would not be too much.”
“I’ll see what we can do. Do you mind if I range rather far? As we came north from our earlier scouting expedition I saw a lot of sign.”
“Certainly.”
While Mokrenko was making his arrangements, Turgenev took Natalya for a walk about the town. Whatever she imagined might be the purpose, there was not a shred of romance in his intent. She was, frankly, just cover. Who, after all, does combat reconnaissance with a young girl in tow?
Three blocks west from the safe house and a bit to the north led them to the Cathedral of the Annunciation, the very place, though Turgenev didn’t know it, where the royal family was sometimes allowed to attend services.
They found the priest inside, standing at the altar and gazing intently at one in particular of the icons. Turgenev was loath to interrupt but, finally, ahemed his way to the cleric’s attention.
“Excuse me, Father,” Turgenev said. “I represent a fur trading firm looking to expand our enterprise here in Tobolsk. We’ve taken a house a few blocks east of here. My sister and I were looking for a place we could attend mass.”
“You don’t want to come here,” said the priest, who further introduced himself as “Father Vladimir Khlynov.” “My predecessor, Father Alexei Vasiliev, is in terrible disfavor with the Reds guarding the tsar and his family, so Bishop Germogen exiled him to a monastery for his own safety. I cannot encourage anyone to attend this church; those men are fanatics and vindictive, both.”
“A terrible combination,” Turgenev agreed. “Are you, personally in disfavor?”
“No,” answered the priest, “but while I am serving as in charge of this cathedral I might as well be.”
“What happened?”
Father Vladimir gave a sad sigh, then stated, “The tsar was here for mass at Christmas and the chorus, at Father Alexei’s direction, sang the ‘Mnogoletie,’ the wish for a long life to the tsar. The Reds were not amused. But then we didn’t do it to amuse them, did we, but to let our tsar and his family know that we support them still.”
“Do you?”
“How can I not?” replied Vladimir. “They cannot come to mass here, anymore, so I go to them when it’s allowed. And, when it isn’t, I go up to the bell tower and bless them, from a distance.”
“We saw the tower when we arrived,” Turgenev said. “Can you see them from up there?”
“When they’re in the right area, yes.”
“Could I see?” Natalya asked.
“Surely, child,” the priest replied. “Why don’t you and your brother just go on up? While you’re up there, say a prayer for our tsar and his family, why don’t you?”
The lieutenant observed, “A single sniper up here, Natalya, could command Ulitsa Great Friday all the way to the Church of Zachary and Elizabeth.”
“Does that matter?” she asked.
“It might. It might be a place for Kostyshakov to put in a sniper or machine gun team. It might be a place we need to make sure the Reds don’t put in a sniper or machine gun team.”
“I need to make a confession,” she said.
Turgenev had been dreading this moment. The girl’s crush had been obvious for some time, probably at least since the time he’d pulled a half-drowned Babin from the Black Sea. And he liked her, too, of course. Nor did he blame her for the abuse she’d suffered. But he was too old, or she too young, for anything romantic. Maybe in five or seven years.
“Go ahead,” he said, dreading the expected revelation.
She leaned against the wall, back toward the governor’s house. It was mostly to steady herself. Even then, though, she hung her head, ashamed.
“I should have told you when you first freed me but, you see, when the Bolsheviks murdered my parents, they knew who I was. Their abuse because of that was horrific, much worse than simple rape. So I didn’t want anyone to know who I was anymore lest I be beaten or raped… well, raped differently… because of who my parents were. I suppose they didn’t tell Vraciu because then he might have shown me some consideration before selling me back to one of my relatives.”