“The short version, Sergeant, is we can’t dawdle much anymore, can we? We recon… get back… wait for the zeppelin… move here… let’s call it a week from tomorrow night. The last combat company won’t be here until just before then. And even then, we’ll have left a good deal of the reserve ammunition and the replacements detachment behind.”
“And if they get here sooner?” Mokrenko asked.
“Then we’ll have to figure something else out. Maybe hit them on the way to Tyumen, as they cart off the royal family. We have to hope, too, that their orders aren’t to murder the royal family immediately.”
“Maybe…” Turgenev began.
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
“Maybe if we move now we could get in position to ambush the newcomers.”
Kostyshakov shook his head. “I like our odds of hitting them at night when they’re mostly asleep better than I like our odds of finding them as they approach, and fighting them in broad daylight.”
“Finding them won’t be such a problem,” said Turgenev. “They’ll follow the telegraph line. Defeating them… while being sure that none get away to warn the guards? That’s a lot tougher.”
“Oh,” Natalya interjected. “Finding them; that reminds me. Nagorny never leaves the tsarevich’s side, and Sednev rarely does. But whenever Chekov and Dostovalov are off duty and not asleep they’re usually in a little dive called ‘The Gilded Lark.’ I walked by it, earlier, to see. It’s a pretty pretentious name for what is not much more than a hole in the wall.”
“We’ll need you to take us by that, too,” said Turgenev. “In fact, while the commander and the others rest, why don’t you take myself and Rostislav Alexandrovich by it now?”
The tavern was only a few blocks to the north of the safe house, nestled in among some shacks no better than itself, with a crude, handpainted sign on the road indicating what it was. The noise coming from the tavern sounded like nothing so much as a brawl. Natalya was reasonably sure she heard the words, “Menshevik swine” and “Bolshevik filth” being bandied about, interspersed with the sounds of breaking bottles and chairs… and possibly heads.
“At those prices,” observed Turgenev, looking at the lettering under the sign, “even here in Tobolsk, one expects that the vodka will be of the very worst.”
“Maxim Sergeyevich,” said Mokrenko, “I think perhaps you should escort the young lady to the general vicinity of the Governor’s house before she is missed. Meanwhile, purely in the interests of reconnaissance, I am going in there. If we decide to kidnap the two who have grown close to the Romanovs, it would probably be a good thing if I didn’t seem a stranger to the wait staff.”
“Don’t shoot anyone, Rostislav Alexandrovich; it would raise too many questions.”
“Speaking as a good Menshevik or Bolshevik, myself, of course,” said the sergeant, as he ground his right fist into his left palm, expectantly, “whichever may prove most convenient in the near future, I would not dream of it.”
Telegraph Station, Tobolsk
The telegraph, itself, was silent. The chief telegrapher of the place, clad in a suit of old-fashioned cut, with a thin bow tie on, leaned back in his chair, reading a two months out of date newspaper. He immediately looked up, then, wearing a broad smile, stood up. The paper he left on the table.
Sarnof was a frequent caller at the station, enough to be on a first name and patronymic basis with the staff there. So far his cover for sending obviously coded messages had held, “We are a highly competitive business, Arkady Yevgenovich; furs, and our markets fluctuate daily. Any advantage that can be gained for our employer, any business secret we can keep to ourselves, pays large dividends.”
How long this would continue to work was the subject of difficulty sleeping compounded with not infrequent nightmares.
“Good morning!” exclaimed the chief of the station. “Good morning, Abraham Davidovich! What brings you here today?”
The best lies contain a good deal of truth, Sarnof reminded himself, before answering, “A deep curiosity about just how bad the situation in the town is about to become, and whether we can expect a full scale civil war between the guards on you-know-who and his family, and the newcomers from Omsk and Tyumen. My boss, Maxim Sergeyavich, says we may have to cut our losses and leave with what we’ve already gotten if it gets much worse.”
“Well, just between you and me,” said the civilian telegrapher, “I think it’s going to get a lot worse.”
“How could it?” asked Sarnof. “Fights in the streets? Fights in the taverns? Armed men being stood off from other armed men at the old governor’s mansion?”
“Four hundred and fifty more Bolsheviks coming,” answered the telegrapher.
“Oh, Jesus,” said Sarnof, “as if we need more of them. How long?”
“Not sooner than ten days from now, I think. I asked my counterpart in Yekaterinburg and he says they’re a disorganized rabble, still trying to commandeer enough food and drayage for the trip. But…”
“Yes?”
The telegrapher pointed with his chin. Turning around, through the paned window, Sarnof saw a cavalcade trotting down the frozen street toward the telegraph station. The leader wore a combination beard and mustache that reminded Sarnof of nothing so much as the hairy space between a woman’s legs, though it remained a matter of some doubt whether any human female had ever been so thickly matted. The signaler wondered if a smile had ever crossed that face. Could you even see it, one wonders, past that thick bush of a goatee.
“That lot have come to take the tsar and his family away.”
The cavalcade stopped at the telegraph office, with the leader dismounting, handing his reins to an underling, and striding confidently into the office. He made a look at Sarnof that as much as said, “Get out.”
I wonder if that block of ice has ever had a human feeling in his life?
“So, lunch at the hotel by the central square at one, Arkady? My treat, today, of course.”
“I’ll be there, Abraham Davidovich.”
And with that, Sarnof took his leave and, stopping only to get a quick count of the numbers of the newcomers, hurried back to the safe house, to report.
Safe House, Yershova Street, Tobolsk
When Sarnof arrived back, he saw Mokrenko sitting at the kitchen table, sporting an impressive shiner and individually checking each tooth in his upper jaw for firmness of fit.
“Where’s the lieutenant?” Sarnof asked. “Better, where’s Kostyshakov?”
Moving a front tooth that seemed a little looser than one might prefer, Mokrenko sighed, said, “Helluva fight, that was,” then answered, “They’re with Natalya, the captain and platoon leaders of Fourth Company, looking over the Governor’s and Kornilov’s houses. Kostyshakov and Dratkin are with the lieutenant, scouting out the Girls’ School.”
“Well, we’ve got a new target and problem. The Reds who are supposed to take the royal family away have arrived, on horseback, about one hundred and fifty of them and they look like they know what they’re about.”
“Shit,” said Mokrenko, standing and reaching for his coat, loose tooth forgotten. “Tell you what, you go by the Governor’s house and tell them what’s up and to come back. I’ll go find the lieutenant and bring that group back.”
PART IV
Chapter Twenty-four
