Bloody Sunset

by Bloody Sunset (retail) (epub)

  ‘You’re absolutely right, sir.’

  ‘Second point – before I leave it with you – is we’re talking about our own King’s close relations. Sent a cruiser all the way to Archangel, didn’t he, to pick up one of his aunts, or somesuch? Huh? Well, what I’m saying is if we do have it in our power to help this chap save their lives…’

  Solovyev asked Bob, ‘What is he saying?’

  ‘Hang on. Tell you in a moment.’

  ‘— if it looks to you like a practical proposition, we’d have no business not to have a shot at it. Eh, Norris?’

  A nod. ‘We’ll have to look into ways and means, of course, there are some problems involved, but – yes, one way or another…’

  Bob said quietly in Russian, ‘We’re going to try to help’, and the Count’s eyes gleamed. Then the lids covered them: he murmured, ‘Slava Bogu…’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘He said “Glory be to God”, sir.’ The Count was on his feet by this time, thanking the two senior officers profusely. Bob wondering, while he more or less automatically interpreted a phrase or two here and there, what it was about the Russian that he’d just discovered he didn’t trust. Then it was gone: other thoughts were crowding up, and on top of everything else the Commodore was telling Dunsterville, ‘I think I’ll put Cowan in charge of this, sir – having the lingo he’s the best man for it, to liaise with the Count here, work out some kind of scheme…’

  2

  Over breakfast next morning Johnny Pope, 23-year-old skipper of the flotilla’s one and only CMB – coastal motorboat – asked Bob curiously, ‘So what’s behind this sudden interest?’

  Interest in his CMB, he meant. Bob had asked him whether the boat was ready for sea, and when Pope had told him of course she was, he made damn sure she always was, he’d asked a few more questions – about her range and fuel consumption, for instance – and then mentioned that he’d very much like a trip to sea in her.

  Mr Dewhurst, at the other end of the table, began to chuckle and shake his ginger head… They were in the wardroom – formerly the saloon – of HMS President Kruger. The Kruger was being held in Baku now on Dunsterville’s orders, on stand-by against the possible contingency of short-notice evacuation. She had room enough in her for the whole of Dunsterforce, and meanwhile she was available as a mess and accommodation for shore-based flotilla staff.

  Pope asked Dewhurst, ‘Something amusing you, Guns?’

  ‘Definitely.’ A jerk of the head, towards Bob. ‘That feller. Proper caution, he is. Ask him what he’s really after, why don’t you?’

  ‘Well?’

  Bob shrugged. ‘God knows.’

  ‘Certain party in Cherniye Gorod?’ Dewhurst winked. ‘Not of the male – er – gender, should I say?’ He reached for the honey. ‘Well – she gets rides in my departmental transport, so – stands to reason, don’t it? – next item on the programme’s a jaunt on the ocean wave. Am I right, Bob?’

  He stared at him for a long moment. Recalling some of his conversation with Leonide’s uncle last evening, George Muromsky’s attempt to question him on his career prospects and finances. It had occurred to him while he’d been parrying these questions that if he’d stated baldly, ‘My father’s dead and it leaves me fairly rich’, the oil man would immediately have warmed to him as to a prospective member of the family… He remembered the instant dislike he’d felt for him then. First because he’d have willingly given everything he had if it could have brought the old man back to life, and second because the questioning had been an irrelevance and quite unwarranted, since at no time had he had any such notions in his own mind, or said or done anything to suggest that he might have. In fact that clear indication of Muromsky-type priorities tended – perhaps unfairly – to make even Leonide rather less attractive.

  Back to earth: or rather, to Zoroaster’s wardroom. Nodding to Mr Dewhurst… ‘Tell you the truth, Guns, nothing of the sort had crossed my mind. But it’s not at all a bad idea.’ He looked at Pope then: ‘Re my real interest in your CMB, Johnny – spare me a few minutes after breakfast, would you?’

  He’d glanced over his shoulder – letting Pope understand that the proximity and sharp ears of the Armenian steward was reason enough not to pursue the subject here. And having in mind the Commodore’s strictures about secrecy: he’d told Bob to report directly to him, consulting any of the staff from whom he might need advice or information, in the course of putting an outline plan together, but to tell nobody any more about it than he had to. He’d told him this when they’d been leaving the headquarters villa, about to go their separate ways; then he’d stopped, glanced round to make sure they were alone… ‘Look here, Cowan. I saw the – the private communication you had this morning. As you must know, it’s routine that I’m shown such messages. I want to tell you how extremely sorry I am. There’s next to nothing one can say on these occasions that’s of any real use or comfort – time’s the only healer, isn’t it – but – well, I do know – from my own experience, as it happens – what a frightful blow—’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you. But – it’s all right, I—’

  ‘You’re very much a key man in this flotilla, Cowan. Well, obviously, your particular talents are quite invaluable to me, but beyond that I’m more than satisfied with the way you’ve been carrying your several responsibilities. More than satisfied… And this Solovyev business now – if you can make a success of it – strictly between you and me, Cowan – I’d eat my hat if some form of recognition were not forthcoming.’

  The implication had been – presumably – promotion or a decoration. But whether the Commodore’s motivation in telling him this had been an extension of that expression of sympathy – a kind-hearted attempt to cheer him up, in fact – or whether it might have derived from Dunsterville’s assumption in regard to HM the King’s interest in saving his young Russian cousins’ lives – well, there might have been elements of both. While Bob, saluting as the Commodore – immaculate even if semi-strangled, in his high-necked No. 6 uniform jacket – strode away towards his Ford motorcar, was hearing his father’s voice, the hoarse, gravelly tones that furnished most of the sound-effects to all his earliest recollections, the old man telling him – four years ago when he’d changed his Merchant Navy stripes to RNR ones – If you’re ever tempted to get up to any heroics, lad, make bloody certain someone sees you doing it!

  But for God’s sake – all one was about to do was take a man in a boat and deposit him on a beach…

  Anyway – Operation Nightingale – Bob’s label for it, the Russian word for nightingale being Solovyei – was scheduled to set out from Baku tomorrow evening, which of course put an unalterable limitation on the time available for planning and essential preparations. Even this wasn’t soon enough for the Count. He’d been moved out of the Europa Hotel into the headquarters mess now, with the cover story that he’d come with despatches from Bicherakov and would be returning to Petrovsk as soon as telegraphic answers to questions raised by the Cossack leader had come back to Dunsterville from London. This justified his presence at headquarters and would explain his disappearance tomorrow; but meanwhile he was complaining bitterly at not being allowed to set out immediately. On the face of it, ridiculous – forty-eight hours, to set the whole thing up from scratch – but seeing it through his eyes the impatience was understandable. An hour’s or a day’s delay could make all the difference; and as he’d pointed out, it was something like three months now since his mother and sister had sent off their message. It might already be too late; even before that boy had staggered into the Volunteer Army’s lines, the women might have been found and arrested.

  In which case, they’d be dead. And knowing Bolshevik ways with aristocratic prisoners, it might be better for them if they were.

  Last night in George Muromsky’s house at Cherniye Gorod, Leonide had had a young cousin with her, a rather plain girl of about fifteen called Adriana. They’d sipped at glasses of tea, and Leonide had done nearly all
the talking – telling him for instance how she’d always longed to visit England, and advancing a number of what he’d thought were rather inconsequential reasons why if things went badly here – which they wouldn’t, of course, she was certain that in the long run everything was going to come out right – if the worst came to the worst, why England was the only other country to which she felt she could happily transplant herself. Adriana had agreed with everything her cousin had said, in giggly whispers and taking care never to let her eyes meet Bob’s; and what with one thing and another, by the time the uncle joined them, bringing with him a decanter of a local firewater called Kishmishkova – it was a vodka made from raisins – he’d felt more than ready for it. Adriana had immediately retired – it was obvious she’d only been left there so that Bob and Leonide wouldn’t be alone together – and Leonide left the room with her, promising to be back shortly. Then, in the ensuing conversation – partly to change its direction, as Muromsky had been starting on his cross-examination about Bob’s future plans, financial prospects and so forth – Bob had asked him whether he had any really authentic information concerning the fate of the Imperial family.

  The older man had looked startled. ‘Why do you ask me this question?’

  Part of the reason of course must have been that he’d had Count Solovyev’s story in the back of his mind. He’d answered vaguely – truthfully, as it happened – ‘Oh, some of us were discussing it earlier on. Wondering which of the stories one might believe – if any.’ He’d shrugged. ‘They all seem to contradict each other, don’t they?’

  ‘Indeed. But it’s not a subject I find pleasant to discuss, Lieutenant. If you don’t mind…’

  Leonide had returned in time to hear the last part of this. She’d murmured, setting down a tray of caviar and thin toast, ‘Alapayevsk… What they say was done there seems to me – believable.’

  She’d said it to her uncle, but she was offering the caviar to Bob now. Adding in a murmur, ‘God rest their souls, poor darlings.’

  The uncle asked her – challengingly – ‘Where did you hear of it, may I enquire?’

  ‘Oh.’ She gestured – eastward, across the Caspian. ‘At home everyone was whispering about it. I suppose because it sounds so real, so detailed, each of the poor creatures named so specifically.’ She looked at Bob. ‘Did you not hear it?’

  ‘No. But I’d like to.’ He added, ‘That is, if you don’t mind, sir.’

  ‘Why should he mind?’

  Muromsky told her heavily, ‘Because it is not a fit subject for a young girl to speculate upon.’

  ‘Oh, Uncle, really…’ She’d moved impatiently. ‘What we know, we know. We don’t create evil by acknowledging its existence, nor do we eliminate it by pretending it’s not there. So please, permit me… Bob, you must have heard the report that their Imperial Majesties together with their children and attendants had been murdered at Ekaterinburg – early in July?’

  ‘But—’ Bob had glanced at the uncle, then back at her – ‘didn’t the Sovnarkom issue a statement to the effect that only the Tsar had been shot?’

  ‘What if they did? Would you believe a single word from that source?’

  ‘I suppose not. But there were some other rumours too, weren’t there. For instance, a rescue by – well, I forget… But the story I heard was that they weren’t shot at all, that was just a red herring while in fact the Bolsheviks had agreed to hand them over to the Germans – in return for German support of the regime? And then—’ he went on quickly, forestalling interruption – ‘that the train carrying them was intercepted by this White Guard officer – whose name – is it Bulygin?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ Leonide seemed impatient. ‘As you said, there are so many conflicting accounts. And – yes, for all we actually know they might all still be alive… Except that – well, this other report – rumour if you like – is that on the day after – at Alapayevsk, which in case you don’t know is about a hundred miles to the north-east of Ekaterinburg – they’d imprisoned there the Grand Duchess Elizabeth, Grand Duke Sergei Mikhailovich—’ she’d begun ticking them off name by name, on her fingers – ‘oh, the three sons of Grand Duke Constantine – and one other…’

  George Muromsky muttered as if unwillingly, ‘Vladimir – Grand Duke Paul’s son.’

  ‘Yes. I knew it was six… Bob, they took them to this place outside the town where there’s a disused mineshaft, and – threw them into it, one by one.’

  ‘Except for Prince John.’ Muromsky spoke in a low tone, without looking at either of them, gazing at his own clasped hands. ‘Grand Duke Constantine’s eldest son. He insisted on – as I heard it, anyway – throwing himself into the shaft – after encouraging the others, assuring them that they were going to a better life, to their Eternal Father.’

  Uncle and niece had crossed themselves, and both were silent. Bob waited until Leonide stirred before he said quietly, ‘It doesn’t have to be true, Leonide.’

  ‘No, but – listing them like that, name by name, makes it seem true. One can—’ she paused – ‘almost see it happening. Those poor, poor people…’

  What Bob saw – recognizing it quite suddenly – was the tension and distress in her. It was in her voice first, then a barely discernible physical tremor that seemed to pass right through her like a spasm of pain or an electric shock. If he’d been alone with her he’d have gone to her and taken her in his arms, tried to comfort her; he wanted to, but Muromsky’s eyes were on him and he could only sit there – stifled, useless – and Leonide was hurrying from the room, one hand pressing a tiny handkerchief to her eyes while Muromsky – burly, pudding-faced – growled, ‘There – you see…’

  It was all suppressed, he’d realized – contained, inside them. The Imperial family’s fate was only one piece of it, a talking point because the Romanovs were who they were – the figureheads, potential rallying point, which of course was why the Bolsheviks needed to eliminate them. But murder, torture, every disgusting form of brutality and licence had been commonplace and widespread – still was, and they were all too starkly aware of it, but – he was looking at Muromsky but in his visual memory seeing again Leonide’s involuntary reflex, that momentarily visible symptom of the terror she was so desperate to keep hidden – they all were, all clinging frantically to the pretence of normality.

  She’d assured him – again – that she was in no danger here. George Muromsky had said the same, emphatically. He’d told Bob that if the situation deteriorated he’d take her to Krasnovodsk himself: he’d have adequate warning time – he wasn’t totally out of touch with what was happening in his own town, for heaven’s sake – and there was always plenty of room in the steamers on that regular ferry route. And so on, so forth… And – Bob thought – perhaps for Muromsky, with the authority he carried in this community, warning would be given and berths would be found. But there’d be panic, too – Muromsky probably lacked the imagination to foresee this – thousands of them in a blind rush to force their way into anything that floated.

  * * *

  He arrived at the CMB berth in an inner basin of the Baku dockyard at exactly 2 pm; he’d arranged this with Johnny Pope after breakfast. Since then Pope had been sent for by the Commodore, who’d told him that he and his CMB were to be employed on a special operation, details of which would be confided to him in due course by Lieutenant Cowan, with whom he was meanwhile to co-operate. Norris had also stressed the need for very strict security.

  Pope – tall, slim, fair-haired, known to some as ‘DD’, standing for ‘Debs’ Delight’ – strolled towards him. ‘So you’re our big white chief now, Bob!’

  ‘I’ve got a lot of donkey-work to do, that’s all. And it’s all pretty vague so far, I haven’t cleared any of it yet with the Commodore… But—’ he’d stopped, looking downward and along the side of the jetty to a stern-on view of the forty-foot CMB. Cigar-shaped, and with the tail-end of her single torpedo protruding above the low, fantail-shaped stern. ‘You won’t be needin
g that torpedo, anyway. Better land it, Johnny, after this outing. You’ll be carrying some extra weight – and what’s more—’

  ‘Passengers, would the extra weight be?’

  ‘Yes. Well – later on, second trip – in a week’s time, could be ten days or a fortnight – but for the first one anyway I think we might load you with a skiff – on that torpedo stowage?’

  ‘Skiff, eh.’ Pope raised his eyebrows. ‘Very cloak and dagger. But – why not. As long as it’s well lashed down and chocked. We crash around quite a bit, you know – well, you’ll see for yourself, in a minute. If there’s the least bit of a chop, any high-speed stuff—’

  ‘We shouldn’t need your full forty knots. But let’s pray for a flat calm anyway… All I’m asking for now, incidentally, is to be shown how everything works and how to handle her – because at a later stage I want to take Chris Henderson’s place. Oh, and look – your spare CMB officer – Willoughby—’

  ‘He’s currently a watchkeeper in Zoroaster.’

  ‘We’ll be taking him along. And there’s another Motor Mechanic, whose name I regret to say I don’t—’

  ‘Name’s Keane. Working in the dockyard, supervising a bunch of hamfisted locals.’

  ‘We’ll want him too.’ They were strolling up the jetty, towards the patiently waiting Sub-Lieutenant Henderson. Bob stopped, looking down at the CMB again. ‘I’d better sketch it out for you, Johnny. Otherwise you won’t know what’s wanted, and we might miss out on something. After all, you’re the expert.’

  ‘Kind of you to say so.’

  ‘It’s called giving the devil his due… But – in a nutshell, there’s a man to be put ashore up in Bolshy territory, and then – touch wood – picked up again a week or two later, by which time he should have some other people with him. The exact point of landing and pick-up hasn’t been settled yet, but it’ll be up at the top end, wouldn’t be practical therefore to shoot you off from here – impossible, in fact, especially the pick-up later – so the answer is for your boat to be taken up north in tow.’