‘What do we do, Nick? Detour round it – or across country to the road, then follow that?’
‘The road may be just the other side of this camp. So the camp has the railway this side of it, road access on the other.’
‘Only if the road and the rail-line have converged quite a bit in the last few miles.’
‘They’d have to. At Seitovka they have to arrive at the same point, don’t they.’
Dead right. Maybe the brain wasn’t working at full power yet… But they’d seen no transport using the road: and if the road was where they now guessed it was, you’d have seen and heard anything that had been on it, in the last hour or so. A conclusion might be that at night nothing did move.
But they had to – now. In moonlight and with no kind of cover, nothing anywhere to cast a shadow you could hide in. And coatless, with a bulky .45 revolver stuck in the waistband of an old pair of grey-flannel trousers bought years ago in Dover: and a damn great army camp within spitting distance…
‘Hear that?’
Train: coming from the direction of Seitovka. Its distant clatter: and a humming from the rails… Putting the thought into Bob’s mind that this was where it started, the point at which not having any papers began to feel like a noose around your neck. Strangely, it was quite different to facing action at sea. There, when you knew you’d soon be in action, you might feel the constriction in your gut, dry-mouth and so forth up to the moment when the first shot was fired, but after that you were too damn busy to think about being afraid. But here and now – well, he’d known since yesterday what he was walking into, but the reality of it – and the physical reactions – now he was beginning to sweat.
It was better at sea, he thought. Much better.
‘Any ideas, Nick?’
‘Well.’ They’d been sitting, resting aching feet as well as reducing profile, but had both stood up now. Reacting similarly: accepting that they were now on stage and the curtain had as it were gone up… ‘You’re Robat Khan, I’m Anton Ivan’ich Vetrov. From Astrakhan, on our way to Moscow – if it’s anyone else’s business.’
‘Yes. Yes…’ He nodded. The train was in sight: like a nursery painting – Toy Train by Moonlight… ‘But that’s a thought. Expensive one, rather. Destination Moscow, but you’ll be getting tickets to – what’s that place called, two stops up the line?’
‘Sasykolsk.’ The Count nodded. Watching the little train as it came puff-puffing towards them. ‘I think I mentioned there’s a fishing station not far from there. Well, believe it or not, my old aunt works there, she helps pack the caviar and visigha. And as we’re passing this way and I haven’t seen the old thing in years, I want to stop off and give her a hug, let her know I’m still alive – huh?’
Brilliant – one did believe him. But he’d have a better chance of staying alive, Bob thought, if he’d come on his own, hadn’t burdened himself with the company of a man who had no papers.
7
The Count’s cool nerve was as impressive – astonishing, really – as his genius as an actor. Perhaps it was all acting, perhaps he was racked up inside: in a perverse sort of way one almost hoped so. Here on the railway platform, for instance, sitting on crates full of clucking chickens, seemingly as relaxed as any ordinary, legitimate traveller although he knew at least as well as Bob did – Bob with his guts in knots from awareness of it – the railway security official might show up at any moment and demand to see his non-existent papers.
In point of fact, if one had just seen this ‘Anton Vetrov’ here as a stranger – seen him behaving as he had in the clothing store for instance – one would have thought him fairly poisonous, and steered well clear. That good an actor. And why on earth he’d been so anxious to have one along, when he was so totally competent on his own…
Well – the highly dubious possibility of an escape by sea, of course. Having had his escape route destroyed in that explosion, and still with the compulsion to push on and find his family and those others, and with no idea at all beyond that… But meanwhile, nobody could have taken him for anything but a Bolshevik. His own view of one – and a fairly repulsive object at that. Switching to that role, his face actually changed – sort of loosened, and the intelligence drained out of the eyes. His voice coarsened, he walked with a swagger and adopted the jocular, bullying manner of a man who’s used to getting his own way by one means or another. In the store, for instance – a shack with a tarpaulin stretched over its dilapidated roof and a haphazard assortment of clothing, tools and miscellaneous hardware spread on planks laid over upturned crates and piled against the walls – he’d taken charge completely, found his friend Robat a pair of boots that fitted – pocketing the plimsolls before the old Kalmuck proprietor had the chance of a close look at them – then sorting deftly through coats and jackets, coming up with this greenish, military-type tunic – badge-less, no emblems of rank on it, might have been Hungarian or Austrian.
Persian, even.
‘How’s this?’
It fitted quite well. Bob had nodded, grunted his acceptance of it – he wasn’t opening his mouth more than he had to – and the Count had glanced at the Kalmuck – sixty-ish, with tufts of grey hair distributed sparsely over yellow skin, jutting cheekbones, flat nose, eyes that turned up at the comers – and told him, ‘My friend’s from Persia. Doesn’t talk much Russian yet.’
‘Ah, yes. He does have – as your honour says – a foreign look about him.’
‘Your honour’, instead of ‘comrade’… But it matched the Kalmuck’s subservient manner. The only comrades he’d dare claim would be his own people – nomads who herded wild horses, carried their entire families, tents and household possessions on the backs of camels and got drunk on fermented mares’ milk. Kalmucks were Buddhists, followers of the Dalai Lama, who’d settled on the Steppes west of the Volga even before Ivan the Terrible had seized these lands from the Tartars.
‘What about this, now?’
Red-dyed calico. There was a bale of it, and on the Count’s instructions the old man cut off a piece of the right size to make a sash or cummerbund. Dead right for a Persian, red for Bolshevism and it would hide the revolver too. A wink at the Kalmuck: ‘So we know whose side he’s on, eh?’ Then after he’d found a cap – peaked, blue cloth, might have been a fisherman’s – he’d rounded on him savagely: ‘How much d’you hope to extort from us for this rubbish?’
Outside, he’d clapped Bob on the shoulder. ‘Just what the doctor ordered. Every inch a Persian brigand. Incidentally, that’s not a bad beard, for just two days’ growth.’
‘Well – thanks for your help.’
‘Oh, my dear fellow…’
That smile, and the tone, had been pure Nikolai Solovyev. Forgetting his alias, in that moment, and one character succeeding the other so fast you might have wondered which was real, which the act. Bob had asked him, ‘Station now, or breakfast?’
‘Station. So we’ll know how long we have.’
The first northbound train, the booking-clerk told him, would be one that was scheduled to leave Astrakhan at 10 am and to stop here at ten minutes to eleven.
‘Or thereabouts. If it runs today. Doesn’t always.’ The booking-clerk was a small, grey-haired man with a squint and missing teeth. ‘Where to, comrade?’
‘Moscow, but—’
‘Papers?’
Fumbling for them, the Count glanced at the security desk, which was unoccupied. Shrugging… ‘Sleeping late, are they? Sleeping it off, I dare say. Pay you for doing their job, do they?’ Turning back, pushing the papers at him. ‘Here… Listen, comrade – I want to break the journey at Sasykolsk.’
‘Through-ticket to Moscow, though.’
‘No. Sasykolsk. And two, not one. My pal here—’ looking round again… ‘Oh. Pissed off, the bugger… Anyway, two to Sasykolsk. Else we might lose the bloody tickets. Might get drunk in Sasykolsk, who knows.’ He jerked a thumb towards the security desk. ‘They’re not the only ones entitled to a drink – eh?
’
‘No reason you’d lose your tickets any more than you would your money, is there?’
‘What if I dropped dead, then?’
‘Huh?’
‘Three thousand versts’ worth of rail ticket’s damn-all use to a corpse – right?’
‘You look fit enough to me, comrade.’
‘Sheer luck I’m alive this minute. That fellow—’ a jerk of the head – ‘saved my life… Anyway – ’nother story.’ He took his papers, pushed them into an inside pocket, straightened out a dirty, crumpled ten-rouble note. ‘How much, comrade?’
* * *
Breakfast hadn’t been at all bad. Porridge, and fat bacon and black bread, washed down with two glasses of tea each. In Moscow and St Petersburg people were starving but in the country districts it wasn’t so bad, except near fronts where the army or armies had taken everything that either grew or grunted.
The Count bought a packet of cigarettes, too, flipped one across the greasy table to Bob, fumbled for a match. ‘So far so good, eh?’
‘Where’s all the money coming from – if anyone asks?’
‘I was thinking about that—’ compressing the cardboard tube twice, the dents at right-angles to each other so as to restrict the flow of smoke, putting it in his mouth, reaching over to light Bob’s for him – ‘when I was getting the tickets. The answer is you sold some sheep – down near the border. So you’re the money-bags. Stole the sheep, did you?’
‘Sounds like—’ he coughed: it was like smoking old toe-rags – ‘the sort of thing I would have done…’
* * *
‘One thing occurred to me, Nick—’
‘Anton.’
‘Right. Anton…’ They were back at the station, with the crates for seats, a long wait ahead of them, very few people about as yet and the security desk – as far as one knew, it wasn’t in sight from here – still untended. He was finding it hard not to watch the corner around which the official would have to appear, some time… ‘About those two we thought were a patrol on the railway line. They might not have been. Might have been from the new base – going back there, if they’d been visiting the camp, for instance?’
‘Hell of a long walk.’
‘Longer still if they were a patrol – all the way back again. And the railway’s the direct route to the inlet, the new base – straight line, shortest distance between A and B – right? We know there was no traffic on the Krasni-Yar road – we’d have seen it if there had been. Heard it, seen lights… So if they’d missed the last transport back, and no chance of a lift?’
‘You could be right. Except we decided the camp was empty, didn’t we – so why would they visit it?’
It had seemed empty. Not even guards on the entrances, either at the railway side or the other, where there was an access road leading to it from the Krasni-Yar—Seitovka road. They’d seen that side as well – admittedly from some distance, half or three-quarters of a mile – because after passing the camp along the railway they’d decided to cut across to the road, as this would seem like a more normal way of arriving in a village.
But there might be a care-and-maintenance party in the camp. Enjoying a quiet life, sleeping soundly – perhaps entertaining their friends from the base over a bottle of vodka earlier on – and no reason to have sentries posted or guards at the entrances when the place was otherwise quite empty, nothing there to be stolen except the huts themselves.
Empty until the spring, probably, then a transit camp for troops embarking at that new base for transport down-coast. He’d thought about the strategic angles, during the long night’s walk.
Glancing at the Count. He’d been leaning back against the wall with his eyes shut, but they were open now.
‘Nick, am I right in thinking that now General Denikin’s taken Novorossisk, so we can supply him from the Black Sea, when he’s ready and re-equipped he’ll strike out in this direction?’
Blinking: letting the question sink in. Maybe he had been dozing. He nodded: ‘That’s the – expectation. Up the railway towards Tsaritsyn, and east and south-east to Petrovsk and Astrakhan. Linking up with Bicherakov, you see. And possibly with the Czech Legion, if they could fight their way down to join us.’ A shrug. ‘It’s no secret. These swine would have to be very stupid not to expect it.’
‘So in their plan for an attack on Guriev it makes sense for their main supply base to be well this side of Astrakhan. In case Denikin did reach the Volga?’
‘Yes. Although the Bolsheviks have half a million men on the Volga – or so we’re told.’
‘So here’s another thought – if they were hit good and hard here – this side of Astrakhan, that new base especially – perhaps by bombing from the air, but naval bombardment anyway – and perhaps a landing between here and Nikolsk – at the same time as Denikin’s advancing from the west?’
‘It is a thought.’ Glancing round. Eyes pausing on that corner for a moment… Looking back at Bob, then. ‘But what’s it leading to?’
‘Well – it’s fairly vital, isn’t it. Seems to me we’ve got to get the information out to Baku – and soon.’
The Count had shut his eyes. A long intake of breath: an impression of trying to muster reserves of patience… ‘You’re right – of course. But – I’d say one hardly needs any such imperative. There are – as far as I’m concerned, Bob – very much more personal reasons – flesh-and-blood reasons, for God’s sake—’
‘Oh, heavens, I know, I’m not ignoring—’
‘They are all I’m thinking about. Anything else is – I’m sorry if it shocks you, but – the rest is trivial, to me. I’m sorry. But – well, I told you: and the closer we get to Enotayevsk – look, I’ll admit this to you, Bob – it’s a lot of the reason I’m so glad you’re with me. If we find what I fear we may find – facing that alone…’
‘Well. I’ve wondered what use I could possibly be to you. More of a liability, I’d have thought. But – really and truly, there’s no good reason to expect the worst, you know?’
‘Not expect it, exactly, but—’
‘Only minutes ago I was thinking how you didn’t seem to have a care in the world. When you were getting the tickets, and—’
‘They may come looking for us, you know. Speaking of tickets.’ A nod towards that corner. ‘Wanting to see your papers.’
‘Don’t I know it.’ He reached behind his own right hip, touched the pistol. ‘If they do – when they do – I’ll give them the Askhabad story – papers taken from me prior to being strung up – right?’
‘Yes, but it might be better if you’d let me tell them. They might permit it, if you seem not to talk much Russian. I could perhaps make a better job of it – I’m not boasting, but I believe I have a certain talent—’
‘I’m damn sure you have!’
He shrugged. ‘This kind of situation, I can handle. But – what may have happened by now at Riibachnaya Dacha, that’s – I told you, it freezes my brain, it’s a nightmare even in broad daylight!’
‘Riibachnaya Dacha… Fisherman’s Cottage. Did you say it’s being used as a convalescent home?’
‘Was. Maybe still is – but not by us, obviously. So how they could have survived there this long…’
‘Must be rather large, for a cottage?’
‘It’s called that because it’s a place we only used for a month or two in the summers. And I believe it was quite small a few hundred years ago.’
‘Right… But one thing – while I think of it – if I get arrested, Nick – through not having papers – don’t hang around. There’d be no point. Just go ahead, and good luck, leave me to take my chances – huh?’
‘If they didn’t arrest me too. Which they would, of course…’
‘Perhaps we should separate, then.’
‘Too late. Even if it was a good idea – which I don’t think it would be. If they come asking for your papers it’ll be because that ticket idiot’s put them on to us, they’ll know we’re together anyway.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’
They were silent for a while, then. Bob keeping an eye on that corner: there were a few other travellers around, now. A new lot just arriving, a whole gaggle of old peasant women shuffling on to the platform… Thinking of the Solovyev women: Nick’s mother and his sister – and another girl, sister of the boy who’d brought his mother’s desperate appeal for help – and the two young Grand Duchesses… Five of them, to be transported out of Bolshevik territory: when just sitting here on one’s own was bloody terrifying! The prospect wasn’t just daunting, it was appalling, just to think about it for a moment brought one out in a cold sweat… Which was pointless. Self-destructive. The same as he’d been thinking about the Count and the nightmares he seemed almost to cherish, behind that bland actor’s front.
‘Nick – how about giving me a bit of background on your mother and sister – and the other girl – so I won’t be entirely ignorant when I meet them?’
When I meet them…
Crossing some fingers. Not at this stage sharing the Count’s private anxieties, only the more immediate one as to whether they’d ever get on the train. Or at least whether he himself would… The Count was telling him, ‘… The Dowager Countess Maria Ivanovna. And my sister’s name is Irina. She’s – twenty-one now. Her great friend, the sister of Boris Egorov who came with my mother’s message, is Nadia Egorova. She’s – er—’ he’d looked away, as if embarrassed – ‘my fiancée. As it happens.’
‘The girl you were telling me about?’
‘Are you so surprised?’
‘You told me there was – well, a girl whom you were going to marry, but you didn’t mention—’
‘You can understand my – concern, perhaps. Exactly why I haven’t wanted to talk about her. You think I’m worrying myself sick over nothing, Bob, but—’
He’d checked himself. Fists clenched, lips tight… A shake of the head, then. ‘I’m sorry.’
Bloody Sunset Page 12
