A shout, ‘No, Bob, run.’
‘Hey, you!’
A light had flared in there, farther inside the trees, in about the same moment that he’d heard and recognized Nick’s voice. Then in an overlapping second while his hand was still going to his knife, this voice on his right – close – and the expanding aura of lamplight exposing a dwarflike creature crouching five or six feet to the side with a rifle aimed at his head… ‘Move one inch, comrade, it’ll be your last… Hey, lads, we’ve got another one!’ Bob squinting at the rifle’s unwavering foresight and thinking dazedly that this could not be happening: but then, No sense getting dead – however bloody stupid…
12
Incredibly stupid. Blundering, incompetent… He’d read the same self-criticism in the Count’s expression, when proximity of the lamp had allowed them a sight of each other. A look of shock, as well as shame… Bob recalling the complacency of his response to Nadia, about having the advantage of surprise: We know we’re coming, and they don’t… Those words of spurious wisdom echoing in his apology for a brain while in the lamplight he saw one of the three men gathering up fishing-rods, a home-made gaff and a landing-net, then other bits of gear which he tossed into a basket. A fishing party – off-duty Bolshevik soldiers – camping here, probably after sea-trout, getting their heads down early in order to be up and on the river in the dawn…
But why they’d have had Maroussia’s donkey with them – unless he’d just decided to join them, seeking company… Standing there watching it all now, twitching his ears, an interested spectator… Nick began – low-voiced and speaking quickly – I’ve told ’em we just landed here, looking for a place to spend the night—’
‘Quiet, you!’
The little one: with the rifle on them from about six feet away, eyes like a rat’s over its sights, waiting for the gear to be packed away. Bob asked – dully, which was how he felt – ‘What d’you want with us, comrades? What are we supposed to’ve done?’
‘Creeping about at night where you don’t belong, that’s what… We’re going that way now – go on, move – and keep your hands up!’
Out through the willows and across Stukalin’s meadow, heading for the house. Thinking about Nadia and Irina who’d be expecting to get their ‘Nikki’ back quite soon now, would doubtless be counting minutes – and then hours – by which time they’d be frantic…
He thought, Crouch, turn and charge…
At least one of them would be flattened. And one of them, incidentally, was a midget anyway. Vicious little swine, but still only half-size… He turned his head: ‘Anton—’
‘Silence, you!’
Then a muttering from one of them to Igor to keep his gun on ‘that one’… ‘And spread out a bit, comrades, watch ’em, they may try something…’ Odds thus shifting against success: they’d shoot as you began to move. Another point being that lives didn’t count for much in this country and this year of grace. And with the house there – Maroussia had said there’d be sentries at the front of it – all it would take would be a rifle-shot and a shout or two: and even if you did flatten these three and grab their guns – what then? With the whole place up in arms – and one certainly couldn’t go near the coachhouse…
This trio might have seen action together, he guessed. They acted like a team and like men who knew the score, knew what they were doing. Unfortunately. The wrong kind of fishermen to run into.
Dew-wet, knee-high meadow grass, a meadow that had already been the scene of one spectacular execution. And right ahead of them, the house, with quite a few of its rooms lit up at the ground-floor level, and two glowing rectangles on the first floor. Cheka burning the night oil, maybe… Bob aware that the story about escape from the hanging in Askhabad was shortly to be put to the test, and suspecting that it might not stand up too well to Cheka-style examination.
* * *
Two minutes, near enough, with the sentry at the front of the house – there was only one on duty, not two – and then about five with a balding character who might have been an NCO, sergeant of the guard or somesuch. By this second stage, still with the rifles pointing at their heads, they were up on the marbled portico, between two of the graceful columns.
‘So you’re Anton Vetrov.’
‘Right. And this—’
‘This, we’re expected to believe, is a Persian with no papers.’
‘Right again: but you can believe it…’
‘You landed – from what kind of boat, by the way?’
‘Rowing-boat – ordinary…’
‘So it’s still there, is it?’
‘I suppose so. Unless someone’s—’
‘Stole it, did you?’
‘Borrowed it, comrade. Out of necessity and—’
‘Where from?’
‘Little way downstream, I think it’s called Kosika.’
‘So you were rowing upstream – with the intention of crossing to Selitrenoe, on your way to Moscow in the service of the Revolution.’
‘Yes. And we hadn’t realized how strong the current was, which was the reason for landing. And if you could put us up for the night—’
‘You know, I expect we’ll do that.’ He grinned. ‘I’d say it’s very likely.’ Nodding to the others – the three fishermen and the sentry, who’d left his steps unguarded now – ‘Keep them here. I’m reporting to the duty officer. Or Comrade Lesechko, maybe, could be his pigeon.’
Lesechko. Nadia’s boss… Bob met the Count’s glance. He shrugged, commented loudly, ‘Why don’t they believe us? What do they think we are?’
‘Shut your face, you!’
Bob glared at the tiny man. ‘Listen. We work for the Revolution. In Askhabad the SRs were about to hang us.’ A nod towards the Count. ‘Him first. They’d hanged nine of our comrades, he was next. I broke a door down—’
The little man demanded, ‘What are SRs, for shit’s sake?’
‘Social Revolutionaries. Mensheviks.’
‘Oh – those traitors!’
‘—as I was saying—’
‘I’d say you’re a bloody liar, comrade!’
‘Right, then.’ The bald sergeant, accompanied by four men with pistols, came back out into the portico. ‘We’ll take care of ’em now. You lads cut along. You’ve done well, very well. Goodnight, comrades… You two – in here. Haul ’em in, comrades…’
Cavernous staircase hall. Oil-lamps here and there – one on a deal table, one at the foot of each of the two branches of a double staircase – and one at the top, on the gallery there. Bob’s eyes riveted, though, on the ropes. Ropes dangling – ten or twelve of them, dark-stained at their frayed lower ends… He’d shambled to a halt with a guard each side of him, hands grasping his arms, and he was seeing the ropes like props in a carefully staged nightmare, hearing in recent memory – from only yesterday, but it could have been a year ago, or more – old Leonid Mesyats’ growling monotone, What they did was they hung ’em by their feet – ropes tied to the gallery balustrade – so they could hoist ’em up like so many pigs – and setting out buckets below to catch the blood, d’you see…
No buckets now. Only the ropes… But Mesyats had added something to the effect that none of it could have been Solovyev blood. Glancing round, Bob focused on the Solovyev features, the green eyes directed upward to the balustrade: unaware of the close proximity to him of a burly, unshaven character – field shirt, khaki breeches – staring at him from a range of about three feet.
Bob asked – blurting it out suddenly, loudly, breaking that concentration because he’d had to, having conceived a vision that was an extension of the nightmare and might for all he knew be a true picture of what was coming next – ‘You the duty officer?’
The close-cropped head turned. ‘What if I am?’
‘I want to complain of this treatment. Comrade Vetrov here and I are dedicated servants of the Revolution. I’m a Persian: I have influence and armed followers in my own country, I’m here to offer my people’s co
-operation—’
‘What’s all this now, comrade Captain?’
The question had been put to him by a small middle-aged man who was coming down the left-hand branch of the stairs. Taking it carefully, not hurrying: he was tubby, with thin grey hair, and wearing some sort of dressing-gown.
Lesechko, obviously.
‘Eh? Got problems, have we?’ These two – these problems?’
‘Comrade – we aren’t sure yet. They were caught prowling – over near the landing, there. Some comrades on a night fishing expedition rounded them up – and one of ’em has no papers, see – and such a cock-and-bull story as you never heard…’
‘Well, I think I’d better hear it.’ A quiet smile: ‘I’m a bit of a specialist in cock-and-bull stories, Captain. Heard so many, you see…’ He’d picked the lamp up from the table, was holding it up to throw light on the Count’s face – since he was the nearer. The duty officer muttering, ‘I’d swear that’s a face I’ve seen before’, and Lesechko glancing at him politely, interestedly… ‘Is that so? Well, we’ll have his beard off, then, and you can look again. Beards are like masks, sometimes.’ Moving to Bob: the captain stating flatly, ‘This is the one that doesn’t have papers. Says he’s a Persian, comrade polkovnik. Oh, he had this knife, by the way.’ A shrug. ‘Or this one – they both had knives.’
So Lesechko was a colonel: Nadia hadn’t mentioned this. Not that it made any difference: Cheka didn’t need ranks, could do as they pleased – with powers of life and death, no answerability to any authority other than their own… Eyebrows hooping as he peered upward into Bob’s face. ‘Well, well. No papers, and yet another beard… You know, when people think about taking a beard off, what they mean is shaving it off. It’s the usual way, of course. But another way is with pincers, ripping it out in lumps. I’ve seen men admit to false identities almost before it’s started, even. I’ll admit it’s not a pleasant sight, a certain amount of skin and flesh comes with it… What’s your name, comrade?’
‘Robat. What’s yours?’
‘Lesechko. Viktor Lesechko. But yours is more unusual, so we’ll talk about you, not me… For instance, if you’re a Persian—’ He paused, thinking this over; then changed his mind, looked back at the Count. ‘No. You can wait.’ A hand out to the captain: ‘Let’s see this one’s papers. Since he’s gone to the trouble and expense of equipping himself with such rubbish.’ A smile: ‘Didn’t pay too much for them, I hope?’
Nadia’s voice, in memory: I don’t spit at him when I see him, I’m not suicidal…
Meaning he was lethal? The adjective she’d used was ‘pragmatic’ – and he very likely was pragmatic, as well as lethal, but here and now pragmatism was hardly the issue. Lethality was, lethality was in the very air.
Bob looked away from the gleam of sweat on Nick’s forehead – wishing he hadn’t seen it. As the Cheka colonel most surely had; watching him, you could see he was – well, not revelling, exactly, but very much involved, now, absolutely in his own element. Nadia had expressed her loathing of this man’s underling, describing him as a thug or worse, but Lesechko – Bob thought, watching and listening, drawing impressions from his reactions, expressions, tones of voice – this mild-mannered little man was more frightening than any thug could be. Frighteningly intuitive – homing in on his victim’s visible fear and probing for its roots, with an easy confidence that seemed to imply certainty of getting to them – and sooner rather than later… Nick had repeated his name – Anton Vetrov – and Lesechko had glanced at the papers to confirm it, muttering ‘As good a name as any, I suppose. Let’s hear the cock-and-bull story, then’, and Nick had launched himself into it immediately – stumbling over the words – floored by each swift, knifelike interruption – and with his glance constantly returning to those ropes as if they were having some mesmeric effect on him, impairing his usually nimble brain, those remarkable powers of invention and prevarication… Lesechko interrupted again: ‘Wait.’ Glancing round… ‘Bring me a chair.’
Nick staring at the ropes – again. Maybe seeing the bodies of the wounded officers – or his own, even – hanging by the ankles. It wasn’t easy not to think about it, reanimate that scene: even in Bob’s memory the old fisherman’s voice was still as it were on tap, against the remembered backdrop of a blood-red sunset – but of course the buckets…
You wouldn’t catch much in a bucket – from a hanging, swaying body. It – they – would be swaying, swinging around. Green eyes shut – or open? Face a sheet of blood, in place of sweat…
Imagination – nightmare, arising from one’s own fear, dread, the certainty that when he – Lesechko – did get to the roots – or even could make a good enough guess to satisfy himself that he was close enough to them – there’d be no deliberation or consideration of a just verdict. Ultimately there’d be nothing but plain murder.
‘You say nine of your comrades were hanged. Close friends, no doubt, men you knew well?’
‘Oh – yes…’
‘You’ll be able to give me their names, then. Names, family names and patronymics. Write them all down for me – and no mistakes, uh?’
‘Yes. Yes…’
Bob broke in – under compulsion again, driven to – to give him a chance to get himself together – ‘What is this place?’ Jutting his beard towards the ropes: ‘Gymnasium?’
Lesechko smiled. Genuinely amused, almost but not quite laughing. Taking the chair from the man who’d brought it, and throwing a glance over his shoulder at the ropes as he seated himself, adjusting the dressing-gown over narrow, bony knees. ‘Gymnasium.’ Nodding, as if savouring the word… ‘A Bolshevik gymnasium… Yes, you might call it that.’
The smile faded as he turned back to the Count. ‘Now – Anton Vetrov. If that’s your name – which we’ll know soon enough, don’t worry… Describe to me, Comrade Vetrov, the details of your journey here from Askhabad.’
* * *
Irina’s eyes were damp. Murmuring, ‘Something’s gone wrong. Must have.’
‘It’s still possible he could have stayed to help. Bob might have found he couldn’t do it on his own.’
It was about the fourth time she’d said it – or something like it. They were in the coachhouse – at the back, where the hay was. Maroussia had to be up here anyway, close to the door and ready to open it to Nikki when he got here – she’d been there for more than an hour now, waiting and listening for his knock – and the girls felt a need to be up here too – where they’d see him arrive…
It would take only seconds for Irina to do a disappearing act into the Hole, if she had to, and for Nadia to shift some bales across the trapdoor. There’d always been the possibility of such an emergency arising, they’d practised it about forty thousand times.
Nadia said, ‘He’ll come. They knew the dangers, they’ve got eyes and ears, and they’re both big, strong men.’
‘What if they don’t?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Well. If they were taken prisoner – or killed – which would amount to the same thing anyway…’
‘Irina – please – have faith—’
‘Faith!’ A laugh like a snort… ‘If you’d spent the past four months in that hole—’
‘Look—’ she’d begun sharply, loudly: making Maroussia jump, over by the door… Adding more quietly, ‘Irina dear, I know how bad it was for you, you’ve told us over and over. D’you mind if we don’t start on it all over again?’
‘I’m – worried for my brother. That’s all.’
‘D’you imagine I’m not worried for him?’
‘Since you mention it – I wouldn’t know… Are you?’
‘I don’t know if you realize it, but you have a tendency, when you’re feeling sorry for yourself for any reason, to become rude to other people. It’s not a very appealing trait, Irina.’
Silence. Then a soft murmur of Maroussia praying: and more silence. Five minutes. Ten…
‘Maroussia darling.’ Irina had gon
e over to her, crouched beside her. ‘Couldn’t you go out looking for Don Juan?’
‘Why should I do that?’
‘Well, to see what’s happening – if anything’s happening or has happened.’
Nadia said, ‘It would be an idiotic thing to do.’
‘Oh, would it?’
‘Look – if anything’s gone wrong, all she’d achieve would be to draw attention to us here – make them think we knew something was happening. And if nothing’s wrong – well, to start with, why bother, and also if Nikki comes and she’s out there…’
‘Well, for God’s sake, we’d be here to let him in…’
Maroussia patted Irina’s shoulder. ‘Be patient. Nadia Nikolaievna is right. We have to wait. Be patient and just wait.’
* * *
Lesechko had broken off his interrogation of Nick Solovyev to point at Bob with his chin and tell the captain, ‘Put this one in a cell. Then come back here.’
‘Very well, comrade Colonel.’ He’d nodded to the two guards who were waiting behind Bob. ‘Bring him along.’ One of them on each arm, and the captain leading – through a doorway in the panelled west wall into a marble-floored hallway where men were asleep on straw pallets, ornamental double doors leading to what would be the main apartments of the house – formerly the drawing-room, morning room, library and so forth – then these people’s guardroom – a door standing open and a few men inside – including the bald sergeant – playing cards. That might have been the young Solovyevs’ schoolroom, Bob thought, glancing in as he passed the door; it had that sort of look about it. They were coming to a swing-door now; the passageway beyond it was narrower and doors smaller, plainer. Kitchen, then. He’d been taking note of his surroundings more or less automatically, out of habit, none of it being even of passing interest when one was reeling under such a crushing weight of hopelessness. Lesechko had cut Nick’s story to ribbons, reduced it to absurdity while Nick had still clung to it – stammeringly repetitive, clinging to it for the sole reason that he had nothing else to cling to.
Bloody Sunset Page 22
