“You need to remember that both the Princess and I were in Russia, only three years ago.”
“That was during the Civil War, Captain Cromb. People do get shot in a war, as I am sure you are well aware. Now we are at peace, and we are concerned with the future, not the past. As I was saying, Comrade Lenin is unable, at this time, to restore Bolugayen. However, he is very anxious that the Prince of Bolugayen should again take his place upon that stage which his ancestors filled with such honour and achievement.” Another glance from face to face. “There would, of course, be an income commensurate with his position.”
“You keep speaking of the Prince of Bolugayen,” Priscilla remarked. “Should you not be making this proposal to him?”
“I am making it to his mother, Your Highness.”
“The Prince does not really regard me as his mother,” Priscilla pointed out. “He is a grown man, and quite able to make his own decisions.”
“Ah!” Gosykin smiled. “We are speaking at cross-purposes. You are referring the late Prince Colin Bolugayevski.”
Priscilla caught her breath. “Colin is dead?”
“We assume he is dead. Have you heard of him, or from him, since leaving Russia?”
“Well, no,” Priscilla conceded.
“As I have said, Your Highness, I am addressing the mother of the Prince of Bolugayen. And the Prince himself, to be sure...” he smiled at Alexei. “But I am sure he will expect his mother to make this important decision for him.”
Everyone looked at Alexei. “Am I really a prince?” the little boy asked.
“Well, in the present climate, it may not be possible to call you Prince, Your Highness, but you will certainly be regarded as one.”
Priscilla looked at Joseph. “Let us understand what you are proposing,” Joseph said. “It is Comrade Lenin’s wish that the Bolugayevski family should return to Russia, presumably in order that the Prince, as soon as he is old enough, may take some kind of position in the government...”
“That is absolutely it,” Gosykin said.
“You must take us for fools,” Priscilla remarked.
Gosykin raised his eyebrows.
“And of course, if Prince Bolugayevski and his mother have agreed to return, your hand will be enormously strengthened.”
“Certainly. Where Prince Bolugayevski leads, the others will follow. For the greater glory of Russia.”
“And this idea is supported by the Princess Sonia?”
“You have seen her letter.”
Again Priscilla would have spoken, but again Joseph squeezed her hand. “You must give us some time to consider Comrade Lenin’s offer,” he said. “Where may we contact you?”
“If I may, I will call again,” Gosykin said. “Shall we say in three days’ time?”
“Isn’t it exciting?” Jennie cried, when the door had closed behind the visitor.
“Exciting?” Priscilla asked. “I have never heard such bare-faced effrontery! These people take us for simpletons. For us to return to Russia would be to endorse Lenin’s revolution. It would be a propaganda coup of enormous value to the Reds. And what would we be returning to? Vague promises. Once we were inside Russia, if nothing was ever heard of us again, no one would give a damn.”
Jennie looked at her brother. “Are men that wicked, Joe?”
Joseph sighed. “I’m afraid some men are, or at least so ambitious and so determined to succeed in their ambition, that they will commit any crime to achieve a goal.”
“But he was such a nice man,” Jennie said.
“He probably is a nice man. That is why he was chosen for this mission,” Priscilla said. “But he is still carrying out a duty for his employers. Still, we have gained one positive piece of information: Alexei is Prince Bolugayevski.” She scooped her son from the floor and hugged him. “I think we could open a bottle of champagne, Joe.”
“You don’t know that Colin is dead,” Anna snapped. “Only that that thug suggested he is.”
Priscilla glared at her. “It has been three years, my dear.”
“You cannot say Alexei is Prince until you know,” Anna insisted.
Joseph thought the argument was a trifle academic in the circumstances, but he decided against saying so and upsetting the two women. Instead he said, “What beats me is why Sonia goes along with the idea.”
“She was probably forced to write that letter.”
Jennie had been looking from face to face with increasing concern. “You mean you’re not going to accept?”
“Of course we’re not going to accept!”
“Oh...” Jennie ran from the room.
*
“The reply will be in at any moment, comrade,” Rykov said. “You must have patience.”
Andrei Gosykin threw himself into the only armchair in the untidy one-bedroomed flat; most of the space was taken up with Rykov’s enormous radio set. Gosykin was not used to failure. But in his business, political assassination, he had learned very early that survival meant being absolutely realistic about every situation. He glanced at what he had written for Rykov to encode and transmit: ‘Priscilla Bolugayevska: hostile. Weakness, son, who she desperately wants to be prince, but on her terms. Will not accept. Alexei Bolugayevski: too young to matter. Anna Bolugayevska: hostile, but also of no importance at this time. Joseph Cromb: interested, but will follow lead of his mistress. Jennifer Cromb: interested and enthusiastic, showed greatest response to self but isolated, and, in context of mission, irrelevant. Must regard mission as unlikely to succeed.’ Now he had to wait to learn what Lenin would say to that.
“One day, when we are allowed to have an embassy here,” Rykov said, “I will be in charge of communications and have a radio room as big as this entire house. And I shall speak to all the world.”
Gosykin supposed that it must be pleasant to have such limited ambitions. But then, he wondered, what were his ambitions? To serve Lenin to the end of his days? Lenin had plucked him from the ranks of obscurity, a young man who had only one talent, the ability to kill, coldly and mercilessly. He had his first victim when he was only twelve, holding a rival under water until he drowned. Officially it had been a bathing accident in the local river, but Andrei had discovered for the first time how easy it was to end a life, if one acted without hesitation and without remorse. This mission was completely out of the ordinary for him, a measure of Lenin’s growing faith in him. He thought it would be amusing if he were now to receive orders to liquidate the entire Bolugayevski family. He could not see that there was any reason for that, but he had never been concerned with reasons.
“The reply is coming through now.” Rykov had completed the decoding. ‘Maximise the positive, minimise the negative. If you can get the girl Jennifer to come to Russia, the rest will surely follow.’
Andrei studied the message. “Write,” he said, “‘It will have to be a snatch.’”
The message was sent, and the two men waited. The reply came through. ‘No law must be broken in England. We are seeking recognition, not rejection. You say the girl responded to you; make her respond some more. She is Patricia Bolugayevska’s daughter; a romantic concept of revolution runs in her veins. Seduce her; it will be simple. Bring her with you to Russia if you have to marry her.’
*
“So there you are, Mr Gosykin,” Joseph said. “The Princess does not feel that she can commit herself to returning to Russia at this time, nor does she actually feel she can consider her son as Prince of Bolugayen until we have made an effort to discover the fate of Prince Colin. I hope you can understand her point of view.” He had received Gosykin alone.
“Oh, absolutely,” Gosykin said. “We are not so well off for beautiful women in Russia that we would not welcome the greatest beauty of them all. I trust you will convey these sentiments to Her Highness.”
“Be sure I shall. Well...” Joseph stood up, obviously anxious to end the interview. He held out his hand. “I shall wish you more success with your next project.”
<
br /> “Thank you. One tries to do one’s best.” Gosykin shook hands and went to the door, where Grishka, who entirely supported her mistress’s point of view, was waiting with his hat and coat. He went outside, the door closed behind him and Jennie stepped out from round the corner of the corridor leading to the elevators. “Why, Miss Cromb,” Andrei said. “You gave me a start!”
She was flushed. “I wanted to speak with you.”
“I am honoured. Tell me what is troubling you.”
“It’s just that...I wished to apologise for my brother and my cousin. I do hope you’re not resentful of us.”
“How could I be resentful of two such charming people? Besides, I have, in effect, been asking them to change sides, when so many of their loved ones have died fighting against us. I will tell you a secret, Miss Jennifer...you do not mind if I call you Jennifer?”
“Please do. Actually, I’m known as Jennie.”
“Jennie. A peculiarly English name, and therefore most attractive.”
Jennie was breathing hard. “You were going to tell me a secret.”
“Oh, yes. I was given a job of work to do by my superiors, but I told them these people will not change sides merely on an offer of restitution. These are people to whom their honour, the awareness of their birthrights, are far more important things than mere material prosperity.”
He watched her carefully as he spoke, and was rewarded. “Oh,” she said. “What nonsense! Forgive me, I meant those views are nonsense. But you are quite right, that is how they look at the world. As for sides, and remembering who was killed...the war is over. Surely it’s a time to stop hating?”
“But Jennie, your own mother was killed in that war.”
“I know. And if I’d been there at the time, I’d have wanted to kill the men who did it. But now nothing I can do will ever bring Mother back. Surely it’s the future that matters, not the past?”
“You are too good for this world, Jennie,” Andrei said. “If it had been up to you, would you have accompanied me back to Russia?”
“Oh, yes,” Jennie said, and flushed again. “I love Russia. Well...I’ve only been there once. But I loved it then, and I love everything about it.”
“As do I. It is sad that you will not be allowed to see the new Russia.”
“Oh, I shall, one day. When I’m grown up.”
Andrei frowned. “You mean you’re not grown up now?”
“I’m only sixteen.” Jennie bit her lip. “I must do what Joseph says, until I’m twenty-one.”
“I quite understand. But...would you not at least like to talk, about Russia? I have some photographs...”
“Do you?” Jennie cried. “May I see them?”
“I do not have them with me.”
“Oh!” Her face fell.
“I will bring them to show you.”
Her expression brightened. “But you can’t come here. Not after Joseph has, well...shown you the door like that.”
“I understand. But could we not meet?”
“I have to go to school.”
“But you are not a boarder.”
“No, I’m not.” Jennie frowned. “How did you know that?”
Andrei smiled; he had the most winning smile. “I have made it my business to find out everything about you.”
“Have you?” Now she was breathless.
“If we were to meet after school,” Andrei said, “I would show you some of the photographs I have.”
“I have a message for you to transmit,” Andrei told Rykov.
Rykov read it aloud. “The girl is making it very easy. I can now re-estimate the situation: the mission will be a success.”
“It is not very much,” Andrei said, opening the door of his bed-sitter, “but you must understand that I am here clandestinely. The British Government does not recognise mine.”
“I am an American,” Jennie reminded him, breathless at once from the climb up the steep flight of stairs and because she was here at all. Today was the fourth time they had met, and what Joseph and Priscilla would say were they to discover that she had accompanied him to his flat, unchaperoned, would cause a rumpus, and with a Red! But he had always been such a perfect gentleman, and if he did have other photos to show her...
“Of course. But your government doesn’t recognise us either. Would you like to take off your hat?”
Jennie took the elastic strap from beneath her chin and carefully removed the panama hat.
“Do you mean that you are an illegal immigrant?” she said, anxious to get the subject off herself.
“Only in a manner of speaking. I have a Swedish passport. But I am not Swedish, so it is an illegal passport.” He smiled at her. “You are consorting with a crook. Does that bother you?”
“I think having to have a passport to travel at all is an absurdity.”
He closed the door. “Then you will not denounce me to the authorities?”
“Of course not.” She smiled in turn. “If I had intended to I would not have come here. And if you had thought I would, you would not have brought me.”
“You are a very intelligent young woman. Would you like some tea?”
“That would be very nice.”
She stood in the centre of the somewhat overcrowded room, holding her hat in front of her rather like a shield; there was not a great deal of furniture, only the bed, a table and two straight chairs, together with the gas ring in the corner, over which he was fussing, but the floor was littered with books and papers. “Do sit down,” he said. “What I am really trying to do is apologise for this place. I have very little money.”
Jennie moved some papers from a chair on to the floor and sat down, her hat on her lap. “I thought you were an agent for Comrade Lenin.”
Andrei made tea. “Sadly, Comrade Lenin has very little money either. Nor indeed, has Russia. Oh, we have roubles by the billion. But nobody outside of Russia wants roubles.” He gave one of his boyish grins. “Nobody inside Russia wants them either, to be frank.” He brought the mug across to her. “It is strong.”
“It is Russian, I hope.” She let go of the hat to take the cup and saucer and it slipped to the floor. “Tell me about Comrade Lenin.”
Andrei frowned, and sat in the other straight chair. “You know of him?”
“My mother was exiled to Irkutsk, with him and his wife. They escaped together. She told me a great deal about him.”
“Your mother must have been a remarkable woman. But if she was sent to exile in Siberia, then she must have been one of us.”
“Well, yes and no. She was a Countess Bolugayevska. But she felt the family simply had too much.” She glanced at him. “I guess a lot of people felt that way.”
“I suspect a lot of people still do,” Andrei said. “But how do you feel about it?”
“It’s easy for me to condemn it: I never had any of it. I told you, I only ever visited Bolugayen once. I fell in love with the place. I was very young,” she hastily added.
“But now you feel justice has been done.”
“Well...yes, I suppose. Tell me about yourself?”
“There is no aristocracy in my background. I grew up killing people.” He studied her face.
“Oh, you mean in the Great War.”
“Yes,” he conceded. “But now the war is over. Even the Civil War is over.” He got up. “Would you like some more tea?”
“Ah...gosh, look at the time. I really should be going.”
“You haven’t looked at the rest of the photos, yet.”
“Oh. Yes. It was so interesting talking with you. But it really is getting late. Perhaps I could come back another day.” She stood up also.
Andrei put the cup on the table, beside his own. “I wish you never had to leave,” he said. Jennie looked at him, and was in his arms.
Jennie had never had anything to do with men, certainly men who might wish to do something to her. As far back as she could remember, Father had been an invalid, a lot of the time hardly aware that
she was there. Joseph had always been an elder brother, but from the age of eighteen she had seen very little of him, and when he had left she had been only ten. Since then she had led an oddly inverted life, caring for Father, worrying about Joe. She knew she was a very lovely woman. Even if her mirror left room for self-doubt, there were the remarks of her schoolmates and the admiring glances she received on the street, but personal attractiveness had become irrelevant with the arrival of Priscilla, who was so breathtakingly beautiful she scarcely seemed to belong to this planet.
That the future would necessarily contain men, or a man, she had never doubted. But at sixteen that future had seemed remote. She knew she had fallen heavily for Andrei Gosykin, but in terms of her future, especially after Joseph and Priscilla’s rejection of his proposals, he also had become remote, as a man. And here she was, being kissed more passionately than she had supposed possible, his tongue forcing her lips and teeth apart to reach hers. She made no effort to resist him, was disappointed when he suddenly released her, panting. “I most deeply apologise.”
Jennie licked her lips; she could still taste him. “Please don’t apologise,” she said. He was still holding her against him, and she could feel...she didn’t know what she could feel. But she didn’t ever want him to let her go. His hands slipped from her shoulder-blades down to her hips, and caressed her buttocks. No one had ever touched her there before; she was even shy when she touched herself in bathing. Now her flesh was caressed and kneaded through the thick gymslip, and then the hands slipped lower, to find the hem of the slip and bring it upwards.
I should stop him, she thought. Because if I don’t...but she had no idea what he was going to do. His hands were on her knickers, and then thrusting inside them, to caress the naked flesh. She sighed, and his mouth sought hers again. Then he pulled his head back, his hands still clasped on her buttocks. “Do you wish to slap my face, and leave?” he asked.
“You mean you would let me, now?”
“I will always let you do whatever you wish, my Jennie. But forgive me for hoping, praying, you will stay.”
His hands began to move, sliding to left and right, coming round her hips to the front. In another moment... “I’ll stay,” she whispered.
The Red Gods Page 13
