The Red Gods

by Christopher Nicole

  “Bugged?”

  “Ssssh! It will contain at least one hidden microphone, and whatever we say will be overheard and perhaps recorded.” He pulled his head away to stare at her. “Whisper,” she mouthed.

  He took her in his arms again. “You are Trotsky’s mistress.”

  “It does not matter who you are in Russia today. Unless perhaps you are Stalin himself. They say even Krupskaya’s apartment is bugged.”

  “What a way to live! But if we continue to whisper, won’t they know we understand they are listening?”

  “Of course. But as they will never admit they are listening, they cannot do anything about it. They will just hope to catch you in an unguarded moment. You must make sure they never do.”

  “I understand. Aunt Sonia, you know what Gosykin does, don’t you?”

  Sonia sighed. “Yes.”

  “Does Jennie?”

  “No. That is why I wanted to see you first.”

  “I have to tell her.”

  “If you do, you must be able to make her believe you. And you must also make sure she does not tell her husband. Because you need to remember what he does. You must understand that I cannot protect you from assassination.”

  “If I can make her believe me, and persuade her to leave him, can we just leave Russia?”

  “No. You will have to leave clandestinely. But I will help you.”

  “Why?”

  She made a move. “You are the only living relatives I have left in the world.”

  “And we are not really relatives at all.”

  She smiled and kissed him. “At least they do not have hidden cameras. Do not leave the hotel until I come for you tomorrow, and do not answer the telephone. This is very important. Have dinner downstairs in the restaurant, return up here afterwards and go to bed. Do not engage anyone in conversation and when you have returned here, do not answer your door. I will come for you tomorrow morning and together we shall go and see Jennie. Do you understand?”

  “You are making me think I am in some kind of police state.”

  “That is exactly where you are. But as long as you remember that, you should be in no danger.” She closed the door behind herself.

  Joseph explored the suite, looking for some sign of the hidden microphone, and found nothing. Indeed he found the very idea that there should be one and, as Sonia had claimed, one in every room in the hotel, quite incredible. He had never heard of such a thing and could not help but wonder if his aunt was not fantasising. It was very possible, in a woman who had spent her entire life in intrigue of one sort or another. And she had virtually promised that they would get together. His heart pounded at the very thought of it. Meanwhile, what she had told him was keep a very low profile; he could not believe that he had to be as anti-social as she had suggested.

  He rang room service for some beer and spent the afternoon reading, without a great deal of concentration. Most of the time he stood at the window looking down at the street. It was a very ordinary street, and might have been in any city in the world, save for the unusually high proportion of men in uniform amongst the passers-by. He wondered if he would have a chance to visit the Kremlin, or the ballet. He went down to dinner early, was virtually alone in the salon. The food was very plain but quite edible, and there was a jug of vodka on the table. He thought he might as well drink it, and found himself growing pleasantly inebriated. Well, there was nothing else to do tonight. He tried to engage the various waiters in conversation but only got monosyllables in reply.

  By the time he finished his meal the room had filled up, but as these were nearly all commercial travellers he decided against starting a conversation. He went back to his room and went to bed: tomorrow promised to be an exciting and busy day. He fell fast asleep in what was really almost an alcoholic stupor and was awakened by the jangling of the telephone. He sat up with a start, for a moment wondering where he was. Then he got out of bed and went to the phone, which was in the sitting room. There he hesitated. Sonia had said not to answer it. But he had already decided that Sonia had become somewhat paranoid. He lifted the receiver off the hook. “Yes?”

  “Joseph?” It was hardly more than a husky whisper, but it was the voice of a young woman. Who knew his name. “I am Joseph. Who is this?”

  “Joe,” the voice said. “Oh, Joe, it is so good to hear your voice. Listen, we must meet.”

  “Who is this?” Joseph asked again.

  “Can you not guess? Listen, tomorrow, go to the...oh!”

  Joseph listened, could hear nothing after the exclamation of pain and fear. “Jennie?” he asked. It could not really be anyone else. “Jennie?” he asked again. The phone went dead. Slowly he replaced it. Jennie was in trouble. No doubt Gosykin had found out about his visit. He could feel himself breaking out in a cold sweat. What to do? He did not even know where they lived.

  Telephone Sonia! He looked at his watch. It was just after one. Telephone Sonia? With Trotsky no doubt lying in bed beside her? But Sonia had said that Trotsky was away. He picked up the phone again, thumped the handle up and down. “Yes?” said a sleepy voice.

  “I wish to telephone the apartment of Commissar Trotsky.”

  Then the voice asked, “Do you know the time, Comrade?”

  “I know the time. But it is most urgent that I speak with either the Commissar or Madame Bolugayevska.”

  “Comrade Bolugayevska,” the clerk corrected him. “I am sorry, Comrade, but I cannot connect you with the Commissar’s apartment. That is not permitted. Good- night.”

  Again the phone went dead, leaving Joseph staring at it in impotent anger. He felt like tearing it out by the cord and hurling it against the wall. He tried again. “Yes?” asked the clerk.

  “Can you give me the address of Comrade Andrei Gosykin?” Joseph asked, keeping his voice as calm as he could.

  “No,” said the clerk, and hung up again.

  This time Joseph did pick up the phone and hurl it to the floor; perhaps the crash would bring someone sensible. And in fact almost immediately there came a rap on his door. He strode across the room, unlocked the door, and threw it open; right that minute he was prepared to take on Stalin himself. Instead, he gaped at Leonid Nikolaiev. “What in the name of God...?”

  “Ssssh,” Nikolaiev said, placing his finger on his lips. “May I come in?” Joseph hesitated, but perhaps he would be able to advise him. He stepped back, and Nikolaiev came into the room. It was only when he had closed the door that Joseph realised the young man was wearing a dressing gown over a pair of pyjamas, and slippers. Nikolaiev turned, and smiled at him. “I am a guest in the hotel, like you.”

  “But...how did you know my room number? And that I was awake?”

  “Your room number I got from the desk. As to whether you were awake, I did not know that. But I see you are.” He picked up the telephone, which, amazingly, was not smashed. “Is something the matter?”

  Again Joseph hesitated, but Nikolaiev seemed to have got over his huff on the train and appeared willing to help. And even if he did not like entertaining men in their nightclothes, the fellow was a Muscovite. “Yes. I told you I was coming to Moscow to see my sister, remember?” Nikolaiev nodded. -Well, I have just received a telephone call from her, which was interrupted. She’s in some kind of trouble. My problem is I don’t know her address.” Nikolaiev raised his eyebrows. “I know it’s complicated,” Joseph admitted. “I’ll explain it later. But do you have any idea how I might get hold of her address? The clerk on the desk absolutely refuses to help me. Perhaps if you were to ask him...”

  “Yes,” Nikolaiev said. “That might work.”

  “You mean you will do it?”

  “Of course. I will do anything you wish, to help you.”

  “Thank God,” Joseph said.

  “I will go down,” Nikolaiev said. “But is it possible to use your bathroom first?”

  “Of course,” Joseph agreed, guessing that he was probably nervous. “It’s through the bedroom.”
>
  “Thank you.” Nikolaiev went through the doorway.

  Joseph took a turn up and down the room. Sonia of course would be furious. But in the circumstances she would have to agree that he was taking the only possible course; never had he heard a voice so terrified as Jennie’s on the phone. So much so that she had not sounded like Jennie at all. He paused, frowning. But it had to have been Jennie. There was simply no one else it could have been.

  He looked at his watch. Nikolaiev had been in the bathroom for ten minutes. Joseph was not in the habit of invading other people’s privacy, but he went to the bedroom doorway, looked in, and started. Nikolaiev lay on the bed, naked, his nightclothes discarded in a heap on the floor.

  “What the devil...? I thought you were going to help me?”

  “I am going to help you, Joseph. But I thought perhaps we could get together first,” Nikolaiev said.

  Joseph decided to be relaxed about the situation; he needed this man’s help. “I wouldn’t be any use to you, right this minute,” he said. “I’m too worried about my sister. Listen, help me find her and I promise I’ll bring you back to bed.” Sonia would have to accept that as well.

  Nikolaiev made a move. “Very well, if that is what you wish. But at least give me a kiss.”

  Joseph hesitated, then went to the bed. Nikolaiev put his arms round his neck, pulled his head down, kissed him aggressively...and he heard a great deal of noise. Desperately he thrust Nikolaiev away from him and straightened, but before he could turn, his arms had been seized by two very powerful men and pulled behind his back, to be handcuffed. “For God’s sake!” he shouted.

  Nikolaiev was cringing. “Please don’t hurt me,” he begged.

  There were other men in the room, reaching for the naked man, dragging him out of the bed.

  “Listen,” Joseph said. “There must be some mistake. I am here on a safe-conduct from Commissar Trotsky.”

  One of the men, who seemed in authority, in that he had not taken part in any of the rough and tumble, stood in front of him. “Where is this safe-conduct?”

  “On the bedside table, with my passport.” The man went to the table and picked up the documents, looked at them, and put them in his pocket. “Those are mine,” Joseph said.

  “Nothing is yours any more,” the man said. “You have nothing.” He looked at Nikolaiev, who, still naked, had also been handcuffed and was standing between two of the policemen, gasping for breath and shaking. “Who is he?”

  “Just someone, who was going to help me.”

  The officer snorted. “We know all about him. You are under arrest for being a Tsarist agent, Comrade Cromb, and for having homosexual relations with a known male prostitute.”

  “Now look here,” Joseph said. “Mr Nikolaiev was, well...”

  “Tell it to the judge.”

  “My safe-conduct...”

  “Is meaningless.”

  Joseph drew a deep breath. “I demand to see Comrade Trotsky.” The officer hit him in the stomach.

  There followed a period of total disorientation. No doubt it was intentional on the part of his captors, but Joseph had never experienced anything like it before, not even five years ago when he had previously been captured by these people. Then, he had at least remained in possession of his faculties throughout the ordeal. Now, the series of shocks to his system left him with a feeling of unreality. Still in his nightclothes, he was marched downstairs and out into the cold night air. At least there were no people about at this hour of the morning, but there were several automobiles waiting outside the hotel, and into one of these he was bundled, landing on his hands and knees in the back. When he tried to push himself up he was stamped on by the man getting in behind him, and when he regained his breath sufficiently to speak he was kicked hard in the ribs.

  After that he did not attempt to move. He could help no one if he was beaten into a boneless pulp; he could only hold on and wait for Sonia to help him, as she had before. What had happened to Nikolaiev he had no idea.

  The drive was a short one, to Joseph’s relief, for the three men who had seated themselves above him kicked him regularly. Then the car stopped, and he was thrown out, landing on his hands and knees, and more kicks forced him to his feet. He realised he was in a courtyard, to one side of which was a lighted doorway, towards which he was sent staggering. Beyond, the light was at least warm, but it contained several more men, all of whom took a swing or a kick at his body. Continuing to be kicked and cuffed, he was half thrown down a flight of stairs into a corridor along which he was driven by his captors. By now his body was crying out for him just to lie there and let them do their worst; his brain kept telling him that their worst might be to beat him to death, and that he had yet to locate and help Jennie...

  But at last a door opened in front of him and he was thrown into a cell, which contained no furniture at all save for a single, unshaded and very bright light bulb. But even now his torture was not over, for four of the men came into the cell removed his dressing gown and pyjamas, to leave him naked. He suspected that this would be followed by a more vicious-than-usual attack, perhaps sexual, but they at last left him alone, the door clanging shut behind them. But the electric light bulb still glowed above his head, and he knew he was under surveillance. Painfully he dragged himself into a sitting position. He did not wish to see the swelling bruises on his body; what his face looked like he dared not imagine. But he wanted to try to think, to understand what had happened, and why it had happened. And even more important, what was likely to happen next.

  But he could make nothing of it. Trotsky? Trotsky had given him the safe-conduct in the first place. He could not imagine he had gone to all that trouble just to revenge himself for what had happened five years ago. Stalin himself? He had never met Stalin, and besides, according to all the reports in the West, while Stalin might be Party Chairman, Trotsky, as Commissar for the Army, remained the most powerful man in Russia.

  Gosykin? But Gosykin was an underling, a paid assassin. Commanding and controlling the Cheka — for he was certainly in a Cheka prison — was beyond his reach. And if he had somehow managed to enlist the support of the secret police, surely Trotsky and Sonia would be able to get him out the moment they discovered what had happened. Which would be when Sonia went to the Hotel Berlin this morning to pick him up. That could only be a few hours away now. There was something to hope for.

  But where did Leonid Nikolaiev fit in? He could not believe the fellow had come to his bedroom to seduce him. Sonia had more or less warned him that would happen, but he had assumed that if it did it would be a woman. He had been incredibly stupid, because things like that did not happen in London. But why? The arresting officer had hinted that Nikolaiev might be a Tsarist agent? But then, surely he had to know he was not. Yet Nikolaiev had tried to seduce him on the train, before they had ever got to Moscow! His head swam with exhaustion, and despite the pain which was attacking every inch of his body, and the agony in his mind, he almost nodded off, to awaken with a start as the door crashed back on its hinges. Immediately he tensed his muscles, and pressed his back against the cold stone of the wall, as he found himself gazing at Andrei.

  *

  Andrei came into the cell and stooped beside him. “Mr Cromb?” he asked. “My God, what have they done to you?”

  Joseph had to make an effort to unclench his teeth. “Nothing I cannot stand,” he muttered. “Is it your doing?”

  “Mine? My dear Joseph, you are my brother-in-law.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “One of the people here is a friend of mine, and he told me what was happening. But you...you need medical attention.”

  He beckoned behind him, and a man and a woman came into the cell. They both wore uniform but were not people Joseph had seen before, and he was too exhausted and in too much pain to be embarrassed as the man examined him and applied antiseptic dressings to his cuts and bruises, and the woman filled a cup from a thermos and held coffee laced with
vodka to his lips. Because they were cut, as was the inside of his mouth, drinking the hot, strong liquid was agonising, yet nothing had ever tasted so good. “Thank God you have authority here,” he muttered.

  Andrei grimaced. “I have some authority. But...”

  “Can’t you get me out of here?”

  “I have not that much authority.”

  The woman had left the cell, now she returned with a robe and a pair of slippers. Joseph allowed himself to be dressed. “At least you can tell me what I am supposed to have done?”

  “Homosexuality is a serious matter in Russia.”

  “For God’s sake, Gosykin, you know I’m not a homosexual. Anyway, I also seem to be accused of being a Tsarist. You have to know that also is absurd. OK, I fought for the Whites. But that war is over. Has been over for several years. I came here to see Jennie. How is she?”

  “Jennie is fine.”

  “But she telephoned me last night...”

  Andrei frowned. “Jennie? That is not possible. She does not even know you are in Moscow.”

  “Then who...?”

  “It was undoubtedly a trap. You should not have answered the phone.”

  Exactly what Sonia had said. “Listen! If you have not the authority to get me out of here, will you get hold of Sonia Bolugayevska? I came here on a safe-conduct issued by Trotsky. Sonia will know what to do.”

  Andrei was frowning. “You came here at Trotsky’s invitation? You admit this?”

  “It’s true, for God’s sake. Those thugs took the paper away from me. But even if they’ve destroyed it, Trotsky will renew it.”

  Andrei was stroking his chin. “This is more serious than I thought. You were foolish to accept such an invitation.”

  “What, just to see my sister?”

  “I do not think you will get away with that,” Andrei said, slowly shaking his head.

  “Get away with what?” Joseph shouted. The medical attendants had now finished with him, and were standing by the door, waiting.

  Andrei said: “Almost, I believe you are innocent.”