The Red Gods

by Christopher Nicole

  “For what?”

  “Well, the marriage was my idea...”

  “It was a good idea, Jimmy. From your point of view. Going along with it was my mistake.”

  He held her hand. “I want you to know that you are one of us, now and always. So is Alexei. Your share of the profits is going to be down for a while because profits are down; half of our ships are idle. But we’ll pull through, and you’ll have ample to live on. And in the meantime, forget this crazy idea about Alexei quitting school. There’s no necessity for that. We’ll meet the fees.”

  Priscilla’s eyes were bright with tears, and she squeezed his fingers. “You’re just the sweetest brother any woman could ever have. I’m sorry I’ve given you such a hard time over the years.”

  “Well, you’ve had a fantastic life. The rest of us could only stand and stare.”

  Priscilla released his fingers and stood up. “I’m going to give you a hard time again.”

  He frowned at her. “Doing what?”

  “Doing what I should have done eight years ago. Looking for Joe.”

  “Now, Sis...you know he’s dead.”

  “I don’t know that, Jimmy. And neither do you. But I have to know.”

  Jimmy decided on reasoned argument. “Where do you plan to start looking?”

  “Sonia is living with Trotsky in Istanbul. They shouldn’t be hard to find. I’m also pretty sure Sonia, or certainly Trotsky, knows what happened to Joe.”

  “Well, you should write them.”

  “I have a hundred times, and never got a reply.”

  “And you think they’ll tell you in person?”

  “Yes.”

  Jimmy would have liked to argue that possibility, but decided against it; he knew his sister possessed an uncommonly powerful personality beneath her Dresden china exterior. “OK,” he said. “Just suppose you learn from Sonia that Joe is alive, but has been sent to some Russian prison camp. What do you propose to do about that?”

  “I propose to go to Moscow and see Stalin.” He stared at her with his mouth open. “It’s not as far-fetched as it sounds,” Priscilla pointed out. “Joe is Aunt Patricia’s son: in her youth, Aunt Patricia was a revolutionary like Stalin. They both worshipped Lenin. I cannot believe Stalin knows that Patricia’s son is locked up in his country. As for getting to him, we know that he is working like mad to get recognition from this country. Seeing me, humouring me, must be useful in that respect.”

  “Have you any idea how dangerous it is for you to return to cassia?”

  I don’t think it will be the least dangerous, Jimmy, if you will help me. Use your friends in the State Department. When I go to Russia I want to go with the flag flying and the drums beating. I may be the Princess Dowager Bolugayevska, but I’m also the widow of Carlisle Mann the Third, and I am an American citizen. They must remind everyone who I am, loudly. Will they do that?”

  “I shouldn’t think they’ll be keen on supporting an international incident.”

  “Who’s going to cause an international incident? I don’t want any support until I actually enter Russia. But then I want a lot of it. I’ll be good, I swear it.”

  Jimmy considered. “I can organise that, and press coverage. But what happens if your quest is successful?”

  “I bring Joe home. You can give him his job back.”

  “I meant, have you given any thought to the condition he may be in after eight years or more in a Russian prison? That is supposing he’s alive.”

  “So he may be pretty beat up. I’ll nurse him.”

  “I was thinking more of his mental state.”

  “I’ll nurse that too. Jimmy, I’m going to do it, with or without your help. I’d appreciate your help, but I’m still going to do it.”

  “And you love the guy. I reckon you were never quite sure about that, before.”

  “I’m sure now,” Priscilla said.

  “You don’t have to come,” Priscilla said.

  “I am your servant,” Grishka reminded her. “Where you go, Your Highness, I go.”

  “That is very loyal. But you do realise this may be a very dangerous journey.”

  “More dangerous than when we were captured by the Reds in 1917?”

  Nothing could be more dangerous than capture by a bunch of blood-crazed revolutionaries intent on the destruction of anything, or anyone more privileged than themselves. “We were younger then, Grishka.”

  “Not so much younger, Your Highness.”

  They went to Istanbul in the only Cromb Line ship still trading in the eastern Mediterranean, and as such were treated like royalty. Yet Priscilla knew it would not have been practical without Grishka. Where she was filled with plans and ambitions, it was Grishka who attended to all the details, as well as being a meticulous lady’s maid who would happily end a very long day by spending an hour brushing her mistress’s hair before they went to bed.

  Like all the Bolugayen servants, Grishka had regarded the new princess with suspicion when Priscilla had taken up residence in 1912. Grishka’s position had been difficult because she had been Sonia’s personal maid before the divorce; Priscilla knew that she had been tempted to remain Sonia’s maid, and had decided against it because she feared that her mother and father, at that time still alive and living in Bolugayen, might suffer. How different would her life have been if she had made that decision!

  Grishka’s greatest gift had always been loyalty. A Bolugayevski servant from her early teens, she had been in Port Arthur with the family during the Sino-Japanese war of 1894, when the first Colin MacLain Bolugayevski had died; she had been there again with Grandmama Anna when she had been condemned to death, to be saved by the chivalry of a Japanese general. And, having transferred her allegiance, she had been at Priscilla’s side, as had Sonia, when the Reds had broken into Bolugayen House, intent upon rape and murder. She had endured with them, and Priscilla had no doubt that it was her massive Tatar calm that had enabled them all to survive. Now they were embarked again together on another great adventure. Two women searching for a man they both loved.

  “Priscilla?” Sonia stared at her old friend and rival in astonishment. And then looked past her. “Grishka?”

  “The two bad pennies,” Priscilla smiled, and embraced her. “Or should it be roubles? Or dinars?”

  Sonia embraced Grishka in turn, and then saw the suitcases. “Why did you not let me know you were coming?”

  “We thought we’d like to surprise you.”

  Sonia understood, she might have refused to see them. “Well, come in.” She stood back to allow Priscilla and Grishka and the suitcases into the apartment. “Where are you staying?”

  “Nowhere yet.” Priscilla looked around her; the room was untidy and littered with books and papers.

  “These are all Leon’s,” Sonia explained. “I wish I could offer to put you up, but as you can see the apartment is very small. And besides...”

  “Leon would not stand for it,” Priscilla agreed. “We shall find an hotel. But as we came all this way to see you, we thought we should do that first.”

  “To see me?” Sonia asked uneasily. “Would you like tea?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Turkish tea.” Sonia fussed with the samovar. “It’s not the same as Russian tea, but it’s drinkable.” Priscilla and Grishka exchanged glances. This was such a different Sonia to the elegant woman they remembered. Sonia could never be inelegant in her movements, and her features were more perfectly carved than even in her youth. But her skirt and blouse were shabby, and her hair, which she still wore long and curling past her shoulders, contained streaks of grey. She was now nearly sixty, and stress and anxiety were present in her every movement. She made the tea, and served them. “I am sorry Leon is out,” she said. “I am sure he would be pleased to meet you at last, Priscilla. But he spends nearly all his time in the libraries. He writes, you see...” she gestured around her at the books and papers. “That is how we live, by his writing.”

  “Wh
at does he write about, Your Highness?” Grishka asked, ingenuously.

  For a moment Sonia gazed at her in surprise; it was a very long time since anyone had addressed her as ‘Your Highness’. “Politics, Socialism, Revolution. His opinions are well considered. His articles appear in all the leading left-wing newspapers in the world.”

  “You mean he still supports the regime in Russia?” Even Priscilla was surprised.

  “Oh, good lord, no! He regards them as the failures of the Revolution. No, Leon looks forward to the day when all governments everywhere will be overthrown.”

  “Then who will rule?” Grishka asked, less ingenuously.

  “Oh...” Sonia made a vague gesture. “Groups of workers’ committees.”

  “But not governments? Without governments, how can there be things like taxes and armies?”

  “Leon does not believe in armies,” Sonia said. “You may find this even harder to believe, but he also does not believe in wars. Without armies, there can be no wars.”

  “That is only possible if everyone has the same point of view,” Grishka argued.

  Priscilla set down her teacup, noisily; she was aware of the Russian habit of becoming involved in endless arguments. “We are seeking news of Joseph,” she said. Sonia turned her head sharply. “When he left London, nine years ago,” Priscilla said, “he was going to Russia to see Jennie. He possessed a visa and a safe-conduct issued by Trotsky. He was due to return in not more than a month. He has never been heard of since.”

  Sonia got up to make some more tea. “That was nine years ago,” she said.

  “I know. I feel very guilty about it. But I was convinced he was dead. Now I feel sure he is alive.”

  “After nine years?” Sonia refilled their cups.

  Priscilla sighed. “Let’s say, I have always known it, deep in my heart. But...”

  “Her Highness was married,” Grishka explained.

  “And your American husband — I assume he is an American husband? — allowed you to come on this wild goose chase?”

  “My second husband was an American, yes. He is now dead. You see before you a twice widow.”

  “Oh, my dear,” Sonia said. “I am so very sorry.”

  “Thank you. So, you see, I now have nothing left to do with my life but seek out Joseph.”

  “What about Alexei?”

  “Alexei is all but a man, and is an American. His future is there.”

  “That is very sensible,” Sonia remarked. “There is no future for anyone in Russia less he is a crony or a henchman of Stalin.”

  “Tell me about Joseph.”

  “Joseph is dead.”

  “How did he die?”

  “I...” Sonia bit her lip. “He was murdered by the NKVD, the security police.”

  “You are lying,” Priscilla said. Sonia’s head jerked. It was a long time since anyone had addressed her quite so peremptorily. “So would you please tell me the truth,” Priscilla said.

  Sonia looked at the door in relief as it opened. “Leon!” She got up. “You’ll never guess who’s come to visit.” Trotsky gazed at Priscilla in consternation. In all his life he had never supposed he would meet a woman even more beautiful than his mistress. “And this is Grishka,” Sonia explained. “Grishka is the Princess’s ser...”

  “Grishka is my friend,” Priscilla said.

  Trotsky looked at Grishka, then looked back at Priscilla. He closed the door behind him, shot the bolt. “What are you doing here?”

  “I am looking for Joseph Cromb,” Priscilla said, before Sonia could speak.

  Trotsky walked across the room to the small sideboard and poured himself a glass of vodka. “Cromb is dead,” he said.

  “I do not believe that. And I do not think you believe it, either.”

  Trotsky turned, violently. “It was a trap. He was a trap. Stalin found out I had given him a visa, and used him to bring me down. He was taken by the NKVD, by that thug Gosykin.”

  Priscilla drew a sharp breath. “Did Jennie know this?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “But...did you not tell her?” Priscilla looked at Sonia.

  “I was visited by Gosykin,” Sonia said. “He threatened me. He threatened us both if we revealed to Jennie what he did, or what had happened to Joe.” Her shoulders slumped. “We were afraid. I was, anyway.”

  Priscilla looked at Trotsky, who poured himself another glass of vodka. “So Joe was arrested by the secret police. But you don’t know he was killed.”

  “He was tortured,” Trotsky said. “So he told them whatever they wanted.”

  “Joe would never have done that,” Priscilla protested.

  “You have never been tortured by the NKVD,” Trotsky pointed out. “You would not have lasted an hour, Princess. Then you would say anything they told you to say. Or sign anything they told you to sign. And do you know something? When they dragged you into court to be examined your body would show not a sign of having been harmed. That is the power of electricity.” He grimaced. “Lenin’s dream of the future, a world controlled by electricity.”

  Priscilla kept her thoughts and her voice under control, regardless of how she was seething at the thought of Joe suffering. “If Joe was taken into court to give evidence against you,” she said, “then you know he was still alive then, anyway.”

  “He never went to court,” Trotsky told her. “Stalin does not do things that way. When he has a trial, it is for a purpose. Your friend was used to get rid of me. His ‘confession’ was merely circulated around the members of the Politburo, and as a result I was stripped of all of my offices. I was told if I left Moscow, quietly, nothing more would be done. If I attempted to remain and refute the charges against me, there would be a trial, at which Cromb would give evidence, and which could result in my being shot.”

  “And you never called their bluff.”

  “Bluff? Stalin does not bluff, he lies. Now I have been stripped of my Russian citizenship. Me, Trotsky!”

  Priscilla looked at Sonia. “I am sorry,” Sonia said. “I was very fond of Joseph. But there was nothing we could do to help him. Certainly we could not help him by being murdered ourselves.”

  “So you abandoned him and hurried away.” Priscilla’s tone was less bitter than it could have been: had she not virtually done the same thing? “But he could be alive.”

  “If he has spent the last nine years in an NKVD cell, or in one of their prison camps, then the fact that he is still breathing has nothing to do with his being alive,” Trotsky said.

  Priscilla stood up. “Well, thank you for your information, and for the tea, Sonia. Now we must find somewhere to stay until we can get into Russia.”

  “It is late,” Sonia said. “It is dark outside. I think I had better telephone around and make sure there is a room available.”

  “That would be very kind of you,” Priscilla said.

  “And you must stay to supper.” Sonia started telephoning, while Trotsky, belatedly, offered his visitors a drink.

  “How do you propose to get into Russia?” he asked.

  “By going to the Russian Embassy tomorrow morning and obtaining visas,” Priscilla said.

  “You think you can just do that?”

  “Certainly. We are both American citizens and we wish to visit Russia. We are not going to tell the embassy officials the real reason.”

  “Do you not think they will know?”

  “There is no reason they can know. My passport names me as Priscilla Mann. Grishka’s names her as Grishka Tamara, a Russian name. There are lots of Americans with Russian names.”

  Trotsky pulled his beard. “And when you have got into Russia?”

  “I am going to see Stalin, and make a personal appeal to him.”

  “You are mad.”

  “There we are,” Sonia said, hanging up. “I have obtained rooms for you at the Hotel Golden Horn. It is quite good. Expensive, but I do not suppose you are concerned about money?”

  “No,” Priscilla sa
id.

  Sonia sighed, as she thought how nice it would be to find herself in that position again. “I will prepare supper,” she said. “I am afraid there is no champagne.”

  “Allow me to help you, Your Highness,” Grishka said.

  “I can manage,” Sonia said. “I am not used to assistance.”

  “Seeing Stalin,” Trotsky said disparagingly. He sat down, opposite Priscilla, so that he could look at her while he spoke. “Well, I wish you joy.”

  There was a knock on the door.

  “I will get it,” Grishka said, determined to fulfil some useful role.

  “It will be a friend I met this afternoon,” Trotsky said. “Invite him in. You do not mind holding supper for half an hour, Sonia?”

  “It will not be ready for half an hour,” Sonia said.

  Grishka had disappeared into the lobby. They heard her unlock the door, and then a dull crump, followed by a heavy thud. Trotsky was on his feet in an instant, throwing himself across the room towards the bureau against the far wall. Sonia emerged from the kitchen, holding a frying pan. Priscilla turned in her seat to look at the door, which now crashed open to reveal Gosykin, gun in hand. He snarled, and fired at Trotsky. But Trotsky was turning on his knees, holding the automatic pistol he had taken from the bureau drawer. Andrei’s bullet missed him and smashed into the wall. Trotsky fired in return, and struck Andrei in the shoulder.

  Trotsky’s weapon was only a .22. It made very little noise, but the force of the impact spun Andrei round and caused him to drop his pistol. Trotsky fired again, but shot high as Andrei fell to his knees. Then he was back through the door, kicking it shut behind him. Trotsky lunged at the door, cannoning into Priscilla, who was also hurling herself at the door. They fell shoulder to shoulder, pulling the door inwards. Trotsky regained his knees, levelling the gun at the open hall door. Priscilla stumbled forward to fall again, beside Grishka. “Grishka!” she shouted. “Oh, Grishka!” But there was no response. Grishka had been struck in the chest by a .38 bullet, and was dead.

  The two women sat together on the settee, looking up for the first time in several minutes as the door opened and Trotsky came in. They had not slept, had sat on the settee all night, while people had moved around them. Priscilla would never have supposed the apartment building could have housed so many people, although some had come in off the street. The crowd had, like the police, been at once sympathetic and officious, but there had also been an air of I-told-you-this-would-happen. Priscilla suspected there was even some resentment that the Trotskys had been in residence at all, a catastrophe waiting to occur.