The Adventure of the Peculiar Protocols

by Nicholas Meyer

  Walling flushed uncomfortably, confirming Holmes’s intuition.

  “The plight of Jews in Russia, to which my wife first brought my attention (we met working at the Hull Settlement House in New York),” he inserted parenthetically, “is grotesquely similar to that of the American Negro. My family, as you have deduced, formerly owned slaves.”

  His clouded countenance gave evidence of tortured guilt. “Cossacks or members of the Klan make little difference. All victims of injustice suffer alike.”

  Holmes and I exchanged glances.

  “Da. Oh, yes,” Anna Strunsky said, following our look. “Is true. In America, Negro is treated like Jew in Russia. Hang. Burn. Slave. Rape.”

  I could feel myself turning scarlet at her blunt use of the word.

  “In America, we have ‘race riot,’” she added, ignoring my blush. “Is no different.”

  Holmes, I knew, seldom read any international news. On the other hand, I could not pretend ignorance of the phrase.

  “Are you familiar with the journalist Theodor Herzl and his writings?” the detective inquired.

  “Herzl?” Their eyebrows arched in unison.

  “Are you Zionists?”

  The question took both by surprise.

  “Not at all,” Walling responded, as though irritated with us for having failed to grasp his meaning. His wife leaned forward to clarify.

  “We are Socialist,” she said proudly.

  “Capitalism will be the death of democracy,” her husband added.

  “Who said that?” I wondered.

  He appeared puzzled. “I did.”

  His wife, seeing things becoming confused, struck in. “English and me, we study conditions in Russia to understand solution in America.” She broke off to say something to her husband again in Russian then turned brightly back to us. “Now we understand how to do.”

  “Fortunately in America there is no Tsar to stop us.” Walling smiled.

  Their faces radiated a youthful idealism that struck a pang. When I first set out for Afghanistan, had I, too, been a believer?

  “Stop you from—?” Holmes was conscientiously applying butter to his muffin, but I knew he was registering their every word.

  “We are formin’ a new organization with Mr. Du Bose* to help American Negroes protect and defend their rights,” Walling said.

  “Will be called”—Mrs. Walling took a portentous breath—“National Association for Advancement of Coloured Peoples.”** Her husband smiled indulgently.

  “It’s a bit long,” he chided her.

  “If I can say!” Anna Strunsky exclaimed, at which point they broke into companionable laughter. In that moment I perceived that more than ideology bound them. Holmes, however, was not to be dissuaded. He set aside his muffin.

  “When you were in Russia, learning about the plight of Jews there,” he asked casually, “did you visit Odessa?”

  “Of course. We were also in Moscow, St. Petersburg, Kiev…”

  “We meet Count Tolstoy!” Mrs. Walling smiled at the recollection. “Count Tolstoy very great man. He tell us, ‘Read Emerson! Read ‘Civil Disobedience’! I say, ‘We know Emerson! Emerson American!’”

  “He does not wish us to use his title,” Walling corrected her. “We were always to address him as simply Lev Nikolaevich.”

  She shrugged indifferently. “Count Tolstoy say, ‘Lead simple life,’ but in Yasnaya Polyana life not so simple.”

  “His plantation,”*** Walling explained, a trifle self-conscious and perhaps, it did not escape my notice, amused. “When we sat down to luncheon, a butler announced, ‘Plowing is served.’”Holmes reached into his pocket and withdrew some papers familiar to me.

  “Have either of you ever seen anything like this in a Russian newspaper?” he inquired, lowering his voice.

  Sitting beside one another and leaning so their temples almost touched, the couple scanned the pages. Anna Strunsky extracted a pair of glasses, rendering her yet more mortal. She evidently had no difficulty reading English, for she frowned in recognition at what she saw on the page.

  Walling looked up almost at once.

  “We did see something like this in a newspaper, almost a year ago. It was in Russian, not English, of course. I speak some Russian, as you hear, but don’t read it.” He cast a fond glance at his wife. “Mrs. Walling translated it for me.”

  “Was it titled ‘The Protocols of the Wise Elders of Zion’?” the detective prompted.

  “That’s right. I remember now. The hateful thing was serialized, day after day.” He shook his head at the memory and translated for the benefit of his wife, but she was having no difficulty following our discussion. His words produced an agitated expostulation from the lady in Russian, to which he responded, “Da, da,” several times, which I took to mean yes.

  “Do you remember where you read them?” Holmes asked, then held up a hand. “No, don’t tell me. Was it in Kishinev? Did you stop in Kishinev?”

  The couple’s mood darkened instantly.

  “We did. How did you guess?”

  Holmes chose to ignore the temptation to dilate on the subject of guessing.

  “Please think very carefully now. It is of the utmost moment. What was the name of the newspaper that printed the Protocols?”

  They conferred in an undertone, then brightened. Anna Strunsky Walling addressed us in firm tones. “Newspaper was Bessarabets. Published in Kishinev,” she added emphatically.

  Holmes gazed at her directly now.

  “Mrs. Walling, I cannot begin to tell you how helpful you have been.”

  * * *

  11 January. The following morning, in a driving rain, Juliet accompanied me the short distance to Victoria Station. There seems scarcely any point in describing our melancholy final evening together. At supper we made desultory conversation, and later, while I packed, she sat and watched from the day bed. Her eyes widened but she said nothing when she saw I included in my luggage my Webley Bulldog and a box of .422 cartridges. I judged my old Adams .450 calibre centre-fire service revolver too bulky for the occasion, and the Bulldog I oiled regularly.

  “At least pack the cartridges separately,” was her only remark. It was a good suggestion, and I took it, shaking out the bullets before stuffing the revolver in the toe of one boot and concealing my supply of ammunition in several rolled socks. If I was stopped at a frontier with a weapon in my possession, I could always point out that it was unloaded.

  Sleep was a restless affair, with much turning and tossing, but at last we drifted off. In the morning the smell of coffee in the kitchen helped wake us. Maria had made a proper breakfast for my leave-taking. By daylight, Juliet and I chatted brightly and inconsequentially. It was clear neither of us relished the prospect of a maudlin parting.

  “I shall miss you and your omelets, Maria,” said I, folding my napkin and inserting it into its ring.

  “Come back soon, sir. I’ll look after the missus while you’re away.”

  “Thank you, Maria.”

  Following breakfast, as I was slipping on my greatcoat in the entryway, Juliet surprised me with a gift.

  “My dear,” I began.

  “Try it on, John.” She did her best to smile.

  I put on my new hat, a lovely grey homburg. It fitted wonderfully.

  “John, it is most becoming!”

  “Dearest, how thoughtful.”

  “Stay warm in Russia, John.”

  At the station Mycroft was waiting with further instructions concerning our route and more paperwork to facilitate it. Like a nervous mother sending her youngest off to Eton, he fussed and showed me our itinerary with stops scored with thick pencil.

  “When you reach Paris, you have a layover before you catch the Orient Express. You are at the Hotel Esmeralda.”

  “I know, Mycroft.”

  “Rue Saint-Julien-le-Pauvre.”

  “Mycroft—”

  “There are stops at Strasbourg, Munich, Vienna, Budapest, then Bucharest. D
on’t disembark at Bucharest whatever you do. The pickpockets there are legendary. Stay aboard all the way to Varna. And remember: your return is booked on the second of February. If you miss that connection you must wait another ten days for the train’s return.”

  Holmes joined us in time to hear this advice. He was fumbling with two suitcases, his violin, and Constance Garnett’s translation of War and Peace given him by my Juliet.

  Mycroft looked around. Daylight did not agree with him. “I’m off,” he informed us. “Sherlock, take good care. And good hunting.”

  To my astonishment, the burly fellow caught his brother up in an awkward but fervent embrace before walking briskly away, instinctively losing himself in the throng. I don’t think I quite grasped the danger into which we might be placing ourselves until I beheld that ursine hug.

  Whistles were shrieking, announcements being made. Travelers were scrambling aboard.

  “Now, boys,” said Juliet, putting on a bright face. “Remember you are no longer boys. No larking about. Be careful.”

  “We will,” Holmes and I dutifully chorused, though under his breath I distinctly heard Holmes murmur, “But boys will be boys.” Aloud he said only, “We’re in wagon-lit number four, compartments twelve and fourteen. I’ll see you there, Watson.”

  He made as if to offer my wife a kiss on the cheek but evidently thinking better of it, snapped her a smart shake of her gloved hand before boarding the train.

  Juliet and I faced each other. We both knew communication between us from this point would be problematic, at best. It had been arranged I would write c/o poste restante, but there was no way she could answer.

  “Come back,” she said simply.

  “I promise.”

  I gathered her in my arms and then, fumbling with my bags, took refuge aboard wagon-lit number four. Almost at once the Continental Boat Express squealed to life. Vaguely, as I made my way down the narrow passageway, I wondered why Holmes had secured two compartments when we typically required but one.

  Instead of entering compartment twelve, I stayed at the window, watching Juliet as she walked alongside.

  “Take care!” she repeated. “Stay warm!”

  “Stay dry!” It was all I could think of to say.

  The train now moved faster than she could keep pace, and I saw her figure diminishing as we left the platform behind. There was nothing for it but to drag my bags into the compartment and heave them up on the racks.

  It wasn’t until I had completed the task that I turned and beheld Anna Strunsky seated on one of the green cushions at the window, facing forward.

  “You will need a translator,” said the stunning woman.

  She now had only the trace of a Slavic accent.

  Behind me, I heard Sherlock Holmes offer a low chuckle.

  PART TWO

  RUSSIA

  7.

  OKHRANA

  “This is monstrous!”

  “Now, Watson—”

  “Holmes, have you taken leave of your senses?”

  My companion could not conceal his amusement as he shrugged off his coat.

  “Come, you will admit we require the services of a translator. Even Mycroft acknowledged as much.”

  I bit my lip to prevent commenting on just how easy I imagined it must have been for that chilly dispenser of “superfluous damage” to consign Anna Walling to sacrifice herself for a “grateful nation”—notwithstanding that nation was not hers.

  “But we can’t just—” I turned to the lady, who was watching us with the disinterested expression of an impartial observer at a tennis match. “And what has become of your accent, madame?”

  Anna Strunsky Walling offered an enigmatic smile, feline in a way that put me queasily in mind of the Cheshire cat. It was the first of many queasy moments to come.

  “I exaggerate it from time to time. It has proved useful.” The accent may have diminished, yet her throaty purr remained.

  She wore a becoming dark blue travel ensemble with something white at the throat and, as I watched, calmly unpinned her rakishly brimmed hat and set it on her lap. I swung back to the detective. Given his lifelong mistrust of her sex, I could not fathom this unprecedented volte-face.

  “It took some doing,” he admitted, evidently anticipating my confusion, “but in the end Mrs. Walling was the logical choice. Her Russian is fluent, her visas already in order, and her…” He paused for the word. “… credentials, unique.”

  “And my bags were already packed,” the lady pointed out.

  “And Mr. Walling?”

  “Is presently on the high seas, bound for New York. When the situation was explained to him by no less a personage than”—here she cast a look at Holmes—“a member of the Diogenes, he was … content to approve my … participation. Mr. Walling and I…” She paused. “… respect and make allowances for one another as individuals.” Seeing what must have been a look of consternation on my face, she added simply, “I am accustomed to making my way in the world.” As if to emphasize this point, she fished a cigarette from her purse and lit it with practiced gestures.

  I confess I could not understand much of what she said, but there was no mistaking the confident manner in which she said it.

  Indifferent to the pelting rain, the train was now rattling at a goodly clip, and I was obliged to grasp a handhold to remain upright. It was easier to grasp a handhold than the situation. There seemed little I could say and less point attempting to say it. I spared a thought for Juliet, wincing to think of her response should Anna Strunsky’s role in this business ever come to light.

  Holmes, who had settled on the opposite side of the window, facing backward (and incidentally in the direction of Mrs. Walling), now packed Balkan Sobranie into a black briar with which I was unfamiliar.

  “Let us review the data,” he suggested, shaking out his match. At a loss, I subsided onto the seat nearest the compartment door. “In the town of Kishinev a newspaper called—?” Here he addressed Mrs. Walling.

  “Bessarabets,” she reminded him.

  “Just so. This Bessarabets publishes, in serial form, the alleged minutes of a secret conclave of Jews conspiring to take over the world, a French copy of which makes its way to London at a frightful cost, where it falls into Mycroft’s hands.” Before giving Anna Walling the opportunity to pursue this cryptic reference, Holmes withdrew one of the now crumpled pages translated by Constance Garnett and read aloud from what he found there: “We will not permit any religion espousing a sole God except our own. As we are the Chosen People, we are destined to rule. Etcetera.” He shrugged and blew aromatic smoke, whose familiarity, I acknowledge, had a calming effect on me. “Upon closer examination, these Protocols reveal themselves to have been slavishly copied in Russian from a French pamphlet written forty years earlier by one Maurice Joly, during the reign of the Emperor Napoleon III and directed at him rather than against any so-called gentile oppression. But as we may reasonably infer, whoever translated the version my brother entrusted to Mrs. Garnett and myself had no knowledge of Joly’s tract. ‘Our’ French translation came from the series of Russian newspaper articles read by you and your husband, Mrs. Walling, while in Russia. Whoever was behind ‘our’ translation, the one Watson shared with Mrs. Garnett, clearly had no idea the Russian text from which he’d worked had been plagiarized from an obscure tract written by another Frenchman on another topic in another age. It was Mrs. Garnett who fortuitously recognized the theft. And it was you, Doctor, who distinguished the translations by noting what appeared to be the superfluous substitution of meaningless alternate language in what we may term the ‘Russian version.’”

  “With its references to ‘tsar’ instead of ‘emperor,’ etcetera,” Mrs. Walling noted.

  “Translation is a tricky business,” Holmes observed, placing the tips of his fingers together in his accustomed fashion. “Cervantes once said that reading something in translation is like looking at a Flemish tapestry wrong side out. The image may be the
re, but is obscured by a great many dangling threads. How many different equivalent combinations of words may various translators working in different eras in different languages have recourse to in order to produce an approximation of the original sentence? In the present instance, we have a French original translated and plagiarized into Russian and then translated back into French again by someone else. In our case, the change of wording from ‘noxious’ to ‘odious,’ from ‘overturn’ to ‘overthrow,’ etcetera, proves to be merely the caprice of a different translator.”

  With a determined effort, I shook off my lethargy of shock, finally getting into the spirit of the thing and recalling the purpose of our journey.

  “But events prove there were in fact regular meetings of Jews in Switzerland over the last five years, though they were by no means secret,” said I. “Again, on closer examination, these congresses appear to have been devoted not to a conspiracy of world domination, of whatever definition, but rather the more prosaic search for a Jewish homeland. Yet the architect of these meetings, a passionate Zionist, drops prematurely dead from what may or may not have been a heart ailment just before being interviewed by … an employee of the Diogenes.”

  “Splendid, Watson. I am reminded anew of your narrative abilities. If only you wouldn’t embellish,” he added, his eyes twinkling mischievously. On the chase, the detective was obviously in high spirits.

  “I don’t embellish,” I insisted, annoyed at this charge he always laid at my door. “I include colour.”

  I leaned over both of them and slid open the transom above the window. The air was frigid and wet, but the aperture did serve quickly to rid the compartment of smoke.

  “You write very well, Doctor,” Mrs. Walling interjected, stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray. “Don’t let him get under your skin.”

  I could not make her out. Still less could I understand her husband’s willingness to allow his wife to venture alone back into the mouth of the Russian bear in what very possibly were its death throes. The thought of allowing Juliet to do any such thing, no matter how worthy or urgent the cause, was beyond my capacity to envision.