Дэвид Даунинг - The Dark Clouds Shining

The yard beyond the office was edged by a man-high brick wall. A grindstone offered a convenient leg up, but as Piatakov put his head above the parapet, a shout from above and behind him was followed by the sound of a vehicle driving into the yard ahead.

He dropped back down. “More militia,” he told Grazhin.

They retraced their steps, feeling the weight of the coins, meeting Brady on the way. Ahead of them a bullet pinged off the metal flank of a tram.

“Maybe there’s a way out on the other side of the shed,” Grazhin suggested between coughs.

“I’ll take a look,” Brady said, pulling the bag off his head, making his hair stand up. “Can’t see a goddamn thing with it on,” he muttered, before taking off across the yard and disappearing into the glass-roofed tram shed.

They could hear militia behind them now, on the far side of the factory wall. Piatakov waited until a head appeared; then he fired off two shots. The head’s disappearance was presumably instinctive, as he’d aimed deliberately high. It wasn’t so long ago he’d been fighting the Whites alongside men like these.

He turned in time to see Grazhin, following in Brady’s footsteps, caught by fire from the militia beyond the gates. As his comrade stumbled and fell, the heavy bag dropped from his hand, spilling its harvest of shiny coins between the tramlines.

Nasim’s gun barked in reply, followed by Chatterji’s and Piatakov’s own. Grazhin, cursing loudly, hobbled on into the shed, holding his thigh.

Brady emerged from the tram shed, and signaled that he’d found a way out. He helped Grazhin deeper into the shed, and then joined Shahumian in offering covering fire for those on the wrong side of the open yard.

Piatakov made it across, slamming into a tram with rather more force than he wanted to. Chatterji was right behind him.

Rafiq tripped on a rail, went down, and then scurried on without his share of the spoils. Coming up behind him, Nasim stooped to retrieve the bag, but was instantly hit by a fusillade of fire. Flung backward across the tramlines, he came to rest with his handsome face staring lifelessly up at the sky.

When Shahumian instinctively moved toward the body, another volley sent him scurrying back, clutching his left shoulder.

Piatakov stared at the dead Indian. A blue world.

A bullet exploded a tram windshield above their heads. The militiamen from the factory were over the wall.

“Move!” Brady shouted, leading them at a run down the line of trams in the wake of the struggling Grazhin. The door at the rear of the shed was open.

Beyond it was another walled yard. In the corner a long-disused gate led into a narrow strip of waste ground between factory and houses. At its end they could see someone strolling past on Shabolovka Street. Behind them the sounds of pursuit grew louder.

They went down the passage at a run, slowing to a halt where it ran into the street. For a short moment only the stroller was visible, approaching the crossroads; then two militiamen came rushing around the corner, almost knocking him over. As Brady’s gun boomed, dropping one and sending the other flying for cover, a shot from down the passage spun Rafiq against the wall.

Piatakov returned fire, pinning the pursuers down, then followed the others across the street and into the alley opposite. Rafiq had taken a bullet high in the chest; his face was the color of pastry. Shahumian was bleeding profusely, but swore it was only a flesh wound. Chatterji was now carrying both the remaining bags of coins, Grazhin leaning against a wall, holding his mask over his thigh wound and breathing heavily. Brady was reloading the Colt. “Keep moving,” he said. “I’ll keep the bastards’ heads down.”

“No,” Grazhin wheezed.

Piatakov hesitated.

“I can’t run,” Grazhin told him and Brady. “Leave this to me.” A smile flickered across his cadaverous face. “I’ve had enough,” he added laconically.

Brady looked at him, nodded almost absentmindedly, and turned away, pulling Piatakov after him. At the end of the alley, as they caught up with Aram, Rafiq, and Chatterji, Grazhin’s army pistol sounded twice in quick succession.

They all pocketed or belted their guns, crossed the deserted street in front of them, and took a turn to the north. Ahead of them the half-built Shukhov wireless tower was starkly silhouetted against the yellow evening sky. More shots echoed, sounding much farther away.

“We should split up,” Brady said.

Piatakov eased Shahumian’s bloody shirtup over his head, balled it up, and told the Armenian to hold it against his wound. As he placed a pan of water on the faintly glowing ring, Piatakov realized how angry he was feeling, with Brady, with the others, with himself. What had they all been thinking?

He told himself to calm down. What was that phrase of Caitlin’s—crying over spilled milk. He smiled to himself—when had they last seen milk?

On the other side of the room, Shahumian was flexing his shoulder.

“How does it feel?” Piatakov asked, carrying the candle across to get a better look at the wound. “It doesn’t seem serious.”

“It isn’t. I’ll be fine in a couple of days.”

“Assuming we haven’t been caught,” Piatakov said bitterly. “I should have spoken up. I knew it was a huge gamble, and I said nothing. Now Ivan Vasilyevich is dead; Nasim is dead; you and Rafiq are both wounded. I should have said something. Chatterji… I mean… why did he do it? Why not just knock the man out? And Brady… sometimes he seems like a madman. He was having the time of his life out there!”

“He was,” Shahumian agreed. “But that’s what makes him such a fighter. Isn’t that water ready yet?”

It was barely warm but would probably take a week to boil. Piatakov carried the pan across to his friend.

“I know what you mean, though,” Shahumian went on. “He really loves it. He was like that in Ukraine. And maybe you wouldn’t want him to marry your sister, but if you’re in real trouble…”

“And when he’s the one who got you into it?”

“He wasn’t. We all agreed, remember?” The Armenian winced as Piatakov cleaned the wound. “And don’t mourn for Ivan Vasilyevich,” he said a few moments later. “He was dying anyway—we all knew he was. And he made his death count.”

Piatakov was winding the improvised bandage around the Armenian’s waist. “I know, but…”

“This is not going to be easy, Sergei,” Shahumian interjected. “It will probably be the end of us. But if it is… Sergei, I lost my Anna, and I lost my children, and we’re losing the revolution they died for. I’m quite willing to give up my own life, but it sure as hell is going to cost someone.” He got to his feet, stood there testing his strength. “A blaze of glory, my friend,” he added softly. “If going down is all we can do, then we’ll do it in a blaze of glory.”

Caitlin put the magazine proofsaway in a drawer, stretched her arms above her head, and decided that was enough for the day. She’d been at work for over twelve hours, and all her colleagues had long since gone home. Rahima and her sister, who slept on a mattress in one of the upstairs rooms, were out at a Dutch comrade’s birthday party, but Fanya had made sure they had a key.

At least Caitlin was spared the walk home. She had a meeting at the Serpukhovskaya office early the next day, and Fanya had pointed out that she might as well take the department car home for the night and save herself a trip across the river in the morning.

It had been a good couple of days, she thought, as she gathered her things together, turned out the lights, and took the key from the hook in the antechamber. An up-and-down week, but one that had ended well. Since Caitlin’s sobering talk with Kollontai, Sergei had seemed almost his old self, as if he’d overheard the conversation and was trying to do better. They’d even had sex the previous night. Drunken sex admittedly, and not very good sex at that, but it was something. A new start perhaps.