Дэвид Даунинг - The Dark Clouds Shining

As he and Brady walkedacross the poorly lit town, Piatakov sifted through his memories of the man they were about to see. One stood out. They’d just retaken a village close to the Volga, where half the men were still lying dead in the streets, and most of the women looked like they wanted revenge on any available man for what the White soldiers had done to them. When Piatakov and Rogdayev had come across a young girl cowering in a barn, they had taken her to the nearest dwelling that was issuing smoke and, after shouting a warning, had cautiously walked in through the open front door. The woman they found inside had simply screamed abuse at them, and Rogdayev had screamed right back, whereupon the girl had bolted like a hare in the direction of the river. Their unit had stayed in the village for over a week, but they had never seen the girl again.

Rogdayev lived on Samarkandskaya Street, close to the border between the old and Russian towns. He opened the door himself and, after what seemed a moment’s hesitation, hugged his visitors and led them upstairs to a large, high-ceilinged room with several armchairs and a Persian rug. An open balcony overlooked the street and dried-up river.

The propaganda chief was a big man, almost as big as Brady, with a round face and short, pointed beard. His eyes were almost black and, as Piatakov now remembered, rarely showed any real warmth.

Rogdayev asked them where they were staying and then asked after Aram Shahumian, whom he’d known even longer than they had. He was certainly eager to talk about the past, and the slew of nostalgic anecdotes that followed began to seem suspicious. Why hadn’t Rogdayev asked what they were doing in Tashkent? Piatakov wondered. It was a strange omission, unless he already knew. Piatakov wondered if Brady had noticed and guessed that he probably had—the American didn’t miss much. At that moment he was reminding their host of an action two summers before, a skirmish in a Ukrainian hamlet in which Rogdayev had been badly wounded and carried to safety by Aram. Reminding him of what they’d shared, Piatakov supposed, or suggesting the guilt that would follow betrayal. It was the wrong tactic, he thought. Rogdayev was one of those people who never let beliefs and personal interests stray that far apart.

He was certainly playing the genial host, pouring generous slugs of vodka and laughing too loud at Brady’s jokes. “You’re very quiet,” he told Piatakov. “Missing your lovely wife, I expect?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I must make a telephone call,” he added abruptly, rising to his feet and walking across to the wall-mounted receiver.

Piatakov stiffened and saw Brady do the same, but neither of them moved. Rogdayev was still beaming at them, waiting for the connection. “At last,” he said, and gave the operator a number. “Pour yourselves another,” he told his two guests. “Alexander Ivanovich?” he said into the mouthpiece. “The booklets have arrived. Yes, today. Can you collect them at the station first thing in the morning? Fine. Good night.”

It sounded innocent enough, Piatakov thought, but in case it wasn’t, the appeal to their old comrade’s sense of loyalty would have to be quickly made.

Rogdayev was giving nothing away. “Stalin’s tract on the nationality problem,” he explained, reseating himself. “A strangely idealistic document, considering its source. But the Uzbeks here will be reassured, and that’s the main thing. You’ve heard of the Basmachi, I suppose? They’re mostly just brigands in the pay of the Turks, but they have to be defeated, and until they are we need to keep our Muslims happy.” He poured himself another measure and pushed the bottle toward them. “And now you must tell me what you’re doing in Tashkent.”

Brady hastened to do so, without going into specifics or mentioning the rendezvous in Samarkand. “We’re not challenging the party,” he said diplomatically. “We accept that there are limits to what can be achieved in the present circumstances, and we don’t want to criticize anyone, like yourself, who chooses to work within those limits. Each to his own—that’s fine. But we want to move on and do what we do best. And no matter what it says—or feels compelled to say—the party needs help from outside. It needs more revolutions.”

Rogdayev listened without interrupting, occasionally shaking his head. “I was afraid it would be something like this,” he said when Brady had finished. “I believe you are wrong; I have to say that. The old days are gone, comrades—we cannot fight forever. Why do you think I threw in my lot with the party—simply because I am an opportunist? Well, perhaps a little”—a self-deprecating smile—“but that wasn’t what made up my mind. Lenin is not infallible, his subordinates even less so, but do you know of any better leaders for this country of ours? We have won, and we must make the best of our victory. You seem—forgive me, but we are old comrades, and I will be frank—you seem to be simply running away the moment things get difficult. Like knights who move heaven and earth to free a damsel in distress, then leave her locked in the tower because she has a few pimples on her face. Pimples can be treated once the damsel is free.”

“And what if her face is truly ugly?” Brady asked softly.

“Then perhaps we are talking about a different damsel.” Rogdayev looked into his glass. “You will do what you think is right. You do not need my blessing.”

“No, but we do need your help,” Brady said. “Travel money.”

Rogdayev laughed, but Piatakov heard no humor in the sound. “And you think I have rubles to spare? We fought together, and as I remember it, we never received a single day’s pay for the privilege.”

“We don’t want your money, Vladimir Sergeievich. Moscow must fund your work here, and a few hundred rubles won’t be missed. What better propaganda could Lenin ask for than another revolution in Asia?”

Rogdayev paused before answering, and in that space of silence, all three men heard the approaching car. The gun that appeared in his hand must have been hidden under his cushion. “I am sorry,” he said without much conviction.

“But your loyalty is now to the party,” Piatakov sneered.

“There was a time when you didn’t find that reprehensible,” Rogdayev retorted.

“We must never forget Vedenskoye,” Brady said quietly.

“What are you talking about?” Rogdayev asked.

Piatakov’s mind went blank for a moment, but then he remembered. The maneuver Brady had taught him three years before, which he claimed had been invented out west by two notorious outlaw brothers. And which had actually saved them only a few weeks later, in that tiny village not far from the Volga. Vedenskoye.

Back then, in the summer of 1918, a White officer had been holding the gun, an arrogant little bastard who couldn’t have been much more than twenty.

Piatakov leaned forward to put his glass on the table, then suddenly threw himself backward, upturning the chair and falling behind it.

A shot crashed out. Piatakov scrambled to his feet to find Rogdayev slumped back, a large bloody hole under his left eye. Brady was pushing the Colt back into the waistband of his shirt, a businesslike look on his face.

“This way,” the American said, walking out onto the balcony. “It’s not a long drop.”

“No,” Piatakov said. He could hear feet on the street outside, orders being shouted.

“What then?”

“They’d be right behind us. We have to take their car.”

Brady grinned. “Good idea.”

There were feet on the stairs. Brady and Piatakov positioned themselves on either side of the door and listened as the men outside decided to knock it down. They came in with a rush, almost tumbling over one another.