Evelyn Weiss - Murder and Revolution

Lord Buttermere taps the handrail. “It’s funny, Miss Frocester – a British battleship named after the victorious Greek leader in the Trojan War. I don’t think Kılıç Pasha will appreciate the irony, though.”

“I agree – although I remember Agamemnon himself came to a sticky end. But what will happen to Kılıç now?”

“We’ll put him on trial, for the murders committed by his troops during the Battle of Baku. But he would prefer that, instead of being handed over to a mob in Istanbul. The people of Turkey have finally found out about Talaat’s atrocities. Unless he and his henchmen manage to escape from Turkish territory, they will all be executed – or lynched.”

“Thank you for last night.”

“That’s quite all right. I just wish I’d been able to prevent Kılıç’s final nasty stunt.”

After the shots were fired, I opened my eyes. Everything was still the same: Yuri and Axelson tied to the stakes beside me, facing the three soldiers with their guns, and Kılıç standing by them. I saw the ancient ruins all around us, looming through that strange, dim light that comes just before daybreak. A growing chorus of birdsong rang out in the scented dawn air.

Then the soldiers threw down their rifles, and Kılıç dropped his revolver. Here and there, human figures appeared above the ramparts of Troy. I heard Lord Buttermere’s voice.

“Kılıç Pasha, I told you a few moments ago to untie these prisoners and release them unharmed.

You have not kept your side of the bargain. I heard you whispering your instructions to your men – before you shouted your apparent order to fire. A mock execution by firing over the heads of your captives! – a stupid, theatrical act of cruelty.

But since your three prisoners are still alive, I will keep my side of our deal. Here are the two warrants for your arrest that I told you about a few minutes ago.”

Lord Buttermere held up two sheets of paper, white squares in the growing dawn light.

“The first warrant, as I explained to you, Kılıç Pasha, was issued in Istanbul by the new government of Turkey. It accuses you of murder and treason. It authorises your capture and summary trial – and execution, if found guilty.

The other warrant is issued by the British government. It requests that you help us with our enquiries about events in Baku in September. General Dunsterville, who managed to survive the fighting, has submitted his report of events. But we do want to give you a fair hearing, and listen to your side of the story. And I’m very grateful that you have spared the lives of your prisoners. So, I will disregard the Istanbul warrant of arrest.”

Buttermere took one of the sheets and tore it in two, before continuing.

“If you look around, you will see that the ruins of Troy are now surrounded by armed sailors of the Royal Navy. They will take you and your men aboard our ship. The prison cell on HMS Agamemnon is not comfortable, but you will be glad of it. For you, it is much safer than any place on Turkish soil.”

Yuri and the professor join us on the deck, smiling broadly. Lord Buttermere greets them, but then, hands behind his back, he saunters away. He’s giving the three of us time to talk.

The professor is the first to speak.

“Yesterday in the Sultan’s Fortress, I was taken away from you two. So I never got a chance to tell you my good news. You received a letter recently, didn’t you, Miss Agnes, from Mr du Pavey?”

“I did. Have you had a letter from him too?”

“Mine is more recent than yours.” The professor grins. “Rufus has fresh news for us. He is leaving Yeravan, and travelling to England. Mariam Sarafian will accompany him. As you know, Mr du Pavey is unlikely ever to marry. But he states the firm intention of legally adopting Mariam as his daughter. He also plans to travel as soon as he can to the United States with her, to visit the missionaries Mr and Mrs Clements in Flagstaff, Arizona. They returned there after the Bolsheviks expelled them from Russia.”

Yuri laughs. “What will Rufus’s aristocratic English family think, Professor?”

“I can imagine some raised eyebrows from his father and brother at Breckland Court. But as the second son of the du Pavey family, he will not inherit the estate. And, with a daughter, he is perhaps less of an embarrassment to his family than as a forever single ‘confirmed bachelor’, as they euphemistically say in England.”

The professor smiles to himself. But he too, like Lord Buttermere, now wanders off along the deck, leaving Yuri and I together.

“So, Agnes, will you return to the States?”

“The war is over here, and it will be over in Europe too, in a few days. So, yes – I will go home. But what about you, Yuri?”

“Well – ” I feel him take my hand. “I’m rather hoping the United States Immigration Department may look favourably on a man who can ride horses and drive trucks. I just hope they will not suspect me as a Bolshevik spy, when I tell them I must write regular letters to my mother in Astrakhan. I think my skills would be useful in the western States – cattle ranching, perhaps?”

I realise that my face is beaming with joy, as he carries on.

“But if I am given my own free choice of where to live, Agnes, there is a particular place I have in mind. A small town, with a thriving, well-run corner drugstore, in rural Connecticut.”

I look up into Yuri’s face. The sky behind his tousled hair is dizzyingly blue, like a dream of Heaven. But I hear a polite cough – and the voice of Lord Buttermere, back from his walk around the deck.

“Yesterday, you were prisoners. Today, we are all on holiday. I suggest a picnic.”

“On the battleship?”

“The battleship will be anchoring in the harbor in a few minutes. We have permission to use one of the ship’s boats. So we can row out to the shore of the island of Lemnos. We even have a hamper of food for our picnic. A dinner was held on board last night for the ambassadors of Britain and Turkey. There are quite a lot of leftovers.”

An hour later, Yuri and Lord Buttermere row our boat ashore, amid gently rippling waves. This place is called Fanari. Between rocky headlands crowned with cypresses and olive groves, a perfect curve of sand is dazzlingly white. The water is crystal clear, pale where it shelves onto the beach, deepening to a cobalt-blue horizon. We unpack the wicker picnic hamper, and Lord Buttermere opens a bottle of champagne. We clink our glasses together, and call a toast “To Peace!” As Axelson sips his drink, he looks at Buttermere’s slim, slight figure.

“I did not think of you as a rower, Lord Buttermere!”

“When I was a student, I was cox of the Cambridge boat. We had three victories over Oxford; happy days. So I don’t usually row, but I know a little of the technique…”

I see another small boat among the waves, rowing towards us. It appears to have come, like us, from HMS Agamemnon, which I can see anchored in the distance.

The boat pulls up on the sand next to ours. Four men hold oars; I recognise the all-too familiar uniforms of Red Guards. But they remain seated. Out of the boat get three other people. I recognize the first straight away: it’s General Aristarkhov. Following him closely, and once again smartly dressed, is Mr Bukin.

But it’s the third figure to emerge from the boat that surprises me. It’s Emily.

I greet her warmly, and open my arms to give her a hug. She responds with a cool handshake and a thin smile. But I can’t help grinning at her.

“I’m so pleased to see you, Emily! Why on earth are you in Greece?”

There are introductions all round. But none of our party have any idea why these three people are here. Despite the warmth of the Aristarkhov’s and Bukin’s smiles, there’s an atmosphere, a kind of frost of suspicion, between our two groups. But when General Aristarkhov proffers his hand to me, I shake it politely. He explains Emily’s presence.