Ian Hocking - The Amber Rooms

‘No.’

‘Mr Mirsky—’

Kamo strained at his leather straps. ‘Who told you my name?’

The case officer cocked his head, as though listening. ‘So. You wish me to think that we have guessed your name correctly. That only tells me that we haven’t. What is your name, my friend, if not Mirsky?’

‘I am the Tsar, you fool! But you may call me Nicholas—Nicholas the Last!’ Kamo laughed. ‘I demand to be returned to my estate in Poland.’ He assumed a serious expression. ‘There, I will apply myself carnally to the Tsarina.’

The case officer stared at him. He nodded to somebody behind Kamo, who walked around the chair: a short man in overalls. He did not look Kamo in the eye as he pushed Kamo’s legs apart, then tightened the straps so that they could not move.

‘The assistant will now remove your cock. It is a simple procedure, and you need not fear for your life. You just have to keep your legs crossed once the operation is complete. Is that not so, Jablonski?’

The man in overalls said nothing. But he took the bulb of Kamo’s penis between the index finger and thumb of his glove hand, nonchalant as a barber turning a chin for a close shave, and held a knife to its root.

The case officer held up his hand.

‘Only your cock will go, my friend. The rest of your equipment will function normally. Can you imagine a lifetime tormented by a growing desire but no outlet to satisfy it?’

‘No,’ said Kamo, ‘but if you are set on finding out, let us telephone your wife and ask her to describe the sensation.’

The case officer began to roll a cigarette. Midway through the procedure, he flicked his hand at the overalled man, who sheathed his knife and undid the straps around Kamo’s legs. Each leg was held until the straps were tightened once more, in case Kamo wished to kick the man in the face, which indeed he did.

‘So,’ said the case officer. ‘We have each spent many hours in such airless rooms. Let us dispense with the gambits and proceed directly to the endgame. You want, no doubt, to know whether I have the power to save you from Stolypin’s necktie. I do. I have assurance that your sentence will be considered for commutation if you supply suitable answers. You know what this means. We say to the magistrate, well, our friend is no criminal; he is a political. He wanted to avenge, say, the unlawful hanging of a dissident. Let him spend some years in Siberia, thinking hard.’

‘What kind of suitable information?’

‘I don’t care how you gained access to the Summer Palace. I don’t care where you obtained your handsome uniform. I want your identity. I want the identity of the woman who escaped, and the boy she was carrying. I want to know why you risked entry to the Summer Palace in the first place.’

Ah, Saskia, he thought. If only you had let slip the secret of that room. I would love to toss you as a scrap to these jaws.

‘You ask the earth, and I am a humble man with nothing but my beautiful smile.’

The case officer lit his cigarette, drew upon it, and expelled the smoke towards the sunlight. ‘There is such a small chance of your survival. Take it.’

Kamo said, ‘I am resigned to death, my friend. I am absolutely calm in the face of it. Already, there should be grass growing six feet high on my grave. One can’t escape death forever. One must die. But I will try my luck once more and, perhaps, one day, I’ll laugh at my enemies again.’

‘Is that your final word?’

‘You have it,’ said Kamo.

‘Then I must send you to a brutal individual. His name is Draganov and he has never failed to break a man.’

Kamo laughed. ‘Draganov!’ He strained at his straps. ‘Draganov!’ The laughter grew. Spit erupted and his throat convulsed. His snorts came high and low. Kamo howled at the high window and they struck the vault of his skull and his lights were out before the sensation reached that part of him that laughed, that bubbled with delight.

The Cossacks stood in a semicircle with their backs to the forest. They wore skirted coats and fur hats. Each was armed with a rifle, sword, daggers, and pistols. Kamo had dragged himself upright against the hanging tree and was resting his head against his shoulder, as though his injuries were severe. He hoped that his bloody face would aid in the illusion. His right hand was thrust beneath his jacket.

‘Who are you?’ asked Kamo, though he knew well. They were Cossacks of the Kuban Host.

The men said nothing.

‘Come,’ said Kamo. ‘Are you soldiers?’

He could not judge their mood. Were they disappointed that their trap had sprung on only one poor Bolshevik?

A man from the centre of the group said, ‘Your papers.’

Kamo smiled. There was blood on his chin. He could feel it cooling. His papers, such as they were, had been loaned by a school friend. Perhaps his confidence betrayed him; the officer did not repeat his request. In the silence, a little snow fell from the tree.

‘Who will search me?’ asked Kamo. ‘Will it be you, officer?’ He moved his eyes around the group. ‘You? Or you?’ He waggled the hand behind his jacket. ‘Maybe I have something for you.’

The faces of the men remained blank.

‘If it is a bomb,’ said the officer, ‘show us.’

Kamo spat, ‘If I were a revolutionary, would I give you your evidence so easily? No, friend.’

‘Choose your words carefully,’ said the officer. ‘I have the moral advantage.’

‘What moral advantage can you have when your trap is honeyed by a boy?’

The man raised his rifle to hip height and shot at the snow between Kamo’s knees.

‘That’s for your insolence,’ said the officer. ‘Look behind you.’

Frowning, Kamo turned. Dmitri had made it one third of the way across the lake before the ice had broken. He was floating, quite dead, supported by the air trapped beneath his jacket.

‘That is truly sad,’ said Kamo. ‘We should be ashamed of our times, and what our State has brought us to.’

‘Thank you,’ said the officer. He seemed relieved that their conversation was over. ‘We will hang you for that. Now, give us a statement and my friend Oleg will write it down.’

‘All this for me?’ asked Kamo. ‘You must be disappointed.’

For the first time, the Cossacks looked unsure. There is something in this, thought Kamo. If I were Soso, I could smoke this out.

‘Listen, fine and brave Cossacks of the Kuban Host,’ said Kamo. An unease was growing among them. ‘“Thrust out your chests to the moon / With outstretched arms, and revere / The spreader of light upon the earth!”’

‘That’s it,’ said the officer. ‘String him up for a fucking poet.’

A black shape fell upon the Cossack at the edge of the semicircle and the man collapsed in an explosion of snow. There was an instant of silence. Then, before could Kamo work out what had happened, the Cossacks were turning as one and the black shape, a hard contrast to the snow, seemed to spiral up from the ground like a dervish.

Kamo did not understand how a woman, or even a circus strongman, could survive such a fall without injury. Neither did he understand how she had returned to such conspicuous life after a hanging. But he did understand that death had moved one step away from him. Indeed, death had now taken the form of this creature. She knocked aside the rifle of the next Cossack in the line, struck his ribs with two hard elbow strikes, caught his rifle, and discharged it into his chest. The man was dead before he fell. Likewise the Cossack behind him, whose throat was burst by the same projectile.