David Oldman - Dusk at Dawn

To Paul’s acute embarrassment everyone in the room had turned towards him, even the journalist, Frazer, to whom Paul had not even been introduced.

Kolchak asked Ward the name of the Russian officer in question.

‘Krasilnikov,’ said Ward.

‘And which of your officers has Colonel Krasilnikov supposedly threatened?’

Ward breathed deeply, adding both to his self-importance and his chest measurement.

‘Sufficient to say, an officer under my command.’

It was a poor fig leaf to be sheltering behind but one Paul was grateful for nevertheless.

Kolchak turned to Colonel Frank, the Russian liaison.

‘Do you know anything about this? Has Krasilnikov threatened Captain Rostov?’

Paul squirmed, his fig leaf torn away.

Frank’s expression was one of bored indifference.

‘A personal matter, Admiral. Concerning a lady, I believe.’

Kolchak smirked at Ward. ‘I can hardly be held responsible for disputes of the heart between fellow officers, Colonel. No doubt the matter will be settled as these things generally are between gentlemen.’ He glanced contemptuously in Paul’s direction. ‘In the event that Colonel Krasilnikov chooses to call out Captain Rostov, might I suggest we assume it to be the Russian half of the captain’s heritage that has caused Krasilnikov offence, rather than the British? That way no one’s national pride suffers injury.’

Paul was on the point of protesting that he had caused Krasilnikov no offence whatsoever — that it was far more likely to be his cousin who was behind the threat; but given that they were all looking at him again — Steveni in particular — Paul was afraid his argument would sound weak. And if he began blathering about details of his family background none of it would make much sense. He settled for silence and an orderly retreat.

Stretching credulity — even his own — Paul might have satisfied himself on a drawn engagement had not Ward immediately informed Kolchak that Paul would be leaving Omsk forthwith to resume his previous status as liaison officer to the Legion. Announcing this so soon after Kolchak had intimated that Krasilnikov might chose to challenge Paul to a duel, it turned what Paul might have imagined to be an orderly retreat into a rout, making his decision to go back to the Legion sound like an act of cowardice.

He should have had the presence of mind to inform Kolchak that there had been no question of Krasilnikov calling him out. Rather that the Cossack had taken the underhand opportunity of manufacturing a slight concerning Sofya’s affections to simply add Paul’s name to an existing list of those who were to be murdered.

But at the time he hadn’t had that presence of mind.

One reason was that Steveni was present. The meeting had been Paul’s first opportunity to take a look at the man. Until then, Steveni’s name had been all he had known, cropping up as it had ever since Paul had been in Russia.

He was aware that Steveni, like himself, had been born in Petersburg, although under what circumstances he didn’t know. He guessed Steveni to be a little older than he was, and judging by an incident or two during the meeting, that he spoke Russian well. Ward didn’t speak a word of Russian and, since both Kolchak and Frank knew English, the meeting was held in that language. On occasion, though, Kolchak had stumbled over a word or phrase. Where Frank was unable to help, Steveni had stepped into the breech, glancing at Paul as if to seek corroboration.

Throughout the meeting, the admiral made no attempt to hide the fact that he regarded the Legion with contempt. Contaminated by the opinions of his own staff officers, he had been persuaded that the Czechs and Slovaks were little more than a revolutionary rabble themselves — infected as they had been by the SRs’ egalitarian attitude to military discipline and having the temerity to choose for themselves when and where, and even for whom, they would fight. Kolchak left Paul in no doubt that it wasn’t the kind of army he was used to, where a conscript peasant could be flogged to death for an impertinent word to an officer. Nor was it the kind of army he envisaged leading in his crusade to return Holy Russia to her God-appointed proprietary class.

Colonel Frank had obviously shared the Supreme Governor’s vision for Russia. He spent much of the meeting clarifying points for Frazer who scribbled copious notes which, Paul fervently hoped, adhered to Ward’s injunction not to mention Paul’s name, given that his work in Russia was supposedly secret. Ward looked decidedly disgruntled by Kolchak’s vision of a return to autocracy, and not least by Nielson’s calm acceptance of such.

Steveni’s reaction was harder to read and, as the meeting broke up, Paul took the opportunity of leaving the carriage ahead of the others while they donned their heavy coats. Waiting outside the train trying to shelter from the freezing wind that was whistling through the parked rolling stock, he took Steveni aside as he stepped down from the carriage, heading towards Nikólskaya Square and his rooms in the building next to Stavka headquarters.

‘I was hoping for a word,’ Paul said.

Steveni was a little taller than Paul with a long angular face cut horizontally by a dark moustache.

‘I’ll walk you back to your rooms,’ Paul offered.

‘Best not,’ said Steveni. ‘Krasilnikov has friends at Stavka.’

‘I’m not sure there’s much to that story,’ Paul said lightly.

‘I’m rather afraid there is,’ Steveni said. He took Paul’s arm in his gloved hand and steered him along the length of Ward’s train into the shadows beyond the reach of the arc lights Ward had had erected to illuminate his perimeter. ‘Krasilnikov and your cousin mean to see you dead. You’ll be well-advised to return to the Legion as Ward suggested. No one will think the worse of you, old chap. And if there are those that do, their opinion won’t be worth having.’

Paul was glad the shadows prevented Steveni from seeing the colour rise in his face. Steveni’s remark confirmed that it hadn’t been just his own over-delicate sensibilities that had made his decision to return to the Legion look like pusillanimity.

‘You know who sent me here, don’t you?’ he said to Steveni.

Steveni smiled. ‘If you’re suggesting we are both working for the same man…’

‘And we’re not talking about General Knox.’

‘No, I don’t believe we are.’

‘I was given to understand you were on the general’s staff.’

‘And so I am,’ said Steveni. ‘But there are wheels within wheels, if you catch my meaning.’

It had dawned upon Paul during the meeting that Steveni still worked for Cumming. Valentine’s warnings to steer clear of Steveni and Nielson had been no more than a variation of Cumming’s injunction to keep away from all his other agents and anyone on the diplomatic side, like Cromie and Lockhart. At the time, Paul had supposed Cumming had wanted to keep Paul’s mission secret; now he believed it to be more a case of Cumming not wanting an amateur like Paul blundering in exposing more established agents. Everything, Cumming had told him, had to go through Hart, although it now appeared that Cumming’s injunction had not been in force in the reverse direction.

For a second, thinking of how he had almost been murdered in London and then on the steamer, Paul wondered if it might have been Steveni who had betrayed him. But no, that was ridiculous. Steveni was well in with Stavka , but it hadn’t been Stavka who wanted him dead — not at the time. It had been the Bolsheviks to whom his mission had been betrayed and Paul had begun to suspect the man responsible for that was Ransome. Perhaps not consciously but rather unconsciously — not so much in his sleep but while sleeping with his mistress. Trotsky’s former secretary, Evgenia Petrovna Shelepina might have been with Ransome in Finland by the time Paul had arrived in Petersburg, but Ransome had certainly known of his imminent arrival.