David Oldman - Dusk at Dawn

He sat down and lit another cigarette, wondering if Pinker would realise he’d been through his case. He’d left the contents in a bit of a jumble, stuffing them back in like that, but perhaps the man wouldn’t notice. If he did, Paul supposed he’d just have to deny it.

Some newspapers lay on the table next to him and he picked up The Times . It was that morning’s issue, Monday 22nd July, and he supposed they’d been brought on board first thing before they sailed. He glanced out of habit at the casualty lists on the front page, tucked away as they always were amid the personal columns is if it might be hoped they would pass unnoticed. He was checking that he knew no one among the recent dead when Turner arrived with his tea.

‘Just put it down,’ Paul said. ‘I’ll see to it.’

‘Right sir,’ Turner said, laying the tray on the table. ‘Wonderful news this morning, isn’t it?’

‘News?’ he looked up but the steward had already turned back towards the dining room.

Paul poured himself a cup from the pot, added the milk and stirred in the sugar. Taking a sip, he returned to the paper and looked down the index to see what the steward meant. It caught his eye immediately:

Page five, Nicholas II. Memoir.

The hairs on Paul’s neck bristled. He put his cup down and turned to page five.

The ex-Tsar of Russia has been murdered by the Bolsheviks. The Russian account of the crime appears in the next page.

Dazed, he read quickly on through details of Nicholas’ birth and accession to the throne and an account of his reign. Frustratingly it said nothing about his death.

Paul skimmed through to the end where it concluded with a trite story about how the new Tsar’s sceptre had fallen to the ground during Nicholas’s coronation and how one of the Grand Dukes had referred to the incident as ‘an omen’.

Paul had never believed in omens and was reaching for his tea before turning the page when he saw that the article following the memoir to Nicholas was headlined:

THE CZECHO-SLOVAK ADVANCE.

His teacup clattered over onto the tray, spilling tea. The story was by-lined Vladivostok, July 18th.

Forty thousand Czecho-Slovaks hold the railway lines between Samara and Irkutsk, detachments occupying Novo-Nicolaievsk, Tomsk and Krasnoyask, where it is assumed the Bolshevists have been overthrown. It is presumed that the Czech-Slovaks are moving eastward, as their rear is secured in the direction of Irkutsk…

The rest seemed to be a confused account of the opposing forces and their deployment. A political summary followed, couched in the usual opaque language of The Times … the Siberian Provisional Government were pledged to convoke a Siberian Constituent Assembly once the country was cleared of the Bolsheviks… they opposed the Legion’s advance under General Horvarth towards Vladivostok…

‘Are you feeling all right, sir?’

Paul jumped. Turner was standing at his elbow and began mopping the spilt tea with a dishcloth.

‘Shall I fetch you another cup?’

Paul turned to page six.

The report had been taken from a statement issued by an organisation called the Presidium of the Ural Regional Council. They had decided to shoot the tsar, they explained, as Ekaterinburg was being threatened by Czecho-Slovak ‘bands’ and because a counter-revolutionary conspiracy had been uncovered. There was a further paragraph or two of self-justification, ending with the announcement that ‘the wife and son of Romanoff have been sent to a place of security’. The date of execution was given as July 16th.

Paul read through it all once more. There was no indication given as to when the news had first reached England, and there was nothing more in the paper about the tsar or the Legion, only a piece reporting news of Allied landings on the Murman coast and the blustering threats made by Trotsky to counter the move.

And a story of a cholera epidemic in Moscow.

Paul crumpled the paper into his lap.

‘Good news, isn’t it sir,’ Turner chirped, returning with a fresh cup and filling it from the pot.

‘What?’

‘The Germans.’

‘What about them?’

‘We’ve pushed them back over the Marne again. Looks like we’ve got them on the run at last.’

Paul leafed back through the creased paper and saw a headlined column on page five he hadn’t noticed:

‘Wonderful,’ he muttered. ‘Wonderful.’

Paul left the paper and his tea and went back out on deck. The sea was oddly calm with a dark oiliness to its surface, as if all the shipping sunk during the war had slowly leaked its fuel and contaminated the water.

He leaned on the rail and stared at it.

The tsar had already been dead for five days while Paul had stood in Cumming’s office listening to a plan to procure Mikhail’s help by convincing him the Legion could free Nicholas if they turned west. According to The Times , although the Legion had secured the Trans-Siberian line they were still headed for Vladivostok. Mikhail was hardly going to be interested if the tsar was already dead. Now what bait would Paul use to enlist his support? Revenge against the Bolsheviks? The Imperial gold reserves? Paul had only just got into the game yet it was difficult not to believe the Bolsheviks had trumped his king before he had even examined his hand.

He didn’t know how long he stood staring into the sea. He was finally roused by the sound of voices. Looking up, he saw the two Russians approaching. They were deep in conversation and didn’t appear to notice him standing at the rail as they passed into the saloon. Behind them were the two women Pinker had mentioned. The first followed the Russians without stopping but the second woman, dressed in black, paused for a moment. A veil flapping around her face in the freshening wind hid her features but Paul was sure she had noticed him. A moment later she followed the others.

Paul glanced at his watch and saw it had gone noon. He supposed they were serving lunch. He flicked his cigarette over the side. The wind had indeed freshened, breaking up the oily surface of the sea and flecking the waves with foam. The horizon had begun to rise and fall with the movement of the boat.

Pinker came along the deck and spotted him.

‘Filbert, there you are. Still taking the air?’

‘Are you going into lunch?’

‘Certainly, old man. Wouldn’t feel I’d done my company justice unless I used everything they’ve paid for. Did I just see the ladies go in?’

There were some still minutes before the doors to the dining room opened. The two Russians were sitting, heads together, as they talked. Still dressed alike, they looked to be in their forties and glanced up as Paul and Pinker entered. Paul saw that his earlier impression of them being a Lenin and Trotsky double act was off the mark by some distance. The Trotsky character was too big, jowly in fact, and didn’t resemble Trotsky at all judging by the photographs Paul had seen of the revolutionary in the newspapers. Lenin was a closer match, as both he and the man in the armchair had a slightly oriental cast to their features. It lent the man an expression of intelligence, the slant of the eyes conveying the notion that the object of his appraisal — Paul in this case — was being assessed and that impressions were being formed.

Paul nodded to them and received an acknowledgement from Trotsky in return. Lenin merely stared at him.