Duncan Kyle - The King's Commisar

He laughed, quite gaily. 'So - now Clark has naval officers delivering his messages, eh? You've seen him? Is he well?'

I thought of the poor wretch sitting and writing at Zaharoffs cold command. He'd been old, and almost terrified out of his wits, but his health had seemed good. 'Yes, he's well.'

'Good, good!' Lenin ripped open the envelope, saying, 'He's a splendid man. From Marx onward, who knows where we'd all have been without -' And then he stopped, the laughter shut off, and gave me a hard, sideways look. 'This other document he speaks of. You have it?'

'Yes, Comrade Lenin.'

'Come in here.'

I reached into my pocket for Zaharoffs missive, and followed him into his office. He went behind his desk and stood there like a Lord of Creation, hand outstretched.

'Give it tome.'

In removing the single sheet of paper, Lenin did not slit open the envelope, though a paperknife lay upon his desk. He tore it, and there was plain impatience on his face. The thick foolscap crackled as it was unfolded. I could not see what was written, nor did Comrade Lenin offer to show me, but I had an impression of a few handwritten lines, no more.

Then Lenin was shouting: 'Comrade Secretary!'

The man bustled through from his own outer office. 'Yes, Comrade Lenin?'

'Please ask Comrade Trotsky and Comrade Sverdlov to join me for a moment.'

'Yes, Comrade Lenin."

This repeated use of the word comrade, once, twice, three times in every spoken sentence, struck me as both excessive and amusing. I must have smiled, for Lenin snapped at me: 'Something is funny?'

I dipped my head. 'Your pardon, sir. I am simply much taken at the thought of the imminent presence of men whose names are so widely known.' He shot me a warning look. I straightened my face and resolved to smile no more and nor indeed, in the ensuing weeks, was I to do so. A minute passed, no more, before they arrived, and they were hurrying. I found it interesting that Lenin was so evidently master, for, nominally at any rate, Yankel Sverdlov was Head of State; and there could be no doubting Trotsky's power. The fact remains that they came trotting in like a pair of terriers, and when Lenin said, 'Sit,' and pointed to chairs, the pair of them sat and looked up at him, all but wagging tails.

Lenin's finger now stabbed towards me. 'This man brings a message.' He looked from one face to the other, from Sverdlov to Trotsky, and back again. 'He is British.'

Two pairs of eyes turned, regarded me for a moment, then returned their attention to Lenin.

'The message -?' Trotsky began.

Lenin flung the paper down on the desk before him. He radiated a pleasure that was almost triumphant.

'Vickers,' he said. 'And Zaharoff.'

Trotsky swung to face me. 'Zaharoff s emissary?'

Since I was in reality nothing of the kind, I shook my head. 'I merely brought his letter, sir.'

'Not "sir". Address me, please, as comrade.' Trotsky snatched up the letter, read it quickly, then handed it at once to Sverdlov. While it was read a third time the others remained silent, though it was clear they ached to speak.

It was, in any event, no more than a moment before Sverdlov looked up and said softly, 'Fifty million?' It was as though he could scarcely believe what he was saying. Trotsky, in the same instant, cried, 'But can he be trusted?'

Lenin pursed his lips, his head tilted a little, his hand turned over to finish palm up; it was a curiously Gallic gesture. 'As a gift?' he said. 'In arms? It's worth far more than the lot of them.'

Trotsky blinked several times. "They put their trust in Zaharoff. What happened? Nothing was delivered.' He said it again, with a bitter edge to his voice. 'Russia paid Vickers. Zaharoff had the money. Nothing was delivered.'

'Fifty million in arms,' Lenin said. 'We need them, Lev Davidovitch. Yesterday in this room you said that without -' He stopped and looked at me. 'Leave us. Wait outside. I will send for you.'

I took a seat in the secretary's office, wondering who 'they' were. 'They' who had put trust in Zaharoff; 'they'w ho seemed equated with Russia. I wondered, also, in my innocent way how anybody, having met Zaharoff as I had, could possibly trust him. In my mind's eye I could picture that eagle face, those compelling eyes. It was a face to be watched, to be examined, a gaze to be avoided—but hardly to be trusted. Yet clearly the King himself was placing faith . . .

Sverdlov came bustling out of Lenin's room. He did not stop; he merely crooked the finger of authority at me and continued walking out into the corridor. I scrambled to my feet and followed him. A few doors along he turned into an office, closed the door after me and gestured me to chair. I sat obediently, as he had done earlier.

'How well do you speak Russian?' he demanded.

I said, 'Perfectly.'

'With what accent?'

'I grew up in Perm, but there is barely a trace. Usually I am thought to be from St Petersburg.'

'Petrograd,' he growled at me.

'Of course. I beg your pardon.'

He glared at me. 'Your profession?'

'I am an officer of the Royal Navy.'

'Accustomed to command, eh?'

'Yes.'

He was silent then, staring hard at me. It is an old trick, to disconcert a man in that way. I simply stared back. At last he said, 'You have other languages?'

'Some French. Fair German. English, naturally.'

He nodded. 'And the language of the Revolution - can you speak that?'

imperfectly, Comrade Commissar, but I am not wholly unfamiliar with the modes of expression. I have read Marx and Engels, and Comrade Lenin. And I learn quickly, when necessary.'

'Then take my advice,' Sverdlov said, 'and do so. They are hotheads in the Urals Soviet. Do you know the name Yakovlev?'

'No.'

He favoured me with a look that was almost a smile, though in it there was a certain contempt, perhaps even pity. 'Familiarize yourself with the name Vassily Vassilievitch Yakovlev. And report back here tomorrow morning. Nine o'clock.'

When I did so, I quickly learned why it had been so necessary to remember the mysterious name of Yakovlev. I also found myself arbitrarily placed in command of a force of one hundred and fifty horsemen.

'The man must be mad,' Malory murmured. His ears heard the sound of his own voice and he grimaced. Talking to himself: softening of the brain. But by Jove, he wasn't the only sufferer! Extraordinary fellow, Pilgrim. Read something Sir Basil wanted buried, found it referred to Zaharoff himself, to the King, to Lenin, Sverdlov and Trotsky; read all that - and then took no notice! The document even mentioned fifty millions in arms and Pilgrim ignored it. Ancient history, indeed!

The trouble was, of course, that Pilgrim had never met Zaharoff. Accordingly Pilgrim had no experience of the certitude which had characterized all Zaharoff s actions and dealings. Malory, knowing that certitude well, could feel it now, reaching to him across the years. Fifty of them, now, since the old man had stood here in this room - yet Malory could still sense his presence, could sense the will and even the words 'Find out. It's dangerous -' of the message which had earlier insinuated itself into his brain and was becoming ever more urgent. The words seemed to vibrate in his mind as he looked at the envelope which was paper-clipped to the last sheet of Dikeston's manuscript. Pilgrim had opened it, and then had apparently replaced the paper inside it.

Malory took it out again.

CHAPTER THREE

-------------*?•:-------------The House of Four Forks

In the maroon-carpeted corridor Malory stopped outside the door of Pilgrim's office, knocked faintly and entered. Pilgrim, talking on the telephone, glanced up and nodded. Malory helped himself to coffee from the ever-hot gadget on the side table, and stared out of the window. In a moment he heard the phone replaced and Pilgrim's 'Yes, Horace?'