Duncan Kyle - The King's Commisar

They frowned at me then, all of them, even the Omsk men.

I said, 'Has he any value to Russia now? Tell me!'

Heads were shaken. 'None, none.'

I said, 'You are right. But he has value to others. In exchange for his person we are to receive enough weapons to equip an army.'

'Yes,' demanded one of the remaining Ekaterinburg men sourly, 'but will it be an army to put him back on the throne?'

I shook my head. 'An army to smash the Whites. To defeat the Czech Legion. An army to win the revolutionary war! Once he's away, Russia will never see Nicholas Romanov again. He can safely be forgotten for ever!'

Somebody said, 'Where's he to go?'

'Omsk first,' I said.

'Why?' This was an Ekaterinburg man. 'He's ours. We have jurisdiction.'

'No, we have.'

I said, 7 have. And I am under orders that I am powerless to alter. Comrade Lenin and Comrade Sverdlov want him moved. I'm to move him. And now I must see this enemy of the people who is to equip the people's army!'

There were smiles at that and they rose from the table. My mind went winging briefly to London, to Zaharoff, who, whatever one's thoughts about him, had so accurately divined the assorted wishes of different men and seen where they came together.

Much has been made of the hardships and gross indignities suffered after the abdication by the Imperial Family, and I for one can testify to the truth of such stories as the year 1918 drew on. But in the Governor's House at Tobolsk they were far from uncomfortable. They had wintered warm and well fed. Bored maybe but nothing worse.

Colonel Kobylinsky having gone upstairs to inform Nicholas Romanov of my presence and my requirement to meet him. I took up position in the hall of the house, near the foot of the stairs, and waited. Only a few moments passed before I heard footsteps and, looking up, beheld the former Tsar of all the Russias descending towards me. I did not at that moment see him clearly, for the hall was high and ill-lit, with coloured glass in small windows. Still, even in drab he was recognizable, and as he reached the foot of the stairs and came towards me, he was more than that: for this was the absolute double of the King George to whose presence I had had the honour to be summoned a mere three weeks before. The same eyes, the same hair, the same beard and moustache; it was the same face, even to expression, for the gravity of his eyes was identical with that of his royal cousin. It was this, perhaps which affected my behaviour. I had intended formal propriety, no more, addressing him as Comrade. But the words escaped me involuntarily, and I responded to his polite 'Commissar Yakovlev?' with:

'Your Majesty.'

I saw his quick frown, the surprise in his eyes, and thanked my Maker that, Kobylinsky's apart, there were no other listening ears. Those words, overheard by such as Ruzsky, might have had me shot!

I told Nicholas of the intention of the Central Executive Committee that he and his family be moved from Tobolsk within twenty-four hours.

His body stiffened. 'Moved? Where to?'

I said, 'The intention is ultimately to take you and your family into safety abroad.'

He shook his head. 'We go nowhere without prior knowledge of the means and conditions. I ask you again: where?'

I lowered my voice. 'Your Majesty. I am acting under orders from the highest. I am to remove you from the hands of these people here. My own life depends upon your safety.'

'I repeat: I can not go,' he said. 'My son is ill and cannot safely be moved and I will not abandon him.'

'It is important for you to understand,' I said, 'that my orders are that you must go from here. The preference is that you should go voluntarily, but it is only a preference. For go you must.'

'If it means force, Commissar Yakovlev?'

'Those are my orders.'

He looked at me thoughtfully. This, I suspected, must in all probability be the first threat of actual force against his person, and no doubt it was a shock. He said, 'Will you tell me what you know?'

I nodded. 'At Tyumen a train is to be waiting.'

'Where is it bound?'

'We shall not know that until we reach Tyumen. Further orders from Moscow will await me there.'

He closed his eyes. 'What is your guess, Commissar Yakovlev?'

'Probably a return to Moscow. It is my belief you are to be sent abroad quickly. I know such action to be the wish of Comrade Sverdlov.'

'Sverdlov? But if he wishes it -'

I nodded, and still keeping my voice low, said, 'Sir, there is a train. Whether it goes west to Moscow, or east to Omsk and beyond, I shall not know until I receive further orders. But I and my men are here to ensure your safety.'

'East to Shanghai, perhaps?'

'I cannot say, Sir. It is a possibility. I know only that Comrade Sverdlov wishes your family to leave the country in safety.'

Nicholas drew himself up. He had much simple dignity as he spoke. 'You leave me no alternative but I beg you not to move my son. To do so would be to inflict much needless agony upon a young boy.'

'He can remain here,' I said, 'and others of your family, if necessary, to be with him.'

'Thank you for that.' He made a little inclination of the head. 'I must discuss this, of course. There are family decisions . . .'

I nodded. 'We leave in the early morning - at four a.m.'

'At four? So early?'

'The train is scheduled.'

He left me then, and Kobylinsky with him, to talk with his family. I watched him walk heavily up the staircase and felt a deep regret that I was unable to tell him more. But what could I say that was true? Beyond Tyumen I knew nothing. Upon reaching the railway telegraph there I was to send a signal to Sverdlov and await his reply. The matter of Zaharoff's document now concerned me greatly, for in addition to getting it signed, I must get Nicholas away. If he read the document and knew as a consequence what he was being required to sign away, might he not suspect that in doing so he was sealing his own fate? He might indeed -and then refuse to leave, and what then would I do? I did not, in any case, have reason to believe anything was intended other than that the Imperial Family should leave Russia for England.

Sir Horace Malory, engrossed in Dikeston's narrative, did not at first hear the ring of the telephone on his desk. When it rang a second time he muttered at the interruption, picked it up and briskly instructed Mrs Frobisher that he would accept no calls.

'But it's the man from Oxford,' she said. 'You were most anxious -'

'Very well, put him on. What's his name?'

'Dr Felix Aston.'

It was a young voice with a jaunty note in it. Malory had a mild impulse to ask whether Aston were wearing jeans but forbore. 'You're an expert on the Russian Revolution, is that so?'

'It's a foolish man who pretends to expertise, Sir Horace,' the voice said cheerfully. 'I've made a study for some years. Written a book.'

'Name Yakovlev mean anything to you?' Malory asked.

There was a pause, then, 'Yes, it does - if it's Vassily Yakovlev. If he was a commissar.'

'That's the chappie. Tell me.'

'Well, it was post-Revolution, of course. But Yakovlev was the man who went off with the Tsar and all the jewels, then vanished.'

Malory said slowly. 'The jewels?'

'Trainload of stuff.' Aston's voice was positively chirpy. 'Tremendous mystery man, Commissar Yakovlev. Have you come across something about him?'

'Hmmm?' said Malory, with sudden caution. 'Oh no, no, no, nothing like that. Sorry if I raised a hare. But thank you, thank you.'

He put down the telephone, then pressed Pilgrim's button on the intercom. 'Laurence, anybody with you?'

'Just Graves.'

'Well, he'll be interested, too. Our man Dikeston went off with all the Romanov treasure.'