Duncan Kyle - The King's Commisar

I thought, Damn this rabble! and stood to attention and saluted. Nicholas stopped and looked at me.

I said. 'I have informed Moscow. They're bound to intervene, sir.'

His face darkened, and he gave me a look filled with hatred. 'We are under arrest, you treacherous pig!' he said, and stepped past me, adding over his shoulder, 'You've killed us all!'

In the end, they changed its name. Ekaterinburg was founded by Peter the Great and named for his wife. Now -and what irony there is in this! - now the city is Sverdlovsk, named for Yankel Sverdlov. Oh yes - the same. The Sverdlov who had sent me to Tobolsk, the Sverdlov who had christened me Yakovlev, the Sverdlov whose signature lay upon the paper which demanded all men assist me. They spat upon his signature that day - and laughed openly at mention of his name ! When I brandished Lenin at them, and Trotsky, they were no more impressed. Times have changed indeed. . . . But then - well, I was flung in to prison, and a real prison, too, with stone walls and clanging iron door. When the iron door opened again it was to admit two men. I had seen neither before. I was sitting on the grubby cell floor, for there was no chair and no bed. Scrambling at once to my feet I faced them angrily. 'How dare you imprison me!'

One of them - he looked like a superior clerk: fat, with a dark moustache and a creased suit-stood forward. 'Dare?' he said. 'The Urals Soviet does not dare. It acts - in full Soviet legality.'

'Doesn't Sverdlov?' I demanded. 'Doesn't Lenin? Are their actions illegal! Tell me, whoever you are. And I'll pass the message on!'

He surveyed me angrily. 'I am Alexander Beloborodov, chairman of the Urals Soviet, lawful government of the Urals region. Comrade Goloshchokin here is also a member.'

'I travel on direct orders from the Head of State!' I insisted, and showed my paper.

'To set Bloody Nicholas free!' said Goloshchokin. He was another type, this man: thin and intent. 'You know as well as I do what they're doing. It's a dirty deal with the Germans, made because the damned Tsarina's a German.' He turned on me angrily. 'Isn't it?'

I gave anger for anger. 'How do I know what's in their minds in Moscow? I do as I'm told. Maybe they have got one eye on the German army. To them it's too damned dangerous and too damned near. I am under orders to deliver the whole Romanov family to Moscow. When they get there, I don't know if they'll go on trial, if they'll go to the Germans - or if they'll be sent to Timbuctoo, for that matter.'

'Ah, but what do you want?' asked Beloborodov softly.

'Want?'

'What should be done?'

I thought for a moment, and thought damned carefully. These two would string me up, as soon as not, I sensed that with no difficulty. Their anxiety to demonstrate independence from Moscow was manifest.

'Me?' I said. 'I'd put them on trial before the world. There's evidence enough. But it's not my task to decide.'

'It's mine,' Beloborodov said. His round face glistened, though there was little warmth in the cell. I shook my head. 'Why? Why you? Upon what basis?

Are you Commissar for Foreign Affairs or is Comrade Trotsky? You merely want to kill for vengeance

-'

'Yes.' They said it in chorus. 'That damned German woman,' Goloshchokin went on angrily. 'How many deaths can be laid at her door?'

'And you want more?' I demanded. 'She's a German princess! If they want her back as the price of peace, what then? If she can be used to save the lives of our soldiers, why not? Because you want revenge, eh? And you are safe - a thousand miles from the German army.'

He scowled at me, and I turned to Beloborodov. 'You think I'm a traitor, do you?'

'Perhaps.' He said it quietly, threateningly.

'And Sverdlov - he's a traitor too? And Lenin? If they are not, I am not. Look at that signature!'

'How do I know it isn't forged?' Beloborodov said.

'You will know if you telegraph Moscow. There must be a telegraph available here.'

'He's bluffing,' Goloshchokin said.

'Am I? It's easy to find out. Send a telegram to Moscow!'

Whether or not they did, I have no way of knowing. What I do know is that they left me in that malodorous cell and as the iron door clanged behind them, I felt near to despair. All had gone dreadfully wrong. I was in prison, as the Tsar and Tsarina and Marie must now be. And it was I who had allowed them to fall into the hands of men who desired their deaths. No wonder the Tsar thought I had betrayed them.

I spent time staring unseeing at the stone floor before the thoughts came. What of Ruzsky? The prospect of Ekaterinburg had worried him not at all - as it would not, since like Goloshchokin and Beloborodov he was actually a member of the Soviet.

Whatever else he was!The man was a riddle: on the one hand a fanatic, on the other some kind of agent. And French, to boot! What was it he had said? After some thought I could even remember his words: 'I serve various interests,' he had said. 'For the moment, I am to help you when you need help.' And also:

'You were told to look out for a man before you left London.'

What could I make of it? It was all true enough. I had been told to lookout for a man upon reaching Tobolsk. I had also been told the man would be able to help me. It was in the sheet of instructions given to me by Mr Basil Zaharoff.

And Zaharoff was known, to the Press at any rate, as The Man Who Peddled Death!

'I serve various interests!' So Ruzsky, or Bronard, or whoever he was, was Zaharoff's man, of that much I was now fairly certain. But what was he doing here? How did it come about that Zaharoff, the arch-capitalist, had his own man as a member of a Soviet in the middle of Siberia? I know now that nothing was beyond that man. There will be Zaharoff agents among the ranks of angels; yes, and the devils, too. It seems extraordinary enough now, years later, when I know more of him. Then it seemed to be beyond believing.

But of course I got no further with my thoughts, not then. Hours went by before once more that iron cell door was thrown open. Goloshchokin appeared, looking at me grimly. I thought him to be alone, but in a moment it was Ruzsky who slouched into view, that smirk of his much evident. I came to my feet. 'What did Moscow say?'

Neither answered. 'Personally I'd hang you, Yakovlev,' Ruzsky suddenly said to me. He turned to his companion. 'You should have seen him bow and scrape to the Romanovs.'

'I wish we could hang him.' Goloshchokin gave a sigh. 'But the chairman believes him.'

Ruzsky laughed. 'Maybe the chairman has Moscow ambitions. No, Comrade, I don't really mean that. I admire Beloborodov.' He turned to me. 'You should be grateful to him, too.'

'Why?'

'Why? Because you're free. Who says there's no Soviet mercy, eh? A Tsarist provocateur, and what do we do? We let you go! We won't let them go, though, will we, Comrade Goloshchokin?'

Goloshchokin looked at me sidelong. 'Not even to Moscow. And be careful, Yakovlev, or you'll be back in here.'

He stalked out, Ruzsky slouching after him. I followed, and found myself standing close to Ruzsky, apparently by accident, by the road outside the prison gate. He didn't turn towards me, or even acknowledge he knew I was there. He spoke, though, quietly and clearly. 'Behind the Palais Royal Hotel at nine o'clock,' he said, and slouched away.

It was two hours to nine.

I wandered in the dark, found food and drink in a tavern, and listened to the talk there, anxious for news of the Imperial Family. Nor were tidings long in coming, for talk in the tavern was of nothing else. Every snatch of it seemed to tell more.

'. . . I saw them at the station. Just shoved off the train, they were, like sacks of grain. I thought for a bit the crowd would grab them, but . . .'