Duncan Kyle - The King's Commisar

It was true of all those I rode and I exchanged horses several times. They would trot, certainly; flog them hard and they'd work up a gallop? but only for a few moments. That ride back to Tyumen began in difficulty and rapidly became more and more unpleasant. On a succession of horses I splashed and slithered my way southward, part of the time through falling sleet. I grew so wet and cold that had I been asked I would have said it was quite impossible to be wetter and colder. But that was wrong. I had more than a hundred miles still to go when the horse fell and threw me and I landed in a pothole in the road, a hole filled with earthy black water, and though neither the horse nor I was hurt, by the time I had remounted and ridden a few minutes in that bitter wind, I was chilled to the marrow. J should have stopped. In a village I could have found fire and food and warmth. But I was alone, and the solitary night-time traveller in remote country had better beware, whether he is in Siberia or Somerset, especially when, as was the case with me, there was wealth in his pockets. So I pressed on. My teeth chattered and my feet were blocks of ice; gradually the cold crept through my body, so{ hat I shivered uncontrollably. Come morning, I was aware that I was already quite unwell, for alternately I shook and was feverish, and felt increasingly foul. But I came into Tyumen still in place upon my horse's back, just in time to leap direct aboard a train bound west for Ekaterinburg. That journey, also, was a nightmare. The remnants of my money bought me a place only in a third-class carriage which was impossibly crowded, and not only with people, though there were three for every two places. In addition there was baggage and several animals, including a goat whose stench, I swear, was no greater than that of several of the peasants near me. Probably I stank also; certainly I steamed and in the press of humanity there were many like me: soaked and steaming. I felt increasing hunger and thirst, but there was no means of satisfying either. My health deteriorated by the hour: I was hot, I was shaking; the fever was rising, I sweated like a hog. The last three hours of the journey were spent huddled on the floor, sleeping perhaps, though it was more of a faint.

As the voice yelled 'Ekaterinburg,' I dragged myself to my feet. It was just after eight o'clock by the station clock as I staggered out of the stinking, steamy heat of the railway carriage into the cold night air of the city.

In an hour I must meet Ruzsky.

I would have waited another day to see him, and should have done so. Food and a bed and healthy warmth were what was required, but I had no money for lodging, the last having been spent on the train journey. Only a few kopeks remained and with those I bought tea at the station. It refreshed me a little, as tea does, but I was in a poor way as I set off from the station towards the Palais Royal Hotel. Already I knew, from talk heard in the station, that the Imperial Family remained imprisoned in the Ipatiev House. Ruzsky was late. It is unimportant, I suppose, but it mattered that night to me, feeling as I did, and leaning against the rear wall of the hotel, miserable as a sick dog. But it is difficult to blame him. In the days since I had left Ekaterinburg he must have kept our rendezvous faithfully, and was keeping it still. At the sight of me he said wrathfully, 'Where in hell have you been?'

I began to tell him and my teeth were chattering. He pulled a bottle from his pocket. 'Plum brandy. Drink it.'

Then he listened as I told him about the steamer and Tobolsk. The story took little time in the telling, so that soon I could ask him: 'What news of the Romanovs here?'

That, too, was soon told. There were no events to record; the Imperial Family remained under guard, that was all. But one change had occurred: and it struck me at once as deeply sinister. Ipatiev's house now had a new name, by proclamation. It must now be known as The House of Special Purpose!

'But what does it mean?' I demanded. 'What special purpose?'t Ruzsky gave a shrug. 'Who knows? A name means nothing. Drink some more.'

The political state of affairs was unchanged, he told me then: the Urals Soviet had been meeting almost daily, and always there was discussion of what to do with the Romanovs. 'General opinion is for execution of Nicholas.'

'He alone?' I asked.

'That depends who speaks. Beloborodov, the chairman, would kill the Tsar and spare the rest, or so I think. Goloshchokin's for butchering them all. With the Whites too near for comfort he thinks their presence is a danger to the city.'

'Is there no opposition?' I demanded. 'Surely there must be - when there is talk of killing children?'

'Hardly children,' he said, 'except for the boy, and he's fourteen now. Yes, there's opposition.'

'How many - what's the balance of the committee?'

'Never tested,' Ruzsky said, 'and some decline even to offer a view, on the grounds that the matter is of no importance. I'm doing what I can, but it's little enough.

Nobody, even of the Soviet, may enter the House of Special Purpose to see the Romanovs except Beloborodov. And the guards, of course. That's the problem.'

'How much opposition?' I repeated.

There's a fellow named Scriabin; he's Regional Commissar for Natural Resources: one of the milk-and-water people who won't shed blood. I make a point of being close to him in spite of disagreement.'

'So is there a chance?'

'There's always a chance,' Ruzsky said.

Pilgrim, despite his impatience and his professed lack of interest, continued to see Dikeston's manuscripts; he merely declined to allow thought of them to dominate his waking hours. That morning the third instalment, thoughtfully Xeroxed for him by Malory, won a small battle for his attention, a battle with the Financial Times. Pilgrim, speed-reading, his concentration firm, barely noticed the entrance of Jacques Graves to his office. He murmured, 'Important?'

'Not really.' Graves, from long familiarity knew when not to disturb. 'Later will be okay.'

He laid a single sheet of paper on the left side of Pilgrim's desk, and withdrew. Pilgrim ignored it for several minutes, then reached out a hand. The note read: 'Account no. X253 at the Irish Linen Bank belongs to ...

Pilgrim swore to himself, rose and marched down the corridor to Malory's room. Malory, wreathed in expensive cigar smoke, looked up. 'Have you read it?'

'Some of it.' Pilgrim flourished Graves's note. 'Did Jacques tell you?'

'Tell me what?' Malory removed his glasses.

'That damned account at the bank,' Pilgrim said. 'Know whose it is?'

'No, he didn't tell me.'

'Then I will. How's UNICEF grab you?'

Malory frowned. 'You know, I'm never too sure which of those things is which - WHO and UNESCO

and so on. Which is UNICEF?'

'It's the children's fund, Horace - The United Nations Children's Fund.'

'Ah, I see.'

'So do I. My God, fifty thousand - plus the deeds of a house worth another hundred and fifteen - and we've handed the goddam lot to a charity! We'll never see one red cent back. Have you the instructions for the next instalment?'

An envelope lay beside Malory. He patted it with a brown-spotted hand. 'Here,' he said.

'What do they say?'

'I'm waiting to learn. Until I have finished reading.' Malory glanced pointedly at the Act of Parliament clock on the wall. 'Tell me,' he continued, 'are you beginning to find this interesting now?'

'At ten pounds a word, sure it's interesting!' There was irritation in every line of Pilgrim's back as he turned and left.

Malory put on his glasses and resettled himself to read. The temptation to turn to the end and to open the envelope were almost, but not quite, irresistible. Dikeston was clearly in terrible trouble, but equally clearly he had got out of it - with something that was worth£50,000 a year for ever. Deep inside myself, Malory thought with conscious realism, I am now a man torn: I deeply believed in the potential disaster, yet I am perversely beginning to enjoy the game Dikeston has set us all to play. I felt like death by this time. Sweat coursed down my body beneath my clothes, yet at the same time I shivered and burned.