Duncan Kyle - The King's Commisar

'Dare!' I said angrily. 'Surely when the cousin of your Sovereign is in such -'

He interrupted me. 'There is much you do not know. Difficult news.'

'In what way?'

Preston sighed: 'British and American troops have made a landing at Archangel. Accordingly, I am now the representative here of a power engaged in acts of war against Russia.'

'At war with Russia!' I could hardly believe my ears. Russia had so long been Britain's ally.

'Not at war,' Preston said. 'Though it is a mere technicality, there has in fact been no declaration. None the less my position here in the Urals must now be considered precarious. For myself it hardly matters, of course, but as senior Consul I represent the interests of many residents here, not only British subjects, and I cannot put them further at risk by provocative acts.'

I eyed him angrily, but he put his hand on my sleeve and went on, 'There is a similar view across the street, perhaps a better, from the Purin house. From there the garden can be seen.'

'Where is this house?' I asked him.

It was close by, and owned by a merchant, one Lev Purin.

'Is he loyal to the Tsar?' I demanded.

'He's a banker,' Preston said wryly. 'What is there for him now but loyalty?'

The hand on my sleeve must at last have sensed my trembling, for he now said, 'You are ill?'

I shall be,' I replied, for by now I was certain of it.

'Aspirin, hot toddy and lemon,' he said, and took me to a sitting-room where a fire burned, even though the evening was a warm one. He made the toddy with whisky and boiling water and as I drank it, Preston told me more of Purin, and remarkable listening it made. For not only did 17Qthe Purin house offer a better sight of the House of Special Purpose; it had a secret telephone. Purin's wife had a sister who lived elsewhere in the town and the private line ran between the two houses.

'It could be useful to you,' Preston said.

In that way he was helpful; otherwise he was determined he could offer nothing more. I recall arguing with him heatedly about duty, but I was close to collapse by then, and have no true recollection of the detailed conversation.

Soon I left, staggering, barely able to stay upright. I remember little more, save that Ruzsky had waited outside for me: that I babbled out to him the things told to me by Preston, and that twice he cracked his palm across my cheek when I was in danger of sinking to the ground . . . I woke in a bare room and for a time lay unmoving, eyes closed more than they were open, for merely to raise my eyelids seemed to require an effort beyond my strength. Then, gradually I came to know my surroundings. A white sheet covered me, the walls were white also; there was a window, small and barred and bare of curtains, and I thought for a moment this must be a cell - as indeed it proved to be, though not in a prison. An hour passed, in which I learned the extent of my weakness. To lift my hand or move my head was an impossibility. To move a finger needed willpower. My body seemed without sensation and my mind afloat in emptiness.

I lay for an hour, unconcerned. I learned later this was a product of weakness, for I was weak indeed, weakened almost to death.

At last I heard a door catch, and the movement of harsh fabric, and a woman's voice said in Russian,

'Can you be awake?' I tried to answer, but my mouth was arid and nothing came but a grunt. Next I saw her face looking down at me. She was a woman of perhaps fifty, her head and shoulders shrouded¡n the habit of a nun of the Orthodox Church. 'You are awake,' she said, and added when I tried to nod, 'No, be still' She put her hand on my forehead and it felt cool and dry. 'How do you feel are you thirsty?' My eyelids, heavy as they were, gave her an affirmative and she filled a glass with water and, lifting my head, held it to my lips.

I drank gratefully, and she said, 'Prayer saved you, you know. We all prayed 50 much.'

I thanked her and asked where I was, and learned that this was a convent and that I was still in the city of Ekaterinburg.

The water had moistened my mouth and lips; now I could speak, but weakness lay also in my voice, which emerged as the barest of whispers. 'How did I get here?'

'Your friend brought you. Monsieur Bronard. Oh, so long ago, m'sieu!' She had slipped into French; like so many educated Russians in those days, she must have preferred that language to her own.

'So long ago?' I asked. 'When does that mean?'

'Almost one month,' she said, smiling. 'For almost one whole month you have had us all worried and praying for you.'

A month!'What is the date?'

'The fourth of June.'

Yet I had returned to the city on May 10th! 'How can it be - what has happened?'

She gave me a smile of great gentleness. 'Pneumonia: first one lung, then the other. Two bouts of severe illness, m'sieu, two long fevers, two crises. Twice you were all but dead. Now you need food, strength.'

The shock was clearing my head now. My mind was no longer content to drift and was instead engaged in speculation as to what might have happened.

'Tell me, mousie ur,who holds the city?'

'The Bolsheviks,' she said with tight lips. It was apparent she had little time for them.

'The Whites have not -?'

'They advance,' she answered. 'So it is said. But not yet to Ekaterinburg.'

'And the Tsar? Is he -?'

She shushed me then. 'Too much talk, m'sieu. You must rest.'

'Tell me.'

'We must not speak of such things,' she said.

'Is he alive?'

She nodded and moved away, murmuring, 'Sleep now, m'sieu.' And I heard the door latch. My mind would have had me out of bed at once, but my mind was not in control. A few minutes'

wakefulness and a sip of water had given me no vitality and indeed I felt, if anything, still weaker. Willy-nilly, sleep took me and when I woke again it was to a shadowed room lit by candles, to the sight of the good sister - and to the smell of food ! It was a broth of meat and she placed a stool beside my bed and fed it to me, spoonful by spoonful, as though I were a baby. There was barley in it, I remember, and onion, and in all my life I remember no food so entirely delicious. And more, for as I ate it was possible to feel something positive in my body, an awakening of strength, a movement in the blood. When it was done the nun smiled again and said, 'Soon now you will be strong,' and departed. Bronard came an hour later, and now I was slipping into sleep, but he would have none of it and pinched my cheek until my eyes opened. Even so, I begged him to leave me, but it could only have been weakness that spoke, for in fact I was desperate for news.

He whispered, 'Don't you want to know?'

'Yes, yes.'

'They're here. The whole family.'

'Where?'

"The Ipatiev House. Still under guard. The others were brought from Tobolsk - the boy and the three Grand Duchesses. Now they're all together.'

'But alive?'

'So far,' he said. 'Some of their entourage have been returned to Tobolsk.'

I felt a great sense of relief: the family was together and unharmed. An entire month gone and they remained safe. 'What other news?' I asked.

'One of the servants has been shot,' Bronard said harshly 'The paper - what of that?' But my strength was ebbing.

'I can hardly hear you,' he said irritably. 'Paper,' I muttered.

'No,' he said impatiently. 'I haven't got it! But we must find a way - understand!'

CHAPTER NINE

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The Boy on the Talking Motor-Cycle

It was not Sir Horace Malory's habit to attend the quarterly dinners of the organization known as UKUS, a society whose members, as the name indicated, came equally from United Kingdom and United States business and banking houses in the City of London. The society's twin purposes were to ease the flow of business between the two nations, and to enable Americans resident in Britain to become acquainted in congenial surroundings with one another and with well-disposed Brits. By tradition the evenings were boozy: bread rolls were thrown about, speakers hissed, practical jokes played, wagers won and lost.