Duncan Kyle - The King's Commisar

'Certainly.'

'Your men, your Swabians - I would prefer they be

I’mdressed in the same drill khaki worn by the Bolshevik forces, but-'

'No buts,' said von Kleber. 'We have khaki.' He must have seen my surprise, for he added, "and sailor suits, my friend, and field grey. We came prepared.'

'Good. Have you arms?'

'Of course. Good German - or poor Russian?'

'German will suffice. You said twelve men. Arm ten with pistols, two with rifles.'

Von Kleber nodded and placed a morsel of game pie in his mouth. Speaking round it he said, 'Paraded where?'

'Paraded nowhere. They are to walk, one by one and from different directions, to Ascension Square. In front of the church, which stands opposite the British consulate, I shall meet them.'

'You'll be conspicuous, my friend.'

'No,' I said. 'There are no street lights at that point. And they'll be there only a moment.'

He picked up his glass. 'Think you can succeed?'

'I can try.'

Despite the early hour, von Kleber now called for cognac. When it was poured, he raised his glass formally. 'To your success, my friend. And to their freedom.'

We drank to it and I departed.

At noon, at my request, Beloborodov took himself to the House of Special Purpose to sample the atmosphere.

He came back with a pale and hunted look about him and as he entered the room at the Americana, his first words were: 'The barrage is getting very near. This -' and he gestured at the double windows of the room - 'this muffles the noise. It's loud in the street.'

'What of Yurovsky?' I demanded. By now I was beginning to know Beloborodov, and understood that with the city about to fall and much to be done, he wished only to get on with it. The Romanovs were merely a burden to him. Already now he was bending over a map.

'Yurovsky?' I said again.

He raised his head. 'Determination. Nothing is changed, except that Yurovsky's grip is tighter.'

It was difficult to see how it could be made tighter. 'How?'

Beloborodov said, 'I went to the stairs, intending to go to the upper rooms to inspect the prisoners. He stopped me.'

I frowned. 'How far does his authority stretch?'

'There was a revolver in his hand. That stretches authority.' Beloborodov smiled grimly. 'I was in no danger. But if I had insisted I doubt if Yurovsky would have hesitated. He has the Romanovs marked for his own killing. Nobody else goes near to them.'

'Then why does he keep them alive?'

Beloborodov shrugged. 'I asked him, don't imagine I didn't! He said to me "I hold them only in trust for the people, until the enemy arrives. At that moment, when it is clear I cannot hold them - then as the people's Commissar for Justice, I shall dispense justice." '

I said to Beloborodov, 'I'm the enemy. Even with you behind me, even with Sverdlov and Lenin himself behind me. I'm still the enemy - to Yurovsky!'

Beloborodov game the ghost of a smile and said 'Then move softly and discreetly.'

I had one more question for him and asked it despite his obvious impatience. 'Did you notice anything changed there?'

He flicked me a glance. 'In what way?'

'In any way.'

He gave a small nod. 'I should have mentioned it. There was hammering from above - from the floor where the Romanovs live.'

'Did you ask what it was?'

Beloborodov nodded. 'Yurovsky said he was reinforcing his prison. I told you he's obsessive to the point of madness! He's boarding up all the windows on the side overlooking the garden.'

'What!' This was shattering to me.

He repeated: 'Boarding up the windows. He says he fears an attack.'

I said, 'Does he guess - about us?'

He shook his head. 'It's the Whites he fears - a raid into the city.'

But now my plan was in ruins! I had intended to decoy the guards at the south entrance, and then to lead von Kleber's Swabians up the stairs from the garden to the balcony. Once there, and in the house, there would be a dozen men to guard the family, to hold the interior stairs if Yurovsky's men attacked, and to take the Romanovs to safety down the garden stairs to where Ruzsky would be waiting with a truck at the south entrance in Voznesensky Street.

Angrily I told Beloborodov the rescue was now impossible.

'You mean your plan is impossible.'

'Yes.'

'Then find another!'

And against the odds. I did, though it was not a plan as the other had been. That had been based upon calculation of the dispositions, and the proper use of strength and surprise. It was a military plan. Now talk would count more and action less. And Bronard was involved . . .

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

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Out of the myths of time . . .

Gossips were apt to say in the pubs of the City of London that to rattle Gibraltar would be a good deal easier than to rattle Sir Horace Malory. Even so, he became rattled on occasion, but he was good at concealing it and only those who knew him most closely were aware of the infallible sign: when upset, Malory had a tendency to sibilance.

Lady Malory, to whom after fifty-five years of marriage his mind was an open book, had asked sharply at breakfast: 'What on earth's the matter, Horace? You're hissing like a snake!'

He had mumbled an answer. Something of a problem at the office, m'dear, nothing to worry about. At which she spoke his name in a peremptory way. Busily scavenging in the obituary column of The Times, he did not look up, but she continued to repeat his name, each time more loudly, until he did.

'Yes, m'dear.'

'You should finish it quickly, Horace, whatever it is.'

'What, The Times obituary . . . ?'

'I mean the problem at the office. Finish with it - or it will finish with you. You will, won't you?' Lady Malory was at her most commanding.

'Yes, m'dear,' said Malory.

But it was easier said than accomplished. About as simple as trying to finish with gout, thought Malory (who occasionally suffered from it) as his chauffeur Horsfall and his Bentley car made velvet of the morning traffic. Of late, andnot without cause, the Siberian adventures of Henry George Dikeston had been intruders in his mind at all sorts of unlooked-for times. He found himself unable to take luncheon, or a walk, or even a nap, without Dikeston and his unlovely and disturbing story tapping rhythms in his head like so many demented drummers. It was no wonder he was hissing!

Yesterday he'd attacked the matter with quite a bit of determination, summoning Felix Aston from Oxford and then spending the entire day in what the historian had described as analysis. Aston had arrived staggering under the weight of no fewer than three large briefcases, all of thorn filled with books. Sir Horace had then proceeded to ask him straight questions, beginning with the straightest.

'Werethe Romanovs slaughtered at Ekaterinburg?'

'Er - well, Sir Horace. The general opinion has always been, you see, that they, er - were. But there's a certain amount of doubt, more recently. Mangold and Summers, for instance -'

'Who are they?'

'Two BBC reporters, Sir Horace. They produced a book. The File on the Tsar-*

* Victor Gollancz, Ltd, 1976

'I read that one. Nicholas shot and the rest survived, eh?'

'I'm not sure they'd like that summary. But they reviewed all the evidence most carefully.'

'Nobody knows then, is that so?'

'Yes, Sir Horace.'

'Any ideas about why it's all so mysterious?'

"Well, if they were killed, it was to the Bolsheviks' advantage if nobody knew. They were very worried at the time about the Germans.'

'I know.'

'And if the Germans didn't know -'

'I understand. But tell me about their money.' Malory now listened with all the riveted attention he gave to matters monetary. The Romanovs at the time of their disappearances had money, or so it was said, in half the banks of France, Britain and America. Banks tended, naturally, to say nothing. The Tsar was the richest man on earth in those days, and the Romanovs the richest family. Which raised another pertinent and very straight question: 'Who inherited?'