Duncan Kyle - The King's Commisar

We were sitting in a room at the Americana, Bronard nursing half a tumbler of vodka. A great pity that we don't know where Nicholas keeps the paper,' he said thoughtfully. To tell the truth, I had forgotten, until that moment, about the document. After all, it was safe in the Finnish Bank in Moscow. And for many days my mind had been concentrated entirely upon the hope of rescuing the Romanov family.

'Why?' I said. 'Even if we knew, we couldn't get to it.'

He gave me a look. 'Yurovsky, you mean?'

I nodded. It was then he began to talk about alliances and about the way he had insinuated himself into the Urals Oblast Soviet.

'Every man, if he's a politician, has an id ée fixe,'he said with a smug chuckle. 'With Scriabin it's gold, God alone knows why. Agree with him that all gold belongs to the workers, and he's on your side in everything else. I support Berzin and Goloshchokin in demanding more arms for the working class: that's what they care about.'

'Are you saying Yurovsky trusts you?" I asked in surprise. He shook his head. 'You don't listen, do you? Yurovsky doesn't trust me. He doesn't trust, really trust, anybody. Nor do any of them. But Yurovsky knows I'm on his side where the Romanovs are concerned. He's heard me ranting about them and I always ranted loudly. He trusts my views about his own id ée fixe,because they are his own views. But it's my opinion he trusts, not me - you understand?'

'Oh yes. I understand. Tell me - would he let you in to the Ipatiev House?'

Bronard took a long swallow of vodka. 'He might.'

'But not Goloshchokin?'

'I'm not Goloshchokin, am I? He's Sverdlov's man. Yurovsky'Il have guessed a lot of what Sverdlov's doing; and why the Germans are here, too. He's not a fool.'

'Could you enter the house?' I persisted.

'Not much point, is there?' Bronard said. 'I yelled for Nicholas's blood often enough, and at Tobolsk he heard me do it. Nicholas wouldn't trust me with any paper he thought important. We'd have to get you in to him.'

I said, 'To get them all out would be better.'

He gave me a curious smile. 'Oh, I'm not being reluctant, don't imagine that. The moment has come and I can recognize it. But it's taken time and trouble to make a place here.' He gave a shrug. 'So I'll abandon it, if I have to. What do you want?'

'Answers to questions.'

He stretched like an animal. And somehow, like a cat stretching on a hearthrug, he seemed at the same time to be indolent, comfortable and fully alert. He said, 'You - you neither like nor trust me. It's true, eh?'

'We have a common purpose,' I told him.

And he laughed. 'That's right! You and I-we're like the Bolsheviks, you see. It's unity of interests. To get the paper we must get the Romanovs out. Lucky, is it not, that I'm the one Yurovsky might listen to!'

I said, 'It's damned useful!'

'They'll all talk to me. Yurovsky, Goloshchokin, Beloborodov, Berzin - all of them. It takes work, my friend, and preparation. That's why Zaharoff pays me well. In two years the Urals Soviet will be buying their arms from Zaharoff, and I'll be rich and in retirement!'

'Yurovsky's Letts - what of them?' I said.

'What do you mean?'

'If he were removed, what then?'

Bronard frowned. 'Will you never understand that there is no personal loyalty here.'

'They're not his men, then?'

'They're soldiers of the revolutionary army. And yes, it can be done!'

I must have looked puzzled. 'What can be done?'

He sighed. And then, to my amazement, he told me precisely what my own thoughts had been a mere moment earlier. The whole stratagem made good, practical sense, Bronard said, and should, furthermore, be put into operation at the earliest feasible moment. We agreed on that, at least. And shook hands on it

...

Three men and a single vehicle: the required resources for rescuing an emperor, his consort, his heirs. The truck was an almost new American Dodge ('abandoned by a fleeing capitalist,' said Bronard with a truly wicked laugh) and the men were our two selves and Goloshchokin, who had agreed to drive the truck.

Why Goloshchokin? Because above all the need would be for confidence and authority: the first Bronard's with Yurovsky, the other Goloshchokin's with the Letts. And so, a few minutes after midnight-it was, accordingly, July 17th - the truck drove along Voznesensky Avenue to the House of Special Purpose. As we approached I saw the new-piled sandbags of what was obviously a machine-gun emplacement at the north end of the stockade. Here was Yurovsky preparing his defences!

One of his Letts stamped over to us as Goloshchokin turned the truck round and then reversed it until its rear entered the gap in the stockade. The guard's rifle was in his hands rather than at his shoulder another sign the whole place was alert.

'Who are you?' the Lett demanded.

'Ruzsky,' responded Bronard cheerfully, 'with Commissar Goloshchokin. Here's my pass. Tell me - do you like fish?'

'Fish?' repeated the guard, made uncertain by this joviality on the part of a high official. He took the pass. 'Well

'Because we've found a barrel of pickled herring. Thank you -' he took his pass back - 'found it at the Americana Hotel and it's Baltic herring, my friend, and I said, those Baits in Comrade Yurovsky's guard would enjoy eating those. Am I right?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Yes, Comrade,'1 cried Bronard. 'Come on, let's get it unloaded!'

So we left Goloshchokin at the wheel and Bronard and I unloaded the herring barrel and a bottle or two of chilled vodka and a jar of pickled cucumbers. Gaining entry to the Ipatiev House, the gaol of a king, was as easy as that. The guard stood and watched as the two of us walked through the high stockade with our little hoard of food.

I had thought Yurovsky might be asleep, but he stood waiting as we entered the first hallway: a thin man of medium height, with sparse sand-coloured hair. He wore, as I had been told he usually did, a short white jacket of the kind often worn by doctors and dentists. His glance rested briefly upon me and he frowned, but then he turned at once to Bronard and said, 'What is this nonsense?' Over his shoulder I could see, through the open doorway, that two Lettish guards were standing, at ease but watchful.

'Brought something for your men,' Bronard said loudly. Whether he actually was a little drunk I do not know, but I doubt it. Still, he gave the impression of one with overmuch liquor in him. He explained the discovery of the herring barrel in the hotel's cold-room. 'Thought straightaway, Yurovsky's men would like 'em, that's what I thought. Brought something to go with 'em, too!' He waved a vodka bottle in each hand.

I watched Yurovsky carefully. So much depended upon how he received this farrago of nonsense. But all seemed well. Where he had been frowning, his face now relaxed into a faint smile, one almost of indulgence.

'How kind of you - come along through here.' He gestured at the doorway in an almost courtly way. We followed and placed our load upon the table that apparently served as his desk, and he now made a great fuss: 'Herrings from the Baltic, yes, my Letts will be delighted,' and 'Hasn't it been hot today!' and so on. I could almost have been at tea with a maiden aunt.

We had agreed, Bronard and I, that we must take him prisoner at the first good opportunity. Both of us were armed with pistols and I know that when I put the heavy pickle jar on the table, I turned, with my hand ready by the pistol, only to see that for the moment it was impossible: two guards with rifles occupied the doorway. We would have to wait.

Yurovsky gestured towards me. 'Who is this?'

'Yakovlev.'

Now the frown returned with a vengeance. 'But he was expelled from the city!'