Blood Red, Snow White by Marcus Sedgwick Page A

capture it. I think they figure that since Napoleon failed, the Kaiser will, too. But it was the winter that stopped Napoleon, and spring is almost here. Anyway, they’re going to up and run to Moscow, and everyone else is simply running away. The French, the Chinese, the Japanese Ambassadors are leaving.”
    Everyone. The Bolsheviks had decided that Petrograd was too close to the German army, who were advancing in fits and starts toward the city. When the Bolsheviks went, so did everyone else; all the foreign embassies, the Japanese, the Germans, the French, the British; and so did anyone else with any interest in them. Lockhart and his mission. The few remaining journalists. Arthur. There was nothing left for him in Petrograd. He shut his flat up, having given his landlady an exorbitant sum of roubles to keep it on for him, just in case. He was happy enough to be fleeced by her, it was only money, and there were more important things than money.
    Evgenia had gone, too, following Trotsky to Moscow with the other Bolsheviks. He hadn’t even seen her before she went; he’d been sent on some wild-goose chase by Lockhart. In the event of a German invasion of Russia, and the British having to leave Moscow, they needed a bolthole halfway to the northern coast. Lockhart had asked Arthur to go to a godforsaken town called Vologda, and to “claim” a building there suitable for use as the British Embassy if need be.
    “Claim it?” Arthur had asked.
    “Stick a flag on it, man!” Lockhart said.
    “And where do I get a flag from?”
    “Use your ingenuity. And get a move on.”
    “I only earn a journalist’s wages, you know.”
    “All your expenses will be covered,” Lockhart assured him, “by the British government.”
    Arthur did as he was told.
    In the end, he had borrowed a flag from one of the British cruisers imprisoned by the frozen waters of the Neva, and had made the fruitless journey to Vologda. He had learned one thing from the trip, though, one very important thing. While there, muddled news from the peace talks with Germany led Moscow to think that a German invasion was imminent. Lenin of all people had telegraphed to Arthur and his traveling companions to let them know the news, so they might take whatever action they saw fit. For the foreigners, this meant running for home. Arthur read the telegram with disbelief, not at what Lenin had to say, but at an extra message tacked on the end, addressed purely to him.
    It was from Evgenia.
    “As this means war,” she said, “you will no doubt have to travel again. But you have my best wishes for a happy journey.”
    Why on earth would Trotsky’s secretary have the impertinence to adulterate Lenin’s telegram with a message to an English journalist? Unless that Englishman meant something to her?
    *   *   *
    He found her again, his very first day in Moscow.
    Lockhart got him a room at the Elite, but Arthur discovered that all the Bolshevik party were staying at the National Hotel. The plan was to move into the Kremlin, but with their sudden arrival from Petrograd, it wasn’t yet ready.
    Arthur found the Bolsheviks in disarray at the National, and was treated to the sight of Lenin sitting on a pile of packing cases in the lobby. Lenin called him over.
    “Comrade Ransome! What are you British doing now?”
    Arthur feigned ignorance, but he knew what Lenin was talking about. Lockhart had told him unbelievable news. An admiral and a company of British marines had landed at Murmansk and captured the town. Lockhart didn’t seem to know their further intentions, but it was hard to see it as anything other than an expeditionary invasion force.
    Lenin wasn’t fooled.
    “Your government refuses to talk to us, and the moment we seem to sign a peace with Germany, you invade our country!”
    “I’m sure the British government is only seeking to help Russians.”
    “Maybe so, Comrade Ransome. But which Russians? Red? Or White?”
    Arthur shifted uncomfortably,