bone-white bald head was revealed.
Sorg turned ashen. He felt as if someone had frozen his heart. A surge of fear coursed though him. Sixteen years had passed, but the man was still frighteningly familiar.
Kazan.
He looked older, fleshier, but Sorg never forgot the image of the man who had dragged his father away. What’s Kazan doing here?
The Ochrana was disbanded. Was the Cheka making use of his brutal talents? It made a warped kind of sense.
Sorg shivered, as if someone had walked over his grave. Then he began to sweat. He rummaged in his pockets for the Laudanum tincture, thinking a few drops would calm his anxiety.
The bottle was gone. He must have lost it in the struggle.
He swore.
Snapping shut the spyglass, he pushed it into the Gladstone. Then he walked back through the woods and climbed into the carriage. He pulled the blanket over his legs, shaking now.
The cabbie smiled. “Your business is done?”
Sorg thought, I have a feeling it’s just begun .
11
At eight that evening Yakov was seated behind his oak desk, looking through some papers, when he heard a sharp knock on his carriage door. “Come in.”
Zoba entered, the Georgian rubbing his hands together, stamping his boots, his face frozen and the wind whistling. “It’s as cold as an Eskimo’s kiss outside. My feet are like ice blocks.”
Yakov stood up from his desk and took a tin cigarette case from his pocket. “Throw another log in the stove and get some heat into you.”
Zoba crossed to a tiled woodstove in a corner, opened it, and was greeted by a blazing furnace of heat. As he threw in a log someone banged on the door.
This time a soldier entered and a gust of icy wind raged in before he managed to shut the door. He snapped off a salute. “Duty Officer Malenkov reporting. A night to keep warm, Commissar. A bad storm’s brewing, I’d say.”
“Isn’t it always in this godforsaken place?” Yakov saw the duty officer’s eyes dart about the luxury carriage. A half-dozen comfortable seats were upholstered in bright red velvet and a nickeled samovar bubbled in a corner, a whiff of charcoal scenting the air. Nearby stood a side table with a bottle of vodka and some glasses. “You look impressed,” Yakov said to the man.
“We don’t see much luxury in these parts, comrade.” The duty officer peered past an open door and saw a private bedroom in another part of the carriage. It looked more sparse, with a soldier’s simple metal cot.
Yakov struck a match, lit a cigarette, and blew out smoke as he crossed the polished walnut floor to the stove blazing in the corner. “Tell him, Zoba.”
“You’re standing in the former private carriage of the Grand Duke Andrew, which now rightfully belongs to the Soviet people. We carry a hundred and fifty troops on board, and two special carriage stables to transport a dozen of the finest cavalry horses for our mounted scouts.”
Zoba rapped his knuckles against one of the steel-hinged plates hanging by each of the windows, gun ports cut into the metal. “We’ve added steel shutters and machine-gun turrets for extra protection. When Comrade Lenin travels with us, he calls our train his ‘Kremlin on wheels.’ It has its own kitchens, troop sleeping quarters, and plentiful stores of arms and munitions.”
Yakov said to the duty officer, “Well, what do you want?”
“I picked the firing squad. They’ll be ready to carry out the execution at dawn. The remaining hundred and sixty prisoners will be force-marched to the Soborsk camp.”
Yakov inhaled on his cigarette and sighed. “Hopefully the captain’s execution won’t be necessary.”
“Comrade?”
“Not your business. How has Captain Andrev been since he arrived here?”
The duty officer shrugged. “He’s a resourceful man. The last time he broke out he reached a village thirty miles from here before we caught up with him. Sergeant Mersk beat the captain to within an inch of his life for that. How he lived I’ll never
Sorg turned ashen. He felt as if someone had frozen his heart. A surge of fear coursed though him. Sixteen years had passed, but the man was still frighteningly familiar.
Kazan.
He looked older, fleshier, but Sorg never forgot the image of the man who had dragged his father away. What’s Kazan doing here?
The Ochrana was disbanded. Was the Cheka making use of his brutal talents? It made a warped kind of sense.
Sorg shivered, as if someone had walked over his grave. Then he began to sweat. He rummaged in his pockets for the Laudanum tincture, thinking a few drops would calm his anxiety.
The bottle was gone. He must have lost it in the struggle.
He swore.
Snapping shut the spyglass, he pushed it into the Gladstone. Then he walked back through the woods and climbed into the carriage. He pulled the blanket over his legs, shaking now.
The cabbie smiled. “Your business is done?”
Sorg thought, I have a feeling it’s just begun .
11
At eight that evening Yakov was seated behind his oak desk, looking through some papers, when he heard a sharp knock on his carriage door. “Come in.”
Zoba entered, the Georgian rubbing his hands together, stamping his boots, his face frozen and the wind whistling. “It’s as cold as an Eskimo’s kiss outside. My feet are like ice blocks.”
Yakov stood up from his desk and took a tin cigarette case from his pocket. “Throw another log in the stove and get some heat into you.”
Zoba crossed to a tiled woodstove in a corner, opened it, and was greeted by a blazing furnace of heat. As he threw in a log someone banged on the door.
This time a soldier entered and a gust of icy wind raged in before he managed to shut the door. He snapped off a salute. “Duty Officer Malenkov reporting. A night to keep warm, Commissar. A bad storm’s brewing, I’d say.”
“Isn’t it always in this godforsaken place?” Yakov saw the duty officer’s eyes dart about the luxury carriage. A half-dozen comfortable seats were upholstered in bright red velvet and a nickeled samovar bubbled in a corner, a whiff of charcoal scenting the air. Nearby stood a side table with a bottle of vodka and some glasses. “You look impressed,” Yakov said to the man.
“We don’t see much luxury in these parts, comrade.” The duty officer peered past an open door and saw a private bedroom in another part of the carriage. It looked more sparse, with a soldier’s simple metal cot.
Yakov struck a match, lit a cigarette, and blew out smoke as he crossed the polished walnut floor to the stove blazing in the corner. “Tell him, Zoba.”
“You’re standing in the former private carriage of the Grand Duke Andrew, which now rightfully belongs to the Soviet people. We carry a hundred and fifty troops on board, and two special carriage stables to transport a dozen of the finest cavalry horses for our mounted scouts.”
Zoba rapped his knuckles against one of the steel-hinged plates hanging by each of the windows, gun ports cut into the metal. “We’ve added steel shutters and machine-gun turrets for extra protection. When Comrade Lenin travels with us, he calls our train his ‘Kremlin on wheels.’ It has its own kitchens, troop sleeping quarters, and plentiful stores of arms and munitions.”
Yakov said to the duty officer, “Well, what do you want?”
“I picked the firing squad. They’ll be ready to carry out the execution at dawn. The remaining hundred and sixty prisoners will be force-marched to the Soborsk camp.”
Yakov inhaled on his cigarette and sighed. “Hopefully the captain’s execution won’t be necessary.”
“Comrade?”
“Not your business. How has Captain Andrev been since he arrived here?”
The duty officer shrugged. “He’s a resourceful man. The last time he broke out he reached a village thirty miles from here before we caught up with him. Sergeant Mersk beat the captain to within an inch of his life for that. How he lived I’ll never
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