NOSMOC4 – MOSCOW
RUMOURS EVERYWHERE. OFFICIAL ANNOUNCEMENT BUT NO
PROOF. CANNOT FIND E. WILL CONTINUE.
RYZHKOV
The telegrapher shook his head, but a wave of the Cheka card drew a grimace and Ryzhkov’s telegraph form moved to the top of the queue. Steam whistles startled the birds, and the last of the trains were pulling out, heading west for safety.
He walked out of the station, out onto the wide expanse of the square. The wind was blustery, the sky had cleared and the sun was drying the puddles into crusts and sending the flies buzzing out of the gutters. The wind abruptly changed direction and in the distance he could hear gunshots in the hills. In front of the station the square was completely vacant. The Red Guards had vanished, and everything had fallen into a sudden silence.
He headed back into the centre of the city, tore up his Cheka card and travelling documents and dropped fragments into each gutter that he passed by, paying particular attention to the identification page and his photograph. If Eikhe was in town he had probably gone to ground; anyone with connections to the local soviet would either try to escape or go into hiding. He decided to keep the coat, it worked well in the weather, and he might need it again if he ever wanted to get back to Moscow.
When he got closer to the market he walked down the lanes looking into the garbage until he came out with a reasonably clean section of newspaper. He sat down on the steps of the Municipal Hall, folded the newspaper into a long strip and braided it around his sleeve to make an armband.
Then he took off his hat and mopped his brow, took a deep breath and waited for the first Czech cavalry to arrive.
Ryzhkov had actually fallen asleep there on the steps when the first cavalrymen rode into the square. He jerked awake and stood up to watch them. They came into the city with the arrogance that men on horses always carry with them, when they are armed to the teeth and don’t care about those in their path. With their entrance it was suddenly their city and not the Russians who’d resided there.
A clutch of nervous supplicants had gathered at the front of the building, the ones who were most frightened or angered by Bolshevik rule, the ones who’d been dispossessed of their little local empires. The rest of the square was empty. When the Czech cavalrymen saw them they rode over, called out some gibberish which no one could understand, cantered about the square for a few moments, and then tore off looking for the station. There was some laughter from those who were waiting, and one of the men spat out into the street.
A few moments later a military truck pulled into the square and a squad of infantrymen leapt out, their purpose to seize the Municipal Hall. As the soldiers moved up the steps one of the civilians forced a bottle of home-made vodka on a dark Czech, who took it with his pals, all of them laughing at the Russian with his hat in his hand. They went inside and left one of their squad to guard the front doors.
Already more people were creeping out from behind their doors. A few shutters on the apartments on Glavni Street were thrown open and people had come to their windows to watch the Czechs busy at occupying their town, and wondering if they might get something out of it. Half an hour later a young lieutenant came out and began collecting the details of the now sizeable group that had fetched up there at the steps.
When the lieutenant asked him who he was, Ryzhkov leaned close. ‘I am an agent of the government of France. I need to speak, confidentially you understand, with the military attaché,’ he said, and then shrugged to show he realized how fantastic it might sound.
The young man looked at him steadily and the stenographer he’d brought out with him stood there, his pen suspended over the ledger. ‘I’m sorry, I have no identification, I had to burn it, ‘ Ryzhkov said, adding a smile.
‘Very well,’ the lieutenant said slowly, and called two men over to take him to jail.
They took him straight through the Municipal Hall to the rear entrance, down another set of stairs to a waiting prison cart. There were three men already in it, chained to a long rod that was built into the wall of the van. One of them was dressed in formal attire, as if he were attending an official function; another was a Bolshevik soldier in uniform. There was a bloody bruise over his cheek, and he had been injured inside, because every movement of the cart made him wince and draw a tight breath.
They waited, watching through the grill the soldiers come and go. In a few moments they were shoving another man down the stairs, the doors were wrenched open and they tried to push him in. He was screaming at them, grabbing at the door handles.
It was a misunderstanding, he said. Everything was a misunderstanding. The Czechs began to kick him. A prominent person was on their way to vouch for him, and afterwards he would show them the city. They kept kicking him until he gave up shrieking and when they locked him to the rod he sat there, sobbing and sweating, his suit pulled open, clutching his hat in his manacled hands. Then they were off – lurching around behind the hall, down a lane and into the wide street where he could see industrious Czechs erecting barricades at the major intersections.
They were organized, the Czechs. They were still in their units, had only been able to rely on themselves throughout the war and their imprisonment once they’d deserted into Russia from the Austrian army. Now they were running things, and they knew how to do it, Ryzhkov saw. Squads of soldiers were moving through the streets, pounding on doors, requisitioning everything they needed, buildings, firewood, food, animals and people for the greater glory of the White cause.
They rounded a corner and jerked to a stop at the jail. There were several of the old city policemen there. Some of them had worked for the Bolsheviks but had held back their pre-revolutionary caps or jackets, and as members of the reconstituted constabulary they had put them on over their ordinary clothing. Now they were generously helping the Czechs to get things up and running. They went about their jobs with the kind of alert efficiency and overblown enthusiasm that a man will display when he thinks he might be fired before lunch.
By the time Ryzhkov made it to the holding rooms, they seemed to know all about him, and he guessed that the lieutenant must have sent word ahead by field telephone. He was separated from the rest, locked to a bench, then unlocked and given over to an officer who appraised him with a slight smile, and, with two other warders, walked him down to the cells.
The first cell they’d tried was already occupied, so they put him in a larger room, meant for four, but now seemingly dedicated to Ryzhkov alone. His manacles were unlocked and a few minutes later they brought him some bread and kvass. While he ate, the officer came back and watched him.
‘You say you’re a Frenchman?’ The Czech’s French was accented but understandable. The cadence was like a schoolboy’s. Maybe he just wanted to practise.
‘I’m Russian. I was Okhrana, then I was in France through the war.’
‘Ahh…with the Legion?’
Ryzhkov shrugged and nodded. ‘I work for the French now,’ Ryzhkov said.
‘Well, we all work for the French. They are in command, after all. Or at least that is the latest fiction.’ The Czech smiled, and looked down the corridor for a moment. ‘The Conte should be in soon. He’ll see you, but you’d better have the right answers, mon ami,’ the officer said, and drew a finger across his throat. ‘If you’re the real thing we’ll find out. If you’re lying…well, tell them in hell that I was a charitable man, eh?’ The officer stooped and slid a pair of cigars through the bars and set a box of matches on top of them. ‘Just don’t start any fires.’
‘Thank you. I’ll be careful.’
Ryzhkov finished his food, and used the toilet in the corner. Went over and picked up the cigars, and had just taken off his shoes and collapsed on the lowest of the iron beds when the guards were back again.
They