CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO - October 1918
Maud had lunch at the Ritz with her friend Lord Remarc, who was a junior minister in the War Office. Johnny was wearing a new lavender waistcoat. Over the pot-au-feu she asked him: "Is the war really coming to an end?"
"Everyone thinks so," Johnny said. "The Germans have suffered seven hundred thousand casualties this year. They can't go on."
Maud wondered miserably if Walter was one of the seven hundred thousand. He might be dead, she knew; and the thought was like a cold lump inside her where her heart should be. She had had no word from him since their idyllic second honeymoon in Stockholm. She guessed that his work no longer took him to neutral countries from which he could write. The awful truth was that he had probably returned to the battlefield for Germany's last, all-or-nothing offensive.
Such thoughts were morbid, but realistic. So many women had lost their loved ones: husbands, brothers, sons, fiances. They had all lived through four years during which such tragedies happened daily. It was no longer possible to be too pessimistic. Grief was the norm.
She pushed her soup dish away. "Is there any other reason to hope for peace?"
"Yes. Germany has a new chancellor, and he has written to President Wilson, suggesting an armistice based on Wilson's famous Fourteen Points."
"That is hopeful! Has Wilson agreed?"
"No. He said Germany must first withdraw from all conquered territories."
"What does our government think?"
"Lloyd George is hopping mad. The Germans treat the Americans as the senior partners in the alliance-and President Wilson acts as if they could make peace without consulting us."
"Does it matter?"
"I'm afraid it does. Our government doesn't necessarily agree with Wilson's Fourteen Points."
Maud nodded. "I suppose we're against point five, about colonial peoples having a say in their own government."
"Exactly. What about Rhodesia, and Barbados, and India? We can't be expected to ask the natives' permission before we civilize them. Americans are far too liberal. And we're dead against point two, freedom of the seas in war and peace. British power is based on the navy. We would not have been able to starve Germany into submission if we had not been allowed to blockade their seagoing trade."
"How do the French feel about it?"
Johnny grinned. "Clemenceau said Wilson was trying to outdo the Almighty. 'God himself only came up with ten points,' he said."
"I get the impression that most ordinary British people actually like Wilson and his points."
Johnny nodded. "And European leaders can hardly tell the American president to stop making peace."
Maud was so eager to believe it that she frightened herself. She told herself not to be happy yet. There could be such heavy disappointment in store.
A waiter brought them sole Waleska and cast an admiring eye at Johnny's waistcoat.
Maud turned to her other worry. "What do you hear from Fitz?" Her brother's mission in Siberia was secret, but he had confided in her, and Johnny gave her bulletins.
"That Cossack leader turned out to be a disappointment. Fitz made a pact with him, and we paid him for a while, but he was nothing more than a warlord, really. However, Fitz is staying on, hoping to encourage the Russians to overthrow the Bolsheviks. Meanwhile, Lenin has moved his government from Petrograd to Moscow, where he feels safer from invasion."
"Even if the Bolsheviks were deposed, would a new regime resume the war against Germany?"
"Realistically? No." Johnny took a sip of Chablis. "But a lot of very powerful people in the British government just hate the Bolsheviks."
"Why?"
"Lenin's regime is brutal."
"So was the tsar's, but Winston Churchill never plotted to overthrow him."
"Underneath, they're frightened that if Bolshevism is a success over there it will come here next."
"Well, if it's a success, why not?"
Johnny shrugged. "You can't expect people such as your brother to see it that way."
"No," said Maud. "I wonder how he's getting on?"
{II}
"We're in Russia!" Billy Williams said when the ship docked and he heard the voices of the longshoremen. "What are we doing in fucking Russia?"
"How can we be in Russia?" said Tommy Griffiths. "Russia's in the east. We've been sailing west for weeks."
"We've gone halfway round the world and come at it from the other side."
Tommy was not convinced. He leaned over the rail, staring. "The people look a bit Chinesey," he said.
"They're speaking Russian, though. They sound like that pony driver, Peshkov, the one who cheated the Ponti brothers at cards, then scarpered."
Tommy listened. "Aye, you're right. Well, I never."
"This must be Siberia," Billy said. "No wonder it's fucking cold."
A few minutes later they learned they were in Vladivostok.
People took little notice of the Aberowen Pals marching through the town. There were already thousands of soldiers in uniform here. Most were Japanese but there were also Americans and Czechs and others. The town had a busy port, trams running along broad boulevards, modern hotels and theaters, and hundreds of shops. It was like Cardiff, Billy thought, but colder.
When they reached their barracks they met a battalion of elderly Londoners who had been shipped there from Hong Kong. It made sense, Billy thought, to send old codgers to this backwater. But the Pals, though depleted by casualties, had a core of hardened veterans. Who had pulled strings to have them withdrawn from France and sent to the other side of the globe?
He soon found out. After dinner the brigadier, a comfortable-looking man evidently close to retirement, told them they were to be addressed by Colonel the Earl Fitzherbert.
Captain Gwyn Evans, the owner of the department stores, brought a wooden crate that had once held cans of lard, and Fitz climbed up on it, not without difficulty on account of his bad leg. Billy watched without sympathy. He reserved his compassion for Stumpy Pugh and the many other crippled ex-miners who had been injured digging the earl's coal. Fitz was smug, arrogant, and a merciless exploiter of ordinary men and women. It was a shame the Germans had not shot him in the heart rather than the leg.
"Our mission is fourfold," Fitz began, raising his voice to address six hundred men. "First, we're here to protect our property. On your way out of the docks, passing the railway sidings, you may have noticed a large supply dump guarded by troops. That ten-acre site contains six hundred thousand tons of munitions and other military equipment sent here by Britain and the United States when the Russians were our allies. Now that the Bolsheviks have made peace with Germany, we do not want bullets paid for by our people to fall into their hands."
"That doesn't make sense," Billy said loud enough for Tommy and the others around him to hear. "Instead of bringing us here, why didn't they ship the stores home?"
Fitz glanced irritably in the direction of the noise, but continued. "Second, there are many Czech nationalists in this country, some prisoners of war and others who were working here prewar, who have formed themselves into the Czech Legion and are trying to take ship from Vladivostok to join our forces in France. They are being harassed by the Bolsheviks and our job is to help them get away. Local Cossack community leaders will help us in this effort."
"Cossack community leaders?" Billy said. "Who is he trying to fool? They're bloody bandits."
Once again Fitz heard the dissident muttering. This time Captain Evans looked annoyed and walked down the mess hall to stand near Billy and his group.
"Here in Siberia there are eight hundred thousand Austrian and German prisoners of war who have been set free since the peace treaty. We must prevent them returning to the European battlefield. Finally, we suspect the Germans of eyeing up the oil fields of Baku, in the south of Russia. They must not be allowed to access that supply."
Billy said: "I've got a feeling Baku is quite a long way from here."
The brigadier said amiably: "Do any of you men have any questions?"
Fitz gave him a glare, but it was too late. Billy said: "I haven't read nothing about this in the papers."
Fitz replied: "Like many military missions, it is secret, and you will not be allowed to say where you are in your letters home."
"Are we at war with Russia, sir?"
"No, we are not." Fitz pointedly looked away from Billy. Perhaps he remembered how Billy had bested him at the peace talks meeting in the Calvary Gospel Hall. "Does anyone other than Sergeant Williams have a question?"
Billy persisted. "Are we trying to overthrow the Bolshevik government?"
There was an angry murmur from the troops, many of whom sympathized with the revolution.
"There is no Bolshevik government," Fitz said with mounting exasperation. "The regime in Moscow has not been recognized by His Majesty the king."
"Have our mission been authorized by Parliament?"
The brigadier looked troubled-he had not been expecting this type of question-and Captain Evans said: "That's enough from you, Sergeant-let the others have a chance."
But Fitz was not smart enough to shut up. Apparently it did not occur to him that Billy's debating skills, learned from a radical nonconformist father, might be superior to his own. "Military missions are authorized by the War Office, not by Parliament," Fitz argued.
"So this have been kept secret from our elected representatives!" Billy said indignantly.
Tommy murmured anxiously: "Careful, now, butty."
"Necessarily," said Fitz.
Billy ignored Tommy's advice-he was too angry now. He stood up and said in a clear, loud voice: "Sir, is what we're doing legal?"
Fitz colored, and Billy knew he had scored a hit.
Fitz began: "Of course it is-"
"If our mission have not been approved by the British people or the Russian people," Billy interrupted, "how can it be legal?"
Captain Evans said: "Sit down, Sergeant. This isn't one of your bloody Labour Party meetings. One more word and you'll be on a charge."
Billy sat down, satisfied. He had made his point.
Fitz said: "We have been invited here by the All-Russia Provisional Government, whose executive arm is a five-man directory based at Omsk, at the western edge of Siberia. And that," Fitz finished, "is where you're going next."
{III}
It was dusk. Lev Peshkov waited, shivering, in a freight yard in Vladivostok, the ass end of the Trans-Siberian Railway. He wore an army greatcoat over his lieutenant's uniform, but Siberia was the coldest place he had ever been.
He was furious to be in Russia. He had been lucky to escape, four years ago, and even luckier to marry into a wealthy American family. And now he was back-all because of a girl. What's wrong with me? he asked himself. Why can't I be satisfied?
A gate opened, and a cart drawn by a mule came out of the supply dump. Lev jumped onto the seat beside the British soldier who was driving it. "Aye, aye, Sid," said Lev.
"Wotcher," said Sid. He was a thin man of about forty with a perpetual cigarette and a prematurely lined face. A Cockney, he spoke English with an accent quite different from that of South Wales or upstate New York. At first Lev had found him hard to understand.
"Have you got the whisky?"
"Nah, just tins of cocoa."
Lev turned around, leaned into the cart, and pulled back a corner of the tarpaulin. He was almost certain Sid was joking. He saw a cardboard box marked: "Fry's Chocolate and Cocoa." He said: "Not much demand for that among the Cossacks."
"Look underneath."
Lev moved the box aside and saw a different legend: "Teacher's Highland Cream-Perfection of Old Scotch Whisky." He said: "How many?"
"Twelve cases."
He covered the box. "Better than cocoa."
He directed Sid away from the city center. He checked behind frequently to see if anyone was following them, and looked with apprehension when he saw a senior U.S. Army officer, but no one questioned them. Vladivostok was crammed with refugees from the Bolsheviks, most of whom had brought a lot of money with them. They were spending it as if there were no tomorrow, which there probably was not for many of them. In consequence the shops were busy and the streets full of carts like this one delivering goods. As everything was scarce in Russia, much of what was on sale had been smuggled in from China or, like Sid's Scotch, stolen from the military.
Lev saw a woman with a little girl, and thought of Daisy. He missed her. She was walking and talking now, and investigating the world. She had a pout that melted everyone's heart, even Josef Vyalov's. Lev had not seen her for six months. She was two and a half now, and she must have changed in the time he had been away.
He also missed Marga. She was the one he dreamed about, her naked body wriggling against his in bed. It was because of her that he had got into trouble with his father-in-law and ended up in Siberia, but all the same he longed to see her again.
"Have you got a weakness, Sid?" said Lev. He felt he needed a closer friendship with the taciturn Sid: partners in crime required trust.
"Nah," said Sid. "Only money."
"Does your love of money lead you to take risks?"
"Nah, just thieving."
"And does thieving ever get you into trouble?"
"Not really. Prison, once, but that was only for six months."
"My weakness is women."
"Is it?"
Lev was used to this British habit of asking the question after the answer had been given. "Yes," he said. "I can't resist them. I have to walk into a nightclub with a pretty girl on my arm."
"Do you?"
"Yes. I can't help myself."
The cart entered a dockland neighborhood of dirt roads and sailors' hostels, places that had neither names nor addresses. Sid looked nervous.
Lev said: "You're armed, yeah?"
"Nah," said Sid. "I just got this." He pulled back his coat to reveal a huge pistol with a foot-long barrel stuck into his belt.
Lev had never seen a gun like it. "What the fuck is that?"
"Webley-Mars. Most powerful handgun in the world. Very rare."
"No need to pull the trigger-just wave it about, it'll scare people to death."
In this area no one was paid to clear the streets of snow, and the cart followed the tracks of previous vehicles, or slid on the ice of little-used lanes. Being in Russia made Lev think of his brother. He had not forgotten his promise to send Grigori the fare to America. He was making good money selling stolen military supplies to the Cossacks. With today's deal he would have enough for Grigori's passage.
He had done a lot of wicked things in his short life, but if he could make amends to his brother he would feel better about himself.
They drove into an alley and turned behind a low building. Lev opened a cardboard box and took out one bottle of Scotch. "Stay here and guard the load," he said to Sid. "Otherwise it will be gone when we come out."
"Don't worry," said Sid, but he looked apprehensive.
Lev reached under his greatcoat to touch the holstered Colt.45 semiautomatic pistol on his belt, then he went in through the back door.
The place was what passed for a tavern in Siberia. There was a small room with a few chairs and a table. It had no bar, but an open door revealed a dirty kitchen with a shelf of bottles and a barrel. Three men sat near the log fire, dressed in ragged furs. Lev recognized the one in the middle, a man he knew as Sotnik. He wore baggy trousers tucked into riding boots. He had high cheekbones and slanted eyes, and he sported an elaborate mustache and side-whiskers. His skin was reddened and lined by the weather. He might have been any age between twenty-five and fifty-five.
Lev shook hands all round. He uncorked the bottle, and one of the men-presumably the bar owner-brought four nonmatching glasses. Lev poured generous measures, and they all drank.
"This is the best whisky in the world," Lev said in Russian. "It comes from a cold country, like Siberia, where the water in the mountain streams is pure melted snow. What a pity it is so expensive."
Sotnik's face was expressionless. "How much?"
Lev was not going to let him reopen the bargaining. "The price you agreed to yesterday," he said. "Payable in gold rubles, nothing else."
"How many bottles?"