Fall of Giants

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.”