Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

“Tell me,” McCloud went on, “when the war is over, do you think Zhanna might agree to come to the States for a lecture tour? Within a year, I believe I could make her a very wealthy young woman. She’s already becoming famous over there, you know.” McCloud’s face appeared flushed and his eyes wide, like a man with gold fever.

“And I don’t suppose you’d do badly by the enterprise, if I know you,” Ned added with a sideways look.

“No, no, you don’t understand, it’s not about the money at all,” McCloud protested. “Zhanna is the new face of the White Russian movement. When Americans think of the Whites, they no longer see Kolchak’s sour mug, or General Denikin’s medal-encrusted chest. They see a pretty young girl in a plain brown uniform, carrying a white banner and armed with a faith that God will lead Russia to a bright new future!”

“I wonder where the American public could have picked up such a quaint idea?” Ned smirked.

“Every great legend has its troubadour,” the journalist answered with a cockeyed grin. “And her song seems to be the hit tune these days in Washington. Some of the fence sitters there are finally going all-in for the Whites. There’s even a rumor that Wilson may be ready to recognize Omsk as the legitimate Russian government.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Ned scoffed.

“No, this time it’s for real,” McCloud insisted, putting down his empty beer glass. “Haven’t you heard about the Red Scare[38] back home? The riots, the strikes, and the bombings? Our homegrown Bolshie agitators have the bankers and industrialists running scared. The bosses want Bolshevism destroyed over here in Russia to keep it from spreading across the Atlantic. And they’re opening their wallets wide for the Whites to finish it off.”

“How do you know this?” Ned pressed.

“It’s common knowledge,” McCloud replied with a shrug. “Rockefeller, Ford, Morgan, the whole bunch have ponied up big money. And your Cousin Pierre, too. If Pierre only knew how close you are to Zhanna, I reckon he might double his bet.”

The expectant look on the journalist’s face made Ned suspect that this was no idle remark.

“You weren’t planning on telling him any more tall tales about me, were you?” Ned felt the back of his neck grow prickly hot. A man like McCloud could not possibly understand the nature of his relationship with Zhanna. Indeed, Ned hardly understood it himself. Nor would he or Zhanna wish to be thought of as agents of moneyed interests like the DuPont Company or the New York banks.

“Oh, not in so many words,” McCloud objected. “But Colonel Buckner keeps himself very well informed about events over here. It’s only a matter of time before he gets wind of all the help Zhanna’s brigade has been getting from Allied quarters. And he’s too smart not to put two and two together.”

“Tell me, Mark, do you report to the colonel regularly about me?” Ned asked, his voice taking on a hard edge.

“Oh, not so regularly,” McCloud replied casually as he snatched another glass of beer from the servant’s proffered tray. “But he does ask about you from time to time.”

Ned drew a deep breath. A wrong word about Zhanna or Yulia from McCloud to Buckner or Cousin Pierre might complicate his situation at home. But he held no power over the journalist. Perhaps he could try a bribe. It was either that or a threat.

“Well, if you’re angling for a first-hand account of the Maid’s victories at Uralsk and Yershov, you’re not going to get it from me,” Ned said in a sharp tone. “Go talk to Paladin if that’s what you want. But if I hear even a hint from Corinne or her father about my relationship to Zhanna or any other woman over here, I might just have the Cossacks pick you up as a Bolshevik spy and have their way with you. Do I make myself clear?”

For once, Mark McCloud seemed at a loss for words. But Ned knew all too well that the man would pop up again the next time he wanted something, and then it might not be so easy to put him off.

* * *

Through dinner and for the rest of the evening, Ned was determined to spend time with Zhanna, but each time he tried to get close to her, either he or Zhanna was invariably called aside. He spent the better part of twenty minutes chasing her around the room before being buttonholed by Jake Sweeney, the Red Cross official whom he had met in December aboard the special train from Irkutsk to Omsk. Sweeney looked the picture of good health and seemed happy to be drinking the pink berry infusion in place of his usual whiskey. Even more surprising was the man’s account of having been given responsibility over all American-run military hospitals in Yekaterinburg and Chelyabinsk. The reason he had come to Omsk was to receive a decoration and cash reward from the Siberian government for his work there, a circumstance directly in line with Madame Yelena’s earlier predictions for him. But by the time Ned broke free from Sweeney, Zhanna had vanished.