Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

The Admiral’s personal secretary knocked loudly on the door to the private office before opening it for Madame Timiryova to enter. She found Kolchak standing before the tall window behind his desk, looking down at the street below, apparently watching his guests’ departure. She gasped when she saw the ugly Mauser pistol lying on his desk, with its long thin barrel and bulbous wooden handle.

“Alexander Vasilyevich!” she cried out. “What are you thinking!”

Kolchak wheeled around, startled to see her, apparently not having heard the knock or her footsteps. She stepped toward the desk and pointed to the pistol.

“No, it’s not what you think,” he answered in a voice drained of emotion. “I sometimes put the pistol there to stimulate my thinking. It can do wonders to concentrate the mind.”

Standing across the desk from her, Kolchak picked up the weapon gingerly by the breech and deposited it in a drawer. Then he stepped around the desk, gave his mistress a hug and a kiss on both cheeks, as if nothing were amiss, and led her by the hand to the sofa beside the samovar.

“I saw Colonel Ward and the other officer as they were leaving. They looked upset,” she noted once she was seated. “What on earth did you say to them?”

Kolchak remained standing and proceeded to prepare two cups of tea from the still-steaming samovar.

“They came to change my mind about having refused the American Ambassador’s offer,” he replied, adding hot water to the ounce or two of concentrated tea mixture in each glass. “I told them no, as before.”

“If nothing has changed, then why do you look so troubled?” she asked as she accepted her glass.

While making the transfer, a spoon dropped noisily onto the floor and Kolchak swore under his breath before picking it up and replacing it with a clean one.

“They came to warn me that Winston Churchill intends to wash his hands of me. He means to throw his support behind Savinkov and the S-Rs if I don’t relent on the subject of a national assembly,” the Admiral replied when he had regained his composure. But his hands still shook so much that they rattled his tea glass in its filigree holder.

“Would Churchill really do such a thing?” Madame Timiryova asked, her eyes wide with shock.

“I believe he would,” the Admiral declared, lowering himself gently onto the sofa as if his bones ached. “And I know from our spies that Savinkov has been plotting demonstrations all along the Volga to demand the new assembly. His plan, it seems, is to control a majority of its delegates and then use the assembly to seize the reins of government.”

“So what will you do?” she asked.

“I don’t know. But I am a military man. It is my nature to resist.”

“Colonel Ward is your friend. He has supported you from the very beginning. Did he not come tonight to help you?”

Kolchak considered the question for a moment before nodding a cautious yes.

“No doubt he did,” came the muttered answer.

“Then why must you be so rigid, Alex? What if you are wrong and he is right?”

But the Admiral refused to answer or even meet her gaze. She put a hand on his arm to regain his attention but he failed to react.

“My God, Alex, you can be so pigheaded!” she exclaimed.

Suddenly Kolchak put down his tea and rose to pace slowly back and forth along the narrow carpet that ran between sofa and sideboard.

“The Allies play their own game, not Russia’s,” he declared with a scowl. “How can I possibly trust them on so critical a question?”

“If you don’t trust your allies, whom do you trust? Do you trust me? Do you trust the Maid?”

“Of course I do!” he told her in a loud voice, at last meeting her gaze with a pleading look of his own. “You are my very soul! And Zhanna Stepanovna has always been faithful to me, even when my generals and ministers thwart her at every turn.”

“Then listen to me, Alexander Ivanovich! I have come to you because I received a telegram from the Maid. I want you to read it. Because I believe Zhanna aims to protect you from the same harm as does Colonel Ward.”

She withdrew the folded telegram from a pocket in her dress and handed it over. He read it and then let it drop on the low table beside his glass of tea. Tears welled in his red-rimmed eyes.

“Do you know to whom she refers?” she asked.

He nodded and looked away for several long moments, in which the Admiral’s mistress had absolutely no idea what he was thinking. At last, he faced her and spoke.

“How easy it is to be blinded by fear,” he said in a low voice, taking her hand in his. “Zhanna is right. I will cable Ambassador Morris tomorrow and explain my decision to reconsider. Now, let us finish our tea. The hour is late and we will need our strength for tomorrow.”

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