Читаем Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War полностью

Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

Over lunch the next day at the extravagantly expensive Uspensky Restaurant, it was Ned’s turn to pump Mark McCloud for information about what a new national assembly and Allied recognition might portend. The primary question among political insiders was whether White Forces might now make good on their threat to capture Moscow before winter. The Maid had predicted this, of course, and now her predictions no longer seemed so far-fetched. Depending on whose army seized that prize—Kolchak’s, Denikin’s, or possibly Yudenich’s—a final White victory was certain to set off an intense scramble for influence among the Allies.

“What about this post-victory scramble?” Ned asked McCloud as their first course was served, a mushroom bisque laden with wild chanterelles and morels. “Is it all about trade concessions? Would Wilson really demand a first lien on the tsar’s gold’s as collateral for Russia’s debts?”

“Likely that, and other concessions, too,” McCloud replied before taking a gulp of the French brandy he had ordered, since the lunch was at Ned’s expense. “Remember this about your glorious Allied intervention: every great cause is born as a movement, grows into a business, and over time declines into a racket.”

“One from which you have derived considerable profit, I might add,” Ned observed with a sour expression.

“But not nearly as much as your Cousin Pierre and his friends on Wall Street. I expect they’ll descend on Moscow like locusts on a ripe orchard. But the jockeying will be about more than money. Above all else, President Wilson wants a democratic Russia, even if it is one weakened by internal squabbling.”

“And what about the other Allies?” Ned probed.

“The British and the French are more comfortable with a dictatorship, or perhaps a constitutional monarchy, which they see as more stable than a democracy. Of course, the Japanese prefer an anarchical Russia on its knees, so they and their vassal warlords Semenov and Kalmykov[44] can go on plundering at will. That is why Wilson is sending ten thousand more troops to Eastern Siberia and a similar number to Murmansk. And that’s only the beginning. Who knows how far it will go?”

The waiter hovered, awaiting a sign that the soup had met his guests’ satisfaction. Ned gave a gesture of approval and sent the man away for a glass of pilsner.

“But Wilson has always resisted intervention in Russia,” Ned told the journalist. “Why go all-in now to tip the scale for the Whites when he has steadfastly refused to do it for the past eighteen months?”

“For two reasons, I think,” the journalist suggested. “First is Bolshevik weakness: the Red Army is reeling from recent defeats. Uprisings have broken out all over Sovdepia and popular support for Bolshevism seems to be waning. Oddly enough, the people don’t seem to blame the Allied blockade and their hostile neighbors for the suffering in Sovdepia. They blame the hated commissars.”

“And the other reason?” Ned asked, conceding that McCloud had made a solid point.

“Second, Wilson’s tolerant attitude toward the Bolsheviks seems to have hardened,” McCloud added, “The American press has finally acknowledged Kolchak’s reforms, while denouncing the Red Terror and sounding the alarm over left-wing agitation at home. I think the shift in public opinion is why Wilson has finally decided to offer Kolchak a deal.”

“So you think diplomatic recognition will happen?” Ned challenged.

McCloud gave an emphatic nod before knocking back the remains of his brandy.

“Yes, the instant the new assembly approves a platform showing the faintest whiff of reform,” he agreed.

“But isn’t that dangerous for Kolchak?” Ned asked. “The hard-liners who put him in power will feel betrayed, while the S-Rs and leftists will go on hating him just as before. Bringing his assembly to the Volga, where the S-Rs have a powerful presence, is a wild card.”

“It could be, but he may have no other choice. Without Allied aid, the Admiral loses the war and, with that, everything else. But if he can survive long enough to take Moscow, he wins the whole pot. It all comes down to how well he plays his hand.”

The journalist pushed away his empty soup bowl and smacked his lips with pleasure.

“The Supreme Ruler has shown himself a damned lousy card player so far,” Ned pointed out.

“Exactly. Therefore, my money is on Zhanna to stack the deck for him. If you’re game for another wager, I’ll bet you a champagne dinner at Moscow’s most expensive restaurant that the Maid keeps on winning battles and the Whites take the capital by Christmas. Are you in?”

“How could I refuse?” Ned shot back. “Either way, I win.”