Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

A few minutes later, they reached the shuttered three-story merchant house across from the Archbishop’s residence where Kolchak and Dieterichs worked while in Samara. A British guard examined their credentials outside the front gate before letting them through. A duty officer seated at a desk in the foyer inspected their papers even more closely before directing them to an upstairs reception room, where Ned was a familiar figure. The young duty officer gave a quick look at Zhanna before his jaw dropped in surprise.

“But, General Dorokhina,” he addressed her, “we were not expecting you. To what do we owe the honor?”

“The Maid will be attending my meeting with the Chief of Staff,” Ned declared. “We will be brief, I assure you. Unfortunately, I had no time to announce the change in plan.”

“Of course, of course,” the duty officer assured Ned in an agreeable tone, his eyes still fixed on the celebrated Maid of Baikal. “One moment, please. I will announce you.”

The officer returned two or three minutes later, his face a grim mask, as if having received a reprimand. Nonetheless, he ushered Ned and Zhanna into the Chief of Staff’s office and closed the carved wooden door behind them.

General Dieterichs rose promptly from behind his desk and greeted each of his guests with a handshake. After a minute or two of polite conversation, Ned handed over the day’s batch of intelligence reports and liaison messages, adding that the latest enemy troop movements toward Simbirsk indicated that they were likely to form part of a large-scale attack on Samara.

“It appalls me how Lenin and Trotsky could enter into a formal ceasefire agreement with such cynical calculation,” Dieterichs observed with an outrage that seemed disingenuous to Ned, since Siberian intentions as to the ceasefire differed only as to timing. “I swear, those damned Bolsheviks will pay dearly for this!”

“And so will you, if you don’t stop swearing,” Zhanna scolded, only half in jest.

“Ah, excuse me, Zhanna Stepanovna. I have been too long away from your good influence,” he answered with a tired smile. “Bad habits creep back in.”

“As for that villain Trotsky, I never expected him to keep the ceasefire for a single moment longer than it suited him,” the Maid added. “With the Bolsheviks, deceit is always the first principle. They do not apply force until fraud has failed. And now we see them move from one to the other.”

“An astute observation, Zhanna Stepanovna. You are wise beyond your years,” the Chief of Staff replied in a crude attempt at flattery as he leaned back in his leather-covered armchair. “And may I assume that you have a proposal to make about this?”

“Indeed I do,” Zhanna said, “and it regards the Red Army’s movement toward Simbirsk. I view it as nothing more than a feint, intended to draw our attention south. Trotsky’s real move will be against Kazan, and from there, a lightning strike to take Ufa and the Urals passes before winter.”

“And on what evidence do you base your conclusion? We see no activity toward Kazan, only toward Simbirsk. Is this from your Voices, Zhanna?” Dieterichs asked, his graying eyebrows raised.

“It is. They tell me that Kazan is ripe for the taking, rotted from within by S-R subversion. We need only to send a token force there and the Red garrison will desert or surrender.”

“Ripe or not, our armies are committed to other goals,” the Chief of Staff answered, folding his hands in his lap. “Gaida and Kappel are poised behind their respective defenses, ready to absorb the Red attack and deliver a powerful counterblow. Even a token force for Kazan is beyond our means at present.”

The fluency of Dieterichs’ response led Ned to suspect that he had anticipated her request.

“Every treasure has its price,” Zhanna answered with a bland smile. “Consider this: if we take Kazan now, it will place a formidable obstacle in the enemy’s path. Forcing the Red Army to lay siege there will shift the theater of battle to the enemy’s side of the Volga, check their advance, and shorten our path to Moscow when they are forced to retreat.”

“What a vivid imagination you have, Zhanna Stepanovna!” Dieterichs declared, slapping his thighs as if the idea were an amusing fantasy. “But what you say cannot be based in any sound strategy.”

“On the contrary, general,” Zhanna replied calmly, bending forward and fixing Dieterichs with an intense gaze. “It is the soundest strategy we can follow to shorten the war and save thousands of Russian lives. Let Tolstov and me take our men to Kazan at our own risk. We will travel quickly and surprise the garrison there before they can resist. My staff is already in contact with the S-R partisans at Kazan. They can mount uprisings there the moment we give the word.”

“Zhanna, Zhanna, Zhanna,” Dieterichs cajoled. “Kazan is three hundred versts away. It would take you a week to get there, and that’s without transporting the heavy weapons and supplies needed to mount a credible siege.”