Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

“The ambush was too well laid,” Ivashov replied, stepping forward to confront Guins. “And it employed light trench mortars that must have been zeroed onto our path in advance. More than that, the attackers moved in immediately to surround Zhanna, at considerable risk to themselves, rather than subject us to a lethal crossfire. And finally, the horsemen I saw were not dressed in full Red Army uniform, but wore only the budenovka hats, which were readily available in Kazan after the first Red occupation”

“Suspicious, perhaps,” Guins said with a dismissive shrug, “but I see nothing there to indicate treachery.”

“Lest you forget,” Ivashev pointed out, “the S-Rs at Kazan were highly fearful of a fresh Red siege at the time. They blamed Zhanna for not bringing in more Siberian troops to defend the city. We had reports that their leaders conspired to surrender Kazan back to the Bolsheviks before they decided at last to go down fighting. Delivering Zhanna into Bolshevik hands was to be a token of their good faith, I believe.”

“That is a serious slander against a major political party that has lately joined the regent’s ruling coalition,” Guins cautioned.

“If the S-Rs are innocent of betraying the Maid, I would like to hear Savinkov and Zhelezin deny it. Will you confront them?” Ivashov demanded, stepping forward, his face close to the minister’s and bearing down on him.

“I don’t see quite how,” Guins began, faltering under Ivashov’s intense gaze. “But give me some time to consider it. I would need to consult the Admiral.”

“Then do it,” Ivashov told him. “If you find no substance behind what I say, I will withdraw the charge and no harm will be done by it.”

“I’ll look into it, too,” Ned proposed, troubled that the patrol’s movements might have been compromised in advance. “If Allied intelligence has anything on it, I’ll bring it to you both.”

“And to no one else,” Guins added with sudden vehemence. “That is, until we know enough to take action.”

“Of course,” Ned agreed. “I value your friendship, Georgi Konstantinovich, and wouldn’t want to damage it after all we’ve been through.”

“Nor I yours,” Guins replied with the unctuous smile that Ned remembered from the time when Guins was a low-level functionary. “I have only warm feelings for the two of you, and appreciate the contributions you have made at Zhanna Stepanovna’s side these past months. I sincerely hope that, once we achieve victory in this dreadful war, the three of us can put our knees under the same table, drink a fine bottle together and leave the past behind us!”

When Guins was gone, Ned sensed that the minister had not told them the full truth and felt the sort of uneasiness that arouses a man to turn his head on a deserted road.

“You didn’t believe him, either, did you?” he asked Ivashov, whose face had grown rigid with resolve.

“It was written in his face. The cat knows whose meat it has eaten,” Ivashov replied darkly before turning his head away.

* * *

After Guins left Ivashov’s office and Ned went on to his next appointment, Ivashov continued working until lunchtime, when he walked alone to his usual eating-place, a small café less than two blocks away. On his way back to the Stavka, he had the strange feeling that he was being watched. Stopping to peer into a shop window, he noticed two well-built men of about forty, dressed in shabby suits, walking behind him. The moment they saw him turn to look at them, they stepped into a butcher shop’s entrance and were hidden from view. Ivashov quickened his pace and made it back to the Stavka’s office building without further incident, though the two strangers were closing the gap behind him by the time he reached the front gate.

Ivashov remained at his desk all afternoon, not leaving until dusk, after nearly everyone else had gone and the streets were filled with traffic and pedestrians clogged the muddy sidewalks. To evade whoever might follow him home, he decided to leave by the rear entrance. Once there, he noticed that the guard contingent was gone, presumably standing outside the gate, and the concierge was someone he didn’t recognize.

“Good evening, sir,” the young concierge greeted him with an ingratiating smile. “Your ride is waiting.”

“But I didn’t call for a carriage,” Ivashov replied, his suspicion rising. “There must be some sort of mistake.”

“Very well, sir,” the concierge said, making for the door. “Why don’t you take it up with the coachman? He’s just outside.”

Without waiting for Ivashov to respond, he held the door open and gestured for the officer to leave.