Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

But Ivashov hesitated at the sound of muffled footsteps rising suddenly behind him. And before he knew what was happening, the two men he had spotted after lunch leapt through the door, seized his arms, and held them pinioned behind him. In the next instant, another powerful arm circled his throat from behind and kept him from calling out while a thick sack was pulled over his head. He struggled for what seemed like minutes. Then the sickly sweet smell of ether filled his mouth and nose and he slumped forward into the arms of his captors.

* * *

The following morning, on making his rounds to the Stavka, Ned informed the duty officer that he wished to call on Lieutenant Colonel Ivashov.

“Not available,” the young lieutenant answered gruffly without raising his head.

“But I saw him only yesterday and we arranged to meet again this morning,” Ned objected. “Do you expect him later today?”

“Nyet,” the duty officer replied, still without returning Ned’s gaze.

“Has he traveled unexpectedly?”

“Nyet.”

“Will he be back tomorrow?”

Shrug.

“Now look here, lieutenant. Lieutenant Colonel Ivashov and I have important business together. If you don’t know when he’ll be back, who else around here does?”

After a long pause, the man raised his head.

“Such questions you must put to the Chief of Staff,” came the grudging reply.

“Then take me to him at once, blast you!” Ned erupted.

“He is not here, either. Come back tomorrow.”

As Ned turned on his heel to walk out, he noticed a familiar face peer out from a doorway at the end of the hall. It was the young staff officer with the monocle, Lebedev’s adjutant, who had apparently survived the Stavka purge that followed Lebedev’s resignation.

Ned walked with deliberate slowness down the curving staircase to the ground floor and heard rapid footsteps behind him.

“Captain du Pont,” a voice called out when he reached the bottom. It was the former adjutant.

“Good morning, captain,” Ned replied with a cautious smile.

“I heard you asking about Igor Ivanovich,” the young officer replied in a low voice. “He was a fine officer. Were it not for him, I would not be here today.”

“Why do you say ‘was’?” Ned demanded.

“He’s under arrest. The security police seized him during the night on charges of treason. They claim it was he who tipped off the Bolsheviks to the Maid’s route on the morning she was seized.”

“But that’s outrageous!” Ned exclaimed before hearing his words echo against the stone staircase and abruptly lowering his voice.

“None of us who knew him believed it, either,” the officer explained with a melancholy air. “I thought you should know. Perhaps you can help him.”

But before Ned could pose a question, the officer turned away and trotted back up the stairs.

Over the following days, Ned’s discreet inquiries among friends on the Stavka, in the Ministry of State Security, and at the Council of Ministers met with stony silence. No one would entertain the possibility that it had been the S-Rs who betrayed Zhanna, rather than Ivashov. All fingers pointed to Ivashov alone. And the more people Ned spoke to, the less they were willing to say.

Nor did the Allied intelligence reports and wireless intercepts that crossed Ned’s desk daily shed further light on the events leading to Zhanna’s capture. Meanwhile, Ned grew ever more discouraged over the prospect of ever seeing Ivashov or the Maid again, for the charges against Ivashov carried the death penalty and the Maid arguably faced the same fate from the Reds.

At the same time, however, periodic reports of new advances by the White Armies brought fresh hope that Moscow might indeed fall by Christmas. What tormented Ned about this prospect was that, without reliable intelligence about the Maid’s location, a White victory was as likely to bring about her execution as her liberation. And now, much of the blame for her death would likely fall upon the loyal companion who was falsely accused of betraying her.

* * *

Two days later, Ned received a letter by local post that he recognized as a signal from Father Timofey Ryumin. That evening he met Timofey at a room in the commercial district of Samara that one of Ned’s men had leased under an assumed name. The place had an empty, unlived-in look and odors of rotten cabbage, stale beer and makhorka tobacco swept over Ned the moment he opened the door. The two men stepped quickly inside and headed straight for the kitchen, where they opened the windows, lit the wood stove to heat water for tea, and sat on hard wooden chairs facing each other across a wobbly table.

Timofey spent the first few minutes of their session telling Ned how he had been among the organizers of the S-R rebellion against the Bolshevik occupation of Kazan, and had observed the rebel leaders’ mounting hostility toward Zhanna and her Siberians, once it became clear that a massive Red counteroffensive was on its way to retake the city.