Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

Ned took a sip of bourbon whiskey from a thin metal flask that McCloud had brought with him for the occasion. Her death was still difficult for Ned to accept, and sometimes he regretted not having gone with Ivashov to witness her place of execution. Ned took another deep pull and savored the whiskey’s spicy finish before handing back the flask.

“I was a couple days behind you, at Penza,” McCloud replied. “I camped out at the telegraph office to be first with the news. I actually wrote two different stories, one celebrating Zhanna’s rescue and the other mourning her death.”

“I knew it would be a close race, but none of us could have imagined what they did to her,” Ned went on, still unwilling to say aloud that she had been burnt alive.

“What’s done is done. The Reds got their revenge, and the Whites got their martyr,” McCloud concluded. “History will never know what kind of person she might have become. And Americans will never get to meet Zhanna on the lecture tour I planned for her. It’s a pity, really. You could have come with us, you know. People would have wanted to meet the dashing American officer who rode at the Maid’s side.”

“I don’t suppose her death will stop you from cashing in by writing about her, will it?” Ned asked, not intending to sound as bitter as he did.

“You’re a fine one to talk about cashing in,” the journalist shot back. “That photograph of you raising the flag will make your fortune when you get home, young man. And I hope you remember who commissioned it.”

“The photographer was your man?”

“Such things don’t happen by accident, my young friend. Every great work of art is the result of careful planning and hard work,” McCloud replied with a self-satisfied grin.

* * *

The next morning, Ned found another unexpected visitor at his door. It was David Barrows, as tall and erect as ever in his impeccably tailored American army uniform. Ned ushered him in and the two men sat across from one other at the foot of Ned’s battered desk. As was his custom, Barrows spent the first few minutes of their meeting saying very little, slowly drawing Ned in with small talk while he reached into a pocket for pipe and matches.

“It must have taken you ages to reach Moscow from Vladivostok,” Ned remarked after Barrows’s pipe was lit. “I don’t envy you the trip.”

“It wasn’t so bad as you might imagine,” Barrows answered, pausing to coax a wisp of smoke from the pipe. “General Graves commandeered the best sleeper and parlor cars on the Trans-Siberian line for himself and his staff to come out and claim their share of the glory. I was fortunate enough to tag along.”

“But what about guarding the Trans-Siberian? Who’s left back there at AEF headquarters to keep the Japanese and their Siberian warlords in check?” Ned inquired with a friendly irony.

“Oh, that,” Barrows answered with an apathetic wave that also served to dispel the smoke. “Everyone of importance back at Vlad is headed home. Now that the Whites have won, our work is just about over.”

“So you’re leaving, too?” Ned exclaimed. “I would think that there’s still plenty of intelligence work left, what with helping Kolchak mop up the remaining Bolsheviks and keeping abreast of the new regime’s plans and intentions.”

“Believe me, the Russians don’t need any help when it comes to settling scores,” Barrows replied. “We’ll want to keep our distance and avoid dirtying our hands. Anyway, before long, there will be a whole different crew of Americans coming over here. I’m told the Whites will keep the capital at Moscow, so this little consulate of yours will soon become the new American Embassy. Until they find grander quarters, of course,” the colonel added after taking a cursory look around. “You can bet your bottom dollar on that.”

“Where will you go then, back to Washington?”

“Oh, heavens no,” Barrows answered with a raspy laugh. “Not my cup of tea at all. I intend to return to Berkeley, back to academic life, my family, and the land where I grew up. But how about you, Ned?”

“I’m ready to go back, too, I suppose,” Ned confessed.

“Where to? Manila? Stateside?”

“Not sure yet. The East Coast might be nice. I used to have a girl back there. We’ll see if she still remembers me. I hope so.”

“And I imagine your father and your Cousin Pierre would be happy to have you close by. After all, the Russians won’t stop buying armaments just because the war is over. If anything, they’ll be buying more, since they still face the Germans on one side and the Japanese on the other.”

“The prospect of Russia spending large sums on arms looks pretty remote to me, colonel. Right now the Russian treasury is dead broke,” Ned observed.

“I doubt if that will stop them for long,” the colonel replied with a wry smile. “Besides, Dieterichs has already told me that he aims to expand arms purchases from the U.S. at the earliest possible opportunity. In fact, he’s asked whether you might be able to help him with that.” Barrows took a pull from his pipe while awaiting Ned’s answer.