Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

“Breakfast not ready. Wait thirty minutes,” the middle-aged, shaven-headed headwaiter told him with an early morning scowl.

“Do you have brandy?” Ned persisted.

“No brandy. Only vodka or beer.” Now the headwaiter paused to look him up and down with flinty eyes.

“How about wine? From the Caucasus, maybe?” Ned pressed.

“No Caucasus wine,” the headwaiter replied, shaking his head. “Only French champagne, from before revolution. But very expensive. You want?”

Ned fingered the thick wad of cash in his pocket and thought: why not? He was thirsty, and these were his last few hours in Russia. Yes, some real French champagne would do just fine.

“How much?” he asked the Russian.

“One hundred gold rubles,” the man demanded, perhaps sizing up Ned as an easy mark.

“All right,” Ned answered with a boyish smile. “Let’s break out a bottle. Will fifty U.S. dollars cover it?” knowing it was more than enough.

He pulled out the wad and peeled a crisp fifty-dollar bill onto the table. Two of the stewards craned their necks to get a better look, but the headwaiter snatched it out from under their noses.

“What compartment number? I bring,” he offered with a deferential nod, likely expecting a generous tip, as well.

“I’ll take it now, right here. Is it cold?”

“For you, my friend, cold as Siberia!” came the grinning answer as the bald-pated headwaiter pocketed the money and retreated to the kitchen.

A few moments later, the Russian returned carrying the chilled bottle of brut and a single coupe glass on a polished chrome tray. With practiced fingers he peeled away the foil cap, removed the wire cage, and let the cork fly across the car with a sharp pop that resembled a pistol shot. The waiter offered Ned a seat at a nearby table and poured his first glass nearly to the brim with a look of pride.

But Ned had scarcely drunk his first sip when the door from the sleeper car opened and two heavy-set men burst in wearing seedy overcoats and battered homburg hats. The right hand of each was tucked into his coat in a pose like that of Napoleon. At once Ned recognized the two thugs who had tried to follow him from the consulate to Moscow’s Nikolayevsky Station. Ned took his hand from the champagne glass and slid it beneath the table but decided not to reach for his sidearm just yet.

The two intruders scanned the dining car in an instant as if seeking something, perhaps the source of the popping noise. But upon seeing the stewards still playing at cards, and the bottle of champagne bubbling over onto Ned’s table, they exchanged awkward glances.

The headwaiter sized them up quickly as cheapskates and challenged them before they could speak.

“No breakfast now! Come back thirty minutes!” he scolded, shooing them back into the sleeper car with a kitchen towel.

The taller of the two men gave the waiter an annoyed look and pointed to Ned’s bottle, as if to say, “But what about him?”

The headwaiter’s response was a sneer and a finger wag.

“You want champagne, mister? You pay me one hundred gold rubles? Eh? Eh?”

The tall man had no answer to this, yet wouldn’t budge.

The headwaiter laid a hand on the shoulder of the largest of the three card-playing stewards. All at once, the three stewards turned to face the intruders with menacing expressions.

Being outnumbered, the stranger muttered an unintelligible excuse and left with his partner by the way they had come.

Ned’s heart sank. Without any doubt, these were the same men he had seen outside the consulate. But if they were S-R assassins, why hadn’t they shot him then and there? He looked out the window and saw frozen swamp and marshland as far as the eye could see. Might they have hesitated so they could shoot him in a place from which they could safely escape? Or maybe they intended to wait until he returned to his compartment? Ned decided not to give them the chance. He downed what was left in his glass, snatched the champagne from the table and took another swig straight from the bottle.

“Save my seat. I’ll be back for breakfast,” he told the headwaiter with a confident smile, and then set off toward the rear of the train.

“Wrong way, mister. Sleepers on the other side,” the Russian directed, but Ned waved him off and kept going.

He took frequent drinks from the bottle as he made his way through the first-, second- and third-class coaches toward the freight section.

The first freight carriage he reached was the mail car. The door was locked from the inside. He knocked loudly but no one answered. So he downed the rest of the champagne and used the heavy bottle to knock even harder.

Several anxious minutes passed before a sleepy baggage clerk opened the door. Ned flashed his RRSC identity card.

“I’m with the American Embassy,” he informed the Russian. “This train is carrying our diplomatic pouch. I’m here to make sure it’s handed off properly to our consul in Petrograd. Can you show me where you keep the diplomatic cargo?”