Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

Lebedev cast a wary glance at Dieterichs, who nodded for him to proceed. Ned listened hard, for the dialog might well shed light on the Siberian regime’s military thinking and be worth a report to AEF Headquarters.

“The problem is that the Red Army holds Ufa and the western approaches to the Urals, Your Excellency,” the Chief of Staff pointed out. “We must take that city first, and then secure our southern flank at Uralsk, before advancing on Samara during the spring offensive. It is no small task, sir.”

“So her present claims as to Samara amount to puffery,” Dieterichs cut in. “All the same, Volkov seemed highly impressed with the girl. Why not let her speak for herself? Either she has something worth hearing or she doesn’t.”

“If I may add, sir, the girl has an extraordinary way of knowing things before they happen, which may be useful to you,” Ivashov ventured while the others mulled Dieterichs’ words. “And, voices or not, she has come up with some very interesting ideas about the war that might be worth hearing.”

Dieterichs waved his fork as he approached the Supreme Ruler, plate in hand, his mouth still stuffed with cake.

“I agree,” the general added after taking a draught of tea. “Volkov may be a deceiving politician, but he is also an experienced soldier. If he has an idea that this schoolgirl can help us somehow to beat the Bolsheviks, I think we should learn why. And if the good people of Transbaikalia believe in her, perhaps she can inspire our people here, as well.”

“If you wish to send the girl to bless troops at the front, then do it, if you must,” Lebedev conceded, taking his turn filling a plate at the sideboard. “It’s true enough that Tolstov’s Cossacks need a fire lit under them. But let her offer up her sermons in the south only, at Uralsk. Keep her away from the center, if you please.”

On the verge of this unlikely consensus, Archbishop Sylvester stepped in to object. Ned’s heart sank, for the cleric seemed no friend of the Maid.

“Not so fast, my friends,” he warned. “I insist that the church first examine this so-called virgin of Irkutsk before she addresses Siberian troops in the Lord’s name. If Admiral Kolchak so desires, let her appear before him now and face her first test, as General Dieterichs has proposed. If she identifies the Admiral, and if her message is sound, the church can arrange a proper examination for her. This will assure that all relevant facts about the girl come to light before we rely upon her word.”

“I concur,” the Admiral announced solemnly. Then he turned to General Dieterichs with a boyish gleam in his eye. “Come with me now, Mikhail Konstantinovich. Let us pose in a way that she will not know who I am. You may wear my epaulets and I will wear yours. I will step to the rear and you may pretend to be me. Guins, go fetch us a dozen more officers so that we will not be so easy to pick out.”

While the others were busy, Ned took Ivashov aside and addressed him barely above a whisper.

“Will Zhanna know the Admiral by sight? Is his photo seen regularly in the newspapers?”

“Often enough, to be sure, but the official photo of him was taken years ago and is of poor quality,” Ivashov answered. “And who would dispute a man claiming to be the Admiral who occupies the Admiral’s private office?”

“Is there any way we can signal her, perhaps? What if we stood flanking the genuine Admiral and made signs to her?” Ned suggested.

“Do you see how the Archbishop watches us from behind his newspaper?” Ivashov countered, inclining his head toward the cleric. “He would surely notice, as would Guins. No, we dare not try it. The issue rests in God’s hands, and Zhanna must see through the ruse or fail.”

A moment later, Guins headed for the reception room while the Admiral and his advisor exchanged epaulets. The other men gathered near the sideboard to finish their tea and zakuski. While awaiting Guins’s return with Zhanna, the Chief of Staff turned to Ivashov and Ned, as if deigning to notice them for the first time.

“Well, gentlemen, you may have come a long way for nothing,” he snorted. “If the girl fails to pick out the Admiral, she goes straight home.”

“She will not fail,” Ivashov answered in a hard, brittle voice. “I would wager a month’s pay on it, though I advise you not to accept.”

Lebedev ignored the staff captain’s remark, turning instead to the Archbishop.

“What do you think, Your Beatitude?” Lebedev asked.

“Oh, I have no doubt she will find him,” Sylvester answered with a bland smile.

“Is that so?” Lebedev asked, arching an eyebrow. “But how is she to know?”

“She will likely know what most everyone else in Omsk knows. That the admiral is small of stature and the general large. And that Kolchak has the piercing eye and smoldering countenance of a Genghis Khan, while Dieterichs the kindly look and warm smile of one’s favorite uncle. Not to mention his bushy mustache.”

“Ah, I hadn’t thought of that,” Lebedev conceded.