The King's Commisar

'But it's the man from Oxford,' she said. 'You were most anxious -'

'Very well, put him on. What's his name?'

'Dr Felix Aston.'

It was a young voice with a jaunty note in it. Malory had a mild impulse to ask whether Aston were wearing jeans but forbore. 'You're an expert on the Russian Revolution, is that so?'

'It's a foolish man who pretends to expertise, Sir Horace,' the voice said cheerfully. 'I've made a study for some years. Written a book.'

'Name Yakovlev mean anything to you?' Malory asked.

There was a pause, then, 'Yes, it does - if it's Vassily Yakovlev. If he was a commissar.'

'That's the chappie. Tell me.'

'Well, it was post-Revolution, of course. But Yakovlev was the man who went off with the Tsar and all the jewels, then vanished.'

Malory said slowly. 'The jewels?'

'Trainload of stuff.' Aston's voice was positively chirpy. 'Tremendous mystery man, Commissar Yakovlev. Have you come across something about him?'

'Hmmm?' said Malory, with sudden caution. 'Oh no, no, no, nothing like that. Sorry if I raised a hare. But thank you, thank you.'

He put down the telephone, then pressed Pilgrim's button on the intercom. 'Laurence, anybody with you?'

'Just Graves.'

'Well, he'll be interested, too. Our man Dikeston went off with all the Romanov treasure.'

'All of it - what's that mean?' Pilgrim demanded.

'A trainload,' said Malory, and took his finger off the button. I was far from idle as I waited while the Imperial Family made its decisions. My trusty hussar Koznov was set to scouring Tobolsk for the largest koshevas he could find and horses to draw them.

'Will the owners give them up?' he asked me. 'What do I do if -?'

'The threat of death should suffice,' I said grimly. 'If any man refuses, bring him to me.'

None did. The Commissar from Moscow was evidently to be obeyed. As the day went on, the courtyard of the Governor's House began to fill with sleds of many kinds. I sent for Kobylinsky, who had spent hours closeted upstairs with the Family, and instructed him to arrange the packing of all the Romanov possessions. Only the essentials of living were to remain in Tobolsk with those who stayed behind.

My work was interrupted many times, not least by the odious Ruzsky, who came smirking to me and said, 'I hear you're taking him away.' His expression surprised me. He seemed almost pleased. 'To Moscow, I believe?' he went on. He was half-drunk.

I told him I awaited further orders from the capital and the Central Executive Committee. He smirked yet more. 'The way to Moscow lies through Ekaterinburg,' he said, and turned and sauntered off. That was his way, to deliver an unpleasant thrust and turn his back. As I watched that back retreating I wished more than anything that I could put a bullet in it. He came again, later. It was dark and the room lit by candles. He stood before me, a bottle in his hand, and said, 'Keep a place for me.'

I said, 'What do you mean?'

'What I say. I go with you to Tyumen. And on from there, too. Comrade Romanov -' and he laid rough emphasis on the 'comrade' - 'is ours and we mean to keep him.'

'Ours?'

'You know what I mean - the Urals Soviet.'

'I cannot permit -'

He banged his fist on the desk. 'You cannot prevent,' he said. 'I go, or Nicholas doesn't.'

'You have no authority,' I told him, and he laughed sharply.•

'Authority? You mean bits of paper from Moscow? Listen to me, Yakovlev. We are letting you go - we are letting you take Nicholas, as a courtesy to Moscow! It is not your pretty face or your fancy papers. Oh no, my friend. If I kill Nicholas, here, now - and I would most willingly, believe me -1 would be a hero in Ekaterinburg! Be grateful tome.'

'Very well.' I shrugged. 'It makes no difference. Come with us. I fail to comprehend the reason for your rancour, Comrade.'

'And I don't like your airs,' he said. 'Don't force me to doubt your loyalty.' With which, again, he departed.

I dined with Kobylinsky, the two of us alone. He was tired. He had been labouring all day at the packing of the possessions of the Imperial Family but he ate little. Often I sensed his eyes on me, and at last I said, 'It is my belief they will be safe.'

When I looked up, it was to see a tear in his eye. He brushed it away and said with great sadness, 'All my life I have served my country and the Imperial Family, and now I can serve no more.'

'You can serve those who remain here,' I told him. 'Has the choice been made?'

It had. Young Alexei, the former Tsarevitch, whose claim to succeed had been waived a year earlier when Nicholas abdicated and who was therefore merely a sick boy of thirteen instead of a Crown Prince, was to remain in his sick bed. Three of his sisters, all of whom had nursed him devotedly, Anastasia, Tatiana and Olga, were to remain with him. The ex-Tsarina, Alexandra, and the third daughter, Marie, aged nineteen, were to accompany Nicholas.

'What is to happen,' Kobylinsky then asked of me, 'when the boy has recovered? Will you come back for him?'

'If I can.' I could promise no more, but could hardly promise less. The position of this stricken family bore down upon me more heavily with every passing hour. I had made a private resolve that somehow I would contrive to accompany them until the exchanges were made, until Zaharoff accepted a paper and a family and gave in return the means of war.

'Then will you,' Kobylinsky asked me, 'come with me to reassure the Grand Duchesses - I beg your pardon, the Romanov daughters - that it is intended the Family be brought together again. Though I had no instructions to that effect, I gladly agreed. It is always better for people to live in hope. Accordingly I accompanied Kobylinsky to an upstairs sitting-room where the Imperial Family was resting preparatory to parting and departure. The feeling of strain among them was obvious, yet so too was a sense of strong unity and affection. The boy's bed was in the room and he lay propped on pillows, his sisters all around him. I noticed particularly that as I entered, both his hands were being held by one sister or another, and their smiles were directed at him.

Seeing me, Nicholas rose and made again the formal motion of the head that was half-nod and half-bow. He was simply-dressed in a plain, belted tunic and his manner en famille was also one of simplicity. There was little to discuss, nor did I wish to take up time he could spend better with his children. I simply asked him to confirm who would go and who would stay and this he did. It was then I thought of the letter. Nicholas could as well read it here as anywhere, and perhaps if I were to leave it with him and his family so that it could be discussed, less suspicion might attach to it, and to me.

'One word more, your Majesty, if you will?' I moved away from the rest, towards the window, taking the missive from my tunic. He hesitated, then followed me. 'Well?'

I held out the envelope. 'For you to read, sir, and - I believe-to sign.'

'What is it?' He had not yet taken the envelope and his eyes were not upon it, but upon my face. I shook my head. 'I am the messenger, no more than that. But my instructions are that it is concerned with your release."

He took it then and placed it on a small table. 'Thank you.'

I turned to leave, and found my wary barred by one of the daughters. Preoccupied as I had been with Nicholas, I had barely so much as glanced at the girls, or at the boy Alexei, but the upraised face before me now fully caught my attention, for it was striking indeed.

'I am Marie,' she said, 'and I am to accompany you, Commissar Yakovlev.'

I saluted.

She was very pale; she had wide, dark eyes. It was a face of symmetry and, one can fairly say, of beauty. She was quite tall and perfectly slim, and I can see her now, as I write this, see her standing between me and the door, looking at me with that composure that bespeaks courage. 'Will you,' she asked me, 'answer the question which most concerns us all?'