'You were told to look out for a man before you left London.'
What could I make of it? It was all true enough. I had been told to lookout for a man upon reaching Tobolsk. I had also been told the man would be able to help me. It was in the sheet of instructions given to me by Mr Basil Zaharoff.
And Zaharoff was known, to the Press at any rate, as The Man Who Peddled Death!
'I serve various interests!' So Ruzsky, or Bronard, or whoever he was, was Zaharoff's man, of that much I was now fairly certain. But what was he doing here? How did it come about that Zaharoff, the arch-capitalist, had his own man as a member of a Soviet in the middle of Siberia? I know now that nothing was beyond that man. There will be Zaharoff agents among the ranks of angels; yes, and the devils, too. It seems extraordinary enough now, years later, when I know more of him. Then it seemed to be beyond believing.
But of course I got no further with my thoughts, not then. Hours went by before once more that iron cell door was thrown open. Goloshchokin appeared, looking at me grimly. I thought him to be alone, but in a moment it was Ruzsky who slouched into view, that smirk of his much evident. I came to my feet. 'What did Moscow say?'
Neither answered. 'Personally I'd hang you, Yakovlev,' Ruzsky suddenly said to me. He turned to his companion. 'You should have seen him bow and scrape to the Romanovs.'
'I wish we could hang him.' Goloshchokin gave a sigh. 'But the chairman believes him.'
Ruzsky laughed. 'Maybe the chairman has Moscow ambitions. No, Comrade, I don't really mean that. I admire Beloborodov.' He turned to me. 'You should be grateful to him, too.'
'Why?'
'Why? Because you're free. Who says there's no Soviet mercy, eh? A Tsarist provocateur, and what do we do? We let you go! We won't let them go, though, will we, Comrade Goloshchokin?'
Goloshchokin looked at me sidelong. 'Not even to Moscow. And be careful, Yakovlev, or you'll be back in here.'
He stalked out, Ruzsky slouching after him. I followed, and found myself standing close to Ruzsky, apparently by accident, by the road outside the prison gate. He didn't turn towards me, or even acknowledge he knew I was there. He spoke, though, quietly and clearly. 'Behind the Palais Royal Hotel at nine o'clock,' he said, and slouched away.
It was two hours to nine.
I wandered in the dark, found food and drink in a tavern, and listened to the talk there, anxious for news of the Imperial Family. Nor were tidings long in coming, for talk in the tavern was of nothing else. Every snatch of it seemed to tell more.
'. . . I saw them at the station. Just shoved off the train, they were, like sacks of grain. I thought for a bit the crowd would grab them, but . . .'
'. . .My God, they looked frightened!'
'. . . Wouldn't you? Did you see who drove the car, though? Parfeny, yes. Oh, you know him, yes,
'course you do. Head of the Railwaymen's Punitive Detachment. Real swine, wouldn't want him driving me."
'. . . They say Professor Ipatiev was given only six hours' notice to get out. Six hours, that's all.'
'. . House is too good for them. It's like a bloody palace! Big white place up on Vosnesensky Avenue the one with the archway. And Nicholas still has servants with him!'
I sat very quietly in a dark corner, absorbing it all, astonished at how easy it was to learn. I heard that the Family was now guarded by detachments of men from two local factories. I rose when they began to go over it all again; from the excitement in their voices they'd spend the night repeating it all endlessly. In the street outside I stood for a moment, wondering at the whereabouts of the places they had spoken of: Ipatiev's house and Vosnesensky Avenue. But they were not difficult to find. The city of Ekaterinburg buzzed with the knowledge of the Romanov's presence, and I quickly realized many in the streets were sightseers bound for the house. I simply followed. No one was allowed nearer to the house than the other side of the Avenue: There was a high palisade built of logs before the entrance, close against the building so that nothing could be seen, and a few armed militiamen stood in the roadway moving along the many passers-by. I looked as long as I could. It had been a house of some style, but was a prison now and unmistakably so. Guards in the streets, guards at the gates, guards no doubt in the house itself. Around me, in the talk of the townspeople, there was nothing but hostility. Why keep the Romanovs alive? Why not shoot them now? It was all talk of that kind. I thought of the quiet courage of the Tsar, of his refusal to go with Dutov when he could so easily have done so. I thought of the marvel of that hour I had spent with the Grand Duchess Maria. No, not Maria. Marie.
Then I thought of the paper - Zaharoff's paper - the paper that was supposed to be vital to so many: with a value of millions in money plus the weapons for an army; and on top of that, God alone knew how many human lives!
The Tsar had signed it, he'd told me so! And everyone was waiting for it; everyone from Ruzsky to Lenin and Trotsky; everyone from my own humble self to Zaharoff and my Sovereign, King George. Many men's worlds hung upon that piece of paper!
As I trudged along towards my meeting with Ruzsky, my thoughts whirled. Oh yes, everyone wanted it; but only I knew where it was, the Tsar and his son excepted. Well, I would keep it so, keep it above all from Ruzsky until I understood his purpose more clearly. For my tumbling thoughts were now presenting me with strange notions and stranger conclusions.
Lenin and Sverdlov had sent me to Siberia to bring the Tsar out. And I had done so, or nearly. If I hadn't been stopped at Omsk, had not been sent back to Ekaterinburg , t hen both I and the entire Imperial Family would by now be halfway to Moscow.
The questions drummed in my mind: Had I really been stopped by the rivalry between provincials and metropolitans? Could it really be true that the men of Omsk and Ekaterinburg took no notice of Lenin and Sverdlov?
Or was it something else? Did those devious and clever men in Moscow actually want the Romanovs to be held in peril in Ekaterinburg rather than safe in Tobolsk or Moscow? And then I saw it, or thought I did. The Germans were the key; camped as they were, menacingly and in army strength on Moscow's doorstep. Suppose there were negotiations; suppose the Germans were demanding that the Imperial Family be surrendered to them; suppose Lenin and Sverdlov had no alternative but to agree? Yes, suppose all that - what then if Moscow did not want to hand over the Romanovs? Oh yes, now it was simple enough. Send me to bring them (and kill two birds with one stone!) and then arrange for the Romanovs to be detained by wild men in far Siberia, and say to the Germans, Oh, we're trying to persuade the local Soviet, but they won't even listen.
Was it all conceivable?
Certainly it was. That explanation fitted all the complexities, answered all the questions. Yet I could barely believe a word of it. Too outlandish, I thought. But as I approached the Palais Royal Hotel I was resolved to play matters close in future. And to learn more of Ruzksy. He was waiting in the shadowed street behind, and was not a sight to give any man hope: drink in him, and bearing and manner scruffy. Yet when he spoke, it seemed his mind was more or less clear - and entirely concerned with the paper.
'Have you got it?' he demanded.
I shook my head. 'It had to be left with the Tsar. Then -when the train was halted - there was no chance to ask him.
'Precious little chance now. But we've got to get it.'
'We?' I said harshly. 'You're the one who must recover it.'