The King's Commisar

CHAPTER TWO

-------------------------An account, written by Lt-Cdr H. G. Dikeston, RN, of events which took place on, and subsequent to,

the evening of Saturday, March 30th, 1918.

My name entire is Henry George Dikeston. In the early spring of the year 1918 I undertook a journey. Even as it began there could be no doubt of the high responsibility of the tasks entrusted to me. As time passed it became ever clearer that in my hands lay the only means to resolve great matters. By the end . .

.

But there is much to tell and care must be taken that the end does not precede the beginning. Were it to do so, much thought and planning would be brought to naught; so that the answer I have devised for those who subsequently misused me would lose its merit. I shall therefore tell my story straightforwardly, save that the end, when it is reached, will not be an end at all, not finis in any conventional sense, because yet further events will have been set in train. It now seems I shall not live to see them, but I take satisfaction in knowing they are inevitable.

I hope that you, Sir, whoever you may be, reading this account for the first time, have already experienced what the French describe as a frisson: one of doubt or uncertainty or fear. On the night of Saturday, March 30th, 1918, I was on leave in London, having served for some months in His Majesty's Monitor Makesure on coastal bombardment duties, mainly off the Heligoland Bight. I had few friends in London; they, such as they were, comprised in the main serving officers of the Royal Navy, and so were away at sea. Accordingly I was faced with dining alone. Normally I would have sought out a quiet restaurant, perhaps in Soho, but on that evening I felt some need for entertainment. I decided, therefore, to attend a performance at the Gaiety Theatre, and to take a quiet supper afterwards. But as so often when one seeks to have one's spirits lifted, the reverse happens. Amid the colour, the music, the elaborate good cheer, my spirits refused to rise and I took myself off to the bar at the first opportunity. I had been standing there for only a few minutes, increasingly conscious, in that cheerful throng, of my own solitude, when a hand fell on my shoulder. I turned to see a brother officer, one Jameson.

'Enjoying yourself, Dikeston?'

'Not particularly,' I said.

'Neither am I. It's too big a change, all this.'

We stood for a moment, looking at the swirling silks and the lights, both of us filled with the knowledge that while all this empty gaiety pranced and thudded before us, men were fighting and dying, and this night upon the North Sea was cold and perilous.

'What would you say,' Jameson asked me, 'to a quiet drink and some supper at my club?'

I agreed at once. Far better to spend the evening with one who could comprehend one's mood than to persevere in the search for elusive and temporary pleasure.

We collected our greatcoats and caps, turned into the thronged Strand, and began to walk westward. The Strand was lively that evening, full of soldiers and girls, all filled with the same kind of somewhat spurious high humour which had so affected my spirits at the theatre. We turned in at last through a gate marked 'Out'. Jameson's club was the Naval and Military in Piccadilly, whose premises were the late Lord Palmerston's old house; the club was known throughout London as the 'In and Out' because those words, in white lettering, appeared upon its stone gateposts as directions for cabbies and other drivers.

After about an hour of quiet companionship, during which we sat relaxed with our drinks in deep armchairs, exchanging little but the occasional word, one of the stewards approached Jameson. Thinking he was seeking our supper order, Jameson waved the man away, but the steward persisted.

'Beg pardon, sir, but I see your guest is Mr Dikeston.' His eyes were on the braid at my cuff, two wide bands and one narrow. 'Would he be Commander Dikeston, sir?'

'I would,' I said.

'Commander H.G. Dikeston, sir?'

'The same.'

'Then, sir, there is a gentleman at the porter's desk asking for you.'

"Who is he?'

'Didn't give his name, sir. Said he was from the Admiralty.'

I excused myself to Jameson and made my way to where the man stood. He wore mufti; a dark tweed Ulster and a somewhat rakish billycock hat. I approached and stood before him. 'My name is Stott,' he said. 'From the Admiralty. Will you collect your coat and hat, please, Commander, and come with me?'

I remember that I stood regarding him for a moment, and not liking what I saw. It may well have been a premonition of some description, for truly I liked nothing of what came afterwards. 'Can you prove who you are?'

He flung back the cape of his Ulster in an irritated way and produced a card: it was nothing I had seen before, but bore the Admiralty crest and his name and some signature I do not recall. 'Very well. I must tell my host -'

But he interrupted me. 'No time for that. The porter will tell him you have been called away. Your coat, please, Commander. I have a car waiting.'

Shortly afterwards I descended the steps with him and we entered a Daimler car which stood waiting, its engine running. The car at once moved off, without any instruction being passed to the driver.

'What's all this about?' I asked the man Stott.

His sole reply: 'You know better than to ask, Commander.'

Naturally I was puzzled. Makesure, my ship, was being fuelled and munitioned at Harwich, and could not sail until Monday's morning tide - though it's true her remarkably shallow draught rendered her less dependent upon tides than other vessels. Still, she would be all of two days making ready for sea. I could not therefore see why my forty-eight-hour leave was being interrupted. Stott next said, rather querulously it seemed to me. 'You had notified your captain that you were to stay at the Hotel Russell.'

'I have a room.'

'But you were not there. We have been looking for you, Commander Dikeston.'

I confess I did not bother to reply. Did the fool imagine that officers on leave sat alone in hotel rooms, eating off trays? Looking out of the Daimler's window, I was curious to know our destination. The car stood halted at the head of St James's Street and was awaiting a break in the oncoming ranks of cars, buses and horse-drawn vehicles, to turn. The street down there was naught but clubs, anyway: had I been prised out of one to be taken to another?

The turn accomplished, we proceeded down St James's and my curiosity diminished. Pall Mall and then the Admiralty: I had guessed by now where I was bound. Still, it was odd on a Saturday night, when I knew my ship would not yet be half-loaded. But the Daimler halted again at the foot of the street instead of turning left into Pall Mall: looking out of the window, I saw, and pitied, for it was a night of sharp winds, the khaki-clad guardsmen standing their duty at the entrance to St James's Palace. Then we were turning again, and turning right, and the car was passing the guard, actually entering the confines of the Palace!

'Follow me,' Stott snapped, climbing quickly from the car. He made his way across the yard to a door and rapped upon it sharply. The door was opened by a footman in livery and I had barely come to Stott's shoulder before he was setting his foot across the threshold. He glanced impatiently at me over his shoulder, said, 'Hurry, please!' and began to mount a stair.

We entered an old and ornate ante-room, dominated by pictures of the Hanoverian Georges, I remember, each uglier than the last.

'Wait here. Commander Dikeston,' snapped Stott. Then he wheeled back to the stair and left me. Now, of course, I was curious indeed: not every day is one hustled in so mysterious a way first into a closed car and then into a royal palace! Instinct led me to inspect the shine on my boots and the creases in the doeskin of my trousers. These first were satisfactory, for I had an excellent naval servant, but even he was unable to persuade doeskin to accept and retain a good crease, and there was some bagginess at my knees. I therefore spent a moment or two nervously straightening myself, brushing at my tunic and so on. But before I had time to think beyond that, a door opened and a four-ring naval captain appeared.

'This way, Commander.'

He stood back to let me pass, and closed the door, himself remaining in the ante-room, though it was a short while before I realized he had left. Other matters now clamoured for my attention, for as I entered the room a dark-suited man who stood before a table on the far side of the drawing-room in which I now stood, turned to face me.

'Dikeston?' he enquired.

I was rigid at once. 'Yes, Your Majesty!'

Malory pinched the bridge of his nose, where his spectacles pressed indentations into the flesh, and thought about Pilgrim's dismissive words. 'Some old guy's reminiscences' indeed! A few pages of the narrative, and this Dikeston, whoever he was, had already been taken in secret to meet the King! Didn't Pilgrim understand that such a thing was unheard of-especially in 1918, when a remote God of a King-Emperor ruled a quarter of the earth . . .

The frisson was in him now, right enough, and hardening into a nasty little knob of unpleasant anticipation somewhere in his chest. Sighing, Malory replaced the spectacles, took a mouthful of whisky, and resumed reading.

The King took two or three paces towards me. 'Thank you for coming,' he said gravely. Now, looking at him, I could see he was grave altogether, his brow lined, his eyes weary, and there were white flecks in his beard. The war, I thought, is taking its toll of him, as it is of all of us. I remained rigid. The King then drew my attention to two other men in the room, stretching his hand out towards, first, a tall man with piercing, dominant eyes, and a small white moustache and beard cut in an old-fashioned French manner. 'Mr Zahar-off,' the King said, 'is a director of Vickers, Maxim and Company.' I made a small bow, knowing the man's name and something of his curious and menacing reputation. Zaharoff looked imperious enough to be Sovereign himself: commanding, and cold and steely as the armaments he produced. He did not return my bow, though some small motion of eyes or brow gave acknowledgment. Now the King's hand indicated the other man present. 'Mr Clark,' he said. There had been no need to explain Zaharoff, but His Majesty clearly felt Mr Clark required further introduction; and that was hardly surprising, for Clark was a most unimpressive individual, obviously wearing his Sunday suit. He was small, stooped and, I judged, in his seventies. He looked like a rather shabby clerk, and it struck me that his name was remarkably apropos. 'Mr Clark,' said the King, 'is employed in the library of the British Museum, and has been so for -?' The royal eyebrows rose enquiringly. The old man's voice cracked a little as he answered. He was evidently greatly overawed and had to begin his answer a second time. 'For fifty-seven years, Your Majesty. Since 1861.1 should have retired .

. .'The old voice wavered and fell away uncertainly.

The King nodded and took a seat. 'Sit down, please, gentlemen.'

We were grouped round a low table, the King in an armchair, the rest of us on small, high-backed and rather flimsy and uncomfortable chairs of gilt.

'Tell me about yourself, Commander,' the King instructed me.

I cleared my throat. 'In what respect, Your -'

'No Majesties,' he said. 'Sir will suffice! I want a brief summary of your life.'

It is not an easy thing to give. 'From birth?'

He nodded.

'I was born,' I said, 'in St Petersburg in Russia, in 1893. My late father was a merchant in the fur and timber trades, and my late mother the daughter of an officer of the Royal Navy.'

'You have brothers and sisters?'

'No, Sir.'

He nodded and I went on. 'When I was a child, my family moved from St Petersburg to the town of Perm where my father was for some years the British Consul. I was educated there, in the main by private tutors, until the time came for me to return to Great Britain and enter the Royal Naval College at Osborne as a cadet.'

The King smiled a little at that. Osborne, as was well-known, was always close to the Royal heart.

'I became a midshipman in 1909, Sir. Sub-Lieutenant the following year, and Lieutenant -'

He raised a hand to stop my discourse. 'How good is your Russian?'

'It is a second tongue, Sir.'

'Good as your English?'

'If anything,' I ventured, 'it is better.' And wondered: where the devil is this leading? Already I was beginning to harbour premonitions.

'Have you visited Russia since?'

'Yes, Sir. For two years I was on the staff of the naval attaché in St Petersburg.'

He was looking at me in a speculative way. Then he asked suddenly, his voice gruff, 'You know of the plight of my cousin?'

'I do.' As who did not, I thought.

'And where they are - the Imperial Family?'

'What I read, Sir - in the newspapers.'

George the Fifth sighed heavily. 'The reports are all too correct. We ourselves know little more. Tell me this, Commander: have you at any time, in St Petersburg or elsewhere, come into contact with any one of the leaders of these - Bolsheviks?' He spoke the word as though it were a vile expletive, as well he might.

'I have not, Sir.'

He brooded for a time and I glanced briefly at the other two. Zaharoff sat still, and watchful as an eagle, the startling eyes half-hooded. Poor little Clark, on the other hand, appeared entirely preoccupied with the handle of his stick, twisting it this way and that, prey to extreme nervousness. At length the King said, 'I can trust you, Commander?'

'My life, Sir, is at your service.'

'Good.' He became abruptly brisker in manner. 'You will know, since the newspapers have discussed the matter at length, that the imprisonment of my Imperial Cousin is not merely a matter of personal injustice, but also a high affair of State. The Bolshevik leadership is even now treating with the Germans, thus freeing German armies to fight against ours on the Western Front.'

'Yes.'

'Forgive me, Sir,' Zaharoff cut in, speaking for the first time since I had entered the room. Since he had not been addressed, the interruption showed a measure of the man's nerve. 'There are sufficient German troops still on Russian soil to menace the Bolsheviks. That, you will recall, Sir, is the basis -'

The King raised his hand, himself interrupting the interrupter. 'I was about to say to the Commander that strictly political and military considerations enter further than one could wish into the question of negotiating the release of the Imperial Family.'

Zaharoff bowed his head a little. I had the distinct impression such a movement did not come easily to him. Perhaps the King felt it, too, for he at once went on. 'I cannot and must not interfere with the deliberations and decisions of the War Cabinet, though I am certain you will understand my anxiety for the safety of the Tsar, the Tsarina and their family. But the possibility appears to exist of a private negotiation which has a chance of achieving their release. Before I tell you more, have I your word that nothing of this will be spoken beyond these walls?'

'I swear, Sir.'

(I am solemnly aware that I am now breaking that oath sworn to my Sovereign, but I do so in the knowledge that no harm can now come from my personal treachery. In any case, I was to have so much of treachery and so soon that I could legitimately regard any oath as void. Except one: and that, an oath to myself, I am keeping as I write.)

'Very well,' said the King, continuing, 'It appears that if the Imperial Family is to be rescued and brought to safety, it is necessary, however distasteful it may prove, to treat with this Bolshevik, this Lenin. And to do so privately.'

I stared in astonishment. The notion of the King of England himself engaged in clandestine negotiation with the bloodstained leader of a revolutionary mob, was so unlikely I could scarce believe my ears.

'Fortunately,' he continued, 'the means to communicate informally with this Lenin is to hand. And also, it seems, the possibility that there exists something to be offered -' He broke off, quite abruptly, and it was apparent that King George was under deep emotional stress. When he continued, his voice was very low, not much more than a whisper, '-to be offered to Lenin, in exchange for the persons and the safe conduct of the Imperial Family.' He coughed and his voice strengthened as he asked me: 'You will do all you can to further this?'

'Of course, Sir.'

He rose then, and all of us rose also. 'It would be entirely improper,' the King then said, 'for me to know what is to happen. I can only give my blessing to the brave and generous men who may yet save the Imperial Family.'

He walked to the door. 'I thank you, gentlemen. And wish you Godspeed.'

The door was no sooner closed than Zaharoff took instant command. From beside his chair he took up a small attaché case and carried it across the room to the table at which, earlier, the King had stood. He pulled out a chair and then, from the case, produced stationery, pen and ink.

'Sit down, Clark,' he said, 'and write as I dictate. This letter -'

'But I really don't see that I can,' Clark protested, his voice high and even squeaky with trepidation. Zaharoff ignored him and turned to me. 'Clark is about to write a letter to his friend Lenin, which you will -'

'Hisfriend?'

Zaharoff said evenly, 'During his half-century in the Reading Room at the British Museum, Clark befriended and served first the German Jew, Marx, and his jackal Engels, the men who wrote the creed, and then their follower Ulyanov, now named Lenin, who is putting it into practice.'

'I can't, don't you see?' The little man protested again, with some vehemence, and I could see the tears start in his eyes.

'For the last time, Clark,' Zaharoff said, 'think of your wife!”

Clark shivered. And to tell the truth, so did I, for in Zaharoff's quiet voice lay such a wealth of command, of threat, of power, that it is impossible to describe. He then said mildly to me, 'Clark is entirely persuaded by these men. But he has a wife, and she is ill and I am able to help her. Still, he appears to have difficulty in reconciling his wife's great need with his own loyalty to the Bolshevik cause. But he will write the letter - won't you, Clark? - and you, Dikeston, will deliver it to Lenin in Russia!'

I felt as though I had been sandbagged. First the introduction to His Majesty's presence, then the grave courtesy of hicconversation, and now this blatant brutality, and the King barely out of the room ! Not to mention the news that I was to be sent as emissary to Lenin! I had suspected for some minutes that I was bound, willy-nilly, for Russia, but hardly for that purpose.

'Now, Clark,' Zaharoff went on, his voice soft but still instinct with menace. 'You use the patronymic form, I expect?'

Clark nodded.

'You're quite certain?'

Clark nodded again. I watched him with a certain pity. Bolshevik though he might be, I was certain that this abundantly fearful old man was at that moment incapable of deception. But Zaharoff was taking a paper from the case. 'Yes,' he said, I see that you do. So begin, "Dear Vladimir Ilyich," yes, that's right.'

He was peering over the wretch's shoulder. '"This is to introduce Lieutenant-Commander H. G. Dikeston, RN, who comes to you with my full knowledge and approval."' He waited while the poor fellow's pen scratched across the paper. 'Now - "I know how busy you must be with great affairs, but I beg you, for the sake of our friendship, to consent to receive Commander Dikeston. He bears a document of the greatest importance which I am certain you would not wish to pass into hands other than your own.

' "My wife has been ill recently, but there is promise now of better treatment for her. She sends you her warmest greetings and we join to congratulate you yet again on the first steps to the achievement of all our dreams."

'Now, let me see, how do you sign yourself. Ah, yes. "In affectionate brotherhood". Very suitable. Write it, Clark, and sign it.'

Clark did as he was told; he wrote a fine old-fashioned copperplate. Altogether the letter was of a neatness which belied the strain under which it had been written.

'Now the envelope,' said Zaharoff. 'Your name in the top corner, Clark. "From William Clark, British Museum, London." And now, just "V. I. Lenin." Yes, that will do nicely.'

Zaharoff blotted the letter and its envelope carefully. 'Now you may go, Clark. Your bag is in the car, is it not?'

'Yes.' Clark rose from the chair looking beaten, and Zaharoff picked up a small bell and rang it. A footman appeared at once, and it occurred to me that this imperious old man was making himself quite remarkably free of the Palace. 'Escort Mr Clark to my car,' he said. When the door closed, I said, 'Where are you taking him?'

'Spain,' said Zaharoff. 'To my house there. His wife will benefit from seclusion in the sunshine. So will he, though he doesn't believe it. And so -' here something like amusement seemed to pass momentarily across those strange eyes - 'and so will we, I fancy.'

Basil Zaharoff then produced from his attaché case two envelopes. 'You will deliver these unopened, you understand, to the men to whom they are addressed. Here is your passport. Here are the documents.'

He handed them to me: two heavy envelopes, each sealed with red wax. The first, not surprisingly, in view of earlier talk, was addressed to Lenin. But the sight of the name on the second envelope rattled me to my toes.

'But how -' and I am certain I stammered - 'am I to deliver this?'

"Youmust persuade Lenin to permit its delivery,' said Zaharoff bleakly. 'It must be handed over unopened - and then brought back to my hands duly signed.'

I stared at it in utter incredulity. On the envelope appeared the words: 'To His Imperial Majesty Nicholas II, Tsar of all the Russias.'

Those eyes of his were on me as I stood there. I could feel them and his attention, as certainly as a man feels the warmth of sunlight. But no warmth emanated from Zaharoff: the reverse indeed, for across my shoulders passed that shudder attributed to the passing shadow of a grey goose's wing. I heard a rustle and looked up to find he was holding out a sheet of paper. 'Your route,' he said. Again I felt the shiver. The October Revolution in Russia was about six months past and the great spaces of that vast country were a prey to warring factions, into which I was to be plunged at this man's will. For already I sensed that Zaharoff, the great salesman of war and death, was truly the hand behind my mission. I had pledged my life to my Sovereign, but it was now to be at Zaharoff s disposal.

'Go at once,' he said urgently, 'and you may save the life of the Tsar and his Family. I can put it no higher. When His Imperial Majesty signs the document, and only then, will the opportunity come to us.'

'Yes, sir,' I said, though I did not understand, and turned and left the room. When, long afterwards, I returned to England, he had been knighted—by a grateful King, one must suppose, though I know now that it was that devious Celt, David Lloyd George, who conferred honour upon him. Behind every man, it seems, there stands another, strings in his hands, to pull by means of some deeper knowledge.

But all that was far ahead. The paper in my hand already had me on the midnight train to Thurso in the far North of Scotland; yet first I had to outfit myself for the journey. I had no clothing suitable for Russia; indeed, I had access to little more than a weekend's changes of socks and underclothing lodged at the Russell Hotel. Now, in the next few minutes, I was to have a foretaste of Zaharoff s ways. The Daimler still stood in the courtyard, and though the odious Stott had vanished, the driver clearly had instructions.

'Gieves, first,' he said to me. 'Be quick, sir, if you please. We haven't much time.'

So it was up St James's this time, with my wristwatch now showing twenty minutes to eleven o'clock. Gieves would surely be shuttered long ago! But as the car stopped a minute or two later at 27 New Bond Street, lights blazed inside and a man in shirtsleeves stood in the doorway, tape-measure round his neck. Inside, to my amazement, there appeared to be an entire workroom staff!

The outfitting, I swear, took only minutes. A big suitcase was produced, and into it there tumbled a torrent of socks, underclothes, handkerchiefs, all of the choicest. Shirts of wool taffeta, fine as linen, yet of wonderful warmth. Three suits came. 'From the peg,' said the tailor regretfully, 'but you may rely on us, sir, to do our best.' I slipped on the jackets, watched him make his swift chalk hieroglyphs, and then they were whisked away as I tried trousers, whose length was adjusted with equal speed. From a long rack of ties I chose six in silk foulard, then collars to my size and taste. How many people laboured at stitching behind the mahogany I cannot know. But the jackets were quickly back for further fitting only seconds, it seemed, after they were taken away. And meanwhile I was being fitted with a thick topcoat of soft wool, the material from Crombie, the cut unmistakably Guardee, and of ankle length. Finally there were boots, soft leather and in the Russian style.

Dazed, I asked the tailor whence they came. He only smiled and said, 'We carry a large stock, sir. Our gentlemen come in many sizes and we try to meet both taste and need.'

By a quarter past the hour I was out of the shop, I swear it, and with a full kit in my case and not a bill to sign. It struck me, as we bowled away down the 'Dilly, that not Admiral Beatty, nor Jellicoe himself for that matter, could have commanded such service, even at Gieves. At the Russell Hotel a man waited in the entrance. At first sight of the Daimler he started forward, opened the door as the car stopped, and handed me my toilet valise. 'The rest will be looked after, sir, unless there is something you need.'

'The bill?' I asked.

'Attended to. Don't concern yourself.' He held out the receipt for examination, and while I satisfied myself that it had indeed been paid, he passed a wicker hamper into the car. 'In case you feel peckish on the train, sir.'

And by Jove, but I was peckish. Stott had robbed me of my supper and in the press of events there had not been a moment to think of the inner man. Now hunger was growling inside me. Again the Daimler moved off, quick beyond appearances, along Guilford Street, into Grays Inn Road, then towards King's Cross Station.

The terminus, and the night train too, seethed with people, but the Daimler was met by a detachment of military police who cut a way for me and my baggage through teeming masses of soldiers and sailors of all ranks who were bidding farewell to wives, sweethearts and children. Any man who travelled on the wartime trains will recall how dense the crowds were and how uncomfortable the conditions. Already, as I proceeded along the platform, I could see that even the corridors were crowded.

'Here, sir,' the Daimler's driver said, laying a hand upon my arm; our small party halted beside a first-class carriage two back from the engine. A door was opened for me, and I found myself entering what, in a ship, might be described as a small stateroom: possessed of bed, two comfortable seats and a tiny bathroom-cum-lavatory. The driver, entering behind me, drew down blinds on the corridor windows.

'No one will disturb you now.'

'But this is unfair!' I protested. There were many brother officers on the train, men bound for Scapa Flow and the hardship of duty at sea, who now faced a night and a day of discomfort in this jammed train, while I travelled in comfort.

'You are to have privacy, sir,' said he, shaking his head. 'Those are my orders.'

'From Mr Zaharoff?'

He did not answer, and was already backing out of the compartment. 'Safe journey, sir,' he said, touching his cap, and was gone.

A minute or two later I heard a whistle, followed by a great belch of steam and the sound of the wheels skidding for grip upon the rails. The train was moving, and I was off. I divested myself of hat and overcoat, hung them in the wardrobe, and flung myself into one of the two seats. So much had happened in so short a space that my mind was in turmoil, and I wanted only to sit quietly and seek to unravel the astounding events which, in a single evening had turned me from an officer on leave, with nothing before him but a day or so of rest, into the Emissary of my King, sent to encounter the bloodiest revolutionary alive and thence to the rescue of the once-mighty monarch of all the vast lands of Russia! In an attempt to focus my kaleidoscopic thoughts and fancies, I put my hand to my pocket for cigarettes, and then swore, for the pocket was empty. I could recollect, on considering the matter, that the packet had lain on the table at Jameson's club when I was called to see Stott. A night without tobacco, when so much was swirling through my head, was unpleasant to contemplate.

* * *

Mention of tobacco drew Horace Malory's attention to the fact that his own cigar was out. He, too, swore—though mildly and under his breath. Disliking both waste and relitcigars, he tossed the stub irritably into the large silver ashtray on his desk, an ashtray which commemorated the victory of his first racehorse, Sir Basil, over a long-ago mile at Newbury, and busied himself extracting another Romeo No.3 from its aluminium tube. When it was lighted, he closed his eyes for a minute or so to rest them, and then resumed reading.

How they knew, I cannot tell, but when, in search of refreshment, I opened the hamper, its wickerwork branded with the name of the provision merchants Fortnum & Mason, I found that it contained a plentiful supply of cigarettes, all of them Player's Navy Cut, the make I favoured. Also there were several boxes of lucifers. I lit up with a feeling of relief, and unwrapped one of the several napkins within the hamper to find cold chicken legs therein. Two bottles of a chilled Bernkasteler Mosel of excellent quality lay invitingly in the hamper. I would make my supper, I decided, and consider my position afterwards. Twenty minutes later, having disposed of a dish of the most delicate strawberries (and where could they have come from, in the month of March?) I lit another cigarette and looked again at the papers in my pocket. The passport, the first I had possessed, (since up to the outbreak of hostilities no Englishman abroad had need of such frivolities) contained my photograph. Whence had that been obtained? From the Navy, no doubt, though I could not recall being photographed for years except for snapshots taken by the occasional friend. Still, there it was: 'We, Arthur Balfour, His Majesty's Principal Secretary for Foreign Affairs, command . . .' I wondered to myself how far Balfour's writ might run in a Russia crowded with armies: the Whites, the Czech Legions, the Reds themselves, and the Germans, too! The letters I placed to one side; my orders were to bear them unopened, and though even then I had misgivings, if King George believed that they might save his cousin's family then who was a mere Navy commander to question such matters?

I concentrated my attention on the paper Zaharoff had handed to me as 'Your route'. Nothing written there was in any way surprising, save the final words: 'Proceed henceforward at, and with, discretion.'

Finally, having finished my bottle of Mosel, I undressed and slept. Late the following afternoon, in darkness, the train came to Thurso and I reported, as instructed, to the Navy Transport office, and thence aboard the transport vessel which was to make a bitter, stormy crossing of the Pentland Firth. Of that short journey I remember little, spending most of it green with sickness at the ship's rail ridding myself of chicken legs, strawberries, wine and much else as the small vessel plunged and heaved its way across that vile and narrow Pentland channel between the north coast of Scotland and the Isles of Orkney.

Fortunately for me, the crossing was accomplished in little more than a cheerless two hours. At Scapa Flow I again presented myself to a Movements Officer, and was at once ordered into a barge - an admiral's barge, no less - for immediate transportation aboard the destroyer HMS Airedale, which I could see already had steam up. No sooner was I aboard than I was shown to the First Lieutenant's cabin and the low, fast warship weighed anchor.

Next day I landed at Bergen, and proceeded by train to Oslo on what must be the most exquisitely beautiful rail journey on earth, and thence, again by train, to Stockholm. In Stockholm I had time only for a good dinner, which I took at the Grand Hotel in the belief that it might be some time before I could enjoy another such, and then boarded the ferry for Helsinki. Now my mood was beginning to change, as every mile brought me closer to a land I had loved since childhood, but a land whose mood could likewise change, in a second's caprice, from warm good nature to sullen, cold and cruel brutality. From Helsinki I again took train. And now my ears were filled with the accents of the Baltic and of Northern Russia. The time of Mosel and chicken legs, of private compartments and deference, though only a day or two behind me, might never have existed. On that journey I slept cramped on a wooden bench, dined off black bread, a little cheese and tea from a samovar, without lemon, and woke as the train rolled in to the Finland station in St Petersburg to find that name had been erased from the station platforms. Nothing, I think, could have so emphasized that the Russian world would now be unfamiliar to me, as those painted boards bearing the word Petrograd. The city was filled with activity, doubt and confusion. I went first, and on foot because I deemed it wise to avoid unnecessary contact, to the Smolny Institute, which in my St Petersburg days had been the finest of girls' schools, but was now, since October, the headquarters of the new Soviet of Peoples'

Commissaries. Its gracious, pillared entrance now stood decorated with machine-guns and a ferocious-looking but clearly dispirited band of revolutionaries. In several discreet conversations I gradually learned the reasons. The Government had taken itself off to Moscow so St Petersburg, as the cradle of the Revolution, now felt spurned. There was little love lost, then as later, between the two cities. And now even Trotsky, who had remained two weeks and more after the rest, had departed. The guards at the Smolny had nothing left to guard. 'Except our backs!' I was told sourly.

For me this was hardly the best of news, for it meant I must somehow contrive to journey to Moscow, and I had learned by now that the trains were crowded and permission to board them almost impossible to obtain. In the old days a little bribery would have achieved it in an instant, but I felt strongly here that a bribe proffered in the wrong place would lead to a beating, or worse. enI then thought of the British Embassy, and took myself and my heavy suitcase there, and sat outside on the case for a time, hoping for the sight of a familiar face. I wanted at all cost to avoid entering and thus placing myself or my name on any official basis, but it seemed to me that members of the staff might well be knowledgeable about the best means of proceeding. t But no one came, or at any rate no British face I recognized. Then, as evening was drawing on, with the cold deepening, I felt a sudden hard thwack between my shoulder-blades and rose, half-turning, to see Vorozhin. His mouth was open wide, his face alight, his arms spread.

'I thought so - Dikeston!'

I laughed too, delighted to see the old reprobate. 'Vassily Alexandrovitch!' He had been supplier of fodder for the Embassy horses for many years, a great cheerful Cossack and himself a horseman of enormous daring.

'Why are you sitting so sadly -' he kicked the suitcase -'on that?'

'Because I have nowhere else.'

'No? And they -' he gestured scornfully at the Embassy building - 'so busy looking after themselves they have no time for you. Eh?'

'True enough,' I lied, I need to get to Moscow, and it seems -'

He gave a great laugh. 'Difficult? Yes, my friend, it is difficult. What is not difficult?' Then he bent his shaggy head close to mine. 'But nothing is impossible, eh?' And laughed hugely.

'You can help me?'

He picked up my case in his enormous paw and took my arm. 'A drink, my friend. A little talk, some food. And then we see!'

He now had only a third of his fine house, but it was more than enough, for he lived alone. More important, he saw himself as in my debt because, years earlier when he had been in England, I had been able to arrange for him to visit a Newmarket trainer of my acquaintance, whom I suspect he had startled greatly with his vaults and side-riding and other Cossack tricks. Like everyone else in the aftermath of the Revolution, Vorozhin was waiting. Horses had always been needed, were needed now and would always be needed, and he was patient, waiting to discover how his eye and his skills could best be employed by new masters. That and maintaining his friendships. We ate frugally: bread and a little fish and some tough horsemeat (The old ones die, my friend, and keep us alive. A last service, eh?') and talked over old times, and drank some vodka, and my difficulties began to disappear. There was a former corporal of cavalry, it seemed, now employed in the railway station, with apparently unlimited authority over the movement of people. 'We'll see him in the morning, Dikeston, old friend. First, more vodka, then sleep, eh?' He loved using my surname, thus, and also teasing me by converting my Christian names into a bastard Russian patronymic form: Henry Georgevitch. A wonderful man and a fine friend. True to his word, he had me on the Moscow train early next morning. By nightfall, suitcase still in hand, I wished he again stood beside me as I faced a levelled machine-gun at the entrance to the tunnel arch that led through the Kremlin wall beneath the Spassky Tower, with the musical clock chiming high above. The same clock which once had played 'God Save the Tsar' now ground out the sober notes of the Internationale.

The gun barrel was levelled at my chest. Thumbs rested on the firing buttons. Several pairs of eyes stared at me, examining from head to foot. At last one of the men, a black-bearded giant with fierce and angry eyes, jerked his head to indicate I should approach.

'Your business?'

'I have a letter for V. I. Lenin.'

'ComradeLenin.'

'Yes, for Comrade Lenin."

'Who's it from?'

'An old friend.'

The giant stuck out his hand. 'Give it to me.'

I shook my head. 'Only to his secretary.'

His manner became more menacing. 'Give.'

Again I shook my head.

'Do you imagine,' he grated, 'that Comrade Lenin has time to waste with -' and his eyes ranged over my clothing-'bourgeois postmen?'

'I imagine,' I said levelly, 'that he might be angry if this letter were not delivered.'

He stared at me wrathfully, a jack-in-office faced with a situation of which he was uncertain. This examination, like the first, went on for some moments, but at last he jerked his head again, this time to indicate I might pass beneath the arch. 'Present yourself at the Kavalersky Building and wait.'

I proceeded through, suitcase still in my hand, and found that the Kavalersky Building stood, as described, opposite the Potyeshny Palace. Again I was stopped and asked my business. Again I explained about the letter. Again I was examined closely by hostile eyes. Finally I was allowed to enter and found myself at the end of a long corridor. A guard sat at a table with his pistol before him. He did nothing: did not rise, did not ask what I wanted, did not invite me to be seated. He did not even answer when I spoke. I had been given instructions to wait, however, and that is what I did, turning my back upon the guard and fixing my attention upon an icon over the main door. It has always seemed to me that one of the advantages conferred upon a young man by service training is the ability to stand still for extended periods, without impatience and without the need for such distractions as magazines and newspapers. So I stood properly at ease, hands behind my back and kept my gaze upon the icon. How long I stood so I do not know, but after a time there came the sound of swiftly approaching footsteps, and a youthful voice demanded, 'You have a letter for Comrade Lenin?'

Turning, I saw a sailor in uniform, in his early twenties, scrubbed and red-faced. 'You are his secretary?'

'No, Comrade, I am not. But I am privileged to assist him.'

'I will deliver the letter only to Comrade Lenin's secretary.'

We stared at each other for a moment, he a little impatient of this stranger who sought to impose his will, I guessing that my only hope of achieving my goal was to be entirely firm. Behind him the corridor was busy, men crossing from room to room with pieces of paper in their hands. For a moment one of them looked familiar, a medium-sized man in a tunic with a shock of hair, a small goatee and wearing pince-nez. 'Is that Trotsky?' I demanded.

'It may be Comrade Trotsky.' The sailor did not look round. I was again instructed to wait, and resumed my contemplation of the icon. That sight of the revolutionary leader, however, had had its effect upon me. It was like a sight of an enemy warship, with the knowledge than an encounter was to begin: I was suddenly aware that here, in the Kavalersky, I stood only steps away from the determined crew of Bolsheviks who had seized power so ruthlessly and triumphantly a few short months ago! These were the men who had wiped away a Romanov Dynasty which had held in autocratic thrall the largest nation on earth for more than three hundred years! I felt my heart begin to thud within me more powerfully even than it had at St James's Palace; King George was but a constitutional Sovereign, for all his dignity, and these men were, or aimed to be, the power in all the Russias.

The footsteps came again. 'Follow me.'

I walked after the sailor down the long corridor, steps clicking on the tiled floor, but having to pause once or twice as somebody emerged hurrying from a room and crossed in front, heedless. The sailor stopped and gestured with his hand. I entered a room equipped entirely, and in unlikely fashion in this place, with light birchwood furniture, perhaps from Karelia. A man in a dark suit sat behind a desk and he too wore pince-nez from which a black ribbon fell to his neck.

'This letter,' he said. 'You must give it to me. We must have an end to these childish mysteries!'

'You are Comrade Lenin's -'

'Secretary?' He sighed. 'Yes.' And held out his hand commandingly. 'From whom does it come?'

'From Mr William Clark, at the British Museum in London.' I took the envelope from the inside pocket of my jacket and handed it to him.

'I will ensure that it reaches Comrade -'

He was interrupted by the abrupt appearance through another door of Lenin himself! Though for a brief moment I did not recognize him: for his head was shaved and his celebrated beard gone and thus he was of altogether more Asiatic appearance than I had imagined.

He looked at me sharply. 'From Clarke

I stood to attention. 'Yes. Comrade Lenin."

'Who are you?'

'Commander Dikeston, Royal Navy.'

He laughed, quite gaily. 'So - now Clark has naval officers delivering his messages, eh? You've seen him? Is he well?'

I thought of the poor wretch sitting and writing at Zaharoffs cold command. He'd been old, and almost terrified out of his wits, but his health had seemed good. 'Yes, he's well.'

'Good, good!' Lenin ripped open the envelope, saying, 'He's a splendid man. From Marx onward, who knows where we'd all have been without -' And then he stopped, the laughter shut off, and gave me a hard, sideways look. 'This other document he speaks of. You have it?'

'Yes, Comrade Lenin.'

'Come in here.'

I reached into my pocket for Zaharoffs missive, and followed him into his office. He went behind his desk and stood there like a Lord of Creation, hand outstretched.

'Give it tome.'

In removing the single sheet of paper, Lenin did not slit open the envelope, though a paperknife lay upon his desk. He tore it, and there was plain impatience on his face. The thick foolscap crackled as it was unfolded. I could not see what was written, nor did Comrade Lenin offer to show me, but I had an impression of a few handwritten lines, no more.

Then Lenin was shouting: 'Comrade Secretary!'

The man bustled through from his own outer office. 'Yes, Comrade Lenin?'

'Please ask Comrade Trotsky and Comrade Sverdlov to join me for a moment.'

'Yes, Comrade Lenin."

This repeated use of the word comrade, once, twice, three times in every spoken sentence, struck me as both excessive and amusing. I must have smiled, for Lenin snapped at me: 'Something is funny?'

I dipped my head. 'Your pardon, sir. I am simply much taken at the thought of the imminent presence of men whose names are so widely known.' He shot me a warning look. I straightened my face and resolved to smile no more and nor indeed, in the ensuing weeks, was I to do so. A minute passed, no more, before they arrived, and they were hurrying. I found it interesting that Lenin was so evidently master, for, nominally at any rate, Yankel Sverdlov was Head of State; and there could be no doubting Trotsky's power. The fact remains that they came trotting in like a pair of terriers, and when Lenin said, 'Sit,' and pointed to chairs, the pair of them sat and looked up at him, all but wagging tails.

Lenin's finger now stabbed towards me. 'This man brings a message.' He looked from one face to the other, from Sverdlov to Trotsky, and back again. 'He is British.'

Two pairs of eyes turned, regarded me for a moment, then returned their attention to Lenin.

'The message -?' Trotsky began.

Lenin flung the paper down on the desk before him. He radiated a pleasure that was almost triumphant.

'Vickers,' he said. 'And Zaharoff.'

Trotsky swung to face me. 'Zaharoff s emissary?'

Since I was in reality nothing of the kind, I shook my head. 'I merely brought his letter, sir.'

'Not "sir". Address me, please, as comrade.' Trotsky snatched up the letter, read it quickly, then handed it at once to Sverdlov. While it was read a third time the others remained silent, though it was clear they ached to speak.

It was, in any event, no more than a moment before Sverdlov looked up and said softly, 'Fifty million?' It was as though he could scarcely believe what he was saying. Trotsky, in the same instant, cried, 'But can he be trusted?'

Lenin pursed his lips, his head tilted a little, his hand turned over to finish palm up; it was a curiously Gallic gesture. 'As a gift?' he said. 'In arms? It's worth far more than the lot of them.'

Trotsky blinked several times. "They put their trust in Zaharoff. What happened? Nothing was delivered.' He said it again, with a bitter edge to his voice. 'Russia paid Vickers. Zaharoff had the money. Nothing was delivered.'

'Fifty million in arms,' Lenin said. 'We need them, Lev Davidovitch. Yesterday in this room you said that without -' He stopped and looked at me. 'Leave us. Wait outside. I will send for you.'

I took a seat in the secretary's office, wondering who 'they' were. 'They' who had put trust in Zaharoff; 'they'w ho seemed equated with Russia. I wondered, also, in my innocent way how anybody, having met Zaharoff as I had, could possibly trust him. In my mind's eye I could picture that eagle face, those compelling eyes. It was a face to be watched, to be examined, a gaze to be avoided—but hardly to be trusted. Yet clearly the King himself was placing faith . . .

Sverdlov came bustling out of Lenin's room. He did not stop; he merely crooked the finger of authority at me and continued walking out into the corridor. I scrambled to my feet and followed him. A few doors along he turned into an office, closed the door after me and gestured me to chair. I sat obediently, as he had done earlier.

'How well do you speak Russian?' he demanded.

I said, 'Perfectly.'

'With what accent?'

'I grew up in Perm, but there is barely a trace. Usually I am thought to be from St Petersburg.'

'Petrograd,' he growled at me.

'Of course. I beg your pardon.'

He glared at me. 'Your profession?'

'I am an officer of the Royal Navy.'

'Accustomed to command, eh?'

'Yes.'

He was silent then, staring hard at me. It is an old trick, to disconcert a man in that way. I simply stared back. At last he said, 'You have other languages?'

'Some French. Fair German. English, naturally.'

He nodded. 'And the language of the Revolution - can you speak that?'

imperfectly, Comrade Commissar, but I am not wholly unfamiliar with the modes of expression. I have read Marx and Engels, and Comrade Lenin. And I learn quickly, when necessary.'

'Then take my advice,' Sverdlov said, 'and do so. They are hotheads in the Urals Soviet. Do you know the name Yakovlev?'

'No.'

He favoured me with a look that was almost a smile, though in it there was a certain contempt, perhaps even pity. 'Familiarize yourself with the name Vassily Vassilievitch Yakovlev. And report back here tomorrow morning. Nine o'clock.'

When I did so, I quickly learned why it had been so necessary to remember the mysterious name of Yakovlev. I also found myself arbitrarily placed in command of a force of one hundred and fifty horsemen.

'The man must be mad,' Malory murmured. His ears heard the sound of his own voice and he grimaced. Talking to himself: softening of the brain. But by Jove, he wasn't the only sufferer! Extraordinary fellow, Pilgrim. Read something Sir Basil wanted buried, found it referred to Zaharoff himself, to the King, to Lenin, Sverdlov and Trotsky; read all that - and then took no notice! The document even mentioned fifty millions in arms and Pilgrim ignored it. Ancient history, indeed!

The trouble was, of course, that Pilgrim had never met Zaharoff. Accordingly Pilgrim had no experience of the certitude which had characterized all Zaharoff s actions and dealings. Malory, knowing that certitude well, could feel it now, reaching to him across the years. Fifty of them, now, since the old man had stood here in this room - yet Malory could still sense his presence, could sense the will and even the words 'Find out. It's dangerous -' of the message which had earlier insinuated itself into his brain and was becoming ever more urgent. The words seemed to vibrate in his mind as he looked at the envelope which was paper-clipped to the last sheet of Dikeston's manuscript. Pilgrim had opened it, and then had apparently replaced the paper inside it.

Malory took it out again.