The Golden Sabre. Jon Cleary
the commander-in-chief, were already retreating east to Omsk and Cabell had had doubts about going on. But he had been assured before he left the States that there was little or no fighting in the area where American-Siberian were sending him and they wanted to know whether oil was there. If there was, American-Siberian, blessed with executives whose loyalty to governments was as slippery as their product, would come to an arrangement with whoever won the civil war.
Cabell had taken his truck off the train at Ekaterinburg, carefully not letting his curiosity get the better of him in the town where the Tsar and his family were said to have been murdered. He had put the truck on a branch-line train and come a hundred miles south-west to Verkburg and found that another ataman, intent on building an even worse reputation than Semenov, had moved west and taken over this region. Up till now Cabell had not been disturbed in his work, since he had spent all his time out in the hills west of town. He had found no evidence of oil and last week his employers had sent word that, because it seemed they could not pick the winner of the civil war, though they did not say that, he should give up and head back to the United States. So he had driven into town this morning, dropped off the two local men he had hired, gone to the railroad station to see about putting himself and his truck on the next train for Ekaterinburg and within ten minutes found himself in General Bronevich’s office in the town barracks.
‘Am I under arrest, General?’
‘That would mean putting you in prison, Cabell, and having to feed you. Food is short, as you know—’ Bronevich ran his hands down over his fat belly, tried to pull some creases into his uniform to suggest he was underweight; he failed, looked up at Cabell and smiled. ‘Well, food is short for some people, shall we say? No, Cabell, you will be free to walk around – you will have the money to feed yourself, I’m sure. If Pemenov’s investigation finds you are not a Bolshevik spy or an American spy or any other sort – the investigation may take weeks, of course, because there are so many spies—’ He smiled again, an expression that did nothing to endear him to anyone who witnessed it. He had the broad Mongolian face, a completely bald head, a mouth full of gold teeth and eyes that looked as if they could cut glass. It seemed to Cabell that he must have made a career of his ugliness, matching his character to his looks. ‘If you are cleared, you can take the train for Ekaterinburg. I shall see you get a compartment to yourself. The fare will be – What do you suggest, Pemenov?’
‘Two thousand American dollars.’ The dwarf’s intelligent blue eyes seemed to gleam with malicious humour.
‘Where did you learn to speak Russian, Cabell?’ said Bronevich.
‘I worked down at Baku for eighteen months before the war with the Germans. Will the two thousand dollars pay my truck’s fare, too?’
‘Ah no. What room would there be in a railway compartment for a truck?’
‘You shouldn’t be trying to rob me, General. I don’t know if you know it, but America is supposed to be on the side of the White armies.’
‘But we don’t need the Americans, do we, Pemenov?’
The dwarf smiled his child’s smile. ‘Not here in Verkburg, General.’ He addressed Cabell directly for the first time, spoke in English: ‘We don’t need the Americans anywhere at all in Russia, Mr Cabell.’
‘Are you a Bolshevik, Mr Pemenov, and the General doesn’t know it?’
The child’s smile flickered again on the big adult face. ‘Don’t be stupid, Mr Cabell. You’re too far from home and all alone – being insulting isn’t going to help you. No, I’m not a Bolshevik. I just hate Americans, all of you.’
Cabell looked at him, feeling a reluctant pity. ‘Your mother must have been a real bitch.’
‘She was, Mr Cabell. A real shit of a bitch.’
‘What a beautiful language!’ Bronevich blew out a cloud of smoke, rolled his head in ecstasy at the music he had been listening to. ‘I could listen to English all day. What a pity I don’t understand it.’
‘Two thousand dollars, Cabell,’ said Pemenov, this time in Russian. ‘The General will be waiting for it – after we have investigated you.’
Two minutes later Cabell was out in the square that fronted the barracks. The August sun pressed down like a bright golden blanket; the air was dry but so hot that it seared the nostrils and dried Cabell’s lips almost instantly. The bell in the tower beneath the green onion dome of the church at the far end of the square tolled noon; the iron notes hung on the heavy air as if cloaked in velvet. Soldiers lolled like dark shocks of corn in the thin midday shadows; a row of them looked as if they were stacked ready for loading on the two military trucks parked by the barracks wall. But Cabell noticed that each truck, decrepit antiques, had a wheel missing: the axles were jacked up on bricks. He knew then that he would never get his own truck on the train for Ekaterinburg. Battered though it was, it was still in better shape than the two military vehicles and General Bronevich wouldn’t let it slip out of his hands.
Shopkeepers were locking up their stores, getting ready for lunch; in a town full of soldiers they had learned to leave nothing unattended. Shutters were closing on house windows, locking out the heat. A peasant crossed the square at a slow walk, bent over beneath the load of firewood on his back: the heat didn’t fool him, he knew winter would have no memory of today and would freeze him if he was not prepared against it. An open carriage drawn by two black, sweat-shining horses came round the square and broke into a trot as Cabell, eyes blinded by the white cobblestones, stepped out of the shade to cross the road.
The horses were abruptly pulled up, rearing high, one of them almost knocking Cabell’s head off as its front hooves pawed at the air. Cabell fell back, just managing to keep his feet, and leaned against the side of the carriage as it came level with him. He looked up into the sun and dimly saw the shape of a woman pulling hard on the reins.
‘For crissakes, lady, why don’t you watch where you’re going?’
‘Watch it!’ said the lady, let go of the reins with one hand, swung her handbag on its long strap and whacked Cabell across the ear. ‘If you’re going to use that sort of language, you’re not getting an apology out of me. Out of the way, you lout!’
The carriage swept on and Cabell jumped back to avoid being run down. He held a hand to his ear, glad to find it was still attached to his head; his other ear was still ringing with the echo of the sharp voice that had spoken to him in English. It was not his day; first a general who suspected he was a spy, then a dwarf who hated him because he was an American, now an English-speaking woman who thought he was a foul-mouthed lout. He stood in the middle of the square, looked around him, wondered where he might find a friend; but two thousand miles of isolation stretched away from him in all directions. All at once he realized that he was sinking very rapidly into a very serious situation.
He walked across the square, still feeling his sore ear, swore at a dog that lazily snapped at him, and came to the line of plane trees under which he had parked his truck. It was not strictly a truck; it was a 1914 Chevrolet car which had had its rear seat and bodywork stripped away and a high-sided platform substituted. It had done more than its fair share of hard travelling and Cabell did not dare to guess how many more miles it had left in it before it fell apart from the battering it had taken in the past five years. It was a car that had been built for the soft dirt roads of America and not for the jungle tracks of Venezuela and the trackless rocky ground he had driven it over here in the Urals. The tyres, worn to condom thinness, had had forty punctures in the past three months; the brakes, when applied, were just a plunger pressed into a well of wishful thinking. He had intended taking it home more for sentimental reasons than because he thought it had many more years of usefulness left in it.
But it was useful now. He knew that the next train for Ekaterinburg did not leave for another three days; by then General Bronevich might have decided that he was indeed a spy. He turned his mind against any thought of what might happen to him. Houdini, the greatest escape artist of all time, always made sure that he did his magic in front of a friendly audience. He never attempted anything where the nearest applause was two thousand miles back in the stalls.