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Chapter Nineteen

The Ussarovskys

Late Robbers’ Encampment, south of the Trans-Siberian Railway

“Strangest snowstorm I’ve ever seen,” said Shukhov, as a southerly breeze brought a flurry of currency into the encampment.

“Don’t just stand there with your teeth in your mouth,” the sergeant said, “start picking it up! Lieutenants? Girls! Come out!”

All of them, hale or not, stormed out and began collecting paper currency from the ground. The lieutenant, for the moment, didn’t. Instead, he tramped to the source, the now very open safe, and looked into it.

It was only a minority of the currency, he decided, that had been blown into the air. Most of it was still in the safe, tied in bundles of what he presumed were one hundred bills, each. Turgenev pulled out a couple of bundles, seeing they all bore the portrait of Catherine the Great. Doing some quick counting followed by some equally quick math, he tallied, three bundles deep, seven across, and thirty high . . . times ten thousand . . . over six million rubles in currency. Must have been somebody’s pay chest. If they’re all one hundred ruble notes. I doubt they are, though. Still, even if half . . . and then, too, there’s been a lot of inflation, so maybe . . . 

Kneeling beside the safe and bending at the waist, the lieutenant brushed away some loose currency covering what turned out to be bags, some of them sundered by the blast.

“Oh, my,” he said aloud. He reached in and picked up a single coin. Examining it, he thought, I’d recognize that profile anywhere; a ten ruble gold piece. Brushing aside loose coins, the lieutenant hefted one bag. It was shockingly heavy for its size.

“Mmmmm . . . maybe a pood. No, at least a pood.” More kitchen math followed, resulting in, Hmmm . . . roughly thirty thousand rubles to the bag, and . . . oh, maybe twenty five or thirty bags, I suppose. We need to have a little counsel with the ladies.


“Who owns the money?” the lieutenant asked the assembly, fifteen women and girls, plus nine men, one of them wounded. The two living prisoners, tied and shivering outside, were not asked.

“Might be an army pay chest?” said Mokrenko.

“True,” said Koslov, the goat. “But whose army was it going to? Might have been the Reds, you know.”

“Good point,” the sergeant agreed, nodding deeply.

“Might belong to the tsar,” said Turgenev, “but somehow I don’t think he’s in a position to tell us what to do with it.”

“It might,” said Natalya, “belong to those who suffered rape, humiliation, and indignities galore right here.”

“We never could have gotten it out ourselves,” said Saskulaana, the lovely Yakut woman. “Split it?” she suggested.

“Frankly, sir,” said Mokrenko, addressing the lieutenant, “that might be the fairest and best we can do, both, without risking the money going for a bad cause.”

The lieutenant nodded, but only as if he’d heard, not as if he necessarily agreed. “Saskulaana?” he asked, “what do you women and girls want to do?”

“You’re the first decent men any of us have seen in a while,” said the Yakut. “Can we stay with you? We’d earn our keep.”

Repeating the lie Mokrenko had told Colonel Plestov, Turgenev said, “We are men with prices on our heads. You cannot come with us. We can, though, escort you as far as the edge of Tyumen, where you can all catch trains for either east or west. You’re probably”—here, the lieutenant permitted himself a smile—“very safe from train robbers at this point.”

“We could take my horses and be completely safe from train robbers,” said Saskulaana.

“About the horses . . .”

“I’m joking,” the woman said. “We need fourteen and maybe as many for food and such. That leaves plenty for you and your men. Take them; with my blessings. We owe everything to you.”

“If we take you as far as Tyumen, how many would then take a train either east or west?” Turgenev asked.

All the women seemed happy with that idea, each raising her hand.

“At that point, then, you wouldn’t need horses, would you?”

“I’d still need maybe five,” said the Yakut woman, “to get myself and my daughter back to our people. And a rifle, if one could be spared.”

“We’ve got two . . . no, three . . . extras now. You can have your pick of those.

“As for the money,” Turgenev continued, “You ladies can only carry so much weight. Those bags are remarkably heavy. Indeed, any three or maybe four of them would weigh more than any one of you. I’d suggest you should want the paper rubles, with just enough gold to see you through a hard time, maybe five thousand rubles’ worth, each.”

“That’s giving us a lot more than an even split,” said the Yakut.

“Yes and no,” said the lieutenant. “Gold is gold; it always has value. But the four hundred thousand or so paper rubles you each get could turn into so much trash overnight. My recommendation would be to take the paper, and that five thousand in gold, each, and turn all the paper into gold and silver as soon as you get where you’re going. If you can. As much of it as you can.”

“Paper’s pretty much useless among my people,” said Saskulaana. “Might my daughter and I take, instead, a fair share of the gold and the rest can have paper? Or you can take my share of paper?”

“Sure,” said Turgenev. “Let’s say . . . mmm . . . five horses and two bags of gold between you, the rest to go with us?”

“Agreed.”

“The rest of you ladies?”

The remaining women chorused their assent.

“Very well. Sergeant Mokrenko?”

“Sir?”

“A rest night for the men. We’ll leave at first light, tomorrow.”

“Sir, what about the two prisoners? They’re still outside, freezing.”

“Leave them to us,” said Saskulaana. “We owe them something.”

“They didn’t tell us everything,” Mokrenko observed, “so our offer of a chance to live is nullified.”

“They’re yours,” said the lieutenant. “Oh, before I forget; we need to bury Visaitov. I don’t want to leave him for the wolves and we can’t really take him with us.”

“Digging in the permafrost, sir?” said Mokrenko. “Do we have an extra two weeks?”

“Put him in one of the buildings,” suggested Saskulaana, “and set it alight.”

“Agreed,” said the lieutenant, though his agreement was touched with sadness. “Sergeant?”

“Sir?”

“Loot the robbers’ treasure trove, would you, for anything that might be of use to us?”


“These are good men,” said Saskulaana, after the two prisoners had been castrated and their throats had been cut. “These are decent men. No girls are to go to them, but only women, fully grown. Are there nine of us for that?”

The Yakut was better dressed than she had been upon the arrival of their liberators. Indeed, they were all better dressed, as they’d been given back their own clothes. So, for that matter, was Natalya, who had been fussed over and dressed by the now free women and girls.

“Eight of you,” said Natalya, as a female automatically brought into the women’s conspiracy. “The lieutenant belongs to me.”

“But you are so young,” said the Yakut.

Eventually, he belongs to me. But I claim him as mine now.”

“Eight of us,” agreed Saskulaana, with a knowing smile. “Come, ladies; let us go willingly to our men. And do not forget the one outside on guard. Evdokia, don’t you have a specialty for a man standing in the cold?”

“I do, indeed,” agreed one woman, a pure Russian by the look of her, blue-eyed, blonde, round-faced, and with a most impressive chest. “Let me just find something to keep my knees from freezing . . .”

The Yakut already knew who she wanted, and had marked his place on the floor by the great Russian stove when he’d first rolled out his bedroll.

“Shshshsh,” she whispered to Mokrenko, as she pulled back the blankets covering him. “I mean you no harm. Oh, quite the opposite . . .”

Tyumen, Russia

Although it was not an idyll, nor without its risks, nor without the needs to maintain security, the ride to Tyumen had been as happy a time as any of the men had known since 1914, and happier than any of the women had known in the past half year.

All idylls, though, come to an end. This one came to an end at the outskirts of the town, where the men had to say goodbye to all the women except Natalya.

Whoever fell in love, Turgenev asked himself, watching the tear-filled goodbyes, who didn’t do so immediately or, at least, very quickly?

Mokrenko was particularly smitten.

And no wonder, thought Turgenev, looking at the Yakut woman. She wore her own fine furs, with a light fur hood drawn up over her hair. A triangular beaded fabric diadem decorated her forehead. Her hair hung down straight from behind, to both sides of her slender neck, to cover the fur in front of her breasts. The lower portions of delicate ears peeked out between hair and hood. On her neck hung a necklace of flat, crescent shapes, a mix of wood, horn, and amber. Everything seemed well-calculated to adorn a heart-shaped, elfin face, with two large almond eyes, a delicate chin, perfect eyebrows, and a mouth that begged to be kissed.

“Where might I find you?” he asked Saskulaana, “If I live, I mean.”

She smiled, having won the battle to bind a worthy man to her. “I’m a Sakha,” she replied, “or, as your people say, a Yakut. Well, three fourths. The other quarter is Russian and, yes, I am an Orthodox Christian.

“Where else would you find me except near the town of Yakutsk? I’ll be with my clan within a couple of hundred versta of the town, generally to the southeast of it.”

“Can you wait? Will you wait?”

“I will wait two years,” she said, decisively, “and will look for you in the town every six months. If you have not come for me by that time, I will assume you have forgotten me.”

“I will never forget you, while I live,” he said, “but I might not live.” He considered the time, the hardship, and the risk, then agreed. “Two years is long enough for you to wait, one way or the other.”

“Who knows,” she said, eyes twinkling. “Perhaps when you come I may have a not quite two-year-old surprise for you . . .”

His eyes widened to a degree she would have thought impossible.

“If you are . . . if you do . . . will this make it hard for you among your people?”

“Are you joking?” she laughed. “With the amount of gold I’m bringing back, no one would dare criticize me for anything. We don’t have queens, exactly, among my people, but I’m going to be the nearest thing to one. That also means I’ll be easy enough to find.”

Great Lake Shishkarym

The lake, or rather, lakes, since the area was dotted with them, was about thirty versta east of Kutarbitskoye, Russia, and about fifty almost due south of Tobolsk. It was an area barren, miserable, and cold, all three. If anyone lived anywhere near here, they were keeping indoors.

“It’s perfect,” said the lieutenant. “No towns. No witnesses. Water we can get at with a little cutting. Trees for shelter and firewood. Perfect. And it fits the limited guidance Kostyshakov had for us on a place to bring in a zeppelin.”

In other words, this place sucks, thought every man in the section. Dig in.


Setting up a decent camp for the men and horses took about a day. They had, by the time Turgenev and those accompanying him left, a tent, double-walled on a stout frame, enough firewood and food for a month. Left behind were Lieutenant Babin, Koslov, Shukhov—still healing and somewhat the worse for the long ride, and Novarikasha. They also left both sleighs they’d taken at the rail line, and another three they’d found in the robbers’ encampment, as well as any horse not needed for the trip. All the treasure of the robbers’ camp, less the money, and certainly to include several cans of kerosene, remained here, too.

The remaining six, including Natalya, rode north to Tobolsk with eight of the horses, two of those packed with necessities, to include enough cloth for a lean-to, if they needed to erect one, plus a single sleigh.

Tolbolsk, Russia

It was overcast and windless in Tobolsk, something much to be desired given the sheer, terrifying Siberian cold. The town was a mix of the rough-hewn and the sophisticated. There’d long been a lot of wealth to be extracted here, which explained a good deal of the sophistication. And rough-hewn, specifically in the form of log cabins, some of them more in the line of log palaces, was explained by the sheer amount of wood available. The roads would probably have been mud, in warmer weather, a misery to all who might travel them, but for now, amidst the usual Siberian cold, they were hard and fine.

Ahead, the town’s kremlin, or fortress, loomed steep and menacing. It was an old fort and, while its white-painted walls would not have stood a day against even the cannon of two centuries prior, none of the local threats had ever had even those.

We made it on time, thought Turgenev, with wonder. Despite the distractions, diversions, troubles . . . all that, we still made it on time.

Sarnof, the signaler, already had a message composed, for when they found the telegraph office. It read, in the original, “Arrived Tobolsk Stop looking for market.”

They passed by one rather large, two-story log structure. On the side facing Great Friday Ulitsa, it had eight windows per floor, each with a peaked pediment above it. There was a single gable on the roof facing the road. After they passed it, Turgenev turned around in his saddle to read a sign on the roof proclaiming “PHOTOGRAPHIA,” as well as one very large window—he estimated it at perhaps four arshini by about six—composed of some forty panes.

Hmmm . . . I wonder if we can get them to . . . think carefully, first. Vast potential for compromising ourselves.

“Sergeant Mokrenko?”

“Sir?”

“What would you think about getting that photography shop to get pictures of the town for the main force to study and plan with?”

“Good idea, sir, if we could do it without compromising anything?”

“Great minds, Sergeant, think alike.”

Next, on the same side of the road, they passed a large church or perhaps a cathedral. A sign outside proclaimed it to be The Cathedral of the Annunciation. It was set back from the street, slightly, but had a bell tower with cupola that towered over the surrounding buildings.

It wasn’t but a few minutes later that the horses brought them to a very large and quite ornate house, with guards posted on the doors.

“Sergeant? You do the talking if there’s any to be done.”

“Sir.”

Mokrenko asked one of the guards, “Comrade, can you direct us to a hotel? We’ve been on the road, looking to buy furs, for too long now, and could use a hot bath and some decent food.”

The guard addressed spat on the ground. “Decent food in Tobolsk is hard to come by. A hot bath? I seem to remember what those were, but it’s been so long. ‘Decent’? You want a decent place to sleep? We’re all sleeping in the basement of this place, if that gives you any idea. For that matter, this place has rented rooms in the past; there’s even one guest and her daughter here now. But we’re full. Even so, there’s a none-too-reputable place north of here and a bit to the east. This road doesn’t go all the way; you’ll have to take a left, a right, and then another right. If you find yourselves at the river turn around and go the other way.”

“Thanks, comrade,” Mokrenko replied.

On the left they passed a stockade in front of a smaller house, though it was still of respectable size. There were guards ringing it, not just posted on the doors.

I think, thought the lieutenant, that we’ve found the royal family.

From the vantage point of the horses, they could see a bit into the yard the stockade defined, and even to what looked, by the smoke coming from the chimney, to be a kitchen building to the west. There was a snow-covered hill—or just a hill of snow, it was impossible to be sure—standing in the yard.

Mokrenko glanced left from time to time, trying to see if there was any unambiguous sign of the royal family. He caught faint shadows and images, through the windows of the place, but these were not unambiguous. Two people, one of whom seemed vaguely feminine, cut wood in the yard, but that didn’t prove anything. Another, by his dress a young boy, chased some turkeys about the yard.

“Move on! Move on, you lot!” commanded one of the men ringing the place. “The former royal family is no fucking business of yours.”

Well, that answers that question, doesn’t it? I wonder if we could see into the compound from that cathedral back there. Mokrenko turned as far as he could to the right and determined, I think someone could. Have to check it out when I get the chance.

“Sorry, Comrade,” said Mokrenko. “We didn’t know. Just seemed odd to have so many guards. We’re in the fur-trading business, just in from the taiga, and, given the close guard, I wondered if maybe it was being used as a warehouse for especially valuable furs. Naturally, that would interest us.”

“Oh, they’re valuable, all right, but not for furs. Go look up around and behind the kremlin; there are a couple of traders there.”

“Thanks, Comrade.”

Heading farther north, and after taking those suggested turns, about as far from the royal family as the latter were from the photography studio, the half dozen passed by what the lieutenant said was the town’s electric plant. Not my call as to whether it’s a proper target for the main force, but they need to know about it so they can decide.

“There are a lot of churches here,” observed Natalya, riding beside the lieutenant.

“About one for every thousand people in the town, or maybe more,” said Turgenev, softly. “And none of them burnt and none of them, so far, appear to have any soldiers—presumably Reds—quartered in them. That might tell us something of the outlook of the townspeople. But then, too, I’ve heard that there are an enormous number of very rich people here, and that may be of use to us, as well.”

“I think we turn right here, sir,” said Mokrenko.

“The place feels unsettled to me,” Natalya said. “The way the people walk . . . the way they look over their shoulders. Something has changed here, and very recently. And I don’t think anyone is really in charge yet.”

“I think you’re right,” said Turgenev, adding, “you, my dear are a very clever girl. We’ve passed a lot of what look like discharged soldiers so far. How many do you think there are?”

I’d have been a good deal happier if he’d said, “clever woman” or even “clever young woman.” But then, by calling me a girl he also avoids having to think about the uses to which I was put, and maybe even helps me not to think about them.

“A couple of thousand, I suspect,” said Natalya. “They may not all be disorganized rabble, though.”

They came to a hotel soon, but it was anything but inviting. Said Turgenev, looking it over while hiding his disgust, “I’d like to set ourselves up a house where we can be secure from prying eyes and eager ears. But to do that without risk we’ll need to nose around a good bit. And that takes time, while time demands shelter. So, in the interim, this . . . hotel . . . I suppose.

“And from here on out we’re all on a first name and patronymic basis.”


In Tobolsk, virtually everything was dear. This was unsurprising in a place mostly cut off from the rest of the world by snow and ice for eight months out of the year. That applied, too, to the accommodations. Indeed, given the quality of the appointments—the section was fortunate to have their own bedding—the price demanded was nothing less than insulting.

“We’ll take the insult,” whispered Turgenev to Mokrenko, who looked about ready to contest matters. “Rostislav Alexandrovich, we’ll take it; for now there is no choice.”

“One other thing,” said the proprietor, “there is a shortage of firewood in the town, mostly because of a shortage of labor. Even the tsar—excuse me; the former tsar— and his family, I have heard, cut their own. A very modest amount, enough to keep water from freezing, comes with your room. Beyond that, if you want to be comfortable, you can either sit in the dining room or go cut your own. If you cut extra, I’ll take the value of it off the price of your room.”

“This seems very fair, sir,” said Turgenev. “Perhaps we’ll be able to cut some extra. Is there, perchance, a place to find uncut wood or should we trek to the forest? And, on the subject of trekking, is there a good stable nearby for our horses?”

The proprietor looked right and left, carefully, then leaned close and whispered, “Were I you, I’d take your horses out of town. There’s a stable not too far east of the edge of town. But if the Bolsheviks see your horses, they’re likely to commandeer them, ‘for the revolution,’ which you may take to mean for their own convenience and profit.”

“Thank you, sir,” the lieutenant said. “Rostislav Alexandrovich, would you . . .”

“Be happy to, s . . . err . . . l . . . err . . . Comrade.”

Shit, I never told them my first name and patronymic.

“As my name is Maxim Sergeyevich Turgenev, I’ll make sure a dinner is saved for you. Hmmm, for the two of you; I think you should take someone else with you. Timashuk, you should be the one to go with Rostislav Alexandrovich.”


Half an hour later, the horses had been taken away, all the gear, including the ridiculous amount of gold and currency, had been moved up to the party’s rooms. These were three, plus a bath and a sort of living room. There was no proper Russian stove, such as stood at the confluence of lobby and dining room. At about two tons even the stout logs with which the hotel had been built would have given way under it. Instead, there were some smaller and less efficient heaters in the corners of the rooms.

“What do you want me to say to headquarters, s . . . err . . . Maxim Sergeyevich?” asked Sarnof. “I’ve already encoded one saying we’re here and safe.”

Turgenev dropped his voice to a whisper. “That won’t do anymore, Abraham Davidovich. For now . . . let me think . . . Line One: We’re here. Two: One man lost. Three: Royal family here. Four: We have over forty horses and five good sleighs. Five: Question: Should we try to buy rations? Six: Question: How much? Seven: There are about two hundred and two guards. Eight: Political leanings unknown. Nine: Cannot judge their competence yet. Ten: Target building is two stories and a basement. Eleven: Building area, per floor, about a fifteenth of a deyatina. Twelve: As many as two thousand and two disorganized rabble, under no command, in the town. Nothing but trouble. Encode that—don’t use the line numbers at all— and then go find the telegraph and send it off to Sweden.”

“That’s going to require consulting the novels we brought, s—comrade. We didn’t think of all this with this much specificity before we left. I may not be able to get it encoded until too late. Moreover, I think we need to follow the telegraph lines out of town, to find a place where I can tap in and send messages unseen.”

“Also, why two hundred and two guards, specifically, Maxim Sergeyevich? We don’t know to that level of accuracy. Same for two thousand and two.”

“The guards because no matter which way they read it, it will be about right. As for finding a place to tap the telegraph lines—also, come to think of it, a place to cut them—we’ll do it in good time,” agreed Turgenev. “Which is to say, we’ll look tomorrow, first thing.”


As it turned out, by the time Turgenev and Sarnof got to the telegraph station, it was closed. That meant a long, disappointed trudge back to their hotel, to an uninspired meal, which was at least hot, in a warm room, and then to cold rooms with cold beds. Mokrenko and Timashuk, the medic, made it back before dinner was over.

“Maxim Sergeyevich,” said the sergeant, sitting down at the rough table, “we are in the wrong line of work.”

“Oh?”

“Oh, yes, based on what that pirate of a stable master is charging us for the keeping of our horses. When the war is finally over, I propose we forget furs and form a company to import hay to Tobolsk. We’ll need some stout wagons, mind, as well as strong teams of horses, since hay, between Tyumen and here, seems to acquire the weight of solid gold . . .”

“That expensive, was it?” Money was, honestly, the least problem the team had. Even at Tobolsk prices, they were well set.

“Near enough to, yes,” answered Mokrenko. “To be fair, though, the horses already there were well cared for and, one supposes, it probably is expensive to bring hay in or even to cut it locally. I told him that our horses could forage for themselves. ‘Then let them go forage and stop wasting my time,’ the bastard answered.”

“That wouldn’t have had them at our beck and call when we need them,” Turgenev said.

“I know, which is why I agreed to the son of a bitch’s price.”

“Nothing to be done for it,” Turgenev said. “Eat up, though, you and Timashuk. The food’s . . . well . . . we’re in Tobolsk. It will do.”

“There was one bright spot,” Mokrenko said. “Pirate or not, where his business is concerned, the stable master is pretty free with information.”

Turgenev was about to kick the sergeant under the table when Mokrenko added, “Apparently, the best—well, at least the most convenient—fur wholesaler to deal with is the Stroganov concern.”

As Mokrenko and Timashuk finished their meal, the proprietor came over to their table. “You can stay here as long as you like,” he said, “but within the hour that great stove in the corner will start getting cold. As goes the stove, so goes the room. I advise buying a bottle and going to your rooms to drink yourself to sleep. Nothing else much helps with the cold.”

“I shudder to ask,” said Mokrenko, “but how much is a bottle of vodka in this place?”

“A chetvert, which is the minimum I would recommend, will cost you one hundred and thirty-five rubles.”

“Dear God,” said Timashuk.

Everything,” said the proprietor, “costs more in Tobolsk.”

“We’ll take it,” said Turgenev. “Can we borrow half a dozen glasses, while we’re at it?”

“Surely. Those are already paid for and, unless you break one, I won’t have to pay more for them.”

Once arrived at the central sitting room of their suite, and after a quick check for chinks in the walls through which they might be heard, the lieutenant said, “We’ve never worked out where we’re going to sleep. There are only three beds, all doubles.”

“The men can share beds,” said Mokrenko. “The problem is with the girl.”

“I am sure,” she said, “that Maxim Sergeyevich is too much the gentleman to lay a finger on me. I’ll dress warmly before bed, so I do not impose on his modesty nor he on mine, and he can share a bed with me.”

Imagine my disappointment, she fumed, a few hours later, laying cold and shivering, despite her clothing, the blankets, and another body for heat, when it turned out that he is, in fact, too much of a gentleman to lay a finger on me.

Ulitsa Great Friday 19, Tobolsk, Russia

Once again, Mokrenko had had to explain to the lieutenant that he ought not be the one to speak to the photographers. “Your accent is still all wrong, Maxim Sergeyevich. Maybe the photographers will be sympathetic to the royal family and closed-mouthed. But maybe they’re flaming Reds, too. Better I should go and ask. Meanwhile, you and the rest can go scout out the town and start working on diagrams.”

Thus it came to be that Rostislav Alexandrovich Mokrenko found himself passing by the mansion wherein the Romanovs were held prisoner. He passed it, waving to the same soldier who had hustled them on earlier. Then, taking a short left off of Ulitsa Bolshaya Pyatnitskaya, and then an immediate right, Mokrenko found himself in the photography studio of Maria Ussokovskaya, in the house she shared with her husband, also a photographer, Ivan Konstantinovich Ussakovsky.

It was the wife, Maria, who opened the door for Mokrenko, asked his business, and led him upstairs to the studio. On the way, the sergeant was surprised to see postcards of the town being offered for sale, as well as portraits of the entire royal family, as well as their servants, retainers, teachers, and friends. He was especially shocked to see one of the infamous Rasputin decorating a portion of one wall.

Mokrenko wasn’t especially surprised that both were home. He’d assumed, not unreasonably, that the husband shared in the business. As it turned out, though, no, the husband, a government official, was home because the Bolsheviks had taken over the town and he didn’t know if he even had a job.

“And you know, Rostislav Alexandrovich,” said Ivan, a man of average height, hirsute, with his hair parted in the middle, “these people are lunatics. I mean, sure, a new government wants new people; I can understand that. But there are old services that still need to be performed and they haven’t a clue even of their existence and value. You would think they might ask, but, no; these people are already certain they know everything of value. I have never encountered such arrogance. Compared to the average Red, the tsar, himself, is a model of humility. And his daughters? The most shy and self-effacing . . .”

“Beautiful girls, too,” said Maria. She kept her hair rather short and had just missed being pretty. Even so, though, she was very well built and, on the whole, presented a pleasant aspect. “I’m a fairly good photographer, if I do say so myself, but I have never yet been able to capture even a small portion of how lovely those girls are.”

“Are you constrained from selling the portraits you have taken?” Mokrenko asked.

“Only if I’d signed a contract to that effect. Generally, I do not sign such.”

“Where did you manage to get portraits of the ex-tsar and his family?”

“At the governor’s mansion, which they’ve re-named ‘Freedom House,’ of course. The poor creatures are only allowed out one day a week, Sunday, to go to church, and that only for a few hours . . . and not always. We had to take their pictures for the ID cards they’re forced to carry—it’s only for the humiliation; as if everyone doesn’t know who they are—and I did a little extra.”

“May I see?” asked Mokrenko.

“They’re not secret or anything,” answered Maria. “Of course, you can.”

Mokrenko’s eyes it up when he saw the collection. There were not only portraits of the royal family, but in the course of taking those the Ussakovskys had also taken pictures of between a third and a half of the interior of the house. I shouldn’t be surprised; this is the closest photographer, so of course this was always where the tsar or the Reds were most likely to go.

The sergeant noticed the woman’s eyes were misty, as she sorted out the photographs for him. “Are you all right?” he asked.

She sniffed, slightly, “It’s just that those poor people have been put on soldiers’ rations, and not generous soldiers’ rations, at that, and have had their budget cut to the bone. And they’re freezing in that drafty old house. I feel terrible for them. It’s not fair, either; the girls and the little prince did nothing to deserve being mistreated.”

“I wonder,” asked Mokrenko, deciding that these people could probably be trusted either to support the royals or to not put two and two together, “if you would sell me copies of all the pictures you’ve taken of the royal family and their entourage. Also, if I may, I’d like to buy a selection of the postcards you have made of the town. There are some other pictures, too, I would like, if you have the time . . .”

* * *

“What a strange place,” said Turgenev, after dinner, when back in their quarters. “We found the market today and saw the strangest things.”

“Where’s that, Maxim Sergeyevich?” Mokrenko asked. “And what was strange about it?”

“Center of town. Some booths. Some people just laying their wares on cloths on the ground. But it was the kind of things on offer that was strange. For example, I saw a general’s full-dress uniform. Why would there be a general’s full-dress uniform here? And milk? Do you know how they sell milk here? They cut it with an axe, then weigh it and sell it by the pound!

“There were fur dealers there, too. Lesser lights than the Strogonovs, these were men, oh, and a couple of women, eager to carve out their own share of the fur market for themselves. I think we can get some good prices there. And you, Rostislav Alexandrovich?”

In answer, the sergeant laid out a sheaf of photographs. “There are more coming,” he explained and then, dropping his voice to a whisper, he said, “but with these we can truly brief the main force on the layout of the place, no?

“Oh, and Maxim Sergeyevich? I think you need to visit the cathedral we passed as we rode into town. Some very interesting things to be seen there.”


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Framed