more than a year ago, General, when I visited you at Dauria. I was on an official mission to Ataman Semenov at the time. We were providing assistance to your people in our mutual struggle against the Bolsheviks.”
“You will have to forgive me, Major, but I do not remember you. Life was very busy at Dauria. I saw dozens of people every day. There were representatives from several foreign powers. Now, perhaps you could explain to me just what an agent of British Military Intelligence is doing in Urga. Without permission.”
“But I sent a telegram to you almost two weeks ago. You must have known to expect me.”
Ungern shook his head.
“No, sir, I have received no telegram from you or from anyone else associated with British Intelligence.”
He reached inside his tunic and drew out a silver cigarette case.
The family monogram had worn down badly, he noticed. Perhaps it was just as well; he would certainly have no children. He took out a cigarette and lit it quickly, seeking to disguise the tremor in his hand.
“I see.” Winterpole began to wonder if he had done the right thing in coming to Ungern directly.
“Well? I’m waiting for your explanation. I am a busy man, Major. At present, all I know about you is that you are a self confessed spy who has been operating in an area under my jurisdiction for an unspecified period. I think you have some explaining to do.”
“I assure you, General, that I am not here on an espionage mission. My own position within Military Intelligence is entirely administrative.”
Ungern exhaled a snake of scented grey smoke.
“Meaning that you get others to do your dirty work for you.”
“Meaning that I am authorized to enter into negotiations with representatives of foreign powers. Meaning that I have come to Mongolia with the express purpose of making you an offer of financial and military assistance on behalf of the British Crown.”
The general half raised an eyebrow.
“Indeed? I take it you carry with you credentials.”
“Of course.” Winterpole started to reach inside his jacket.
“They will not be necessary for the moment, Major. Now, I would like to know how you come to pay me a visit in such a hasty manner. This is not normal procedure, as I am sure you are aware.”
Winterpole gave what he hoped looked like a smile.
“I came here tonight in order to bring you information. Information that I believe is important to you. Concerning a boy. Two boys to be precise.”
He saw he had hit the mark. Ungern’s flimsy composure visibly cracked.
He started as though the Englishman had raised a hand to strike him.
“Go on,” he said. With a shaking hand, he stubbed out his cigarette and lit another.
“I know where you may find the boys .. . if you are quick. I can lead you to them tonight. If you are lucky, you will also be able to lay your hands on Comintern’s principal agent in this region. And perhaps more than a few of his Mongol confederates.”
Ungern held his breath very still. If the Englishman was telling the truth .. .
“And you,” he said, ‘what would you want in return for this information?”
“Your co-operation. In return for military and financial help.
Great Britain will recognize you or anyone you choose to appoint as the Mongolian head of state. We are willing to establish you here on the borders of Russia in readiness for the day when you are ready to go back to claim your own. Tonight’s information is merely a start, a token of intent, no more. Take it or leave it, it’s your choice.”
“Where are these boys?”
“In Ta Khure. They’re being kept in a compound two streets away from the Tokchin temple. There’s a large yurt what I believe the Mongols call a “twelve-Mana”. And a summer-house behind it.”
Ungern looked past Winterpole.
“Do you know it, Sepailov?”
“Yes, sir. We’ve been keeping an eye on it for a little while now.
It sounds very likely to me.”
“Good. Send a detachment of men round there straight away.
They’re to take everyone alive if possible, except for the two boys.
Have them shot on the spot, I don’t want anyone having second thoughts.
You’d best send Russians for this job.”
“Very good, sir. I’ll see to it at once.” He saluted and turned to the Colonel.
Sepailov turned back again.
“Before you leave, have this man taken out and shot. Do it yourself if you have time.”
Winterpole spluttered, then drew himself erect.
“May I ask what is the meaning of this? I’m a representative of His Majesty’s government. I have diplomatic immunity. Your behaviour is most improper, General.”
Ungern stood up and leaned across the desk. Winterpole blustered to a halt. He had joined his army of glass, and found-Tiimself as brittle and vulgar at heart as any of them. When glass breaks, it shatters, it does not splinter like wood.
“You are not a diplomat, Major. You are, by your own admission, an intelligence agent. Whether you are a spy or an administrator of spies, it is not for me to judge. My task here is to eliminate three groups: Bolsheviks, Jews, and foreign agents.”
“For God’s sake, General. We’re on the same side!”
“Not any longer,” Ungern told him.
“What do you mean “not any longer”?”
“Just that. Your government has just entered into a trade agreement with the Soviets’ it was signed in March. Surely you cannot pretend you did not know.”
“I assure you, I .. .”
“Your Mr. Lloyd George signed it alongside Krasin, the Soviet representative, on the sixteenth of March. The Russian Trade Delegation has already been granted permanent status in London.
The next step will be diplomatic recognition. Do you tell me you were ignorant of this?”
“I left London long before that. No-one thought to tell me. There must be some mistake.”
“There is no mistake. You are, are you not, one of the two men responsible for the deaths of General Rezukhin and seven of his unit at a camp five days south of here? Wrere you not originally arrested by the General for spying on the execution of a party of Bolshevik infiltrators?”
Winterpole tried to stand, but his legs had lost their strength.
He felt Sepailov’s powerful hands on his shoulders, pinning him down.
He was beginning to break. In a moment he would shatter and be gone.
Ungern stepped out from behind the desk.
“Please don’t take too long, Colonel I want that boy dead by midnight.”
He went to the door and stepped outside. Sepailov put one hand on Winterpole’s windpipe.
“Relax, Major,” he said in a whisper.
“It won’t hurt if you don’t fight against it.”
Sometimes the ticking of the clocks soothed him. At others, it depressed him, and he sought out the silent chambers of his palace, where time seemed to stand still. Tonight, it brought him neither pain nor pleasure, and he realized that he was growing old. He was fifty-one, but he felt older and sadder than that.
Tomorrow, he would have to play the god again for the multitudes already assembling outside in the darkness to receive his festal benediction. A long cord of red silk stretched from his throne through the length of the palace, across the perimeter wall, and into the wide street outside. For the entire morning, he would have to sit holding the cord in one hand while pilgrims gathered in the mud and refuse to touch its other end. They believed that a blessing would pass down the cord from him to them, wiping away their sins, cancelling all the bad karma they had accumulated. It was a farce; but it was the only farce he knew.
He had been blind for seven years now. The doctors said it was because he drank so much, but he set little store by their dictums and went on drinking regardless. At least it consoled him in his blindness. He loved maygolo, a sweet aniseed brandy that the Chinese traders had sold in small round bottles; and French cognac,
