He was only a sergeant, Walter thought, but his analysis seemed quite sophisticated. “So when will the election be held?”
“September.”
“And why do you think the Bolsheviks will win?”
“We are still the only group firmly committed to peace. And everyone knows that-thanks to all the newspapers and pamphlets we’ve produced.”
“Why did you say you were doing ‘dangerously’ well?”
“It makes us the government’s prime target. There’s a warrant out for Lenin’s arrest. He’s had to go into hiding. But he’s still running the party.”
Walter believed that, too. If Lenin could keep control of his party from exile in Zurich, he could certainly do so from a hideaway in Russia.
Walter had made the delivery and gathered the information he needed. He had accomplished his mission. A sense of relief came over him. Now all he had to do was get home.
With his foot he pushed the sack containing the ten thousand rubles across the floor to Grigori.
He finished his tea and stood up. “Enjoy your onions,” he said, and he walked to the door.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man in the blue tunic fold his copy of Pravda and get to his feet.
Walter bought a ticket to Luga and boarded the train. He entered a third-class compartment. He pushed through a group of soldiers smoking and drinking vodka, a family of Jews with all their possessions in string-tied bundles, and some peasants with empty crates who had presumably sold their chickens. At the far end of the carriage he paused and looked back.
The blue tunic entered the carriage.
Walter watched for a second as the man pushed through the passengers, carelessly elbowing people out of his way. Only a policeman would do that.
Walter jumped off the train and hurriedly left the station. Recalling his tour of exploration that afternoon, he headed at a fast walk for the canal. It was the season of short summer nights, so the evening was light. He hoped he might have shaken his tail, but when he glanced over his shoulder he saw the blue tunic following him. He had presumably been following Peshkov, and had decided to investigate Grigori’s onion-selling peasant friend.
The man broke into a jogging run.
If caught, Walter would be shot as a spy. He had no choice about what he had to do next.
He was in a low-rent neighborhood. All of Petrograd looked poor, but this district had the cheap hotels and dingy bars that clustered near railway stations all over the world. Walter started to run, and the blue tunic quickened his pace to keep up.
Walter came to a canalside brickyard. It had a high wall and a gate with iron bars, but next door was a derelict warehouse on an unfenced site. Walter turned off the street, raced across the warehouse site to the waterside, then scrambled over the wall into the brickyard.
There had to be a watchman somewhere, but Walter saw no one. He looked for a place of concealment. It was a pity the light was still so clear. The yard had its own quay with a small timber pier. All around him were stacks of bricks the height of a man, but he needed to see without being seen. He moved to a stack that was partly dismantled-some having been sold, presumably-and swiftly rearranged a few so that he could hide behind them and look through a gap. He eased the Mosin-Nagant revolver out of his belt and cocked the hammer.
A few moments later, he saw the blue tunic come over the wall.
The man was of medium height and thin, with a small mustache. He looked scared: he had realized he was no longer merely following a suspect. He was engaged in a manhunt, and he did not know whether he was the hunter or the quarry.
He drew a gun.
Walter pointed his own gun through the gap in the bricks and aimed at the blue tunic, but he was not close enough to be sure of hitting his target.
The man stood still for a moment, looking all around, clearly undecided about what to do next. Then he turned and walked hesitantly toward the water.
Walter followed him. He had turned the tables.
The man dodged from stack to stack, scanning the area. Walter did the same, ducking behind bricks whenever the man stopped, getting nearer all the time. Walter did not want a prolonged gunfight, which might attract the attention of other policemen. He needed to down his enemy with one or two shots and get away fast.
By the time the man reached the canal end of the site, they were only ten yards apart. The man looked up and down the canal, as if Walter might have rowed away in a boat.
Walter stepped out of cover and drew a bead on the middle of the man’s back.
The man turned away from the water and looked straight at Walter.
Then he screamed.
It was a high-pitched, girlish scream of shock and terror. Walter knew, in that instant, that he would remember the scream all his life.
He squeezed the trigger, the revolver banged, and the scream was cut off instantly.
Only one shot was needed. The secret policeman crumpled to the ground, lifeless.
Walter bent over the body. The eyes stared upward sightlessly. There was no heartbeat, no breath.
Walter dragged the body to the edge of the canal. He put bricks in the pockets of the man’s trousers and tunic, to weight the corpse. Then he slid it over the low parapet and let it fall into the water.
It sank below the surface, and Walter turned away.
Grigori was in a session of the Petrograd soviet when the counterrevolution began.
He was worried, but not surprised. As the Bolsheviks gained popularity, the backlash had become more ruthless. The party was doing well in local elections, winning control of one provincial soviet after another, and had gained 33 percent of the votes for the Petrograd city council. In response the government-now led by Kerensky- arrested Trotsky and again deferred the long-delayed national elections for the Constituent Assembly. The Bolsheviks had said all along that the provisional government would never hold a national election, and this further postponement only added to Bolshevik credibility.
Then the army made its move.
General Kornilov was a shaven-headed Cossack who had the heart of a lion and the brains of a sheep, according to a famous remark by General Alexeev. On September 9 Kornilov ordered his troops to march on Petrograd.
The soviet responded quickly. The delegates immediately resolved to set up the Committee for Struggle Against the Counterrevolution.
A committee was nothing, Grigori thought impatiently. He got to his feet, holding down anger and fear. As the delegate for the First Machine Gun Regiment, he was listened to respectfully, especially on military matters. “There is no point in a committee if its members are just going to make speeches,” he said passionately. “If the reports we have just heard are true, some of Kornilov’s troops are not far from the city limits of Petrograd. They can be halted only by force.” He always wore his sergeant’s uniform, and carried his rifle and a pistol. “The committee will be pointless unless it mobilizes the workers and soldiers of Petrograd against the mutiny of the army.”
Grigori knew that only the Bolshevik party could mobilize the people. And all the other deputies knew it, too, regardless of what party they belonged to. In the end it was agreed that the committee would have three Mensheviks, three Socialist Revolutionaries, and three Bolsheviks including Grigori; but everyone knew the Bolsheviks were the only ones who counted.
As soon as that was decided, the Committee for Struggle left the debating hall. Grigori had been a politician for six months, and he had learned how to work the system. Now he ignored the formal composition of the committee and invited a dozen useful people to join them, including Konstantin from the Putilov works and Isaak from the First Machine Guns.
The soviet had moved from the Tauride Palace to the Smolny Institute, a former girls’ school, and the committee reconvened in a classroom, surrounded by framed embroidery and girlish watercolors.
The chairman said: “Do we have a motion for debate?”
