everyone could hear him. “You don’t have to hide in this school. Go to the nearest factory and ask any worker. Speak to soldiers you see in the streets. You’ll soon learn the truth.”
The corporal nodded. “Good idea.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” said the colonel furiously. “I’m ordering you all to stay within the grounds.”
That was a big mistake, Grigori thought. He said: “Your colonel doesn’t want you to inquire for yourselves. Doesn’t that show you that he must be telling you lies?”
The colonel put his hand on his pistol and said: “That’s mutinous talk, Sergeant.”
The men stared at the colonel and at Grigori. This was the moment of crisis, and death was as near to Grigori as it had ever been.
Suddenly Grigori realized that he was at a disadvantage. He had been so caught up in the argument that he had failed to plan what to do when it ended. He had his rifle over his shoulder, but the safety lock was engaged. It would take several seconds to swing it off his shoulder, turn the awkward knob that unlocked the safety catch, and lift the rifle into firing position. The colonel could draw and shoot his pistol a lot faster. Grigori felt a wave of fear, and had to suppress an urge to turn and run.
“Mutiny?” he said, playing for time, trying not to let fear weaken the assertive tone of his voice. “When a sacked general marches on the capital, but his troops refuse to attack their legitimate government, who’s the mutineer? I say it’s the general-and those officers who attempt to carry out his treasonable orders.”
The colonel drew his pistol. “Get out of here, Sergeant.” He turned to the others. “You men, go into the school and assemble in the hall. Remember, disobedience is a crime in the army-and the death penalty has been restored. I’ll shoot anyone who refuses.”
He pointed his gun at the corporal.
Grigori saw that the men were about to obey the authoritative, confident, armed officer. There was now only one way out, he saw in desperation. He had to kill the colonel.
He saw a way. He would have to be very quick indeed, but he thought he could probably do it.
If he was wrong he would die.
He slipped his rifle off his left shoulder and, without pausing to switch it to his right hand, he thrust it forward as hard as he could into the colonel’s side. The sharp point of the long bayonet ripped through the cloth of the uniform, and Grigori felt it sink into the soft stomach. The colonel gave a shout of pain, but he did not fall. Despite his wound he turned, swinging his gun hand around in an arc. He pulled the trigger.
The shot went wild.
Grigori pushed on the rifle, thrusting the bayonet in and up, aiming for the heart. The colonel’s face twisted in agony and his mouth opened, but no sound came out, and he fell to the ground, still clutching his pistol.
Grigori withdrew the bayonet with a jerk.
The colonel’s pistol fell from his fingers.
Everyone stared at the officer writhing in silent torment on the parched grass of the playground. Grigori unlocked the safety on his rifle, aimed at the colonel’s heart, and fired at close range twice. The man became still.
“As you said, Colonel,” Grigori said. “It’s the death penalty.”
Fitz and Bea took a train from Moscow accompanied only by Bea’s Russian maid, Nina, and Fitz’s valet, Jenkins, a former boxing champion who had been rejected by the army because he could not see farther than ten yards.
They got off the train at Bulovnir, the tiny station that served Prince Andrei’s estate. Fitz’s experts had suggested that Andrei build a small township here, with a timber yard and grain stores and a mill; but nothing had been done, and the peasants still took their produce by horse and cart twenty miles to the old market town.
Andrei had sent an open carriage to meet them, with a surly driver who looked on while Jenkins lifted the trunks onto the back of the vehicle. As they drove along a dirt road through farmland, Fitz recalled his previous visit, when he had come as the new husband of the princess, and the villagers had stood at the roadside and cheered. There was a different atmosphere now. Laborers in the fields barely looked up as the carriage passed, and in villages and hamlets the inhabitants deliberately turned their backs.
This kind of thing irritated Fitz and made him bad-tempered, but his spirits were soothed by the sight of the timeworn stones of the old house, colored a buttery yellow by the low afternoon sun. A little flock of immaculately dressed servants emerged from the front door like ducks coming to be fed, and bustled about the carriage opening doors and manhandling luggage. Andrei’s steward, Georgi, kissed Fitz’s hand and said, in an English phrase he had obviously learned by rote: “Welcome back to your Russian home, Earl Fitzherbert.”
Russian houses were often grandiose but shabby, and Bulovnir was no exception. The double-height hall needed painting, the priceless chandelier was dusty, and a dog had peed on the marble floor. Prince Andrei and Princess Valeriya were waiting beneath a large portrait of Bea’s grandfather frowning sternly down on them.
Bea rushed to Andrei and embraced him.
Valeriya was a classical beauty with regular features and dark hair in a neat coiffure. She shook hands with Fitz and said in French: “Thank you for coming. We’re so happy to see you.”
When Bea detached herself from Andrei, wiping her tears, Fitz offered his hand to shake. Andrei gave him his left hand: the right sleeve of his jacket hung empty. He was pale and thin, as if suffering from a wasting illness, and there was a little gray in his black beard, although he was only thirty-three. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am to see you,” he said.
Fitz said: “Is something wrong?” They were speaking French, in which they were all fluent.
“Come into the library. Valeriya will take Bea upstairs.”
They left the women and went into a dusty room full of leather-bound books that looked as if they were not often read. “I’ve ordered tea. I’m afraid we’ve no sherry.”
“Tea will be fine.” Fitz eased himself into a chair. His wounded leg ached after the long journey. “What’s going on?”
“Are you armed?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. My service revolver is in my luggage.” Fitz had a Webley Mark V that had been issued to him in 1914.
“Please keep it close to hand. I wear mine constantly.” Andrei opened his jacket to reveal a belt and holster.
“You’d better tell me why.”
“The peasants have set up a land committee. Some Socialist Revolutionaries have talked to them and given them stupid ideas. They claim the right to take over any land I’m not cultivating and divide it up among themselves.”
“Haven’t you been through this before?”
“In my grandfather’s time. We hanged three peasants and thought that was the end of the matter. But these wicked ideas lie dormant, and sprout again years later.”
“What did you do this time?”
“I gave them a lecture and showed them I’d lost my arm defending them from the Germans, and they went quiet-until a few days ago, when half a dozen local men returned from service in the army. They claimed to have been discharged, but I’m sure they’ve deserted. Impossible to check, unfortunately.”
Fitz nodded. The Kerensky Offensive had been a failure, and the Germans and Austrians had counterattacked. The Russians had fallen to pieces, and the Germans were now heading for Petrograd. Thousands of Russian soldiers had walked away from the battlefield and returned to their villages.
“They brought their rifles with them, and pistols they must have stolen from officers, or taken from German prisoners. Anyway, they’re heavily armed, and full of subversive ideas. There’s a corporal, Feodor Igorovich, who seems to be the ringleader. He told Georgi he did not understand why I was still claiming any land at all, let alone the fallow.”
“I don’t understand what happens to men in the army,” said Fitz with exasperation. “You’d think it would teach them the value of authority and discipline-but it seems to do the opposite.”
“I’m afraid things came to a head this morning,” Andrei went on. “Corporal Feodor’s younger brother, Ivan
