The Margin of Evil! Read online

  Prologue

  Georgii lay catnapping in his cell, he was badly beaten up and finding it hard to breathe, his ribs ached and he was suffering from sleep deprivation. The guards had got it off to a tee. The moment you looked like falling asleep they dragged you back onto your feet, punched you in the guts and took you out for another working over.

  Anyway, he knew the score; it was all routine textbook stuff. Many times in the past when he had stood on the other side of the fence he had done the same thing to others. Georgii lay back on his pillow and listened. The moans and groans were intermittent. The footsteps came and went and outside, he could hear the keys turning in other locks. He was drifting in and out of consciousness. He heard the flap in his cell door open and shut, then the keys rattled and then the lock turned.

  'Get on your feet ... Trotskyite scum!' The guard said whilst he dragged Radetzky up on to his feet.

  They carted him off down the corridor. The ankle chains bit into the tender scabs on his ankles. The shouts and the groans were clearer now. They went down corridors, up and down stairs across a courtyard. They stopped to let others, less fortunate, pass. At one such passing, Georgii recognised the man who passed him as none other than Comrade Zinoviev. The 'Old Hero' of the revolution looked tired and exhausted and had aged dramatically. He was muttering nonsensically to himself about how he would say anything, but they must leave his wife and baby alone. The old man did not even notice Georgii looking at him.

  They had now arrived at their destination. He was ushered in, and sitting on seats opposite him were two, 'fat jowly’ men smoking cigarettes, shrouded in semi darkness. Georgii hated their kind - The New Soviet Commissars - enjoying all the trappings of the Western Bourgeois-lifestyle yet condemning their Capitalist counterparts as decadent. They drove around in big saloon cars; they had nice flats with nice interiors; luxurious dachas and the best whores in town and the best food and wine. It was like this, they would say to the wife: 'Working late in the office tonight; or 'I've got an unexpected committee meeting to attend. See you tomorrow! That is how it was with these comrades. Then they would be off shagging their sluts.

  They ignored him. The light bulb carried on flickering and they carried on talking. Georgii sat there and blinked his eyes. The fat one in the double-breasted suit turned around to stub his cigarette out. He looked over at Georgii. 'Comrade Radetzky, hero of The Great Imperialist War. You know why you are here; you know the charges that have been levelled towards you. I say that you are guilty on every count, and that there can only be one acceptable solution to all of this. You plead guilty. Then the state will be lenient with you!'

  'Plead guilty to what Comrade?' Georgii uttered.

  'Don't come that with me, Trotskyite filth. Okay, let's start from the beginning. You say that you don't know why you are here.’

  'I will tell you why you are here; it's like this Georgii Radetzky! You have been denounced. Look! Here is the letter. Read it!' The other thug said.

  XX May 1937

  Re: Georgii Radetzky

  My name is X. It is my wish to denounce Georgii Radetzky as an enemy of the state. He is guilty as follows: Conspiring to subvert and undermine the authority and legitimacy of the Bolshevik party from 1917 - Present. Aiding and abetting enemies of the state: Leon Trotsky & Auguste Gerhardt, and others, to evade justice. Membership of a banned Criminal Organisation. I X do solemnly declare that this is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

  Witnessed by X & X on the X of May 1937.

  Georgii looked at it and started shaking his head from right to left, ran his fingers through his hair. He put it down on the table then addressed his accusers. 'I see that the accusing Comrade X has reared his ugly head again, and this time is pointing his finger at me! Anyone, even you two, could have written that! It doesn't even say anything specific to the nature of my crimes! Assuming, and Comrade 'X' does, that I've committed any. It will never stand up in a 'Peoples' court of law and you know it!' He said.

  There was no point in arguing with them it would not do him any good in the long run. The game was up and Georgii Radetzky knew it. He just wished that the powers that be would sign the death warrant and just get it over and done with.

  'You're not a loyal party man are you?' The first interviewer inquired.

  'I've done my duty for 'Mother Russia,' on more than one occasion, Comrade! Look at my file; it's all in there! I have nothing to hide!'

  That was the problem: he had a lot to hide and now, if he was going to say anything now was the time to say it. Trouble was that no-one would believe it anyway, so what was the point. But tell it he would: might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, as his old associate Royston O' Reilly used to say.

  'Your file makes for good reading Tolstoy could have written it! It seems that up until now you have been in the right place at the right time. You've also managed to save your skin until now!' The second thug said, picking his file up and waving it in the air.

  'Knew all the right people too; let me see.' He fingered through the pages until he stopped at one. 'You knew Lenin and the traitors Bukharin, Rykov, Kamenev; adjutant to Brusilov back in fifteen. Impressive! 'He threw the file down onto the table and glowered at him.

  'We are mainly concerned with your relationship with Leon Trotsky and Auguste Gerhardt during the year of 1919. What you say to us holds great bearing on whether you live or die.'

  Georgii knew that death was the soft option. To live would mean to die a slow and painful death in a labour camp. Years would be spent wasting away in some forgotten corner of Siberia. Escape was pointless; there was nowhere to go. Russia was simply too big!

  The first interviewer called the guards to take him back to his cell. Just as he was leaving the second interrogator called out to him. 'We want to know the nature of your relationship with Gerhardt and Trotsky. Go back to your cell. Think it over. One way or another we are going to find out but, Radetzky, our patience will eventually run out.'

  Back in his cell, Georgii thought long and hard. What had he got to lose? Everything he had held dear had been lost a long, long time ago. There was nothing left to take! If they wanted to know he would give it to them warts and all. Give it to them on a plate; he would tell them how one file changed the course, irrevocably, of Soviet history.

  Next day he sat in front of the two interrogators. He'd thought it all through. He started to tell the story. The two fat men sat and listened.

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Georgii sat at his desk looking at a new Cheka[1] memorandum:

  Internal Cheka/ Militsya[2] - Memorandum 675/ R117

  Foreign agent believed to be working in and around the Petrograd and Moscow areas for the government of the United Kingdom.

  Man average height, brown hair, blue eyes, speaks Russian with a slight accent, believed to be British agent Sidney Reilly.

  Usually smartly dressed but also known to be a master of disguise. Sometimes passes himself off as a French/ Swiss national.

  This man is highly dangerous. If in a position to, try and apprehend, if not kill on sight.

  Repeat, this man is highly dangerous.

  He placed the memo at the bottom of his to-do pile with all the other crackpot descriptions of recently seen enemies of the state, but at the same time he was trying, desperately, to muster up some enthusiasm to complete and file a Cheka report on the, tragic, suicide of a teacher.

  In every way the report he was trying to finish was a sad case; it was also an indictment against the ludicrous times they now found themselves living in. If anything it further proved, if the French revolution had not already done so, the massive distortion of values, morality and justice that had been going on in Russia since t
he second revolution of 1917.

  This non-person had only weeks before been a 'good' comrade. A former member of the intelligentsia, with an impeccable revolutionary C.V. exile, internal and external; a 'Hero of the Revolution', he had dutifully answered Lenin's call to go into the classroom. On arrival, Georgii saw that he had worked tirelessly to raise the educational standards of the proletariat but maybe he had been too keen. Eventually he came unstuck and had found himself tried and denounced by a student Soviet for the heinous crime of setting homework.

  Stripped of everything he had previously held dear - professionalism; dignity; belief e.t.c. Ostracised by former Comrades and then in circumstances bordering on the comical, which after Georgii Radetzky's investigation, were still not altogether clear. The former teacher, now a non-person and class-enemy of the Revolution, had thrown himself in somewhat bizarre circumstances, under the wheels of a passing train.

  Georgii stopped writing, lit up a cigarette and tried to place himself in the 'Good' comrade's shoes. He thought how he might have felt if everything he had previously held dear had been taken away. Then he dwelled on the fact that the robbers had been a kangaroo court of irresponsible former students. Looking at what he'd written so far, Georgii pondered on the silliness of the titles the New Order gave people these days. You were either a 'former-this' or a 'former-that' or you became a 'non-this', or a 'non-that'. It was, at times, too mind-boggling to comprehend. He stubbed out the cigarette and got back to the immediate task in-hand of writing the report which, if he was lucky, might be given a cursory glance; or, if he was that unlucky, would be filed away for good measure. Maybe a historian would read it in the future.

  The peculiar thing about this case was that the man had walked up to the edge of the railway station platform. Calmly undressing himself in front of a crowd of waiting onlookers, he had neatly folded up his clothes, so that he was standing stark naked on the platform. Then, without further ado, threw himself under the wheels of an oncoming train. The crowd apparently let out an almighty cheer as the passing train shredded his body into mince meat.

  Georgii lit up a cigarette and thought to himself. 'What a way to go, but these were strange times! In the old days the police had upheld and maintained the law. Now the combination of Cheka and Militsiya determined it between them. It seemed that the innocent were guilty and the guilty were innocent. Rough justice was meted out by the dozen, and the Cheka and Militsya were the instruments used to enforce it.'

  There were stories of Militsiya officers walking into people's houses. Accompanied by known villains, they stood idly by whilst the villains ransacked the homes. It seemed to Georgii Radetzky that the whole world had turned itself on its head, and in the process of turning itself upside down all sanity had long since disappeared. He picked up the internal memorandum and looked at the name - Sidney Reilly - but it triggered off a memory because Georgii knew of another Reilly. For a moment he thought about the coincidence. Then the phone rang.

  Unknown to Georgii Radetzky the phone call he was about to receive was the beginning of the Goldstein case. Like all complex investigations the jigsaw would slowly fall into place, piece by piece. He picked up the receiver.

  'Comrade Radetzky, is that you?' The voice said.

  'Yeah,' he replied. He knew the voice but could not put a name to it.

  'Gerhardt[3] here, get your hairy, fat Russian arse down to the Kremlin. I need to speak to you! It's very urgent!' The voice on the other end of the line hung up and the conversation was left dangling in mid-air.

  Georgii got up and put his old trusty trench coat on. He told the others on his section that he was popping out on Cheka business and he would see them all in the morning. It was quite a walk across town to the Kremlin. Georgii had no intentions of doing any more work after his meeting with Gerhardt. He was going to go straight home.

  He walked down the street. The faces of passers-by looked haggard and gaunt. He thought to himself that the hollowed out look of sixteen was back in fashion again. But this time the gaunt look was back with a vengeance, rations had been cut and starvation was rife. Bread, if you could get it, was rumoured to be 99 percent sawdust and one percent flour. Rumours circulating in the slums emphatically stated that bark was beginning to grow on people's legs!

  Down the street as Georgii walked, comrades and good citizens moved out of his way. People knew who Georgii Radetzky was and what he represented. The Civil War dragged on relentlessly - it was actually beginning to look at one stage that the Bolsheviks might lose. It had been rumoured but not corroborated, that Deniken's forces were marching on the city again and this time there was nothing in the way to stop them.

  He arrived at the Kremlin. He walked up to the guard's desk and announced his arrival. A gruff, old comrade asked to see his papers and then told him to wait. Georgii looked around him. There was nothing but chaos and confusion. Men were in tears, children shouted and played, women screamed hysterically. Welcome to the New Utopia and live the Socialist Dream, he thought. He was well and truly lost in his thoughts, when a young voice beckoned him. He looked up.

  'Comrade Radetzky? Follow me please.'

  Georgii got up and followed the young man. They walked along corridors, upstairs, until they arrived at a door. The young Comrade knocked. They waited for a minute or two.

  'Enter!' The voice on the other side said.

  Georgii recognised the voice as that of his old mentor. He walked in.

  'Georgii Radetzky, it's been a long time,' his old mentor said.

  Georgii looked at the face, it was tired looking. There were bags under the eyes, the laughter lines were ingrained and furrowed. The aquiline nose seemed different, but all in all it was still the face of Auguste Gerhardt.

  They chatted awhile, pleasant small talk; after all they had not seen each other for nearly five years. Gerhardt spoke of his admiration for Georgii's distinguished war service as adjutant serving under General Brusilov[4]. Auguste Gerhardt spoke of his regret that he himself had not answered the call. On the grounds of fallen arches he reasoned, but when Georgii questioned him he declined to shed any further light on his war years. Then as soon as it had started the conversation ran out of steam. There was a short silence and then Gerhardt got down to business.

  'Georgii, I have always regarded you as a son. In many ways I believe that I have always looked out for you. I know there were difficulties in the beginning, but you proved me wrong. I have learned that I can trust you and that you will get the job done and you will do it discreetly. Which brings me to why I have asked you to come here,' Gerhardt said.

  'What is it that you want of me Auguste?'

  'It is this! I need a man that I can trust completely. That person has to have my total confidence… because the job I have in mind is very similar to the one you did for me back in 1905,' his voice quietened, and then he carried on. 'I know you might think me quite selfish, but I want you, at short notice, to conduct an investigation for me. Will you do it, for me, Georgii?'

  'With all due respect why, as one of the greatest detectives of all 'The Russia's', why don't you do it yourself? Your record is second to none! You know that! Of course I'll try and help you, but no one is as meticulous, and as thorough in an investigation as you!'

  'That may very well be true Georgii, but I don't need to remind you that we live in strange times. No one can be trusted! Absolutely no one!' He paused then carried on. 'Look! I want you to meet me on Thursday outside of the Bolshoi? We'll talk again! Will you meet me there? Yes or no?'

  'What time?'

  'Thursday, at five thirty!'

  'O.K. I'll be there.' Georgii said.

  'One other thing, make sure that no one follows you. Do not tell anyone, at your Militsya Station, that you have spoken to me.' Gerhardt said.

  'You know me ... I'm the very soul of discretion.'

  'I know you are, but tomorrow you're going to get a new Comrade Commissar and a new assistant. Be very careful of what you say, and what you d
o, in front of these people. The assistant you don't know but 'The Commissar' is, I believe, an old acquaintance. Both are of the New Order. They are the very people that we used to exile back in the good old days. Remember ...'

  Then a very strange thing happened. The old detective pushed a piece of paper towards him that said:

  Criminals are still criminals; it's just that they now wear uniforms.

  Georgii read it and then Gerhardt grabbed it, stuffed it in his mouth, and ate it. With that he motioned with his hand for him to leave. Georgii exited the way he came and soon found himself back out on the street. Outside was curiously deserted, the wind was chilly and flakes of snow were beginning to float about. Those people still brave enough to stay out on the street huddled in groups or loafed around braziers. Groups of Red Army soldiers surveyed the scene and asked people for their papers. Georgii headed for home.

  He thought that home was not really home, but it was shared lodgings in a requisitioned house that had probably been commandeered from a rich merchant after the October revolution. All kinds of people lived there. Some were grace and favour Bolshevik supporters, others just passed through. These days Georgii didn't have the time to socialise. Occasionally, he would exchange words on the stairs with the writer who lived in the rooms above him, but usually he would register with the 'Party Concierge', go upstairs and fix himself something to eat, generally soup and black bread, and then go to bed. In a nutshell that was his daily routine. Go to the Militsya Station, then on home to bed. He did this six days a week. On the seventh he would go down to the river, sit and watch it, or go for a walk in the park, or for want of nothing else better to do, just walk the streets. There was not much else to do in the era of war communism.

  He arrived outside his lodgings. The building itself had once been grand. Now, like everything else, it had fallen into a state of disrepair. He carried on walking towards the entrance, up the steps and into the lobby. Georgii walked up to the drunken concierge and signed in. Rezhnikov, the Party Stooge, just sat there. He looked up at Georgii and muttered something unintelligible to him. Georgii hated this part the most. It simply nauseated him. He could feel the bile rising up from his stomach as Rezhnikov breathed his noxious fumes over him. He put the pen down and hastily climbed the stairs. Up to the first flight; lingering for a moment, he could hear the sounds of a baby crying and a mother talking harshly to her children. Georgii didn't know these people - they were new to the place. He opened the door and watched the speck of paper fall to the floor. Keys were now considered bourgeois. Why lock your door in this day and age, after all private property had been abolished. Front door keys indicated that you had something to hide. Everyday people were accused of hoarding, so why lock your door if you had nothing to hide. As a precaution Georgii wedged a small paper ball into the corner of the door. Just by doing this, he could tell if he had had any uninvited guests whilst he'd been away at work. Uninvited guests in the shape and form of Rezhnikov. He had caught him snooping before on a couple of occasions. He had balled him out of course, but he was under no illusions as to what kind of man the concierge was. Rezhnikov would sell his own grandmother given half the chance.