The Rift Read online

  Stalin counted on a state of panic among the Ispolkom members. “Unless we expose Pereverzev as an enemy of the revolution, we are lost.” Looking each member directly in the eye, he asked them to call the editors of the Petrograd newspapers asking them not to publish the slanderous statements issued by the Ministry of Justice.

  “Tell them that we have reliable information that these documents Pereverzev has are German forgeries designed to destroy the revolution.”

  Stalin watched as Tereschencko, Nekrasov, Chkheidze and Trotsky hurried off, some running to reach a phone. Trotsky watched Stalin in this time of crisis, realizing that such a man was extraordinarily bold and quick. A man to be remembered, perhaps a man to watch. Stalin glanced at Zinoviev, a small smile appearing in his dark eyes.

  ---

  Billy spent the evening reviewing the Petrograd papers. He smiled when he realized he would not have to read Pravda, in which the outrageous was so commonplace. Pereverzev had apparently created a firestorm. Their editorial office and print shop were destroyed the day after his announcement. But the burning seemed to make little difference. The Mensheviks picked up the cudgel and used it with the same bluntness as the Bolsheviks. The Menshevik paper Novaia Zhizn called the evidence against Lenin and his band as “consciously slanderous defamation of prominent leaders of the working class.”

  Billy was learning something about Russia. Everything was big. The country, the army, the population, the lies. Once your newspapers begin ignoring the truth, he thought, what happens to truth? It becomes something very hard to find and even harder to recognize. He would take something away from Russia, he thought—the value of truth, and the need to elevate those who seek it.

  Billy thought about his visitor of the day before. Elizaveta Voravskii had introduced herself and given him a packet of papers and said that Carson had asked that she deliver it to him. He had smiled at Elizaveta for her obvious attempt to assure him that Carson had given her the papers. He saw the anger in her eyes and regretted his indiscretion. After their first ride in Carson’s carriage, Billy had taken the time to find out everything he could about the man without raising suspicion. One of the pieces of information was that Elizaveta Voravskii was Elena’s niece; it was her father who had been killed. She now lived in Petrograd with one of Elena’s brothers. Hearing her name, he recalled that it was Reginald Merriweather who had first mentioned her name. He said he had met her at a soiree held by Princess Radziwill.

  “I talked one of the young Russian officers there into introducing me. She was absolutely stunning. I decided I had to have her.”

  His eyes must have smoldered at Merriweather’s comment, for the young easterner retorted. “What’s the matter, old boy; too proper to think of such things? You must go out on the town with me some time. You would be surprised at the number of young, well-bred girls who are available. Several Americans I know say that suggesting to them that marriage and America might be possible, accomplishes wonders.”

  For some reason, he thought of the boxing ring. Merriweather was the same size. Perhaps he would like to sharpen his boxing skills. He had walked toward Merriweather, and stood looking him steadily in the eye.

  “Do you like to box, Mr. Merriweather?” He looked at the soft man from Harvard. Please say yes, he thought. Instead, he saw those eyes widen. He felt the satisfaction of seeing fear in them. He had reached the sonofabitch, Billy thought.

  Seeing that Billy had some sort of interest in Elizaveta Voravskii, he blurted out, “None of us were able to get beyond a hello, I’m afraid.”

  The packet contained copies of bank statements, correspondence, telegrams. They also contained a note. The bank statements were from the Diskontogesellschaft in Berlin noting several deposits from the German Treasury. The second statement was from the Nye Bank in Stockholm, noting deposits from the bank in Berlin. The third statement, from the Siberian Bank in Petrograd, noting deposits from the bank in Stockholm. There was a note attached.

  “This operation is being run by Richard von Kuhlmann from the German Foreign Office. The linchpin in Stockholm is Jacob Furstenberg-Ganetskii, who makes the withdrawals and sends them to a relative in Petrograd, Eugenia Sumenov. There is another name on the Siberian bank account, Piotr Kozlovskii, who runs a pharmaceutical company. A reliable source has watched the factory, which sends shipments addressed to Moscow and Kiev. We traced one of the shipments to Kiev. Another source opened one of the boxes after it arrived there. It was filled with sawdust and old copies of Pravda!! In the last four months, he has withdrawn over a million rubles for his company.”

  Billy already knew what the next sentence would say. He knew that Kozlovskii was often seen with Lenin or the other Bolshevik leaders. He was a member of their central committee.

  “The information has been in Kerensky’s hands for some time. By now, you are no doubt aware that Kerensky has decided to be magnanimous with his revolutionary brothers. He is blaming Pereverzev for botching the case yet there has been no trial. From what you already know of Russia, Lieutenant, picture what would have happened if Lenin had such information. Please excuse me for saying this, but your hope Kerensky is far too concerned about acting like a British or an American politician. The Marquis of Queensberry rules have no place in the Russia of 1917. They never did. We may hope that will change, but we cannot depend on it.”

  At the bottom of the note the initials RC.

  It was past midnight. Billy had looked at the documents, read the embassy cable traffic. The Political Affairs Office had reported cautiously on Pereverzev’s evidence. Billy knew that they had the same information as he had received. He didn’t blame his country. They wanted to leave the door open for whichever faction eventually took control. They wanted to do business and the rules had been that governments are willing to do business, unless you make it impossible. He thought about the efforts by Ispolkom to discredit the Pereverzev statement. They had been successful except for the paper enjoying the widest circulation in Petrograd. He looked at the headlines of the Zhivoe Slovo: LENIN, GANETSKII & CO. SPIES.

  The truth? Probably not spies. At least the information was out there. In Russia, that was something. He sat in silence. When was it? When did the limousine stop?

  ---

  It was November. I had been in Washington for almost two months. I was thinking about Christmas, when I would be allowed to return for two weeks in Denver. That Saturday morning, I had walked across the Arlington Memorial Bridge, and was walking beside the Tidal Basin. Most of the leaves had fallen, and the breeze off the river created a soft, rustling sound as the leaves slid one across the other. The breeze was from the south, and the air was warm. The sky was sunny, lightly covered with soft, fast moving clouds; I could feel the dampness in the air. I was thinking how I missed Colorado, but I grudgingly had to admit to myself that days like this, the Washington Monument gleaming white in the distance, made Washington a special place.

  For almost two months, I had worked alone, except for the interpreter. I had dutifully prepared my brief reports which were sent somewhere, I wasn’t sure where. Sometimes, I would receive a call, asking about something I had written. On one occasion, it was an older man from the State Department, who had asked me a number of questions about the troop movements, then berated me for not attempting to verify that he was who he said he was. Apparently, his pique didn’t end there. One hour later, I was called into Captain Jessup’s office, and dressed down. I wondered at the time whether the captain was angry because I had violated the rules regarding information, or because he had been interrupted from his daily routine which included little time in his tiny office. I noticed the captain liked to ride a great deal. I could smell horses on him just about any time he stopped by the office, which was as seldom as he could manage.

  I did not hear the black Packard until it was almost on top of me. I had moved to the side of road, admiring the car when it stopped. The door was opened from the inside and a soldier stepped out, an officer. My heart sk
ipped a beat. It was a general. Two stars. I remembered looking at the stars, then righting myself and saluting. I was in civilian clothes and I suppose it seemed odd to passersby to see a civilian salute an officer. I thought it strange that the general had not identified himself. He walked leisurely toward me. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry, but he wasted few words.

  “Lieutenant Housman?” “Yes, sir.”

  “Would you come with me, please?” He turned and did not look back. He simply walked to the car and opened the door for me. He followed me into the car, and told the driver to drive. Fifteen minutes later we were in Georgetown. We stopped on one of the side streets off of Wisconsin Avenue. It was a modest brick home, narrow like the ones you see in many parts of the city. Still without speaking, the general led me inside. As I walked in, I could see there was something different about the house. The living room was simply furnished, but there were four telephones placed on tables about the room. Upstairs, I could hear the sound of typewriters and what sounded like a teletype machine.

  As I entered, a very old man, bent over but still able to look me in the eye, stood and walked over to shake my hand. He wore a suit with a royal blue waistcoat, and a red silk tie. Sometimes, in serious moments, you have odd reactions. His upper torso from waist to neck looked like an American flag. Please, I remember thinking, do not introduce him as Sam something or other. The tall man had a thick head of very white hair, and bushy white eyebrows. Beneath the brows, the eyes sat deep yet they seemed to shine, like a biblical prophet.

  Beside him was a much shorter and younger man, the top of his head very shiny, with a ring of hair around the sides of his very large head, very large features made almost comical by the small, round, wire-rimmed glasses. Like his companion, he was nattily dressed, but thinking back I remember only that he had a dark suit, and the tie was dark as well.

  How had I felt? Strange. Uncomfortable. Like I had been kidnapped and forgot to resist.

  “Lieutenant,” the Old Man spoke. “We are not going to introduce ourselves other than to assure you we represent the American government and we are going to ask you to do something that is probably going to overwhelm you. But we’ve looked at you carefully for some time, and we think you are the man for the job. Why don’t we all sit down? General, would you mind getting us something.” I told Uncle Sam no thank you and he asked for whiskey, neat and his assistant, I only assumed that, asked for tea. As I watched the three men, Uncle Sam, his young assistant and the general, I kept asking myself whether this was a dream.

  “Lieutenant, Russia is very important to us. Some great Americans and great American companies have invested a great deal of money in Russia. Russian firms and the Russian government owe us a great deal of money. There can be no peace and order in the world if countries simply refuse to pay their debts.”

  He continued. “Russia is a nation of enormous size and wealth. It has over one hundred fifty million people, larger than the United States. We need to get along with a country that big. Some of the czars have in past years posed a real danger, and the stronger she gets, the more dangerous she can become. She wants warm-water ports to her south, and that can be a real problem, too. There’s a lot of oil to her south, and if she gets hold of it, Europe and the United States are in real trouble. We have enough oil for now, but that’s not gonna last, son.

  “Most of the people are poor in Russia and they work cheap. Americans, with all the money we’re makin’ off this war, will have a lot to invest. If Russia becomes the right kind of country, we can earn a lot of money for American citizens. This is just not about bankers and rich people, son, this is about everybody. Because those profits come back here and the people with all the money are gonna spend it. When Russia starts to grow, we can sell a lot to her. Old Henry Ford knows that. He’s gonna sell every Russian family a car. And that means people over here are gonna have good jobs makin’ those cars.”

  I noticed something about the Old Man. As he spoke, his eyes gleamed. They looked right into you. I noticed, too, he started taking the g’s off the ‘-ing’ words and contracting words. Real down to earth old gent. I decided I was listening to an honest pirate but for the life of me, I had no idea what this had to do with me. “So, let’s see, son. What am I sayin’ to you? We want a Russia we can do business with. We want one that’s gonna pay us back. We want a Russia that doesn’t get too big for its britches. She starts doin’ that, and we and the British may find we have to go around the Horn of Africa and figure out a way to keep Henry Ford’s cars runnin’ without gas and oil. And there’s one other thing. We want her to keep fightin’. We’ve got some pretty good deals cookin’ for arms. We’re helpin’ her put in a railroad down from Murmansk so we can get those supplies to her. “There’s somethin’ else about Russia. Russians don’t trust anybody. Well, I don’t either, but there’s so many Russians like that, that the government is like that. You know, when they invaded Prussia, they couldn’t move their supplies into Prussia by rail because they had different railway gauges on the Russian side. They figured if the Germans came into Russia they’d have the same problem. Well, with Murmansk, I figure that is why the sonsabitches never built a railroad from Murmansk. They didn’t want us or the British takin’ that port and marchin’ right down to Petrograd.

  “So son, we want to keep doin’ business with the Russians, we want them to pay us for what we loan‘em and sell to‘em, we want them to control their appetite for the oil and warm-water harbors, and we want them to stay in the war because we can make a lot of money.”

  The Old Man looked at me. I could not help but notice even the general and the younger man were starting to squirm.

  “Sure don’t sound like Thomas Woodrow Wilson, does it, son. This is a great country we live in, son. But it ain’t free of sin. We can’t be free of sin and great at the same time. We need to have oil. We need other kinds of raw materials. We need markets. We need people we do business with to obey the rules. Pay us what we say they owe us. There are a lot of rough people out there who would like to take those things away from us or charge us so damn much we’ll be in the poorhouse.

  “Now, you don’t need to know who I am. You don’t need to know the general or the fella I brought along so I can have an audience. But you do need to know that you’ll be goin’ to Russia pretty soon. You’ll have a job in the American Embassy, but old Francis doesn’t need to know any more than we tell him and you don’t need to tell him anything unless you need somethin’. Now your orders will be on the up-and-up, the general will see to that. You will be operating under a little different set of rules, and we’ll see that someone gets in touch with you to give you some direction.

  “You’re probably tryin’ to figure out what that old senile sonofabitch wants. Well, it’s what America wants. I want you to think about what I said we want, and I want you to remember one thing. Stop Lenin. You can’t do that by yourself, but any time you get a chance, you step on that slick bastard. He’s a dangerous man. He’s the kind who yells he’s for the people and shoots a couple of hundred of ‘em, to make sure everybody is for the people. Alexander Kerensky. We’ll wait and see. He’s a whiny fella, but maybe he’ll do okay. We can’t be too picky.”

  All the time he was talking to me, he never took his eyes off of me. As he talked, he seemed to me to grow more fierce. But as he spoke the last words about Kerensky, the energy seem to fade. He stood up and placed his huge hand around mine.

  “Colorada, huh. I used to break broncos down on the Gunnison. Long time ago, son.”

  Still looking into my eyes, he said, “You’ll do fine.” At that moment, I figured I had better. He pointed his crooked finger at the general. “The general there told me you was just a kid. I told him some of the people who licked the British were pretty young, too. I figger you can do the job, son.” He fixed his gaze on me. “Am I right?”

  “Yes, sir.” What else could I say?

  He looked at the general. “Didn’t I tell you, Jack? The boy can do the
job.”

  ---

  How late was it? Billy wasn’t in a hurry to get back to his small flat. He had no interest other than his work, unlike Merriweather. He was at the door, signing his name to the sign-out sheet, when he took time to look at the young marine standing near him. He looked at the uniform and wished he were back in one. All his life, he had wanted to be an officer; now he was something else.

  “Good night, Corporal.” “Good night, sir.”

  The rain which had fallen all day had stopped. Billy looked around carefully after he stepped onto the street. Embassy employees who had been in Petrograd since before the war talked of a different city then. Crime in the streets was so rare that a single murder created a great stir. Now, murders occurred every day, ordinary people stayed indoors after dark, and prominent citizens hired bodyguards to protect them. Embassy employees often were escorted by the Petrograd police, for foreigners were often preyed upon because they were likely to have money and valuables on them.

  Billy patted his Browning automatic, which was strapped to his side below his armpit. He had sometimes been followed by rough looking men, sometimes in groups. He had never been bothered. The word had spread among those who preyed on the people of Petrograd that young foreign men frequently were armed. Two nights ago two men had followed him for a distance, closing to within five meters when he had suddenly turned on them, his hand curling around the pistol grip. They ran.

  Other nights he thought he had seen someone following him. Each time he would stop and casually look around, he saw nothing. He thought about the telegram to Riezler from Victor. He had always tried to be careful, taking nothing for granted.