The Circassian. "Wrong Side"

  Part Seven. London. September 1888.

  7.1

  Evdokimoff sat alone completing yet another of his endless reports, a knock on the door interrupted him.

  ‘I told you not to disturb me.’ He called out angrily.

  He was just about to shout again, when the door opened and a servant appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Sorry Count Evdokimoff but General Kalashnik insisted to see you Sir. Do you have time to see him?’ A large overweight Russian pushed him roughly out of the way and stormed into the room.

  ‘He has time to see me, now get out of my way.’ He said gruffly. Evdokimoff nodded to the servant and then stood up, his face turned pale. The servant left and closed the door.

  ‘Please sit down.’ He gestured to the chair. The supreme head of the Okhrana, squeezed into the large chair opposite Evdokimoff. He removed his leather gloves slowly and dropped them onto the desk. His uniform was a very tight fit, he was overweight and his red nose gave away his addiction to alcohol. His fat cheeks were flushed red, partly with anger and partly because he was so unhealthy.

  ‘A drink, General Kalashnik?’ Evdokimoff’s head span, what was he doing here in London, unannounced? He poured two large Cognac’s and sat back down at his desk, trying to look unconcerned.

  ‘Good, you have remembered my name.’ The General spoke coldly.

  ‘But of course, General.’ Evdokimoff replied.

  ‘Do you also remember that I am your superior officer?’ he barked. The Count sat silently waiting for him to continue. Kalashnik slid a piece of paper across the desk. Evdokimoff picked it up and read the one name written on it, “Feliks Vetrov.” His blood turned to ice and he felt dizzy. He tried to control his breathing and appear calm, sitting opposite the only man in Russia that he was afraid of. General Kalashnik sat silently for several minutes, enjoying the Count’s obvious discomfort. Finally he spoke.

  ‘Do you want my job?’

  ‘Of course not, Sir.’

  ‘Sir? Now, you call me Sir? Should I not call you Sir, Count Evdokimoff?’ he scowled as he continued. ‘I do not like you, Evdokimoff, you may have been born a noble, but you know nothing of the real Russia. Travelling around the world like a playboy at my expense, and now here in London playing God?’Evdokimoff knew his back was against the wall, he decided his only strategy was to attack.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ he said bravely. ’If you have something to say General, then say it.’

  Kalashnik stared at him, his unblinking red watery eyes glaring with anger and despise. ‘

  ‘You sanctioned this man’s killing.’ It was not a question. Evdokimoff’s mind raced to stay ahead of the situation.

  ‘Ridiculous.’ Was all he could think to reply. Kalashnik finished his glass and placed it slowly on the table, with two fingers he pushed it towards the Count. Evdokimoff did not move Kalashnik pushed it an inch further. The Count stood and refilled his glass; it was an act of submission. He returned and placed the glass down slightly out of reach of the General’s fingers. The General looked at him and waited. Evdokimoff leaned forward and pushed it within his reach. The General smiled, the game was over and he had won. Evdokimoff knew Gurin and Mikhailovich would never betray him, and they were the only three people who knew. The only other people that knew the name were the Jews themselves. Kalashnik must have someone in the Jew’s gang and Moscow had kept it secret from Evdokimoff. ‘You already have someone in the gang.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘Why didn’t you let me know? It would have saved me a lot of time.’

  ‘It doesn’t work that way. Informants are personal belongings. This one has been mine for many years. Knowledge is power. Why should I share my power with you?’

  ‘Then, what am I doing here?’

  ‘What you are doing is a very good job. You have managed to upset the entire political balance that was previously in favour of the Jews. They now have their worst relationship with the British, than they have ever had.’ He swallowed the remainder of his Cognac.

  ‘But you sanctioned a killing of a Russian Citizen without my direct permission. I could have you shot.’ Evdokimoff decided to change tactics, there was no point denying it.

  ‘He was sacrificed for the Tsar. If you have someone inside, you already know that they are planning to assassinate him.’

  ‘Yes, of course I know,’ he replied. ‘Next week, when the Tsar visits London. That is why I am here. Preparing security for the visit.’ Evdokimoff felt his heart beating faster; he felt his world was crashing down around him. This man would blackmail him for the rest of his life; he would have a Count in his pocket. Evdokimoff would have to live in fear.

  ‘How do you want me to proceed?’ the Count asked trying to sound calm.

  ‘Which of your Circus clowns killed Feliks Vetrov? Your Jew, Gurin, your sodomite, Mikhailovich or your crazy Circassian?’

  Evdokimoff hesitated. Kalashnik knew about Jaak.

  ‘The Circassian.’ he replied.

  ‘Good, because the Jews will now hire him to kill the Tsar. From now on, you take orders directly from me and me alone. Is that clear.’

  ‘Yes, General Kalashnik.’

  ‘The only reason I am not punishing you for sanctioning the killing is because you are worth more to me alive. But do not think for one second that I will not have you shot if you ever cross me.’

  Evdokimoff felt the situation calming down when he realised that he was more useful to the General alive than dead. He opened a wooden box and offered the General a cigar. Kalashnik held it under his nose and dragged it along taking in the fragrance. The Count held a match for him to light the end. He inhaled slowly and then leaned back in his chair. Evdokimoff wanted to start crying with relief.

  ‘Very nice cigar, where do you get them from?’

  ‘They are made right here in the heart of London. Some of the best cigar makers work here now, mostly Dutch Jews.’ He was happy to change the subject. He pushed the box towards the General.

  ‘Please accept them as a small gift; in fact I will get you a dozen boxes. Are you staying in London long or should I send them to Moscow?’

  ‘I will be staying in London until the Tsar visits, then, I will travel to New York,’ the General picked his next words very carefully.’ Count Evdokimoff. Soon there will be very big changes in Russia. Be careful that when that time comes, that you are standing on the winning side. You are a very intelligent and resourceful man; it would be a great waste to have you shot for having a piece of scum like Feliks Vetrov removed. Evdokimoff’s hand had finally stopped shaking; his heart had just slowed to normal. Now he felt it speed up again. Kalashnik’s tone was menacing, Evdokimoff saw the look in his eyes as he spoke, and he knew Kalashnik was not going to stop the assassination. He looked into Kalashnik’s eyes and thought to himself.

  ‘You will have me killed as soon as the Tsar is dead.’ Kalashnik continued speaking.

  ‘Once you have cleaned up your work here, I am going to promote you to head of all Okhrana operations outside of Russia. The paperwork went through last week before I left Moscow. That means you will be number two in the organisation reporting only to me. Will you accept the position?’

  ‘I am honoured.’ Evdokimoff lied. General Kalashnik picked a handful of cigars and put them in his breast pocket; he stood up and held out his hand. Evdokimoff shook it firmly and walked him to the front door.

  He returned to his office and sat down thinking about the conversation that they just had. He reached for the stub of his cigar and relit it.

  ‘Damn,’ he said to nobody. ‘So General Kalashnik you are a Marxist. You didn’t think I was good enough to find the banker did you. You were happy to sit back and watch me fail. You will let the Circassian assassinate the Tsar, link the Circassian to me, and then blame me for not stopping it. I am to be your scapegoat. Now I know why nobody could penetrate this gang, you were informing the Jews and they were killin
g them. This is your own, personal assassination team.’

  Evdokimoff was angry, but he never lost his temper, he was too cold and calculating. He picked up the three quarter full bottle of Cognac and returned to his chair with it; he put both boots on the highly polished mahogany desk and lit a cigar. He needed to make a plan to save his own skin. Gurin and Mikhailovich had to go, that was the first step. General Kalashnik would not see the end of the week alive. That left only one person who knew he had sanctioned the kill on Feliks Vetrov, Kalashnik‘s informant inside the Jews gang. Every undercover operative was trained by the Okhrana to break and run if his controller was killed in case he had been compromised. Once news of General Kalashnik death became public, his agent would make his way to the Paris office for protection.

  ‘I will just sit back and wait for him to come to me,’ Evdokimoff thought. He stretched his head back in the chair and blew a plume of smoke at the ceiling. He felt better he was back in control. Then he thought about having to kill Mikhailovich and Gurin and felt sad for some moments, he really did like them both.

  ‘Damn you Kalashnik, I was looking forward to infiltrating this gang. Now I will have to have all of them killed to save the Tsar, and clear my name.’

  7.2

  Evdokimoff sat in his office with Mikhailovich and Gurin.

  ‘That’s it we are finished here. I am leaving for Paris this week.’ He said.

  ‘Finished? What happened to make you change your plan?’ asked Mikhailovich.

  Evdokimoff poured three Cognacs and handed them to Gurin and Mikhailovich.

  ‘Cognac?’ Mikhailovich asked. ‘What are we celebrating?’

  ‘Our promotions.’ He raised his glass in a toast. ‘I have been promoted to Chief of Staff for all Okhrana operations outside Russia.’ Evdokimoff explained.

  I received news from Moscow. They are impressed with the Anti-Jewish Resentment we have created here. So impressed that they want to use the same tactics elsewhere.’

  ‘The first decision I have made in my new role is to promote you, Mikhailovich, to head of Paris and you Gurin, you are going to Switzerland next week to run the office there. Your infiltration days are over my friends. Putchin can run things in London. Where is he by the way?’

  ‘I gave him the weekend off, you didn’t want him involved tonight remember.’ Gurin said.

  The good news completely surprised Mikhailovich, his mind wandered as he thought of lazy evenings in Paris. Gurin was also surprised, finally he could out of that stinking madhouse, but he had more important issues on his mind.

  ‘What about the banker and Gur Lavi?’ he asked. Evdokimoff poured himself a coffee and began to explain. He was slightly nervous, he had to tell them a story that was complete fabrication but it had to sound true. He began the lie.

  ‘They are no longer of interest to us. Moscow have their own men inside a gang of radicals in America. Only days ago they received reliable information that the banking operation will move from London to New York because of the unrest we have caused here with Jaak. Moscow has already men in place in America so they will be able to monitor everything themselves, we have no reason anymore to infiltrate the London gang.’

  ‘What will happen to them?’ Gurin asked.

  ‘Moscow wants them all eliminated.’

  Gurin looked at Mikhailovich and shrugged.

  ‘When?’

  ‘The sooner the better, why not tonight?’

  ‘I want the Circassian to kill them both as soon as he is inside.’

  ‘And after tonight? Then what?’ asked Mikhailovich.

  ‘As soon as that is done we close down the operation. Get Jaak back to the hospital and then you both leave next week for Paris. I will meet you there next Wednesday.’ Gurin, smiled at Mikhailovich, he got no response.

  ‘What about the Circassian?’ Gurin asked the Count.

  ‘Leave him to rot in that madhouse,’ Evdokimoff said callously. ‘He has done enough damage here for now. His use is coming to an end in London. Two experts from Moscow are on their way here to examine him, so we will leave Jaak in there until they have finished with him. Maybe even keep him for future work, here or bring him to Paris or Amsterdam. The opportunities are endless Androv.’

  ‘Shouldn’t Gurin or Putchin go with him inside tonight?’ Mikhailovich asked.

  ‘No definitely not! I can’t risk any of the servants seeing you in there. This is a Circassian hit, not Russian as far as anybody is concerned. If anything goes wrong, abort and leave him there. Nobody can connect him to us.’ Evdokimoff could not see any problems.

  ‘Oh and clean him up, it was a good idea that he looked like a mad Rabbi before but we don’t want anybody connecting him to the prostitutes.’ Added the Count. Mikhailovich didn’t like Gurin receiving praise, he retorted.

  ‘Gurin didn’t try to make him look like a Rabbi he was scared to go near him with a cut throat razor to shave with.’ Evdokimoff mistook the contempt as humour and laughed loudly. He was feeling more in control again. He held out his hand. Both shook it. ‘Good luck tonight. The next time you will see me will be in Paris. Androv, you and Gurin meet me at the Café Anglais at Seven O’clock, next Wednesday evening, my treat, and remember, neither of you are to enter Jacobson’s home, I don’t want either of you seen there. You are both to stay in the carriage. In no circumstances are you to leave it.’

  Mikhailovich and Gurin left the Count and swung into the cab waiting for them outside. Evdokimoff’s enthusiasm had rubbed off on him, but not enough to share with Gurin. With the Count gone, now was the time he could get rid of him. Tonight he was going to kill Gurin. The cab dropped Gurin off at the Sanatorium. Mikhailovich reminded him as he stepped out.

  ‘Be ready at Nine thirty, we will send Jaak in at Ten tonight. Gurin nodded and entered the hospital. He looked into Jaak’s room as he passed; the nurse was shaving Jaak and cutting his hair ready for the meeting with Jacobson.

  ‘Do you think he will be able to do it alone?’ Asked Putchin.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t like it but what can I do? Orders are orders Looks like you have a nice weekend off. You lucky bugger.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Mikhailovich wants you to go to Brighton to deliver this parcel for him.’

  ‘Where is Brighton?’

  ‘By the sea, the address is on the paper and don’t hand it anybody else except the name on the paper. Oh and make sure you bring me back a stick of rock.’