Free Cold Blood by James Fleming Page B

searching for inspiration or forgiveness. They rarely demand that anyone is slain by starlight or, come to that, by the light of the new moon—though both are possible and happen frequently in real life.
    Hands behind my head, I looked into their eyes. I said to them, Is it possible for me to sink any lower without being dead? It’s not my fault I was born into this dire epoch. I know that tonight history has been smashed. I know that nothing can ever be the same again. Tomorrow will dawn upon a way of doing things of which not one person in mankind has any experience. The question is, will the old behaviour be of any use to me at all? One must suppose not. However, very few people know anything about revolutions. Only very rarely does a man have a chance to practise. I shall try to act honourably, as my father would have. But there is also this: I wish to survive. Maybe only one of these is possible. Do you know which it is?
    I picked up my pistol and aimed it at the Great Bear.
    No, don’t say, I expect I’ll find out for myself. Just help me get to the shore. Don’t be ungracious. You’ve favoured many more unpleasant men than myself. Real vipers. That tick Napoleon, for instance...
    The stars eyed me comfortingly, bright with their wry humour, not a bit upset about my pistol being pointed at them. As one, they nodded to me, Get Glebov, then you’ll find a real difference in your situation.
    It was what I wanted to hear. I turned onto my side and worked a hollow for myself in the dead leaves—pulled my hat down over my ears.
    Sleep should have come instantly. But it didn’t, and the reason was this: had Glebov seen me at Smolny or had he not? That was the point at which we stuck, those stars and I.

Thirteen

    T HE NEXT event in the Bolshevik Revolution: the arrest of Alexander Alexandrovich Boltikov. He failed even to get to the border with Finland.
    On entering Viborg on the Katarinegata—the cobbles slippery beneath a dusting of snow, the red flag hanging limply from the neck of Torkel Knutson, heroic on his plinth, and the town-hall clock on the dot of ten, exactly on schedule for a tiptop lunch at Helsinki’s Hotel Societetshus—he’d noticed the unusual number of soldiers lounging around.
    Liselotte was on one side of him. His secretary was in front, with the English shuvver. Liselotte had been uncomfortable in Russia. The Revolution had been the last straw. She couldn’t get out fast enough. The nearer they got to Finland, the more she quivered. She’d brought some knitting but had several times missed the pickup stitch her hand was so unsteady. A little before Viborg she put her gloves on so that he shouldn’t see the whiteness of her knuckles.
    It was she who’d understood immediately why a van was waiting up one side street and a cavalry patrol up another. (Boltikov admitted that he’d been thinking about a plate of oysters.)
    â€œGet us out of here,” she screamed at the shuvver, opening the window in the division and stabbing him in the back with her finger.
    But it was the secretary who answered. He smiled as he’d never done before. His face lit up like the morning sun and his eyes, previously so dead, danced like gnats on a warm spring day. He’d shopped them.
    The leaders of the Viborg Soviet approached wearing suits and overcoats. Behind marched a company of Bolshevik soldiers. The snow started to fall again, making everything quite silent, even the steps of the marching soldiers.
    â€œOh my Gawd,” said the shuvver, tipping his plastic-visored cap onto the back of his head.
    The secretary got out, briskly and joyfully. The leader of the Soviet embraced him. They all did. He made an ironic bow to Boltikov and disappeared.
    The door was opened on Liselotte’s side. She clung on to Boltikov, screaming, her arm clamped round his neck. It made no difference. Two of the soldiers were ordered to drag her out. They