Elvira Baryakina - The Prince of the Soviets

Everything was swimming before his eyes, and his thoughts were in disarray. He did not register at first that the engine was no longer running and that they were swinging too far from side to side. Up ahead, he could see an elegant white convertible with a raised leather top. Apparently, they were being towed by this car.

Klim was entirely at sea. Where were they? Where were they going?

A dreary succession of concrete walls and industrial buildings was passing by the window.

Oh, God, he thought. Now they were going to take him to some deserted factory and torture him until he gave them Nina’s address.

Presently, the industrial landscape gave way to ancient buildings with turrets, weather-vanes, and red roof tiles.

The car up ahead crossed a bridge and stopped before an elegant light gray building ornamented with bas-reliefs and sculptures.

Sergei stuck his head out of the window. “What is this? Is this Oscar’s office?”

“Look up there. It’s on the sign: ‘Reichs,’” said the driver, pointing to the huge sign under the roof.

Yefim wrapped the hand holding the gun inside his coat and put a hat on Klim’s head to conceal the wound.

“Out you get,” he ordered. “Take one step to the side, and you’ll get a bullet in your back. Understand?”

Klim clambered painfully out of the car and looked around him. The doors of the building were wide open, and richly dressed visitors in coats with fur collars were walking in and out. A black, red, and yellow flag fluttered against the blue sky, and beneath, in a semicircular panel, was a coat of arms with the word “Reichs” on one side and “Bank” on another.

This building has nothing to do with Oscar Reich, thought Klim. It was a branch of the state bank of Germany!

“Keep moving,” said Sergei.

They walked past the white car. Inside sat a woman with a hat pulled low over her eyes and—good god—Seibert!

“Danke!” said Serge and Yefim, waving to them.

In answer, Seibert gave a tortured smile.

They entered the ornate lobby, furnished with mosaic-covered columns and octagonal light-fittings with elaborately ornamented frames. Bank clerks hurried to and fro, carrying files.

“I think we’ve come to the wrong place,” muttered Yefim, bewildered.

Just then, there was the sound of footsteps behind them. Klim looked around and saw Nina and Seibert.

“Hands up! This is a robbery!” Seibert cried in a shrill voice.

Klim shoved Yefim and dived to the floor. A shot rang out, and the next minute, sirens wailed, women screamed, and all the exits were swiftly closed off with steel shutters.

The armed robbers—five men and a woman—were apprehended by the security guards. Ten minutes later, the police arrived to take away the detainees to the cheers of onlookers.

Klim smiled over at Nina. The handcuffs looked rather incongruous on her.

“I have to thank you and Seibert for rescuing me,” he said, “but now, we’re all going to go to prison for ten years.”

“I hope they put us in the same cell—without Seibert,” said Nina, trying her utmost to put on a brave face.

1

Seibert did not come to meet Oscar Reich as planned. In the evening, he rang from a hotel and said he had been obliged to leave for Hamburg on business.

The next day, Oscar found out all the details from the newspapers. It turned out that Seibert had rescued two White Russians, Klim Rogov and his wife, who were being hunted down by OGPU agents with false passports and smuggled weapons.

Oscar was beside himself with fury. Seibert, without even realizing it, had put Oscar’s head on the line: thanks to his tip-off, the police had arrested Yefim, and there was a good chance Yefim would tell the investigating officers exactly who had given him the order to kill Klim Rogov.

Oscar thought of a new plan. He would catch Seibert out with a bribe, and then when he had him backed up against the wall, demand that he change his statement. Seibert could present Rogov and Nina as swindlers who had slandered employees of the Soviet envoy’s office and forced Seibert to do the same. White Russian émigrés had a bad reputation in Germany, and it was easy enough to pin any number of crimes on their heads.

Reich’s secretary tried to reach Seibert by telephone all day. At long last, Seibert answered.

“Are you already in Berlin?” asked Oscar. “Let’s settle our business. Could you come to see me at my hotel?”

Seibert, however, announced that he did not want to carry a large sum of cash on him as he went about town and proposed that they meet at a branch of the Deutsche Bank and put the money straight into a safety deposit box.

“Very well. Come at five o’clock,” grunted Oscar. “I’ll book a meeting room. See you then.”

He counted out the money himself and checked the numbers of the banknotes. Then he called a private detective by the name of Koch and two journalists who were in the pay of the USSR and ordered them to come with him to the Deutsche Bank.

“Make sure that there’s an adjoining room next to the meeting room,” Oscar told his secretary. “And leave the door ajar so you can listen to what we say.”

Seibert arrived exactly on time.

“Here’s the sum you asked for,” Oscar told him, taking the money from his wallet.

Seibert counted the money and then went off to put it into the safety deposit box. Five minutes later, he returned.

“Thank you very much. That’s everything sorted; now, we can discuss our plan of action.”

The door to the adjoining room opened and out stepped Koch, the detective, a grim-faced fellow of about forty in a double-breasted suit and a Homburg hat.

“I’m a private detective,” he said, “and I’ve been hired as a witness to an act of extortion. We have a note of the numbers of the banknotes you just received from Mr. Reich and three witnesses who can confirm it.”

“Excuse me, but what exactly can these witnesses confirm?” asked Seibert with a puzzled air. “Mr. Reich has just given me money for the Association for Aid to the Volga Germans. The money will enable us to charter a ship to take them to Canada. I already paid the bill to the shipping company, you see.”

Oscar jumped to his feet. “What are you talking about? What Volga Germans? What ship?”

“You said yourself that you wanted me to clean up your image in Germany,” Seibert told Oscar. “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

The journalists in the doorway looked at one another and took out their notebooks.

“Put those away!” snapped Oscar. Grabbing Seibert by the shoulder, he led him from the room.

“I’ll see you in your grave, do you understand?” he whispered maliciously when they were alone.

Delicately, Seibert moved away from him. “It’s not in your interests to see me in my grave,” he said. “If I ever have a problem with my health, you’ll run into some problems too, concerning the inheritance of Baron Brehmer. Nina Kupina has told me one or two details of your biography.”

“Are you trying to blackmail me?”

“Why, my dear fellow? I’m only reminding you of the fact that businessmen must come to agreements with one another.”

Oscar wanted desperately to say something in reply, but words failed him.

2

Seibert sat in his dining room, totting up his gains and losses.

The story of the Volga Germans had led to a sequel, and this was a source of some decent political capital—that was one nice gain.

The shipping company had paid Seibert a commission in return for chartering the ship, and that was another gain.

He had made his peace with Oscar Reich too. Reich had realized that his old friend Henrich had done the right thing by presenting him as a champion of the interests of Germans abroad. The deal on Russian timber had been signed and sealed by the authorities. And meanwhile, Seibert’s in-depth article about Soviet labor camps had been locked away in a safe.

But besides these gains, there were losses, and as far as Seibert was concerned, all these losses could be laid at the door of Mr. Rogov. Klim and Nina had been arrested in Hamburg, and while the police were investigating them, Seibert was left looking after their children.

The two little girls were driving him mad. The older one kept preaching that art and icons were immoral. Meanwhile, the younger one would scribble pictures and icons straight onto the wallpaper.

Seibert had already put together a list of all his expenses: food, soap, coal, and new stockings for Tata—to replace her old ones that were torn. Altogether, it had added up to quite a sum.

There was a clatter of feet, and Tata and Kitty rushed into the dining room. “Uncle Henrich, we need an evil, greedy capitalist prince for our game!” they shouted.

Seibert tucked his list into his pocket. “Go away! I don’t have any princes for you!”

The girls looked at one another. “That’s just right!” said Tata. “That sounds just like a capitalist. We’ve found some gold on your land and—”

“What gold?” asked Seibert, alarmed.

He had remembered his collection of Imperial coins, which he had hidden away in a musical box. He started to feel slightly sick. Could the girls have discovered it?

“Gold isn’t a toy!” he protested. “You leave it alone!”

“But we don’t have anything else to play with!” said Kitty.

At that moment, the doorbell rang. Seibert went to open it, hoping desperately that it would be Klim and Nina.

And indeed it was. There the two of them stood, looking disheveled and anxious but apparently happy.

Kitty squealed with delight. “Mommy and Daddy are here!”

Seibert made himself scarce as they all began to kiss one another and exchange meaningless endearments and exclamations.

He went out onto the balcony, lit up a cigarette, and then dug in his pocket and took out the list of services he had performed for Klim, wanting to check it one last time.

Down below, Frau Hauswald was sweeping the snow from the porch. When he caught sight of her, Seibert forgot everything and let go of the piece of paper. It flew out of his hands, and the wind caught it and dropped it at her feet.

“I think you’ve dropped something,” said Frau Hauswald. “Is this your list?”

He shook his head. “No, no. It has nothing to do with me. Please just throw it away if it’s no trouble.”

It wouldn’t do for Frau Hauswald to read what was written on the list, he thought. She might think he was a miserable skinflint.

“We’ve been neighbors for some time now,” said Seibert. “And yet I still don’t know your first name. Mine is Henrich.”

“I’m Gertrude. Please to meet you.”

Seibert grinned from ear to ear. In the USSR, the name Gertrude had a particular meaning—it was short for “Geroinia Truda” or “Heroine of Labor.”

I’ll wait for my uninvited guests to leave, he said to himself, and then I’ll ask her in for cocoa.

Russian Treasures Book 1 White Ghosts Book 2 The Prince of the Soviets Book 3

Visit Elvira Baryakina’s website to learn more about Klim Rogov and Nina Kupina:

http://www.baryakina.com/en/

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Translated from Russian by Rose France

Book cover illustration by Olga Tereschenko

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2018 Elvira Baryakina

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, visit www.baryakina.com/en/

ISBN: 978-1-7325840-5-1