Эльвира Барякина - White Ghosts

Klim got out of the car and looked around. The lawn was dotted with forlorn brown bald patches, and the flowers in their tarnished green bronze vases had long withered.

“We have no time for gardening here,” said Levkin registering Klim’s look of disapproval.

An old Chinese man in a faded tunic silently led them into a dimly lit lobby and immediately went back to his job of dusting a marble bust of Lenin that stood in the corner.

Klim followed Levkin along the corridor. The building appeared to be completely empty. The doors hung open; the carpets and curtains had been removed, and the sound of their footsteps echoed right up to the ceiling.

Levkin showed Klim into a small cheerless room that smelled of charred paper. “Stay here,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

There were empty folders piled up on the desk and a tin pail full of cigarette butts and scraps of burned documents.

Klim scrutinized an array of photographs of the most prominent members of the Bolshevik Party hanging on the wall. They were arranged in the form of a pyramid. Sitting at the apex was a portrait of a dark-haired mustached man called Stalin.

A moment later Levkin returned with a gloomy tall man in a traditional embroidered shirt.

“My name is Valdas,” the man introduced himself. “Pleased to meet you.”

His round head was shaved bald; he had a gray mustache, and his strong neck was red from sunburn.

“Unfortunately, your information about the attacks of the Soviet missions has been confirmed,” Valdas said as he sat down on a creaky chair. “Yesterday, the British raided the Soviet trade mission in London. Their police acted in much the same way as Zhang’s here and have seized documents, exposing our work in the United Kingdom.”

“Has our foreign office sent a formal note of protest?” Levkin asked.

“The British government doesn’t give a damn about our protests,” said Valdas. “They have declared the Soviet Union a pariah state and will insist on an economic blockade. Our main task now is to prove them wrong, and it would be a great help if some third neutral party, for example, Germany, could do the job for us.”

Valdas fixed his pale blue eyes on Klim.

“From what I understand, you have a friend in the German Embassy who is sympathetic and ready to help the Soviet Union. May I ask his name?”

Klim gave him one of Daniel’s aliases.

“We appreciate your friend’s intentions,” said Valdas. “I assume that he is linked with their intelligence service since he knew about the raids in advance. Tell him that if the Germans can help us get out of this mess, military cooperation between our countries will move up to a new level.”

Klim finally realized what was going on. People in the know at the Shanghai Club had mentioned that Moscow had invited the Germans to carry out weapon tests in the Soviet Union. Germany was craving revenge after its defeat in the Great War and was now doing everything in its power to develop new aircraft, armored vehicles, and chemical weapons—thus circumventing the Treaty of Versailles that prohibited it from rebuilding its armed forces. The Allies knew that something was going on, but they couldn’t prove anything since the Soviet Union refused to allow any international commissions over its borders.

In all likelihood, Daniel was indeed working for German intelligence and trying to broker a military agreement with the Russians. But in order not to deflect the heat if something were to go wrong with the crazy Bolsheviks, he had sent Klim in his stead.

“What exactly do the Germans need to do in order to help you?” Klim asked.

“They could start by finding a printing press in Berlin,” Valdas said. “For example, one run by former White Army officers, which has been producing the compromising documents found in our missions. There will need to be arrests, and the international press will need to be fed the spectacle of a couple of angry Russian immigrants who have been surreptitiously trying to harm and besmirch the good name of their former Motherland.”

Speechless, Klim looked at Valdas and Levkin, who smiled calmly. He had always known that politics was a dirty business, but there were limits.

“May I ask how these ‘fake documents’ managed to find their way into the Soviet trade mission in London?” Klim asked sarcastically.

“Our enemies planted them there too of course,” Levkin said grinning. “We’ll arrest some recent returnees who will be only too happy to confess to the deed once we have finished with them.”

They are true criminals, Klim thought in impotent rage. Only they are acting on behalf of the state, not some Green Gang.

The most ridiculous thing was that the “progressive press” will lap all this up because they would prefer to believe in mysterious conspiracy theories, rather than the blatant evil that was parading itself before their eyes.

Klim was tempted to leave there and then without even shaking Valdas’ and Levkin’s hands, however, he managed to master his revulsion.

“I will convey your words to my German friend,” he promised.

Levkin accompanied him into the lobby.

“I was told that you will be defending Mrs. Borodin and her people,” Klim said. “There is a woman, her name is Nina Kupina. She and I are old friends, and I’d like to know how she’s doing—”

“I’ll be seeing her soon,” said Levkin. “Zhang Zuolin wants to keep up the appearance that justice is being served, so the accused have been granted lawyers.”

Klim was relieved a little.

“Can I give you something for Nina?”

“I’m afraid not. The Russian prisoners are carefully guarded and searched. But if you want, you can write a few words for her. I’ll try to show your note to Ms. Kupina.”

Levkin produced a pencil and a blank sheet of paper.

“I’ll get a power of attorney typed on the other side and take it with me to the jail,” he said after Klim had written a short message for Nina. “Don’t you worry about your friend. Comrade Stalin has ordered us to do everything possible to save our people.”

Klim thanked him and went out into the street.

The sun was shining, the cicadas were singing, and the air was filled with the heady scent of jasmine and hot dust.

Don’t get your hopes up, Klim thought trying to suppress his joy. What could a Soviet lawyer possibly do against the entire Chinese judicial system?

5

Back at the hotel, Klim told Daniel all about his negotiations with Valdas.

“Well done,” Daniel said, beaming. “We’ll rustle up the finest quality fake story about the production of fake documents.”

“Why has Stalin decided to try and save Fanya Borodin?” Klim asked. “After all, her husband failed to seize power in China. Why would the Bolsheviks waste time and resources on the wife of a man who has failed the revolution?”

Daniel smiled condescendingly.

“You still don’t understand what makes them tick, do you? By saving the Borodins, Stalin will be demonstrating to his supporters that he will never leave them in the lurch, even if they are superfluous to his needs. That way he plans to create a loyal and fanatical faction of his own within the Soviet communist party. These men will be completely devoted to him and help him get to the top. Do you remember Big-Eared Du? How do you think he became the top gangster in Shanghai? The same way; it’s a time-honored formula.”

6

The old woman with the claws escorted Nina to the visiting room, where she found a well-dressed, dark-haired young man waiting for her.

“My name is Anatoly Levkin.” He introduced himself in Russian and shook Nina’s hand. “I will be your attorney during your trial.”

“Who sent you?” Nina asked in amazement.

“The Embassy of the USSR; I’m a legal advisor there. The investigation of your case is completed and has been submitted. You’re being charged under article one hundred and one of the criminal code, and you’re facing either a life sentence or the death penalty.”

Levkin was glowing with pleasure at the prospect of the trial, like a trainee surgeon who has finally been entrusted with a life or death operation.

“You probably want to know how Fanya is,” he said. “She’s fine and asked me to say hello.”

Nina could barely understand a word he was saying. Dear Lord, the death penalty… What on earth for?

“They are charging you with an attempted coup and the smuggling of weapons,” Levkin explained. “Please sit down and make yourself comfortable. You shouldn’t worry too much. The indictment is ridiculous, the prosecutor has no evidence, and I don’t think there’s going to be a public trial. We have hired the best Chinese lawyers for you, and we are hoping the judge will be willing to listen to their arguments. I’m going to need you to sign powers of attorney for Mr. Ma Dazhang and Mr. Guo Tingbao. It’s good that they have agreed to represent you. They never take a case that they are not sure about.”

“All my money is in Shanghai,” Nina said. “How am I supposed to pay them?”

Levkin looked at her reproachfully. “The Soviet authorities will pay for everything.”

He took some papers out of his briefcase and slipped them to Nina, but she was unable to make out the writing, which swam before her eyes.

Levkin pushed the inkwell towards her. “I’d appreciate it if you could be a bit quicker. I still have to go to the men’s prison.”

Nina signed the first copy, then the second, and finally the third, but then suddenly noticed an inscription in pencil on the margin:

I’m here. We’ll figure something out.

It was Klim’s handwriting.

The pen fell from Nina’s hands.

“Is he really here?” she asked Levkin.

He motioned towards the guard standing at the door and quickly rubbed out Klim’s words with an eraser.

“Well, I have to run.”

Once he had left, Nina was taken to her cell and searched again. She could hardly wait to be left alone. She was brimming over with joy and, at the same time, disappointment that she hadn’t had a chance to write anything to Klim in reply.

Everything was the same—the gray cell, the bunk bed, and the shabby door. Nina was facing the death penalty or an indefinite prison term, but a few words from Klim had given her life new meaning.

Nina covered her face with her hands and wept with happiness.

1

Dear Kitty,

If you have received this letter, then that means that I have been arrested and, most likely, executed. It’s frightening to have to write such things, and I know that I’m risking not only my life, but your future as well. But the Aulmans have promised to take care of you if something bad happens.

I must do everything possible to save your mother, and unless I do my utmost to help her, she has no chance. The Chinese authorities and foreign diplomats are out for her blood: they want to punish the Soviet Russia that Fanya Borodina and her cronies represent, and nobody cares that your mother has never had anything to do with it.

Unfortunately, I have no choice but to be a pawn in a dirty political game. I don’t want to go into the details here but I will tell you the most important facts: as a result of the negotiations that have been started here, in Peking, Germany has lifted its support for the economic blockade of the USSR and in return received the right to test its chemical weapons in Russia.

A new leader, Joseph Stalin, is gaining momentum in the Soviet Union. In order to persuade him to become their ally, the Germans have decided to help release the Bolsheviks on death row here in Peking and send two hundred thousand dollars to bribe Huo Cong, the man judging their case.

Unlike most Chinese officials, Huo Cong is renowned for his probity. He has already had a number of people imprisoned who have dared to offer him a bribe, so no one from the Soviet Embassy staff is keen to approach him with this business proposal. We have also failed to find a local mediator, because, in the current political climate, everyone is afraid to have any dealings with Russians.

With each passing day, the court date looms ever closer, so I have volunteered to talk to the judge, and the embassy has agreed. Judge Huo Cong was born near Shanghai, and since I can speak Shanghainese, I can act without an interpreter, which spares us from looking for another person to get involved.