The station was full of soldiers. Guardsmen stood almost shoulder to shoulder, barring access to the platform and blocking the view of any accidental passers-by. The Ismailovsky Regiment had drawn on its last reserves to provide enough manpower for this operation, and Lieutenant-Colonel Kutekov had been in service long enough to appreciate how much that meant at a time when men, uniforms, rifles, machine guns and horses were all in short supply. The train now waiting along the platform under the walls of the old fortress was fully manned. Ten freight cars for the infantry – that made two hundred men – four for the machine gun sections, bristling with Maxim barrels in boiler-plated sponsons, two passenger cars for the officers and officials, and the ones in the middle. A second train would travel ahead of them, with soldiers to secure the route and supplies to ensure nobody went hungry on the long journey. It was an insane amount of effort to go through, but the country required it.
Ahead, Dr Shimenovski stepped out of the middle car, accompanied by a cadet, the commander of Taganrog fortress, and his secretary. He seemed content with what he had seen, nodding and signing off on the papers the young man held out.
“We may depart, colonel.” He indicated. “The cargo is complete.”
Nobody had ever mentioned it by name. Seventy tonnes of gold, ingots and coins, loaded into the train over the course of ten hours by hand-picked, reliable soldiers and counted by representatives of the finance ministry, the bank, and the military. This, it had been decided, was the only compromise the French would accept. Now, it would be the task of Kutekov and his detail to bring it across the country to Astrakhan and thence to Abushehr, where it would be taken on board a French vessel. On arrival in Paris, the banks would once again consider Russia a solvent partner,. Or so it was said – whether anyone would buy Russian debt again was uncertain. The regency council insisted on the transfer to secure its international standing as much as its fragile supply of war materials from neutral powers.
“Shall we go, then, Dr Shimenoski?” Kutekov suiggested.
The official nodded, steadying his pince-nez. Rings under his eyes betrayed the fatigue of standing on guard over the cargo for interminable hours.
“I could use some strong tea en route.” He pointed out.
A sentry opened the carriage door for the two men, saluting smartly. He, too, must have been on duty for a while. Kutekov closed and bolted the door from the inside, motioning him away.
“Tea will not be a problem.” The colonel pointed out. “We will not be living as well as in Moscow, but far better than we did at the front. Now, since we will be spending many days together – do you play cards?”
The train shuddered as it slowly gathered speed, making its way out of the station. Four days east, then the river steamers and the Caspian liner… the only secure link to friendly powers. Kutekov shook his head. This was not a place he wanted his mind to go. Carefully, he opened a cupboard and too up two tea glasses. The samovar in the corner was humming, unobtrusively served by an attentive batman. Hot, strong, black and sweet – a soldier’s tea. Shimenovski would have to get used to it.
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