'
Just wait a minute.' The man walked away and left him sitting in the foyer. Ten minutes later he returned and asked Georgii to follow him. They walked down to the basement of the building. The man told him to wait there and then he walked off. Whilst he was gone Georgii reflected. He knew that he was sailing very close to the wind but he simply had to come up with something. It was a long shot in the dark really but, he reasoned, if you don't ask you don't get! The young man returned.
'
I'm sorry we have nothing,' the man said.
With that Georgii thanked him and left.
He went home and went to bed. The place was freezing cold. Bed in January was the best place to be. He fell asleep.
There was a knock on the door.
The knock-knock-knocking persisted. Georgii dragged himself out of bed and opened it. Rubbing the dust out of his eyeballs he looked on in disbelief. It was a sight for the sorest of eyes. Standing there was his old friend, General Alexsei Brusilov and, not only that, he had a damn horse with him!
Chapter Three
'General Brusilov'! You don't know how good it is to see you! Come on in, come in ...' Georgii said, stretching his arms out wide, his voice barely concealed his excitement. 'Bring in your friend ...' Georgii said, wondering how he'd got the old nag past Rezhnikov; 'after all ... what's mine is yours.'
Both me
n hugged each other and then the General walked in waving his finger, 'Less of the General, Georgii! Remember, rank has been abolished ... we are all equal now ... comrade will do', he said, leading the horse behind him. He stood in the centre of the room and took stock of the situation. The horse eyed Georgii's straw mat.
For a moment Georgii eyed the
old cavalry officer up and down. He was exactly as he remembered him. The whiskers on his moustache poked out, defiantly, in both directions; the smile was still there, and so were the crafty eyes. Even though the lapels on his trench coat had long been removed, Georgii could see why some referred to the general as 'The Russian Tiger'.
'
You've done well Georgii Radetzky. You've done well 'Comrade' in these exalted times. You've done very well indeed ...' Then they both broke down into uncontrollable laughter and hugged each other again.
'
Sit down old friend ... have a drink, I have some bottles of Polish vodka that I rescued from a raid on an illegal bootlegger. Now where is it? Aah, here it is.' Georgii pulled up a loose floorboard and grabbed hold of the bottle. He then got hold of two glasses, blew the dust out of them, and poured himself and the general, two good measures into the glasses.
'
Well Georgii, what have you been doing with yourself since you ran out on me in seventeen?' The old man leant back in his chair.
Georgii sat down and told him the story.
He told him that he had not runout, but had contracted malaria during the latter part of that summer's ill fated offensive. He tried to hang on but, as retreat turned into rout, he, and he was one of the lucky ones, had been sent to a sanatorium to convalesce. He also told 'The General' that by the time he had got out of the place, Kerensky was gone and the Bolsheviks were in. Like many others that winter, Georgii had had to rely on friends to pull a few strings for him.
The pair carried on drinking
and chatted long into the night. The horse had bedded itself down by the fireplace. This amused Georgii, even though there was no fire, the horse itself liked the idea of sleeping by the empty grate. He thought maybe it reminded him of warmer and kinder days; a time when living was not so hard. The Old Cavalry man got up, threw a blanket over the beast and then told Georgii his side of the story.
'
Georgii ... when did I last see you? August, September of sixteen? You know I can't remember, but it must have been after we were all sold down the river by those forelock-tugging Generals of the Provisional Government that used to hang on and curtsey to 'Darling Nicky's' every word. After the failure of Galicia, and I'll be honest with you Georgii, there was nothing more that I could do. The Bolsheviks sabotaged us at every stage of the game. Just like in sixteen I know when I'm beaten ... check mate, game over.'
The Old General took a long hard gulp from his glass.
Georgii waited for him to carry on.
'
There comes a point when you know it's all over. When I was a young boy growing up in Georgia an old man once said to me, I've never forgotten it, that you sometimes have to walk through the mountains to get out onto the plane. Once you have done this, you turn around and look behind you, to see exactly what's going on. And that is exactly what I did; I turned around and looked back and do you know what, the old man was right, it all became so very clear. There was nothing more that I could do, Georgii ... I was relieved when they dismissed me. For the first time I could get on with the things that I wanted to do! I could be the master of my own, not others, destiny!'
'
What did you do after the Provisional Government?'
'
Why I came back here, there was nowhere else for me to go. I came back to my family, and kept my head down low, and watched and waited ... I suffered the indignity of becoming a non-person for a while. People spat at me and my wife, when we were out on the street. Lenin's bullyboys evicted us from where we lived on more than one occasion. Three times it happened, and three times we were only given a moment's notice. During this period we lived on the goodwill of friends!' Brusilov said.
'
General ... I have no great love for Tsar or Bolshevik or even Kerensky for that matter. But you are no enemy of Russia; I would have thought that they would have recognised that. After all you were one of the first to tell Nicholas, 'The Bloody', to abdicate.'
'
Indeed I was one of the first, but not the very first. 'Brusilov carried on with his story.' Things began to settle down and find somewhere to live. I managed to pull a few strings and we got ourselves a place like this. Then two weeks ago I got a letter summoning me to go to the Kremlin for an interview. It was with Lev Trotsky, the very man that had made my position untenable back in seventeen. Can you believe it!' The old man stopped and recomposed himself. He carried on, 'They want me to work for them in the Red Army. Organise 'The Cavalry'. They say that I can have anything that I want. They have given me this old nag to ride around on and they have made me a comrade again. So tomorrow I get back to doing the only thing I know ... that's soldiering; non person yesterday, good comrade, with all the perks, today!'
The
night wore on and they chatted Georgii produced another bottle that was quickly disposed of. But there was one question that had been niggling away at him. He asked the general why he chose to side himself with 'The Reds' when 'The Whites' seemed the obvious choice. Alexeii Brusilov replied that 'The Whites' had executed his son the previous summer and that was why he did not, and would not, ally himself with them. Looking at his watch, it was quarter past four, Georgii stood up and shook the old man's hand. He showed him to the bedroom. Brusilov protested but Georgii insisted that he would sleep on the settee. The old man said one last thing.
'
The Bolshie's have said that I can have anything that I want if I help them to win this bloody civil war. I want you to come back and work for me. I want the best adjutant I've ever had to come back and work for me. Just like the old days when we were marching on the road to Gorlice.'
'
I would like nothing more than to come back and work for you! But I cannot, I just cannot go back into the army. I still taste the taste of, and dream the dreams of defeat, when we had to retreat from Gorlice with our coat tails hanging between our legs.'
'
I understand Georgii, I share those same sentiments. I live with the memory of those whom we left behind. I do understand ... I really do.'
'
One other thing General! Does the word Kevshor mean anything to you?'
'
I'm not sure ... But weren't they connected to the 'Knight's Templar' or something like that? I'll be honest with you, I can only just remember hearing of them! I think they were Georgian, I'm really not too sure.' The old cavalryman said.
'
A toast,' Georgii said; adding, 'If you can't beat 'em, join 'em!' With that the old man shook Georgii's hand and went to bed.
Next morning Georgii woke up, he had overslept and was severely hung over.
Brusilov and the horse were gone, and so was the straw mat. On the table was a letter. He picked it up and read it ...
Dear Georgii,
I have always thought of you as my other son. I
'
m sorry that I could not persuade you to take up the offer of the adjutants post, but maybe it
'
s for the best, in the future we will get the chance to work again.
I
'
m sorry that I did not contact you sooner, but in these times there are those who imply guilt through association. You have to be careful what you say and to whom you say it. You are definitely right when you say,
'
Same old crooks, different uniforms.
'
The only way to survive now is to wear their uniforms, and I can see that you and I have done exactly that. Survival is the name of the game. Great minds think alike!! Once again thank you for your hospitality.
Your friend and servant.
Aleksei Brusilov
Georgii put the letter down.
The general was a remarkable man; there was no doubt about it. 'The Russian Tiger' had almost won the war! The great tragedy was his own side had betrayed him. When he had asked for help they had all stabbed him in the back. Georgii put his trench coat on and went to work. He would not see the general for a long time.
Chapter Four
He slid into the office, and sat down. Georgii looked at Vasiliev's tidy desk. Whilst he stared at it he became aware that Trofimov was calling him to come over to her office. He walked in and shut the door behind him.
'
Do you remember what I said to you Comrade Radetzky about running everything past me,' she asked condescendingly.
'
Yes I do,' he replied wondering where all this was leading.
'
Well I've had a phone call from Cheka H.Q. saying that you were over there yesterday researching on The Kevshors, whoever '
they
' might be. Certainly I don't remember giving you permission to do this. The only thing I authorised was your day off sick!' She said.
The tirade continued
but Georgii thought back to something she had said earlier in the conversation. He thought back to her emphasis on the word '
they
'. Trofimov suddenly changed her tune. She finished off giving him a bollocking and told him not to do it again, or, at least, let her know what he was doing rather than the Cheka having to tell her. Strange thing was she did not ask him as to why he was there. Maybe she was losing her grip, he thought.
'
Comrade Radetzky, remember these are strange times and, if allegations are made against you, and you cannot corroborate as to where you were, then a Peoples Commissar might just, conveniently, throw the book at you! You need friends, Georgii, don't do it all on your own!' She said.
Back at his desk, he sat and thought.
Had she been speaking to him in code? The emphasis on the '
they
', and to doing everything on his own. Maybe he was reading too much into the conversation. Maybe she was going soft in the head! He started sifting through his overflowing in-tray. As he went through it, he realised that the paperwork was not as he had left it. More importantly, at the bottom of it a brown file had been concealed. He discreetly opened the file. The contents were astonishing:
CHEKA File: Ref 06851YD3.
Kevshors.
The Kevshors are a secret religious order of self styled Knights originating in Georgia around 1150.
They are closely linked with the Maltese Knights and The Knights Templar. All members have one distinguishable marking. There is a tattoo of a cross inbetween two shields tattooed on their right armpit: (+).
For centuries they have wandered the southern borde
r regions performing good deeds such as giving money and food to the poor, healing the sick and taking in orphaned children.
By the eighteenth century this nomadic group was in decline.
They no longer were to be seen wandering around in their chain mail uniforms sporting their crosses of Saint George. All reference to The Kevshors seemed to disappear from Georgian folklore and history. Very few were left and those that remained had by and large, been consigned to the remote region near the Chechen border.
By the late nineteenth century The Kevshor Knights seemed to be going through some kind of resurgence.
But it was a strange kind of renaissance. This time, they seemed to be moving into the areas of crime: vice, blackmail, armed robbery and black marketeering. Black-marketeering being the favourite. Various regional police reports of the time confirm this.