Part 1 (2/2)

'You are traitors. All of you. Traitors to your country.'

The accusation came from the tall officer in the green greatcoat. Though he wore no insignia except a badge of crossed sabres on his peaked cap, there was no mistaking his position of authority. He sat upright on a large heavy-muscled horse, which he controlled effortlessly with an occasional flick of his heel. His eyes were dark and impatient, as if this cargo of White Russians presented him with a task he found distasteful.

'None of you deserve to live,' he said coldly.

A deep moan rose from the crowd. It seemed to sway with shock.

He raised his voice. 'You exploited us. You maltreated us. You believed the time would never come when you would have to answer to us us, the people of Russia. But you were wrong. You were blind. Where is all your wealth now? Where are your great houses and your fine horses now? The tsar is finished and I swear to you that-'

A single voice rose up from somewhere in the middle of the crowd. 'G.o.d bless the tsar. G.o.d protect the Romanovs.'

A shot rang out. The officer's rifle had bucked in his hands. A figure in the front row fell to the ground, a dark stain on the snow.

'That man paid for your your treachery.' His hostile gaze swept over the stunned crowd with contempt. 'You and your kind were parasites on the backs of the starving workers. You created a world of cruelty and tyranny where rich men turned their backs on the cries of the poor. And now you desert your country, like rats fleeing from a burning s.h.i.+p. And you dare to take the youth of Russia with you.' He swung his horse to one side and moved away from the throng of gaunt faces. 'Now you will hand over your valuables.' treachery.' His hostile gaze swept over the stunned crowd with contempt. 'You and your kind were parasites on the backs of the starving workers. You created a world of cruelty and tyranny where rich men turned their backs on the cries of the poor. And now you desert your country, like rats fleeing from a burning s.h.i.+p. And you dare to take the youth of Russia with you.' He swung his horse to one side and moved away from the throng of gaunt faces. 'Now you will hand over your valuables.'

At a nod of his head, the soldiers started to move among the prisoners. Systematically they seized all jewellery, all watches, all silver cigar cases, anything that had any worth, including all forms of money. Insolent hands searched clothing, under arms, inside mouths, and even between b.r.e.a.s.t.s, seeking out the carefully hidden items that meant survival to their owners. Valentina lost the emerald ring secreted in the hem of her dress, while Jens was stripped of his last gold coin in his boot. When it was over, the crowd stood silent except for a dull sobbing. Robbed of hope, they had no voice.

But the officer was pleased. The look of distaste left his face. He turned and issued a sharp command to the man on horseback behind him. Instantly a handful of mounted soldiers began to weave through the crowd, dividing it, churning it into confusion. Valentina clung to the small hand hidden in hers and knew that Jens would die before he released the other one. A faint cry escaped from the child when a big bay horse swung into them and its iron-shod hooves trod dangerously close, but otherwise she hung on fiercely and made no sound.

'What are they doing?' Valentina whispered.

'Taking the men. And the children.'

'Oh G.o.d, no.'

But he was right. Only the old men and the women were ignored. The others were being separated out and herded away. Cries of anguish tore through the frozen wasteland and somewhere on the far side of the train a wolf crept forward on its belly, drawn by the scent of blood.

'Jens, no, don't let them take you. Or her,' Valentina begged.

'Papa?' A small face emerged between them.

'Hush, my love.'

A rifle b.u.t.t thumped into Jens's shoulder just as he flicked his coat back over his daughter's head. He staggered but kept his feet.

'You. Get over there.' The soldier on horseback looked as if he were just longing for an excuse to pull the trigger. He was very young. Very nervous.

Jens stood his ground. 'I am not Russian.' He reached into his inside pocket, moving his hand slowly so as not to unsettle the soldier, and drew out his pa.s.sport.

'See,' Valentina pointed out urgently. 'My husband is Danish.'

The soldier frowned, uncertain what to do. But his commander had sharp eyes. He instantly spotted the hesitation. He kicked his horse forward into the panicking crowd and came up alongside the young private.

'Grodensky, why are you wasting time here?' he demanded.

But his attention was not on the soldier. It was on Valentina. Her face had tilted up to speak to the mounted soldat soldat and her hood had fallen back, revealing a sweep of long dark hair and a high forehead with pale flawless skin. Months of starvation had heightened her cheekbones and made her eyes huge in her face. and her hood had fallen back, revealing a sweep of long dark hair and a high forehead with pale flawless skin. Months of starvation had heightened her cheekbones and made her eyes huge in her face.

The officer dismounted. Up close, they could see he was younger than he had appeared on horseback, probably still in his thirties, but with the eyes of a much older man. He took the pa.s.sport and studied it briefly, his gaze flicking from Valentina to Jens and back again.

'But you,' he said roughly to Valentina, 'you are Russian?'

Behind them shots were beginning to sound.

'By birth, yes,' she answered without turning her head to the noise. 'But now I am Danish. By marriage.' She wanted to edge closer to her husband, to hide the child more securely between them, but did not dare move. Only her fingers tightened on the tiny cold hand in hers.

Without warning, the officer's rifle slammed into Jens's stomach and he doubled over with a grunt of pain, but immediately another blow to the back of his head sent him sprawling onto the snow. Blood spattered its icy surface.

Valentina screamed.

Instantly she felt the little hand pull free of her own and saw her daughter throw herself at the officer's legs with the ferocity of a spitting wildcat, biting and scratching in a frenzy of rage. As if in slow motion, she watched the rifle b.u.t.t start to descend toward the little head.

'No,' she shouted and s.n.a.t.c.hed the child up into her arms before the blow could fall. But stronger hands tore the young body from her grasp.

'No, no, no!' she screamed. 'She is a Danish child. She is not a Russian.'

'She is is Russian,' the officer insisted and drew his revolver. 'She fights like a Russian.' Casually he placed the gun barrel at the centre of the child's forehead. Russian,' the officer insisted and drew his revolver. 'She fights like a Russian.' Casually he placed the gun barrel at the centre of the child's forehead.

The child froze. Only her eyes betrayed her fear. Her little mouth was clamped shut.

'Don't kill her, I beg you,' Valentina pleaded. 'Please don't kill her. I'll do . . . anything . . . anything. If you let her live.'

A deep groan issued from the crumpled figure of her husband at her feet.

'Please,' she begged softly. She undid the top b.u.t.ton of her coat, not taking her eyes from the officer's face. 'Anything.'

The Bolshevik commander reached out a hand and touched her hair, her cheek, her mouth. She held her breath. Willing him to want her. And for a fleeting moment she knew she had him. But when he glanced around at his watching men, all of them l.u.s.ting for her, hoping their turn would be next, he shook his head.

'No. You are not worth it. Not even for soft kisses from your beautiful lips. No. It would cause too much trouble among my troops.' He shrugged. 'A shame.' His finger tightened on the trigger.

'Let me buy her,' Valentina said quickly.

When he turned his head to stare at her with a frown that brought his heavy eyebrows together, she said again, 'Let me buy her. And my husband.'

He laughed. The soldiers echoed the harsh sound of it. 'With what?'

'With these.' Valentina thrust two fingers down her throat and bent over as a gush of warm bile swept up from her empty stomach. In the center of the yellow smear of liquid that spread out on the snow's crust lay two tiny cotton packages, each no bigger than a hazelnut. At a gesture from the officer, a bearded soldier scooped them up and handed them to him. They sat, dirty and damp, in the middle of his black glove.

Valentina stepped closer. 'Diamonds,' she said proudly.

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