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The brigadier said amiably: "Do any of you men have any questions?"
Fitz gave him a glare, but it was too late. Billy said: "I haven't read nothing about this in the papers. "
Fitz replied: "Like many military missions, it is secret, and you will not be allowed to say where you are in your letters home. "
"Are we at war with Russia, sir?"
"No, we are not. " Fitz pointedly looked away from Billy. Perhaps he remembered how Billy had bested him at the peace talks meeting in the Calvary Gospel Hall. "Does anyone other than Sergeant Williams have a question?"
Billy persisted. "Are we trying to overthrow the Bolshevik government?"
There was an angry murmur from the troops, many of whom sympathized with the revolution.
"There is no Bolshevik government," Fitz said with mounting exasperation. "The regime in Moscow has not been recognized by His Majesty the king. "
"Have our mission been authorized by Parliament?"
The brigadier looked troubled-he had not been expecting this type of question-and Captain Evans said: "That's enough from you, Sergeant-let the others have a chance. "
But Fitz was not smart enough to shut up. Apparently it did not occur to him that Billy's debating skills, learned from a radical nonconformist father, might be superior to his own. "Military missions are authorized by the War Office, not by Parliament," Fitz argued.
"So this have been kept secret from our elected representatives!" Billy said indignantly.
Tommy murmured anxiously: "Careful, now, butty. "
"Necessarily," said Fitz.
Billy ignored Tommy's advice-he was too angry now. He stood up and said in a clear, loud voice: "Sir, is what we're doing legal?"
Fitz colored, and Billy knew he had scored a hit.
Fitz began: "Of course it is-"
"If our mission have not been approved by the British people or the Russian people," Billy interrupted, "how can it be legal?"
Captain Evans said: "Sit down, Sergeant. This isn't one of your bloody Labour Party meetings. One more word and you'll be on a charge. "
Billy sat down, satisfied. He had made his point.
Fitz said: "We have been invited here by the All-Russia Provisional Government, whose executive arm is a five-man directory based at Omsk, at the western edge of Siberia. And that," Fitz finished, "is where you're going next. "
{III}
It was dusk. Lev Peshkov waited, shivering, in a freight yard in Vladivostok, the ass end of the Trans-Siberian Railway. He wore an army greatcoat over his lieutenant's uniform, but Siberia was the coldest place he had ever been.
He was furious to be in Russia. He had been lucky to escape, four years ago, and even luckier to marry into a wealthy American family. And now he was back-all because of a girl. What's wrong with me? he asked himself. Why can't I be satisfied?
A gate opened, and a cart drawn by a mule came out of the supply dump. Lev jumped onto the seat beside the British soldier who was driving it. "Aye, aye, Sid," said Lev.
"Wotcher," said Sid. He was a thin man of about forty with a perpetual cigarette and a prematurely lined face. A Cockney, he spoke English with an accent quite different from that of South Wales or upstate New York. At first Lev had found him hard to understand.
"Have you got the whisky?"
"Nah, just tins of cocoa. "
Lev turned around, leaned into the cart, and pulled back a corner of the tarpaulin. He was almost certain Sid was joking. He saw a cardboard box marked: "Fry's Chocolate and Cocoa. " He said: "Not much demand for that among the Cossacks. "
"Look underneath. "
