March 14, 1919
In the space of the last ten days, more significant events had crowded into Captain Nikifor Yuryev’s life than in all his previous years combined. It had all begun that day when he was summoned into his commanding officer’s office and informed that had been selected for a very special mission, and without further ado he was whisked into a staff car and taken to the train, which took him to Omsk. Another staff car was waiting there, and soon he was sitting in Miroshnichenko’s office.
“Ah, Captain Yuryev,” said the spy chief. “As you can probably deduce, what is happening here is very important. I don’t have to tell you. You know you wouldn't be here if it was not important. You have been chosen, upon recommendation, to undertake a mission. An important mission, I don’t have to tell you. But I will tell you that it’s a dangerous mission. You won’t be able to talk about it with anyone, of course. Not even your wife. Especially not your wife, if she’s like mine.”
Yuryev laughed, but then was silent for a few seconds, What could the mission possibly be?
He had to say something, so he asked the first question off the top of his head. “Would I be working alone?”
“No,” said Miroshnichenko. “But that’s not the point right now. Do you accept this mission?”
“I’ll have… I’ll have to think about it,” said Yuryev. “What if I tell you in a few days?”
He wasn’t sure why he hesitated. It certainly wasn’t the danger. Yuryev didn’t care about that, not after four years of war. So why was he hesitating? True, his wife Marfa was pregnant. But it wasn’t that either.
Miroshnichenko shook his head. “You have till tonight,” he said. “Think it over. Report back here by 11 o’clock.”
When he reported to Miroshnichenko on the dot of 11 that night, the spy chief seemed uninterested. “Yes?” he asked, looking up from his desk.
“I’ll do it,” said Yuryev.
Miroshnichenko nodded in a detached, unemotional way, as though Yuryev’s response had been the only one possible.
“Wait outside for a moment,” he said. “I want you to meet someone.”
The man to whom Yuryev was introduced fifteen minutes later was tall and somewhat professorial. Adrian Savelievich Bylinkin was middle-aged, with prematurely graying hair and somewhat stooped shoulders. His mouth had a melancholy set to it, though his blue eyes were animated. He was pleasant. More importantly, from the moment they first shook hands, he had a way of talking to Yuryev as if they were well-acquainted.
“You’re going to be reporting to me for this mission,” he said. “Right now we’re still feeling our way through this. You probably have many questions, and I might not have all the answers yet. You’ll have to be patient. Let’s take a walk.”
They walked over to a nearby park and strolled along the dusty path that wound through it.
Later Yuryev realized that even though Bylinkin had told him what his mission would be in the first five minutes, he didn’t really understand it for two more days. In one sense he understood it, but in a deeper, fundamental sense, he didn’t.
Bylinkin said, “We have decided to put together a team to go after the murderers of the Romanovs. We have twenty-five names. Each had a hand in planning the murders. You’re going to kill them. Twenty-five men, one by one. But before we talk about this, let’s talk about procedure.”
The procedure involved cabling Marfa to let her know he would not be home for a few days, then reporting to an address in downtown Omsk. There, in an apartment beneath a dry goods store, he stayed alone with Bylinkin for forty-eight hours. Every now and then Bylinkin would leave for an hour or so during which time another man would stay with Yuryev - “to keep you company,” as Bylinkin put it. He wasn’t much company, though, since never spoke a word: it was clear that he was there to keep an eye on Yuryev and make sure he didn’t leave or use the telephone.
Bylinkin talked operation with Yuryev. The Intelligence Department had given the matter much consideration, Bylinkin said, and decided that the best way to proceed was with a small, self-contained group. A team that was composed of experts in various fields.
The more Bylinkin talked, the more interested and excited Yuryev became.This was big. This was the real thing. He could organize this. With such a mission, he could show them his mettle. But he was careful to reveal none of his enthusiasm to Bylinkin.
It was just as well. Because, at this point, Yuryev still didn’t understand what the mission was really about. He did—but he did not. Understanding came only when, after a short break for lunch, Bylinkin told him to start asking questions.
“This team,” said Yuryev, “do I put it together?”
“No. We have already selected the members.”
“When can I meet them?”
“Patience,” Bylinkin said with a smile, “everything in good time.”
“All right, what are they experts in?”
“Including you, the team consists of fifteen people divided into five squads: ‘A’, a pair of trained killers; ‘Be’, two guards who will shadow the As; ‘I’, two agents who will handle logistics; ‘O’, comprising six agents who form the core of the operation, surveilling targets and establishing an escape route for the A and Be squads; and ‘Kha’, two agents specializing in communications. You’re the team leader. We want everyone to read in Pravda some famous Bolshevik is dead, who knows who blew him up?”
“Are there other teams? Or - - -”
“You’re underprepared. But you’ll figure it out."
And now finally, this afternoon, Yuryev and Bylinkin were driving to an apartment on the outskirts of Omsk to meet the rest of the team. A young, serious-looking girl led them into another room, then closed the door behind them.
The eleven men and four women in the room looked up as they entered. All were dressed casually, except for one who was wearing a suit and tie.
There was a split second of silence. Yuryev and the others were looking at each other.
“Well,” said Bylinkin. He stopped and cleared his throat. “Everybody, I want you to meet Nikifor Mikhailovich. He’s going to be in charge of the mission. Nikifor Mikhailovich, this is your A squad, Mikhail Nikolaevich and Natalia Mikhailovna…”
Yuryev shook hands firmly with Mikhail, but he turned to Bylinkin and asked, “Are you telling me that Natalia Mikhailovna is a trained killer?”
“Yes, sir,” beamed Natalia with pride. “I was trained at a special camp in the Baikal Mountains. Mikhail and I can use suppressed pistols, deliver toxins via injection or food, even strangle someone with a cheese cutter.”
“And this is your Be squad, Feliks Andreevich and Angelika Victorovna…”
“I didn’t realize the Intelligence Department had so many women,” said Yuryev.
“In espionage, like in police work, there is nothing better than having a woman accomplice on hand,” said Bylinkin. “Let’s say you are shadowing a target— say, waiting in a car — and have a lady with you, you are far less likely to be questioned. This is your I squad, Galina Vladimirovna and Zakhar Ruslanovich… your O squad, Artemiy Yevgenievich, Lazar Igorevich, Nikita Anatolievich, Samuil Konstantinovich, Artyem Makarovich and Andrei Vadimovich… and your Kha squad, Tikhon Vasilievich and Olesya Valerievna.”
