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CHAPTER 5
1891 ABYSINNIAN ADVENTURE
The book in the dressing table drawer did contain names and addresses of contacts, and the Tsar had no hesitation in either ordering an execution for a military offender, or lifelong exile in Siberia for civilians.
The next day Tsar Alexander summoned Max to his Imperial Presence. As Max walked along the ornate corridors of the Anitchkov Palace Chevalier Gardes, in white uniforms with silver breastplates and silver eagle-crested helmets and Cossack Life Guards in scarlet tunics, snapped to attention as he passed by. On this occasion the Tsar was accompanied by his Empress, Marie Feodorovna, a small, dark-eyed woman of great vivacity. When the major-domo presented Max he entered, briskly, injured arm in a sling. The Tsar's booming voice said "Ah, here, my dear, is the young hero you wished to meet. Approach us, Fliegel-Adjutant."
Max stood before his monarch and Empress. Marie Feodorovna extended her hand, and Max bent low and brushed his lips against the back of her hand. "Charming, quite charming." the Danish-born Empress said, eyes drinking in Max's tall, spare figure, resplendent once again in his uniform of His Majesty's Hussar Guards. "I hope," she added gently, "that your injury is not serious."
"No, Your Majesty, it is nothing. The surgeon assures me I will be fit for duty very soon."
"That is good, Fliegel-Adjutant, as I have an unusual task for you to perform." the Tsar interposed.
Max's interest was caught. "Sire?"
The Tsar indicated for Max to be seated at a table, where he and the Empress also sat.
"You may be aware of the developing political situation in Abysinnia -" the Tsar looked at Max, who raised a questioning eyebrow. "The new Emperor, Menelik, is in dispute with the Italian Government, who have claimed suzerainty over his country. The Emperor does not wish the Italian Government to totally command his country's future, and has requested a dialogue with me on the matter. It would be strategically important for Russia to gain a foothold in that country, especially as the British appear to be uninterested in the area. I have been sending Nicholas around Europe, and now the Empress and I think it advisable to send him and my younger son George on a long cruise to aid George's health. The cruise will go through the Suez Canal and on to India and Japan. The opportunity to stop off at Abysinnia would be an excellent diplomatic exercise. Nicholas is besotted with girls - Princess Alix of Hesse, and that dancer Mathilde Kschessinka. We both think that it would be best for him to be away for a while. Do you have a lady friend, Fliegel-Adjutant?"
Taken by surprise, Max stumbled "N-no, Sire." whilst an image of Lisa flashed in his mind.
"Good, good. Don't know how long this little trip will take you. Yes, you, sir. You will be accompanying Nicholas as his personal bodyguard. You will be sailing in the Imperial Yacht 'Polar Star' from Yalta, through Suez to the Abysinnian port of Massawa. The Emperor will meet Nicholas in Asmara. However, there is another - ah - task - that I would have you perform. These -assassins -" the Tsar's face worked, coloured suddenly with emotion - "who blew up my father. One of them, of Italian extraction, has escaped to Abysinnia. Our Foreign Agency reliably informs me that he is resident in Asmara, the capital of Eritrea. Need I say more, Fliegel-Adjutant?"
"No, Sire." Max leaned forward, arms on the table. "How may I recognise him?"
Wordlessly, the Tsar slid a sketch across the table. "He goes by the name of Giorgio Camilla - if he hasn't changed it again."
"If he has, Sire, it will be for the last time." Max's voice was smooth, dark, his head tilted to the side, chin jutting in determination and assurance as he looked at the likeness of the man he had to kill.
The Tsar laughed loudly. "I like your style, young man. If your mission is successful, you will be handsomely rewarded. Now go, make your preparations. You father will brief you fully." Max rose to take his leave. "And - take care of my son." Max snapped a salute, and departed.
---oo0oo---
Max boarded the Imperial Yacht 'Polar Star' at Yalta under cover of night with false papers endorsed with the Imperial Seal. Only the Captain of the vessel and Tsarevich Nicholas knew of his presence and he stayed below decks for the duration of the journey.
The Italian port authorities at Massawa in Abysinnia viewed the arrival in the harbour of a large, ocean-going yacht with suspicion, but the 'Polar Star' was travelling with its name obliterated and was sailing under a flag of convenience. Crewmen and passengers alike had all been furnished with differing papers - some Greek, some Hungarian and some Russian - in order to confuse the officials. During the night, Max was smuggled off the ship on a small tender sailed personally by the Captain. He waded ashore and was on his own until the Tsarevich was due to disembark later that morning. On the outskirts of the town he would join Nicholas and they would ride alone together to Asmara, where Emperor Menelik would meet them. The port was bustling with merchants, trading in fish, cloth and dairy produce.
During his time alone, Max was able to make contact with one of the Foreign Agency's informants whom his father had told him to meet. The small town's streets were baked dry with the hot sun, and Max wished he was wearing something less conspicuous than a European-style suit. The streets and clay-and-wattle huts were unnamed and, in the darkness, Max took his time until he was quite sure he had the right hut. As dawn was breaking, he brushed the curtain covering the entrance aside, his eyes, already accustomed to the dark, flicking round the interior. A man and woman lay on a straw paliasse, asleep. However the man, perhaps wakened by the draught, spun and was on his feet, naked except for a loincloth, an evil-looking knife in his hand. The language he spoke was unfamiliar to Max, who simply said "Nozh." The man put his knife down. "So," he spoke in Russian "you have come at last." The woman turned in her sleep and the man motioned Max outside. "My name is Mahmoud -Sharif Mahmoud, and I am yours to assist." he made a courteous bow.
"You have information for me." Max spoke in low tones.
"The man you seek is in Asmara - I can take you to his abode."
"First, Mahmoud, I would like you to supply me with more - ah -suitable clothing; on my arrival there I will wish to be as inconspicuous as possible, you understand."
"I shall have a burnous ready for you."
"Good. I shall be riding all day today with my companion, whom I shall leave in other's capable hands whilst I complete my task."
"I shall ride on before you, Nozh, and meet you - here." he supplied Max with a map of the town, and an 'X' to mark the rendezvous point.
---oo0oo---
A few hours later a European tourist on a white Arabic horse rode out of Massawa. A tall, dark man rode at his side, mounted on a magnificent black steed.
"Sire, I suggest we do not dally - we have a long ride ahead and treacherous country to pass. I hear the road up the mountainside is shifta territory ..."
"Shifta?" asked Nicholas.
"Bandits, Sire, of the cut-throat variety."
"You've been here before, Max?"
"No, Sire, merely read available books on the area. Makes fascinating reading ..." and he gave Tsarevich Nicholas a potted history of the area and of the man he was going to meet.
The journey across country was uneventful and, as the Tigrean sun set, the two travellers rode their tired horses into Asmara.
The Emperor's small palace was located on a hill just outside the small town. With architecture of the Moorish design of high arches and minarets pointing to the sky, its white stone appeared honey- gold in the last light of day. As they rode into the courtyard attendants took their horses and escorted them first to wash the dust of the road from their clothes, then led them both into the Emperor's presence. A small, wiry man with a long beard and dark, intelligent eyes, he rose and came forward to welcome his distinguished guests.
"Welcome, welcome to my humble abode." his voice was thick and he spoke French with a Tigrean accent. "Pray to take food with me, gentle sirs. We will talk in the morning, after you have enjoyed much rest." The meal was served and consisted of the national dish of Injera, which was circular bread, followed by Zegeni - curried stew of chicken with hard-boiled eggs, flavoured with red pepper and other spices. The guests were also grateful for the unintoxicating local beer, called Talla, and the excellent coffee, which is drunk bitter and is served in double-handed pottery jugs like a carafe. They were entertained by musicians playing a lyre and tambourine, with a prayer stick to mark the beat. Feeling refreshed, Menelik and his wife, Empress Taitu, showed their guests to sleeping quarters. Both rooms were bright and airy with cushions on the floor as a bed. With much bowing and polite wishes for a good sleep, the Emperor and Empress left both men to rest, mounting an armed guard of two giant Danakil tribesmen on each door. There was, however, no rest for Max. News was doubtless out that two visitors had entered the Palace and speed of action was essential before his prey realised that anything unusual was planned.
Although the Palace was well guarded, this proved no problem for a young, agile, highly-trained member of the Russian Ochrana, and Max made contact with Mahmoud at the appointed time and place. Mahmoud supplied him with a black burnous and head cloth. With the light beard that Max had grown since the start of the journey from Yalta, he looked very Arabic. Mahmoud led him through the dark, unfamiliar, evil-smelling streets and, pointing out the house, melted into the shadows. Max was on his own.
The house was in a rich part of the small town and was a one-storey building. It was unlit. Circling round the outside in the deserted street, Max tried to gain access but, for an ordinary house, it was surprisingly well locked up. He produced a thin file from the small wallet of equipment he was carrying, and gained entry by a window quickly and silently. Dropping agilely onto his feet, he looked round for the door to the hallway and, with cat-like stealth, he reached it in a few strides. Gently opening the door just enough for him to see out, the silent hallway revealed a stairwell and two other rooms. He paused for a moment but heard no sounds, so he stepped out of the room. A sudden swish of clothing behind him made him spin round, but the cudgel crashed onto his skull and he fell unconscious to the floor.
He came to slowly to the hum of deep, whispered speech. His head hurt abominably and he could feel blood trickling down his neck. With tremendous willpower he remained motionless. He was lying on his side, hogtied, with his arms and feet tied together round his back in an exceedingly uncomfortable position. Keeping his eyes tight shut and his breathing even lest someone was sitting watching over him, he strained his hearing to try to make out what was being said. French! They were talking in French!
"Right!" said a voice with a strong Italian accent. "Are we ready to move? We must strike now, while it is dark and while they are recovering from their banquet!"
"Oui, Giorgio, we are ready - but what about him?"
There was a pause whilst Giorgio walked over towards Max, bending down to shake him on the shoulder. Max appeared still to be unconscious. Giorgio grunted "Huh! You must have hit him harder than you thought, Laszlo. Maybe you kill him -" Giorgio put his hand to Max's chest, feeling for a heartbeat and finding one. "No - he's still alive,but his heart is beating very quickly. We'll leave him - with any luck he'll be dead by the time we get back - save us the bother, hey? There was nothing on him except the tools for breaking and entering, and this pretty Italian knife. He's only a sneak thief, out for what he can get. Come on men, let's mobilise the shifta."
With a flash of insight Max realised what he had stumbled onto. Here was the exact same revolutionary cell that had successfully killed a Russian Tsar, and now they were in the pay of the Italian Government and about to carry out an attempt to depose Emperor Menelik! He had to escape, warn the Palace - but how? Max could hear six pairs of footsteps leaving the house, and then silence.
He cautiously opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor in the hallway near the main door to the street. With his arms and legs tied together round his back, it made movement of any kind almost impossible. He started to rock onto his chest, and managed to get to his knees. His knife had been confiscated. There was a table with an earthenware pot. With a supreme effort he reached the table and, by lying across it, he was able to overturn it, knocking the pot to the floor where it smashed into shards. He grasped one of the sharp shards and started to saw his way through his bonds. He felt blood sticky on his hands and wrists where the sharp edges slipped and cut his skin. Come on! Come on! Break, dammit. And then, suddenly, the bonds snapped and he was free. Untying his feet swiftly, he looked to find his knife, but it was nowhere to be seen. No matter, no time. It took a few moments for the circulation to return to his limbs. He must return to the Palace before these mercenaries mobilised the entire bandit community with a view to usurping the Emperor. The Tsarevich! If there was an attack on the Palace, His Highness was in supreme danger! How could he get back in time? Frantically he looked for a horse, but there were none, only a lowly donkey, which would make far too much noise, even if he got it going. No, he would have to run. His head was pounding, he was seeing double, but his strong will drove him on, up towards the Palace.
He watched every corner, every shadow in his flight through the mud brick built town. Behind him he could hear many voices and the stamping of impatient horses' hooves. So little time! They were coming!
Approaching the Palace grounds, he realised he could not gain entrance to the Palace through the sentry-guarded gates as he had sneaked out to carry out his mission of death earlier in the night. He went round the back of the Palace to the place he had exited and, taking a run, he leaped up as high as he could reach and grasped the top of the wall. Round the front he heard two muffled shouts as the bandits, experts themselves at guerilla attacks, disposed of the two sleepy guards and started breaking down the gates. His strength was waning and he banged his head again against the wall in a supreme effort to haul himself up and over, succeeding, he fell over the other side, knocking the breath from his lungs. He lay stunned for a moment then, with a groan, hauled himself to his feet and, with a stumbling run, gained access to the Palace. How to warn them of the danger at their door? Suddenly he heard a horn sounding repeatedly. No need - the Palace guard was alerted, and, as they spilled out in disarray, pulling on clothes and weapons, Max ran for the Tsarevich's room. The guard on his door had joined in the general alert and Max burst into Nicholas' s room unannounced.
"Sire! Sire! Quickly, Sire, the Palace is under attack!" The sound of the horn had awakened the sleepy Tsarevich, and he was sitting on the bed with his legs over the side, rubbing his eyes.
"Max! What on earth happened to you?" he asked, aghast at his companion's bloodstained appearance.
"No time to explain, Sire, arm yourself!" The sound of fighting was approaching them in the corridors, and Max looked around quickly for the best way to protect his very important charge. There was a large scimitar as a wall decoration. He removed it from its mounting, hefting it to familiarise himself with its unusual balance. "Out the window, Sire, quickly!"
The door burst open suddenly. A scimitar-wielding shifta roared a challenge, and Max faced the man and engaged in swordplay, quickly gaining supremacy and slashing the sword deep into the bandit's neck. Another two came through the door, and the Tsarevich, pistol in hand, got a clear sight of one of them. His pistol spat flame and the bandit collapsed, a bullet through his brain. Max recognised the other man - it was Grigori Camillo. Despite his exhaustion, he smiled as he realised his opportunity to carry out his mission had arrived. "Well, Signor Camillo," he said in Russian, "We meet at last!" His scimitar flashed in the dawn light.
"You! The sneak thief! How did you get free?" Camillo circled his adversary, sword at the ready.
"That is not important. What is important is this!" and he lunged forward under Camillo's guard, the tip of the scimitar piercing the man's heart. "That -" he said as he pulled the sword out of the dying man's body, "is for Tsar Alexander!"
Camillo crashed to the ground, dead. Max turned to the Tsarevich. "Quick, Sire, out of the window before more come through!" But he was too late - two more bandits came through the door, both armed with bows and arrows. The Tsarevich's back was unprotected as he climbed up and out. Instinctively, facing the assailants, Max flung himself in front of Nicholas' s exposed back, then staggered against him as the double impact of two arrows penetrated right through his body, one above the other, just below the ribs on his left side. He paused for a moment, one hand clutching between the two arrow shafts as he looked down in surprise then, with a gasp, fell to the floor, lying on his injured side. Nicholas, before the bandits had time to loose another couple of arrows at him, shot them dead, then knelt at the side of his seriously injured protector, looking with horror at the two arrows sticking through his side. He was still conscious. "Go ... Sire!" he groaned and coughed, the salt taste of blood in his mouth. "Save the Monarchy!"
"I think you just have, Max." Nicholas's voice was gentle, compassionate, as he cradled Max's head in his lap.
Palace guards burst into the room, quickly followed by Emperor Menelik. The sounds of battle had ceased outside - the attempted coup had failed, with the death of Camillo and his henchmen as well as a number of the shifta who, on sensing defeat, had melted into the dawn.
"Help him, Menelik - he saved my life!"
Menelik knelt beside Max, who had mercifully lost consciousness at last. He motioned for two of his burly guards to go for assistance.
Max regained consciousness gradually. He was lying on his back on a soft bed in a cool, airy room in the Palace. His head was swathed in bandages and his side hurt abominably, but he was still alive, to his own surprise. A tiny groan escaped his lips as he tried to open his eyes and the daylight hurt them.
"Max! Max!" the familiar voice of the Tsarevich whispered insistently, and Max felt the warmth of a hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes a little bit and attempted a smile. "You're going to be all right, Max."
"Yes." and he closed his eyes and slept.
---oo0oo---
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