Cold Blood by James Fleming

Prodt was.
    Up the steps he laboured towards Lenin and Trotsky. He was making heavy weather of it. He’d put on weight while his leg was healing.
    I’d hoped... I can’t tell you what exactly. That I’d catch Glebov alone in an office or in the darkness of the night, something like that. As it was, he had only to raise his eyes and I was butchers’ meat. I was up there with Lenin, Trotsky and Zinoviev, me and my tray of mushrooms. Just the four of us, the soldiers and my tormentor being a few yards away in the opposite direction.
    I heard the hiss of Elizaveta’s indrawn breath and a little catch in her voice as she whispered in my ear, “I know that man. Now’s not the place for heroics, Charlie. Scoot and make it fast.”
    He was wearing a military cap with a scarlet band. His mouth was working. He was in pain from his leg, was having to use a stick. I
had
to study him. I was unable to do otherwise—for a few seconds I was hypnotised and stared at him in the most obvious way. Then Lenin and Trotsky moved forward to greet him. I heard the smooth, welcoming tones of their voices—and came to my senses.
    â€œRight you are, Lizochka, scoot’s the word,” and I melted away, sliding behind one of Smolny’s bright blue pillars.
    Lenin must have seen the movement from the corner of his eye. He called out to me, “Sepp of Estonia, you’ve nothing further to give us. You’ve played your part. So go back to your city and tell them that tonight the proletariat has triumphed. Yes, Mr Arno, triumphed!” He raised his fist in salute. “Tell them that, Mr Arno Sepp.”
    Reed had his arms outspread to embrace Lenin. He was stilla step or two below him. Glebov was tucked into Reed’s shadow. The American shouted, “Kerensky’s had enough! Fled! The revolution’s certain!” He got to the top—skipped the last two steps in one.
    He embraced Lenin and then Trotsky. Suddenly, as he stood back, the whole tableau shifted and regrouped so that I was no longer concealed. I was out there in the open. No more than thirty feet separated me from Glebov.
    I looked down as if searching for a coin I’d just dropped— risked another glance. He had four steps to go, was leaning heavily on his stick, still had his head down. When he got to the top he’d take a breather, then he’d line up beside Lenin and Trotsky. The three of them would face out over Smolny Square to field the applause and unburden themselves of a few speeches. I’d be up there with them, only feet away—tall, young, distinctive—
    â€œFor Christ sake, Charlie,
scoot
!”
    There’ll be a musical direction for how I walked down those steps: neither too fast nor too slow. But no such direction can speak of what was going on between my shoulder blades.
    I said to my wife without lip movement, “Make my spine narrower. Armour-plate it or something. Don’t just sit up there and pray for me, woman, help.” And she did. She must have.
    I’d left my mushroom tray on the table at which my tormentor sat: had set it down to prove to him that it didn’t hold a grenade. He flung it after me with a shout, “Take it with you, trickster.” It clattered down the steps and struck my heel. Should I pick it up? I did, thinking, Glebov can’t fail to look now. I said to Elizaveta, “Preserve me from a common death. I want to die in a rocket, tearing through the heavens towards you, not from a bullet in the back fired by the man who led your rape.”
    I took longer than I needed to get the strap snug round my neck. I was Sepp the mushroom seller, not a spy. I couldn’t afford to show what a hurry I was in. Then I continued down the steps.
    Here is a curiosity worth mentioning: that all the time this was happening, which was about two minutes, I had a really strong itch in the centre of my back, exactly where Glebov would have aimed,