“The Bolsheviks. To stop counterrevolutionaries. But I know where the detonators are.”
“Ah. And you’d be willing to sell this information?”
The man huffed. “I’m not a mercenary. I’m an officer who was almost murdered when the Bolsheviks convinced my soldiers that the war was hopeless and discipline was something that could disappear with the tsar. And you aren’t a native Russian. I can tell by your words. A Czech, by chance? That’s who the Bolsheviks seem most keen on stopping.”
Filip glanced at the man with the knife, then back at the former Russian officer. “It seems we have a common adversary.”
“If you were to tell me the legion’s plans, we could coordinate our efforts.”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss them.” Refusal could backfire but not as badly as sharing plans with a false ally could.
The man didn’t show anger. He continued calmly. “The tracks to Yekaterinburg. We can cut them. You’re already occupying the tracks to Chelyabinsk. And the ones to the east. We have an opportunity to cut the Bolsheviks off and destroy them.”
Filip pictured the map in his head. Two rail lines ran from the west and joined at Omsk, one more northerly, through Perm, Yekaterinburg, and Tyumen; the other followed a more southern route, through Samara, Ufa, and Chelyabinsk. After joining at Omsk, they continued east past Lake Baikal until the line split again at Chita. Filip’s group of legionnaires held the southern line to the west of Omsk, and another group of legionnaires held part of the track to the east. If this man could cut the third and final line into Omsk . . .
Surrounding the Bolsheviks was appealing, but Filip had to be cautious. “It sounds promising, to cut them off.”
The man’s lips twitched. A smile? “Will you join us?”
“Our goal is to move all our men east, not to interfere with internal Russian affairs.”
“You may want neutrality, but it seems the Bolsheviks have gone to war with you.”
That was true enough. “And we will fight back, but only as needed.”
“For now.” The man held out his hand. “Kirill Sokolov.” He nodded at the other man. “Yuri Fedorov.”
Filip shook both their hands. “Filip Sedlák.”
“If you need us again, one of us is usually by the bridge. But take care. The Bolsheviks are executing anyone they want to get rid of.”
***
Filip didn’t have the authority to promise Sokolov or Fedorov anything, but cooperation made sense. The legion wanted the Bolsheviks off the railway. The White Russians wanted more than that—they wanted the Bolsheviks out of Russia—but the two could, in theory, cooperate when it came to the Bolsheviks in Omsk.
Filip left the city and rode for a time, then slowed his horse when he was confident no Bolsheviks tracked him. Three figures took shape in the distance. Two stood. The other hunched and moved around something on the ground. They might have information for him, and he was far enough from Omsk now that anyone wanting to report him would have a long walk to the nearest authorities.
He dismounted. Then he winced. He knew how to ride—not enough to impress Nadia, but enough to get by—but he wasn’t used to hours in a saddle. The inside of his legs burned, and he almost rethought his plan. He’d considered himself and his Beholla pistol equal to three peasants, but he hadn’t counted on how sore he’d be.
The three went about the task as before, though they had to have heard Filip’s horse. Two men and a woman.
“Greetings.” Filip kept his distance, still unsure of how he’d be received.
The one bending over stood and slipped something into his pocket. Filip looked from the man to the ground, and his feet suddenly felt stuck to the steppe. They were scavenging from the bodies of five executed men. He couldn’t see the faces. Someone had tied white handkerchiefs over them. But he could see the uniforms, two of them with legion patches.
“We were here first,” the largest of the three said.
“I don’t want anything from them.” Filip watched the woman tug boots from a body. “Who are they?”
“Spies, counterrevolutionaries. The Bolsheviks shot them. They don’t need their clothing anymore, do they?”
Stripping the dead was reprehensible, but Filip forced back his indignation. “What did they do?”
The man shrugged.
Spies, counterrevolutionaries, and legionnaires. A bullet in the chest was what Filip could look forward to if he were caught. He reached into his pocket and took out a few Kolchak rubles. “May I look at the faces?” He held the rubles out.
The large man raised an eyebrow. The woman frowned. “Why would you want to see their faces?”
Filip didn’t want to confess that he might recognize them. “I’m looking for a friend’s missing brother. Sounds like the type who might get involved with this sort of trouble. Has a scar along his nose.”
The woman pulled off the handkerchiefs. Two of the faces belonged to men Filip knew. A third looked familiar, though he couldn’t place the name. He noted the curly hair and blue eyes of the fourth, the cleft chin and birthmark of the fifth.
“Not your man.” The big man glanced over the bodies.