“Thank you.” He struggled with the clasps of his small box respirator, hooked to his belt; since it had been custom-made for his gigantic head, he didn’t want to lose it. “Store this for me. It’s too cold for gas.”

Knowing it wouldn’t change his mind, Pishkoff continued. “You know, if it’s Bolsheviks, they could see you when you’re coming.”

“Mmm.”

“Lots of places to hide on that dock, I think.”

“I’m not skulking into my command. Arms, please.”

Pishkoff checked the Webley and his Colt and pressed two packets of bullets into Ironside’s pockets. “All righty.”

“And, Pishkoff, honestly, about my wife—”

“What is this, the time, eighth time since Passchendaele? At Passchendaele, maybe twice, too. History repeats itself.”

“Tell her that—”

“You’re coming back. History repeats itself.”

Really, it was the single phrase in the world that most exasperated Ironside. “Pishkoff—”

“Yes, if you die, I look forward very, very much to saying hello to her.” Pishkoff flicked an ice crystal from Ironside’s lapel. “How beautiful did you say she was, again?”

This wasn’t a form of humor Ironside had brought to the war, but he’d learned to recognize it. “I quite intend not to die now.”

On the endless and desolate quayside, in the encroaching darkness and cold, a military band had emerged from parts unknown to play a medley of “Rule, Britannia!” and “God Save the Queen,” since the Russians weren’t quite sure which was the British national anthem. When the gangplank was drawn down, and swept clean by four bluecoated sailors, Ironside strolled to shore. The band ceased. He craned his neck for uniforms— there wasn’t a soldier in sight.

The headlights of a limousine flashed on, then off, and the back door was thrown open. A hat came out of the car, followed by its wearer, a magnificent-looking man with long silver hair. He stood upright, approaching jauntily and smiling, looking to Ironside at least seven feet tall, eighteen inches of it hat.

This was Nicholas Chaikovsky. Belling out like the business end of a hammer, shimmering as the afternoon breeze ran among its many kinds of fur, Chaikovsky’s presidential hat was said to have involved four complete Siberian minks and an otter.

Chaikovsky ambled along the dock. Ironside understood he wouldn’t be assassinated today. That would require energy. “Greetings,” Chai kovsky said.

“Likewise from the Imperial Staff in Britain,” Ironside said. “My adjutants have letters and so forth, all the administrative …” He gestured. “This is my man Pishkoff.”

Chaikovsky said, “Greetings, Pishkoff.”

“Hello,” Pishkoff said.

Ironside was distracted by the strange, echoing emptiness of the docks. Beyond Mr. Chaikovsky and the band, it might as well have been tundra. “Mr. Chaikovsky, you’re alone.”