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‘Absolutely. We can - we have diplomas -’ The professor spread his hands. ‘If a D.Sc. is in order... ?’

Petlyura made a quick movement of his head and stared directly into my eyes. Then he looked at his napkin. ‘Will that suit you, Major Pyatnitski?’

I sighed and reached for my crystal goblet. ‘These are insecure times.’

Petlyura called down the table to his old comrade, Vinnichenko, another pro-Bolshevik. ‘Do you approve of this now, Comrade President?’

Vinnichenko, a literary man with very little stomach for what was happening, looked tired. He said sourly: ‘Certainly, Comrade Supreme Commander. If the Praetorians have agreed.’

Konovalets scratched the back of his neck. ‘This is silly. The Sich riflemen are loyal. We don’t wield power.’

I thought I was to witness open argument amongst the various Directorate factions. Vinnichenko said wearily, ‘I apologise, Konovalets. But you’re the only one the French seem to trust at all.’

‘It’s because they’ve never heard of me.’ The general smiled.

I laughed politely. Konovalets had the look of someone who might well be taking the reins of power soon. This was not to be the case. Colonel Freydenberg, in charge of the French, found it impossible to tell one socialist from another. He had been insisting, I was to learn, that all ’Reds’ be dismissed from the Directorate. Petlyura, Vinnichenko and the others controlled the Directorate. Freydenberg’s ultimatum was tantamount to demanding the dismissal of the whole government before he would come to the relief of Kiev. To Freydenberg, Petlyura and his gang were no more than bandit warlords. His only sympathy was for Deniken’s Whites. The Russian Volunteer Army was larger, more reliable, and represented the Tsar.

Konovalets’s Galician sharpshooters were the Directorate’s strength. This was why Vinnichenko had called them Praetorians. They were grouped in the outlying suburbs ready to meet Bolsheviks moving towards the city. No newspaper reported this fact. I was equally unaware of the immediate danger after I had left the meeting. Kiev seemed very quiet. The winter was cold. The snow was hard. I could not believe very much would change until March. In the meantime I had achieved both my D.Sc. and the rank of Major. As I had once dreamed, I had been honoured by an entire government. It was ironic I could not abide their idiotic politics but I admit I was momentarily seduced by the chance, at long last, to work on one of my inventions.

I had a note sent to Mother, briefly outlining my good news. She replied via the same messenger. I was to be careful. I was not to worry about her. It seemed every time I tasted success she became frightened. She had been too long with her head down, I suppose. It was hard to blame her.

Next day a diploma from the University of Kiev was delivered to my suite. Maxim Arturovitch Pyatnitski was a Doctor of Science who had graduated on 15 January 1919. Shortly afterwards an officer of the Sichovi Streltsi arrived to salute me, address me as Major and hand me an ordinary paper envelope containing all necessary insignia. I was expected, apparently, to provide my own uniform. I would have a special white one. I thought the matter over again seriously. I put the envelope in a drawer of my escritoire for the meantime. I was becoming identified with a specific political group. If the Bolsheviks arrived I was likely to be rounded up and this time I would certainly be shot unless I was very careful.

I prayed my so-called ‘Violet Ray’ would be effective against the Reds. Petlyura had given me the idea of taking the secret as soon as possible to Odessa. The French garrison would put the device at Deniken’s disposal. The entire fate of Russia lay in my hands. I received another message: a note from Petlyura confirming every assistance, giving me carte-blanche powers. The monks and priests had been ousted from control of St Andrew’s. I was now the new proprietor. This caused me some uncertainty. But God has His own methods. And surely my light-beam issuing from the great blue-and-white tower would fill even the Bolsheviks with an awe of the Almighty?