Natasha's Dream (19 page)

Leaving Berlin behind, Mr Gibson motored at speed towards Frankfurt-on-Oder. The traffic was fairly light, for few people owned cars. The extensive European railway system carried most travellers from one place to another, and freight wagons looked after the conveyance of goods. Commercial road vans operated locally in the main. This meant Mr Gibson was not going to find an abundance of first-class roads, especially in Poland, and he knew it. But he had to catch that hearse, and he drove recklessly fast at times. The Riley’s six cylinders constituted a powerful ally, and the car generally was in excellent condition, being only a year old.

One might, in the summer, have appreciated the arable nature of this part of Prussia, Brandenburg. There was an immensity of green land and wooded areas that would have looked
magnificent under the sun. But Mr Gibson was in no mood to indulge in reflections of that kind. He was concerned only with the road, and the quality of its surface. It was early afternoon now, the sky grey and the countryside damp. He was held up occasionally by horse-drawn vehicles that were difficult to pass unless the way ahead was straight and clear, but on the whole he felt he was making satisfactory progress.

He hoped he was on the right route. Having consulted the map, he had decided the hearse would make for Warsaw via Frankfurt-on-Oder and Poznam. In Warsaw, the coffin was to be transferred, he had assumed to another hearse. He realized that might not necessarily be the case. It was essential to catch up before Warsaw was reached, before the transfer was made. In any case, he did not imagine the Soviet border police would allow him entry into Russia, unless he could specify a purpose acceptable to them. And that purpose usually had to be approved by a Soviet embassy.

He had made his move instinctively. He was guessing now. Instinct had induced in him the feeling that the hearse had begun its journey to Ekaterinburg. Guesswork, after a look at the map, had put him on this road. He
did not know how right he had been in either case.

He reached Munchenberg and turned south-east for Petershagen and Frankfurt-on-Oder. His thoughts constantly worried him. He had left Berlin with no change of clothes, with nothing except what he had on him. He at least had his passport, which he always carried. And he had money. But what was happening to Natasha, and where exactly was she at this precise moment? Was she somewhere ahead, riding in that hearse with two men, one of them the hated Bolshevik commissar? He was not expected by his superiors to go off in chase of a Russian girl, however much her welfare concerned him. Yet why not? Natasha, almost certainly, knew more about the Grand Duchess Anastasia and this claimant than she would say. Something was locked away in her mind, something that had aroused the dangerous hostility of Russian monarchists and kept a certain Bolshevik commissar in pursuit of her for years. Why had she let him into the apartment when she had promised she would answer the door to no one?

He drove on. Entering Petershagen, his eyes searched the traffic ahead for the outline of
a motorized hearse. That was a forlorn hope. Petershagen was not much more than an hour’s drive from Berlin, and the hearse, if it had begun its journey immediately after picking up Natasha, would have had that hour’s start on him. He negotiated an impatient way through the town, and put his foot down as soon as he reached the outskirts. Frankfurt-on-Oder was now about ten miles away, and from there Swiebodzin on the German–Polish border was another fifty. He took chances on his overtaking of vehicles, his urgency compulsive, and he wondered all the time at what speed the hearse was travelling, if it was travelling at all.

A few miles before Frankfurt, he saw a large car stationary at the side of the road. A man and a woman stood beside it, and the man began to signal, to wave him down. Mr Gibson told himself he had no time to stop, but the man advanced to the middle of the road. Mr Gibson sighed and pulled up. He saw that the nearside fenders of the car were crumpled, the metal badly cracked. He got out. The man was large and burly, but a dark-blue melton overcoat and a dark-blue trilby hat gave him a well-dressed look. The woman was clad in sable. She was large too, but handsomely so.

‘What’s the trouble?’ In his impatience, Mr Gibson unthinkingly put the brusque question in English.

The man said, ‘You are English? That is good. I have just come from England.’

‘Yes, but what’s the trouble? I regret I’m in a hurry.’

‘Then thank you for stopping,’ said the man. ‘You are going to Frankfurt?’

‘Yes.’

‘I am the director of Frankfurt Electrics. Karl Gebert. This lady is my wife.’ The lady smiled. ‘If you would be so kind and take us with you? Some terrible driver forced us off the road. My car is damaged. It failed us a few minutes ago. Would you be so kind, sir, and take us in your car to Frankfurt? We should be very grateful.’

Despite his burly largeness, he was bluff and likeable, and his statuesque wife showed a pleading smile.

‘A pleasure,’ said Mr Gibson.

‘Thank you,’ said Frau Gebert. ‘It is nice a gentleman to meet.’

‘The gentleman will be driving fast,’ said Mr Gibson, opening the door to the back seat. She eased herself in with surprising grace, while
her husband took the front seat. Mr Gibson resumed his journey at speed.

‘One is in pain at the bad manners of some drivers,’ said the industrialist.

‘Yes,’ said Mr Gibson.

‘We were on the last stage of our journey back from your country, where I have signed a contract for fine precision tools. The scoundrel forced us off the road half an hour ago. We had just left Petershagen. He overtook at an impossible moment, when the cart of a farmer was approaching. The madman rushed on while I was trying to keep my car from hitting a stone wall. I did hit it, but not as badly as I might have done. My car would only move slowly afterwards, making terrible noises, and it stopped a few minutes ago. What can one do about people who drive so selfishly, with no consideration for others?’

‘One can report them, and make them responsible for the cost of repairs,’ said Mr Gibson, back in a worried groove.

‘Ah, so?’ said Frau Gebert from the back seat.

‘Yes, if one can catch them,’ said Herr Gebert.

‘It is a relief our lives we still have,’ said Frau Gebert.

‘Yes,’ said Mr Gibson, who could have done without conversation.

‘One does not expect one’s life to be put at risk by—But yes, perhaps yes.’ Herr Gebert barked a short laugh. ‘Perhaps people who deal with the dead keep their eyes open for new business.’

His wife burst into rich laughter, like a woman happy in the knowledge that she was still alive.

‘Karl, how funny that is,’ she said in German.

‘My dear wife thinks it funny we were nearly killed by a funeral hearse,’ said Herr Gebert.

‘A hearse?’ Mr Gibson’s senses were suddenly galvanized.

‘It is difficult to believe?’ said the industrialist. ‘But it is quite true.’

‘You are sure it was a hearse?’ asked Mr Gibson, hope becoming less impossible.

‘But yes,’ said Frau Gebert. ‘Also, a coffin was plain to see.’

‘Did you notice the name of the undertaker?’ asked Mr Gibson.

‘Alas,’ said Frau Gebert.

‘I noticed nothing, except the stone wall,’ said Herr Gebert. ‘It was a terrible moment for me. I am certain they would not have cared if they had left us dead.’

‘But perhaps they would have come back for to bury us, Karl,’ said Frau Gebert, and laughed again.

‘My wife, who was badly shaken, now finds it amusing,’ said Herr Gebert, but not without a note of fond appreciation.

‘A sense of humour is a great asset,’ said Mr Gibson. The landscapes rushed by, and some way ahead he glimpsed slow traffic approaching the city of Frankfurt. ‘You say it happened half an hour from the time you were forced to stop?’

‘That is so,’ said Herr Gebert, and lit a cigar to steady his nerves.

Well, thought Mr Gibson, he was perhaps on their tail and had gained some time on them. They would probably not have driven through Berlin in any great hurry. They would not have considered it necessary. They had laid their plans, effected their capture, and driven in stately fashion through Berlin, as a hearse would. He supposed they had been watching the apartment, that even if he had not gone out to call on Princess Malininsky, they would have arrived at his door and put a gun to his chest. When they saw him leave the building, they no doubt realized the way
was clear for a less troublesome confrontation with Natasha. But how unlike her to have been foolish enough to answer the door. She had insisted she would not. Thank God for Hans.

‘Frau Gebert,’ he said, ‘did you notice who was in the hearse?’

‘Ah, so that we might both men report?’ said Frau Gebert.

‘Yes, why not. There were two men?’

‘Yes,’ said Frau Gebert, ‘the driver who the madman was, and another man.’

‘No one else?’

‘No.’

My God, where was Natasha, men? A coldness attacked Mr Gibson. The image of a coffin filled his mind.

He was in traffic now, and on the outskirts of Frankfurt-on-Oder.

‘Give me directions,’ he said urgently, ‘and I’ll put you down at your house.’

‘My factory, if you please,’ said Herr Gebert. He said again, ‘If you please.’

‘Which way?’

‘Please to keep going. It is not far from here. One of my staff will drive us home from there. You are very kind.’

‘Most kind,’ said Frau Gebert. ‘In your country my husband four years was.’

‘His English benefited from that,’ said Mr Gibson. ‘An English university, perhaps?’

Frau Gebert laughed again. It bubbled.

‘Not university, no. A prison camp.’

‘Turn right, if you please,’ said Herr Gebert, gesturing with his cigar, and Mr Gibson drove over tramlines and found himself in an industrial quarter. ‘I was captured during our advance from Mons in 1914.’

‘We have something in common,’ said Mr Gibson. ‘I was captured in 1918 and spent six months in a prison camp in Bavaria.’

Herr Gebert laughed heartily, Frau Gebert laughed in delight, and Mr Gibson managed a wry smile.

‘A friend he is, Karl,’ said Frau Gebert.

‘I should like, in my office, to offer you a cognac, sir,’ said Herr Gebert.

‘Thank you, but I really don’t have time. You’ll forgive me?’

‘Of course.’ Herr Gebert gestured again. ‘Please stop at the gates.’

Mr Gibson pulled up outside the gates of a large factory.

‘Thank you,’ said Frau Gebert.

‘I should like to know your name,’ said Herr Gebert, getting out.

‘Gibson – Philip Gibson.’

‘A great pleasure, Mr Gibson,’ said Herr Gebert, and despite his urgency to be away, Mr Gibson got out and opened the back door for Frau Gebert, who rewarded him with a beaming smile.

‘In Birmingham, there was much fog,’ she said. ‘In London also. But the country, yes, very nice. The people also. Most kind. Thank you.’

Mr Gibson shook hands with both of them, and drove back to the main road that led east out of the city. He had lost a little time, but at least he felt fairly sure the hearse was on the same road. He took risks going through Frankfurt, overtaking trams when such manoeuvres were plainly marked
Verboten
. His progress was slow, all the same, but he thought the hearse would have gone no quicker. Once he was out of Frankfurt, he took advantage of a good road to motor as fast as he could for Swiebodzin and the Polish border. On this road, the hearse must be heading for the same place, and it had to be Poznam after that, and then Warsaw. God, if he did not catch up in time, how the devil was he going to find them
in Warsaw? He decided it had to be the Soviet Embassy for the transfer.

It was a hundred and more miles to Poznam, and probably a hundred and fifty or so from there to Warsaw. Another point. Would the hearse travel on through the night? There were two men, each of them probably capable of taking a turn at the wheel. It depended on whether they were in a hurry or not, whether they were anxious to reach Russian soil as quickly as possible, or felt confident enough to rest at night. No, they would keep going. They were in a hurry. They had shown that when they overtook Herr Gebert in such a dangerous way.

The light of the November afternoon was turning greyer, and the great sweep of land dominated by the Oder river spoke of dull, glowering lakes and great, brooding marshes. Europe in November was not at its best. Its most welcome offering at this time of the year was the humble but glowing fireside.

He tried not to think of Natasha in tragic and hopeless terms. If he managed to catch the hearse and found she was neither alive in the vehicle nor dead in the coffin – God forbid – he would not mind the time he had spent chasing
shadows. It would mean she was not being taken to Russia, or to that grim place, Ekaterinburg.

He had something to thank the German couple for, a direct lead to the hearse and its route.

But supposing it was not
the
hearse? Supposing the reason why Frau Gebert had seen no other person except the two men was because it was not the hearse belonging to Thomas Schmidt?

Idiot. He had missed the opportunity to establish the fact one way or another, and to capitalize on a fortuitous meeting at the same time. He drove fast into a village, looking for an inn with a public telephone. He found one. He parked the Riley and went inside.

The moment the hearse reached the centre of Berlin on its way to the Frankfurt-on-Oder road, Natasha knew Mr Gibson was no longer in danger from these two men. Courage took over from despair.

‘Stop this thing,’ she said, ‘and let me out.’

‘Or you will scream?’ said Commissar Bukov.

‘No,’ said Natasha, and eased her foot out of her right shoe. ‘If I scream, you will probably break my arm. But you see all these people
and all this traffic? Someone will notice me in a moment. There, look.’ She leaned forward, reached down, whipped up her discarded shoe and sought to smash the windscreen with the heel. Bukov caught her by the wrist and wrenched her arm back. She gasped with pain.

The other man, who was driving, was not distracted. He took the hearse at a sedate speed through the street, and people on the pavements, seeing it, looked in respect at it. Men lifted their hats as it passed.