The Forbidden Territory (31 page)

Marie Lou kept very close to Richard. Somewhere in these mean streets lay the drinking shop into which she had been dragged on that terrible night when she had been lost in Kiev and afraid to ask her way.

With some difficulty they found the ill-lit court they had visited in the morning. Fortunately Shubin was at home.

Zackar Shubin was a bald man with cunning eyes set close together in his head. He cursed roundly in Russian when he saw them. Did they want to bring the Ogpu about his ears? Was not one visit from foreigners dressed as they were, enough? Two in one day was altogether too much. They had the information which he had been paid to give them, already.

Richard mollified him by placing a banknote of some value in his pudgy hand at once, without argument.

Marie Lou spoke rapidly in Russian.

Yes, he knew Yakovkin—a true son of the Ukrainian soil. A
kazak
to the backbone. Well, what of it?

Marie Lou questioned him about the prison organisation. They sat round a bare wooden table, filthy with stains of oil and grease. A guttering candle was the only light. Richard produced his wallet from his pocket.

For an hour they talked and argued. At last Shubin was persuaded to sound Yakovkin when he came off duty the following morning and see how far the man was
prepared to go. If he were successful he would slip out of the Lavra himself for half an hour and meet them at a little café that he named near the Vladimirskaya Gorka. He did not seem to think that he was likely to meet with much success. Yakovkin would certainly have to face imprisonment himself if the prisoners escaped while he was on duty. It would have to be a big sum which would tempt him to do that.

As Richard saw Shubin’s greedy eyes fixed on his pocket-book he wondered just how much of the promised reward was likely to find its way to the unfortunate Yakovkin if he accepted.

Having peered into the fœtid court to see that no one was about, Shubin thrust them out.

There was nothing they could do now but possess their souls in patience until the morning, so, as neither of them was tired, they secured seats for a cinema. The film, like all Russian films, had for its subject the eternal Five Year Plan. The photography was good, but the plot almost non-existent. Richard, however, did not care. “In England,” he told Marie Lou, “it is our custom to hold hands at the movies.” He took hers firmly in his own.

“Indeed,” she said, with a little smile; “I should like to see you holding Simon’s when you go together!’ But she made no attempt to withdraw her own.

The following morning, having thrown off their guide, they were in good time at the café near the Gorka. It was with immense relief that Richard saw the fat figure of Shubin coming down the street. A tall bearded man was with him, who proved to be Yakovkin.

A hasty conference was held in low voices; it seemed that the matter could be arranged. Shubin raised certain difficulties, but Yakovkin, a shrewd, sensible man, quickly overcame them. Richard parted with half the sum agreed on as an earnest of good faith. It was a large amount, and he was loath to do so, but he had to take the risk. It was agreed that he should forward the balance from Vienna.

Immediately the details were settled Richard and
Marie Lou hurried back to the hotel. “I never thought that chap Shubin would fix it,” he confessed, “but I believe he will, and I like the other fellow.”

“Yes,” Marie Lou agreed, “he looked an honest man.”

“Now, if only Simon can get the car,” Richard went on, “we’ll go in the ’plane, of course.”

At the hotel Simon was impatiently awaiting him.

“Well?” he asked eagerly, as Richard slipped into his room.

“I’ve managed it,” said Richard, excitedly. “Can you get the car tonight? That’s the important thing.”

“Umm—no trouble about that,” Simon assured him. “Tell me about it.”

“Splendid—now this is the drill. Shubin says that some prisoners escaped last year; they dug a tunnel down to the catacombs below. The flagstones were replaced, but the tunnel never filled in. Shubin’s not supposed to know that officially, because he wasn’t in Kiev at the time. He’s going to find an excuse to transfer Rex and the Duke to that cell this evening. Yakovkin will be the warder on duty. He will smuggle in an implement for them to raise the flags and provide them with directions for finding their way through the catacombs. They will come out at an exit in the southernmost fort of the old Lisia Gora. Do you think you can find that?”

“Yes, I know where that is; we passed it yesterday in the car.”

“Good; then you’ll be there with the car to meet them. The best place to try and cross the frontier is Mogilev, on the Roumanian border.”

“How far’s that?”

“About a hundred and eighty miles—ought to do that in under six hours.”

“What time did you fix?”

“Zero hour is ten o’clock. Take them a little time to get through the catacombs, though.”

Simon nodded quickly. “Good; Valeria Petrovna will be in the middle of her show. This is wonderful, Richard.”

“Yes, if only our luck holds. Now about the frontier. I’m going by ’plane. Look!” he produced a map from his pocket, “here is Mogilev. I propose to land as near this cross-road as I can; it’s about a mile and a half to the east of the town. Then I’ll taxi you over one at a time; we all ought to be out of the country by morning. That is, unless you’re staying behind?”

“Ner”—Simon shook his head—“it’s an awful wrench, but I’ve decided to cut it out—I’m going home.”

Richard smiled sympathetically. “I know just how you must feel, old chap, but you’d hate it here after a bit, and I suppose it’s mean to be glad about it, but I should miss you terribly.”

“I know,” Simon smiled sadly. “What about Marie Lou, is she coming with us in the car?”

“Oh no, I can’t risk having her mixed up in this. She’s got a perfectly good English passport now, thank God, and she leaves the country in the proper way.”

“Look out,” whispered Simon, as the door handle rattled.

Like a flash Richard had crossed the room and opened the door leading into Valeria Petrovna’s bedroom. “Ten o’clock,” he whispered, as he disappeared. A minute later he stepped out into the passage through the other door of Madame Karkoff’s room.

Rex sat on the floor of the cell with his long legs stretched out in front of him, his back propped against the wall.

“What o’clock d’you reckon it’d be?” he asked suddenly.

De Richleau was hunched on the bench, his elbows on his knees. He did not trouble to look at his watch, but answered listlessly: “About six, I think.”

“Cocktail time again,” Rex yawned, “and still no cocktails. Wouldn’t it be just marvellous now to be in Paris hearing the ice tinkle in the Ritz bar.”

“I would prefer London,” said the Duke, seriously, “and a decanter of the special sherry at the Mausoleum Club.”

“Aw, hell, what’s the use—when d’you think they’ll get busy with their rotten trial?”

“I have told you before, my friend, I do not think there will be any trial. One fine morning we shall be led out into the yard and put up against a brick wall—that is, unless Simon can arrange something. You may be sure he’s doing everything he can.”

“Well, if he doesn’t make it snappy I guess he’ll miss the bus. We’ve been in this joint ten days now, and it’s six since they handed him his cloakroom check.”

They lapsed into silence again. The strain had told on them heavily. The sound of footsteps in the corridor at any but the usual hours when they received their meagre ration might herald the approach of the end. Each night as they dropped into an uneasy sleep they marvelled that they had survived another day, and wondered miserably if, on the morrow, they would hear the sinister order “Get your things together”,
which in a Bolshevik prison is the inevitable prelude to a firing-party.

During their first days of imprisonment they had investigated the possibilities of escape, but the prison at Kiev was run on very different lines to the one at Tobolsk. Here, the prisoners were visited at regular hours during the day. They never saw their fellow captives except during the short period when they were exercised each morning, and then a squad of Red Guards were always lounging near with loaded rifles.

Their cell was searched night and morning; instead of an ordinary door it had a strong iron grating, and as a warder was always stationed in the corridor he could see what they were doing as he walked up and down. They had soon decided that escape without outside help was impossible.

The presence of Yakovkin was the only thing that served to cheer their desperate situation. The man had been born on the Plakoff estates; as a youth he had been one of the old Prince’s huntsmen. Many a time had he ridden behind the Duke, and once by his quickness and courage he had saved De Richleau from the tusks of an infuriated boar. Surreptitiously he showed them every kindness that he could, and managed to smuggle extra food to their cell.

The tramp of feet sounded on the stone flags of the passage. A sharp command, and a file of soldiers halted outside, the warder unlocked the barred gate of their cell, and the officer beckoned them to come out.

They obeyed quietly; there was nothing else to do. They were marched away, each with a Red Guard on either side, down the corridor, up a broad flight of stone stairs into an office on the upper floor. A few clerks were busy with files and papers. For some minutes they remained standing there, then they were taken into an inner room.

De Richleau smiled slightly as he recognised Leshkin seated behind a heavy table. The Kommissar looked more like a great red gorilla than ever. His low forehead, small eyes, and great protruding jowl sparsely
covered with hair, all lent to the resemblance.

“You may go,” he ordered the guards sharply. He smiled slowly at the Duke.

“So we meet again, and for the last time, Mr. Rich water.”

“That causes me no concern, since I set no value on your acquaintance,” the Duke murmured.

“Last time we met you alluded to an acquaintance that you did not possess—I refer to Stalin!”

“It pleased me to amuse myself by frightening you a little.”

“It is you who will be frightened tomorrow morning.” The big man nodded heavily.

“I trust not,” the Duke replied evenly.

“That we shall see—at least, the firing squad will do so—I shall be comfortably in bed. It was for that reason partly that I thought to have a last look at you tonight.”

“Well, if you’ve done looking, I guess we’ll get back to our cell,” said Rex.

“Not yet.” Leshkin sat back and lighted a thick black cigar. “To you, American, I wish to talk. You came to Russia for a purpose; with the aid of this man here and the little Jew you reached your destination. There is a possibility that I might save your life.”

“Now that’s real kind,” Rex grinned.

“You have not the Shulimoff jewels upon you,” Leshkin went on. “You have been searched; but you know the secret place of hiding. No man would take such risks as you have done if he did not. Perhaps you foresaw that you must be captured and left them in that place; perhaps you hid them a fresh time when you came to earth in the aeroplane. Where are these jewels?”

“What a hope you’ve got! D’you think I’d tell you if I knew?”

“Why not, young man? In prison you must remain—but that is better than the cold earth tomorrow.”

Rex shook his head. “I guess you’ve got me all wrong. I wouldn’t let on to you, not if you offered
me the Woolworth Building.”

“Accept this proposal, Rex,” said the Duke, suddenly.

“Not on your life I don’t. If we’ve having a party tomorrow we’ll have it together and get done with it. This bird would do me in anyhow in a fortnight’s time.”

“You’re young, Rex,” urged the Duke; “with myself it is different. Accept this offer.”

Rex smiled. “No, there’s nothin’ doin’.”

“So you are obstinate, American?” Leshkin puffed out a cloud of smoke. “Well, you have had your chance—that is all, I think.”

“I demand a trial,” said De Richleau sharply.

“Frightened a little after all?” Leshkin’s small eyes came back to the Duke’s face.

“You boast that Russia is a civilised country—to shoot us without a trial is murder. Let us be tried, and executed if we are found guilty.”

“There will be no trial, because you have no official existence, either of you. That ceased when you went outside the laws laid down for tourists in the Soviet.”

“Then I wish to be prepared for death by a priest of my own religion,” replied De Richleau. “I ask for a postponement of execution till after Sunday in order that I may have time.”

“Time, eh?” Leshkin scowled. “Time for the little Jew to help you to escape—that is what you wish, is it not? Let me tell you, then: Do you think that I, Leshkin, would let him do what he has done to me, and do nothing? … Stalin did not know the truth when he listened to Madame Karkoff; he did not know that men … eight men of the Ogpu, had been killed. I had to go to Moskawa to arrange; had it not been for that you would have been dead a week ago. The decision regarding Aron is now reversed … he will be arrested tonight, and with you tomorrow when the time comes, and
I
…” he chuckled suddenly: “I shall be in bed in the hotel!”

The Kommissar spoke with such quiet enjoyment that neither Rex nor the Duke doubted the truth of his statement. It was a terrible blow to them to know that
their last hope of help was gone, and Simon, whom at least they had believed to be out of danger, was to be re-arrested. Nevertheless De Richleau was a great believer in the old proverb that “while there is life there is hope”, so he persisted.

“I am not ready to die—give me time.”

“So you still think God will help you when men will not?” sneered Leshkin. “I am surprised that a man like you should believe these effete superstitions. What is death, after all, but a cessation of activity?” He leaned back and touched the bell.

“Remove the prisoners;” the Kommissar ordered when the guard appeared, and to the officer he added in a lower tone: “The orders for tomorrow morning stand.”