The Forbidden Territory (9 page)

“I’ave told you—it is not a thing which can be done at once. Leshkin must be in a good ’umour. What do you say—‘wheedled’, is it not? For this information which you want, at present it is ’opeless—’e is so jealous, ’e is like a bear.” Then, suspiciously: “Why are you in such a ’urry—are you not ’appy with me?”

Simon hastened to assure her. They had grown very intimate these two—a strong mutual attraction and many hours spent alone together for a number of days In succession is the soil on which intimacy thrives. Never before had Simon met a woman who had, at
the same time, her beauty, her intellect, and her vitality.

Constantly he put away from him the thought that in a week or so at most he would have to leave Moscow. He grudged every moment of time not spent in her company, and bitterly resented the fact that they were in Moscow and not in London, Berlin, or Paris. In any of the latter cities he could have heaped flowers and gifts upon her—it would then have been
his
car in which they were driven about,
his
wines that they would have drunk together, but the limitations of life in Moscow taxed to the utmost his ability to display one-tenth of his innate generosity.

She was appreciative of the ingenuity that he showed to give her pleasure, but her generosity matched his own and she delighted to entertain him as her favoured guest. His subtle brain and mental gymnastics delighted her intellect, his charming humour and diffident, thoughtful kindness made irresistible appeal to her heart.

Kommissar Leshkin hovered in the background of the affair, arriving sometimes unexpectedly at Valeria Petrovna’s flat, or glaring at them from a distance with his red-rimmed eyes when they were lunching at the hotel. Simon disliked the man intensely, and Leshkin displayed an equal hate, but Valeria Petrovna seemed unperturbed. She mocked the Kommissar in her soft Russian tongue when he came on his blustering visits; and Simon smiled his little amused smile as he watched her handling of this undoubtedly clever and powerful man.

It was the seventh evening that Simon and Valeria Petrovna had spent thus delightfully together; he thought that she seemed worried and depressed when he fetched her after the theatre, and taking both her hands in his he asked her gently what it was that troubled her.

“Alas,
mon ami,
” she said Sadly. “I fear that I must love you very much.”

“Darling,” Simon murmured, clasping her hands more tightly, and gently kissing their rosy palms.

“Yes, I am sad—for I know now where is your frien’.”

Simon’s eyes lifted quickly. “He—he’s not dead, is he?” he asked with a sudden fear,

“No, it was as you suppose, ’e is in a prison of the State.”

“But that’s splendid—do tell me where!”

“I will tell you later,” she said with a sigh. “The night is yet young—you shall know all before you go.”

“
But,
darling, why are you so sad about it? I mean, we’ll get Rex out, that is, if we can—and even if I have to go back to London I’ll come back here later—next month. After all, Moscow’s only two days’ journey from London by ’plane.”

“Ah, that is what makes me so sad, my Simon. I ’ave ’ad to pay a price for this knowledge about your frien’.”

“How—what exactly do you mean?” he asked anxiously.

She shrugged her beautiful shoulders. “It was Leshkin ’oo tell me what I want to know. I ’ave been at ’im for the last two days.”

“I didn’t know you had spoken to him yet.”

“How should you, little one? But I have promise you that I will ’elp you find your frien’, and I ave succeeded!”

“But—er—what did Leshkin want?”

She smiled, though tears were brightening her eyes. “That I promise ’im that you leave Moskawa tomorrow, and not return.”

For a time they sat silent; both had known that in any case Simon’s stay in Moscow must be limited, but each had put that thought firmly at the back of their minds. And now the moment had come it found them utterly unprepared in the first mad rush of their passion for each other.

“You can come to London,” he said at last, suddenly brightening.

“Not for a long time,
Galoubchick,
it is so recent since
I’ave been there—the Soviet do not like their artistes to go to other countries. Besides, I’ave my duty to the Russian people. My art is not of myself—it belongs to them!”

“I could meet you in Berlin.”

“Perhaps—we will see, but tell me, what will you do about your frien’?”

“Apply for his release or public trial, through his Embassy,” Simon suggested, but he had little faith in the idea.

“That will be of no use; officially the Kommissars will deny all knowledge of ’is existence. ’E was found wandering in forbidden territory. That is the bad trouble. ’E may know things that the Kommissars do not wish the world to know.”

“You—er—haven’t promised that I shall leave Russia, have you? Only Moscow—”

She smiled. “No, it is Moskawa only that you must leave, but I can guess, I think, what you will do—you will go searching for your frien’ in the forbidden territory, like the ballalaika player of the old days who search for your King Richard the Lion-’earted. Oh, my little Simon, it is you ’oo are Lion-’earted, but I am frightened for you!”

Simon laughed, a little bashfully. “Doesn’t seem much else to do, does there?”

She left the divan, and went over to an Empire escritoire in which she unlocked a drawer, taking from it a small, square ikon set with pearls. She looked at it carefully for a moment, studying the delicate oval miniature of the Madonna and Child which it contained—then she brought it over to him. “Take this,
Batushka,
and carry it always with you. It will be of great protection to you.”

“Thank you, my sweet—why are you so good to me?” Simon took the sacred picture. “I—er—didn’t know that you were religious—I didn’t think that Russia was religious any more.”

“You are wrong,” she said, quietly. “Many of the popes have been done away with—they were evil, drunken
men, unfitted for the service of God. That ees a good thing, but there is freedom of thought in Russia now. One can follow a religion if one will, and Russia—
Holy Russia
—is unchanging beneath the surface. With a few exceptions, all Russians carry God in their ’eart!”

Simon nodded. “I think I understand—anyhow, I shall always keep this with me.”

“Eef it ees that you are in what you call a ‘muddle’, send the little ikon back to me. Look!” She took it again, quickly, and pressed a hidden spring. “In ’ere you can send a little letter—nobody will find it—all Russia knows Valeria Petrovna. It will come to me surely, wherever I am.”

“Mightn’t it be stolen?” asked Simon, doubtfully. “I mean these pearls—they’re real.”

“They are small, and only of little value—also you will say to ’im ’oo brings it: ‘Valeria Petrovna will give you a thousand roubles if you bring this safe to ’er.’ ”

“You’ve been wonderful to me,” said Simon, drawing her towards him. “How can I ever tell you what I feel?”

The late dawn of the winter’s morning was already rising over the snow-white streets, and the ice-floes of the Moskawa River, when Simon Aron slipped quietly out of the block of flats which contained Valeria Petrovna’s apartment; but he left with the knowledge that Rex was held prisoner amid the desolate wastes of the Siberian snows, in the city of Tobolsk.

The Duke and Simon were walking in the great open courtyards that lie between the many buildings within the Kremlin walls.

It was the Duke’s quizzical sense of humour that had prompted him to choose this particular spot—the very heart and brain of Soviet Russia—in which to hold a conference, having for its end a conspiracy against the Soviet State.

When a tired but cheerful Simon had pushed a slip of paper across the breakfast table that morning, bearing the one word “Tobolsk”, he had only nodded and said: “Let us go and see the Kremlin this morning.”

“Tobolsk,” said the Duke as they strolled through the first courtyard, “is on the other side of the Ural mountains.”

“Yes,” Simon agreed, dismally. “Sounds an awfully long way away.”

“It is about thirteen hundred miles, that is to say, a little less than the distance from here to London.”

Simon groaned. “Somewhere in Siberia, isn’t it?”

“It is, my friend.” De Richleau smiled. “But Siberia is a large place—let us be thankful that poor Rex is not imprisoned at Tomsk, which is two thousand—or Yakutsk, which is four thousand miles away!”

“Well yes, I am glad of that, but how do we get there?”

De Richleau looked round carefully, to make sure that they could not be overheard. “I spent some little
time,” he said, slowly, “before we left the hotel, examining the maps and time-tables that are provided. Tobolsk is unfortunately not on the main Trans-Siberian line—it lies about a hundred and twenty miles to the north of the railway; there is, I find, a local line from the little town of Tyumen, which is just on the border of Siberia and Russia proper, but the main-line trains do not halt there. There is another local line running back north-westward from Omsk, but that would mean going a further four hundred miles into Siberia to get to Omsk, and the loss of at least a day.”

“Seems a difficult place to get at!” Simon interjected.

“It is. I think that the best way would be by the Trans-Siberian to Sverdlovsk. That is the last town of any importance in European Russia, and all the main-line trains stop there. From there we could take the Trans-Siberian branch-line which heads direct for Tobolsk, but which is not yet quite completed. It comes to an end at the west bank of the Tavda River,
but,
there is only a hundred miles between the Tavda and Tobolsk, and it is almost certain that there will be a service of sleighs between the dead end of the railway and the town.”

“You—er—couldn’t find out definitely?”

“No, nothing at all about the unfinished branch from Sverdlovsk or the branch-line from Tyumen, and furthermore we must be very careful in our inquiries not to arouse suspicions that we have any idea of venturing outside the prescribed limits for tourists.”

“I—er—suppose—” Simon hesitated, “the American Embassy couldn’t do anything?”

The Duke laughed. “How can they, my dear fellow; their position today is the same as yesterday. If we had actual proof that Rex was at Tobolsk it would be a different matter, but to charge the Soviet with holding him there on the information given you by Valeria Petrovna would only provoke another denial. They would move him at once to another prison. The only way is to go there and find out the truth—the problem
is how to get there. Personally I favour the plan of going to Sverdlovsk and then trusting to chance.”

“Wonder if they’ll let us?” said Simon, doubtfully. “I haven’t seen anything about it in the booklets that they issue.”

“That we must find out, but, in any case, they will not prevent me taking a ticket through to Vladivostock, and as all the trains stop at Sverdlovsk, I can drop off there. I think I should tell you, my friend, that it is not my intention that you should accompany me on this journey.”

“Oh! Why?” Simon’s eyes flickered towards his friend.

“There are a variety of reasons,” said De Richleau, quietly. “You are, I think, very happily engaged here, in Moscow—it would be a pity to curtail your visit. It was by your quick wit that we discovered Jack Straw, which, in turn, supplied us with the reason for Rex’s visit to Russia. It is you, again, who have discovered his whereabouts—whereas, so far, I have done nothing. It is my turn now. When I step off the train at Sverdlovsk, I shall, I think, be outside the law; it would be a great comfort to me to have you here in Moscow, safe and free, and able, if I do not return in a short time, to stir up the Embassies on my behalf. It would be sheer foolishness for both of us to run our heads into the noose.”

“Um—I agree,” said Simon quickly, “very silly. It’s a good thing that you know the people at the Embassies too—you’ll have much more pull than I should. Obviously, you stay here, and I go to Tobolsk!”

“But, my friend—do not be foolish!” De Richleau frowned.

“I’m not.” Simon gave his jerky little laugh. “Now I’ll tell you. I didn’t get that information about Rex for nothing. Valeria Petrovna got it from Leshkin, but he made her promise that I should be out of Moscow by tonight, so that settles it!”

“Indeed!” said the Duke, with surprise. “But, even so, I fear it does not solve our problem. How will you manage in Tobolsk? You can speak no Russian!”

“Um!” Simon was a little dashed. “That’s a bit awkward!”

“We will both go,” said the Duke, with decision, “and I will confess that I shall be more glad to have you with me.”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I should simply hate to go alone.”

“That is settled then! Let us go to the head office of the Intourist. We will talk about a change of plans, and that we should like to go into Siberia. We will not talk of Tobolsk, but of Irkutsk—that is some fifteen hundred miles farther on; it is quite natural that we should wish to see it, as it is a wonderful city in the very heart of Siberia, near Lake Baikal, just north of the Mongolian Plain. It is there that all the political exiles used to make their homes before the Revolution. It was a centre of enlightenment and culture.

“I thought they were sent to the North,” said Simon. “To the Salt Mines and all sorts of terrible things.”

De Richleau shook his head. “Dear me, no, that is quite a mistaken idea; certain of the convicts—real felons and dangerous criminals—were, it is true, sent to the mines, but the politicals were only banished to the Other side of the Urals, where they were free to trade and Carry on their professions, moving from town to town, or settling in pleasant communities with similar aspirations to their own.”

When they arrived at the Bureau of the Intourist the Duke announced their plans. The lean, shrewd-eyed man who interviewed them was not particularly helpful. “Irkutsk? Yes, it was possible to go there—but there were many more interesting towns in Russia itself—Leningrad, now?”

“No,” the Duke truthfully replied. He had just come from Leningrad.