by Tim Chant
“They tenderise the meat by submerging it in bogs, you know,” he told Vasily as the two of them stopped for lunch and a glass of cheap, sour red wine from one of the shacks. “It’s monkey.”
The Russian glanced with some dismay at his spit of grilled meat, then his eyes narrowed and he looked back up quickly, as though only just realising that Baxter had spoken to him in Russian. A slow smile split the granite block of his face. “Is very good,” he replied, in heavily accented English.
It felt like a moment of … not change, as such as a recognition of some bond of trust.
“Tell me, Vasily,” Baxter went on, speaking slowly and carefully, and not just because he had stuck to Russian. “What do you make of our second lieutenant?”
Vasily puffed out his chest slightly. “His Honour is a fine man and a good officer,” he said, sounding almost like he was reciting something by rote. “He learned from your English Navy, after all.”
That was interesting. Relations between Britain and Russia had not always been as frosty as they currently were, and it hadn’t been uncommon for Russian officers to spend time with the Royal Navy. The squadron commander had done exactly this as a captain. Baxter decided against picking the point any further. Vasily was still a non-commissioned officer under Yefimov and he neither wanted to put a strain on their growing friendship or force the man into an indiscretion about a more senior officer.
The wine was also starting to sit sourly in his guts. It was hot, even in the shade of the big tropical trees, and humid. “Well, shall we continue our wanderings? Though I’m not sure how much more of Libreville there is to see.”
He was glad of Vasily’s company, and not just for the companionship. He wasn’t too worried about the cruiser’s crew, as they’d accepted him, and the locals would pay him little heed unless he was stupid enough to wander into the jungle — never far away in the small town. Other Russian sailors were another consideration, though. While they may have heard of the British captives, it was likely that was all they knew of him. What they would know was that British ships had hounded them as far as Africa, and the officers had made no secret of the fact they were taking on coal in miserable circumstances because British pressure prevented them from docking to refuel. Tommy was safe enough, particularly with Ekaterina. If one of the bluejackets did want to start trouble with a British person, they’d pick on him.
He unconsciously cracked the knuckles of his right hand. They’d be welcome to try. He could look after himself, but with the equally big Vasily there as well it was unlikely that there’d be trouble.
A streak of Scottish lad went past with a whoop, chasing the biggest moth he’d ever seen. “Careful, Tommy,” he called out, then surreptitiously cast around to see where the rest of the officer’s party had got to. This could be his chance. He knew he had limited options to get away from the colony, but getting away from his captors would be a first step. He could work out the rest from there…
“He’s a lively boy,” Ekaterina commented, appearing right next to him in that startling way she had. She had a knowing smile that suggested she knew exactly what he’d been thinking.
Baxter was getting used to her doing that, though, and didn’t startle. “He’ll make a good sailor one day,” he said. He didn’t offer any honorific, and she didn’t seem to mind. This was not a place for formality, walking along an unpaved street, low whitewashed buildings on either side.
“A shame you had to get him involved in your attempt to kill my husband.”
“Your husband?” It took Baxter a moment to put two and two together — he was accused of attempting to assassinate a particular friend of the Tsar, and also of killing her husband, and it took him longer than it should to realise they were one and the same. That, more than anything else of late, astonished him. Juneau was not someone who gave the impression of being that highly connected.
Her smile was wider than normal, lighting up her whole face. There was real affection in her voice when she spoke of him. “Yes. He does not like to make much of it.” The smile died. “Though you did not answer my question.”
He reached for the anger he expected, found it wasn’t there. Her deep emerald eyes, so green they were almost black, quelled any thought of the familiar rage. He shrugged. “I did not realise I had been asked a question. But I wish it would occur to someone, anyone, that even a perfidious British agent would not risk a child’s life in that sort of jaunt.”
The smile returned, and her hand rested on his arm very briefly. “If it is any consolation, I believe you when you say you were not trying to attack us.” A pause, and she caught her lower lip between her teeth as she thought. Her voice was careful when she spoke again. “Though I am not convinced that you are not somehow connected to the British Intelligence. You have been keeping secrets, after all.”
“Beg pardon, Mrs Juneau?”
She looked down at Tommy as he trotted up. “Tomas’ka,” she said with a fond smile, and reached into her small handbag to retrieve some small coins. “Run along into the market ahead and buy a mango. Do not be cheated.”
Tommy bobbed his head. He seemed as taken with the countess as everyone else aboard, and her naming of him and tone suggested she had a genuine affection for the boy. “Yes, miss,” he said, and darted off, weaving through the mixed crowd of sailors and locals.
“Tommy’s a canny lad from Edinburgh, miss. He’ll know if someone is cheating him.”
“You are a cynic, Mr Baxter.”
“I’m a sailor, ma’am. We’re a practical species.”
“Are you, though, Mr Baxter? Are you truly a sailor?” she went on when he just blinked in confusion at her.
The question was asked lightly, but he got the feeling his answers here would carry great weight. “Why yes, ma’am. My father was a Merchant Navy captain and I’ve been on and around ships since I was ten.”
“My husband tells me you were in the Royal Navy.”
He felt a tightening in his guts. “For a short spell, yes,” he said, perhaps more sharply then he’d intended. If she minded, it didn’t show. He forced himself to calm. “For the last little while I’ve been working ships on the coastal trade — this is the furthest I’ve been for a year or more.”
There was a slight smile, but her eyes were impassive. He was struck by the fact that he didn’t really know her; not only that, but no one else aboard truly did. Except maybe her husband. “And this journeying around the world, this is how you learned our language?”
“Well, ma’am, I wouldn’t say I spoke Russian. Understand bits of it, maybe.”
The smile was still there, but the eyes were sharper. “You sounded very fluent when you were giving orders, when those German bashi-bazouks almost sank us.”
That took the wind out of his sails. He hadn’t even noticed switching language in the heat of the crisis. The venom with which she spoke of the German collier also surprised him, although her crew hadn’t really been at fault.
That light touch on his forearm. “Do not worry — I don’t think anyone else realised, and your secret is safe with me. Unless it turns out that you are the agent of a foreign and hostile power.”
That was too close for comfort. It had been a while since Baxter had thought much about Arbuthnott and tried to unravel what he was about. Life at sea, the intermittent grind of coaling, had driven most such thoughts from his mind. He remained convinced, though, that he was a pawn in some form of illegal enterprise. “I was not aware that a countess would generally have an opinion on such matters,” he said, deflecting her queries.
A frown creased her brow. “Do English noblewomen not consider such matters as their husbands’ safety?” she asked, with a slight edge to her voice. “Or do English women in general not have opinions?”
“I must confess my experience of the ladies of England is limited — I’ve spent most of my life at sea. Scottish women, who I grew up with — they are a different matter.”
“Well, let me assure you. Wher
e my husband’s safety is concerned, I pay close attention.”
He was struck again by the thought that she was not just some romantic noblewoman on an adventure, but thought better of mentioning it. She was someone who would only share her secrets when she was good and ready, and he’d never been much for getting into a lady’s good graces. He took what he thought was the wisest course and changed the subject. “So, where is your gaggle of officers, Countess?”
“Gaggle, Mr Baxter? I think you mean a group of the Tsar’s finest officers.” She sniffed haughtily. “Some are making plans to join the hunt for some cannibals who committed the sin of eating two Frenchmen recently. Others have decided to go and harass some poor old man who is the king here. Neither activity appealed to me.”
Sometimes, he reflected, she was exactly how he imagined an aristocrat to be. At other times, such as this moment, she seemed far more … human.
They were coming up on the little market she had despatched Tommy to, Vasily maintaining a respectful distance behind. The crowd was so noisy — not so much rowdy as cheerfully busy — that Baxter didn’t really hear the first gunshot. The first he knew of being under fire was a sudden stinging in his arm, followed by searing pain.
He looked down, saw a red stain spreading through his jacket. Looked up at Ekaterina, her eyes wide with shock but not fear. Another round slapped past him, drove splinters from a nearby tree at about chest height.
Adrenalin came with the realisation and time seemed to speed back up. People were shouting in fear and anger, a stampede of panicking feet. Baxter didn’t think, just grabbed Ekaterina and lifted her bodily, putting himself between her and the square where the shots had come from.
She was shouting something in Russian as he put a tree between them and the dense patch of undergrowth the shots had come from. She sounded angry, not scared, and had her little automatic in her hand. She couldn’t fire as he had her in a bear hug even after they were safe. He heard Vasily thunder past, roaring imprecations as he crashed into the forest in pursuit of the gunman.
It was complete chaos on the street behind them. Libreville was a peaceful enough town, and shots being fired within it were unheard of. Ekaterina was busy with her pistol, working the action to chamber a round as soon as he put her down. “I do not suppose you are armed, Mr Baxter?”
“I have never been fond of firearms, Countess,” he said drily. He knew his arm would start hurting properly soon, but it was oddly numb right now — although he could still make use of it. “And I suspect our attempted murderer has already fled with the crowds.”
There certainly had been no further shots, and no sign of pursuit. There had been Europeans, including Russian sailors and officers, in the market and he could hear shouting in a range of languages. A moment later, Yefimov’s stentorian voice roared out, demanding attendance and obedience. As much as he had come to loathe the man, Baxter relaxed slightly as the Russian officer established some semblance of order. A moment later Vasily re-emerged from the undergrowth, shaking his head at Baxter’s inquisitive look.
“Well, as much as I appreciate your concern for my safety,” Ekaterina said smartly, “you did prevent me from taking action to defend us. And I can assure you, I am more than capable of defending myself.”
Baxter gave her a sour look. “Well, in future I shall make no effort to assist. Did you even see who was shooting at us?”
“At you, Mr Baxter, at you. And no, I did not.”
“Well, there we are then.”
With a churlish glare she stalked away, tucking her pistol back into a pocket in her light summer dress. He hadn’t even noticed she was carrying the weapon, the dress had been cut cleverly enough. Not the sort of thing you would expect a Russian aristocrat to be wearing.
He followed her out into the light. Juneau had arrived, no doubt drawn by the sound of shooting and the sudden panic that followed, and was now holding his wife tightly. The sight sent a stab of something … odd through Baxter. He couldn’t quite put a finger on it. Envy, perhaps?
But that was foolery. She had just admonished him for protecting her, as well as jumping to the conclusion that he was the target anyway. She was also, of course, married to a man he had come to regard as a friend. No, foolishness indeed to think of her as anything other than a conundrum that he may not even want to solve.
“Oh, and I apologise for getting blood on your dress,” he called after her. She stopped, turned towards him with what could almost have been a contrite expression. At that moment Tommy emerged from the crowd and Baxter felt a surge of relief when he saw the lad was safe. Obviously a bit shaken, Tommy dashed straight into Ekaterina’s open arms. She looked up as she hugged the boy, her eyes meeting Baxter’s.
They had that much in common, it seemed — Tommy Dunbar’s continued well-being.
The crew of the Yaroslavich took the events in the market hard. Depending on who you asked, it was either an attempt to murder the countess or someone being stupid enough to risk her life while attempting to rid them of the troublesome British captive. The clever money was on Baxter being the target of an incompetent assassin — after all, who could wish Ekaterina Juneau harm?
Baxter’s slight wound and the subsequent blood on Ekaterina’s dress had been the worst of it for either of them. The bullet had scored a channel through the meat of his upper arm, barely requiring stitches from Andropov, the ship’s surgeon. “The occasional scar is part and parcel of a seaman’s life,” the mild-mannered man had observed as he carefully and neatly stitched it up. “Far less worrying than the blow to the head you took in the North Sea.”
Baxter’s view, as he inspected the scene with Juneau and a representative of the French colonial police, was that the shots had not been aimed at him.
“You are quite sure?” Lieutenant Cassell asked. He was a small, middle-aged man with watery eyes behind round spectacles. Baxter was certain he would be quite wan if he did not have the misfortune (as he would no doubt see it) of being stationed somewhere sunny. They were speaking French, as the language all three had in common.
“Of course I’m not sure, Monsieur. Have you ever been shot at?”
A nervous tick next to the eye. “I have always been fortunate or clever enough to avoid such occurrences.”
Well, you’re probably in the wrong line of work then. “Well, if you had, you would know that recollections after the fact are always a little … hazy. However, observe.” Baxter brandished his wounded arm. “The countess was stood on this side of me, and while the second round was at chest height on me, I believe the countess — while a tall woman — only comes to that height. The assassin was just a poor shot.”
“But who would have cause to shoot at my wife?” Juneau said unhappily, wringing his hands. “Surely, though it pains me to say it, you were the more likely target, Mr Baxter?”
Cassell was poking carefully at the trunk of the sadly abused tree with a pair of tweezers. Tutting when he found he could not quite reach, he drew a box across and, standing on it, peered myopically into the bullet hole before delving into it.
“There are Marxists aboard the squadron, Mr Juneau,” Baxter said quietly. He’d contemplated switching to Russian so as not give too much away to Cassell. However, he was keeping his own command of that language to himself on the off chance Ekaterina had not already told her husband. “Perhaps this was a politically motivated assassination attempt?”
Juneau did not look happy at that, but half nodded. “I really must persuade her to go ashore at the next safe harbour and take a ship back to Russia,” he said. “Even if she was not the target, it has brought home to me that a warship is not a place for a woman. Even one as capable as my wife.”
“Well, some good has come of this unfortunate incident, then,” Baxter said. His tone, surlier than he’d intended, drew a quizzical gaze from Juneau.
“I am sorry that this happened, Mr Baxter. It is perhaps because of the behaviour of your government…”
Baxter forced a
smile, more of a grimace. “Or the Imperial Russian Navy has just decided that I should be shot at as often as possible.”
“Ah ha!” Cassell declared triumphantly. The bullet had buried itself thoroughly in the wood, but with a yank he managed to extract it. He threatened to topple off his box, and both Juneau and Baxter put hands up to catch him. The little Frenchman held the round up for them all to squint at. It was heavily deformed, but it was clear that it was a large bullet.
“Perhaps even a point four five-five, as used by your Army, sir,” Cassell said, looking over the rim of his glasses at Baxter. “Certainly not smaller than a point four-four.”
Baxter shrugged, pressing down on the anger that threatened to bubble over again. “I am no authority on such matters. Anything less than four inches is outside my experience.”
Juneau laughed, followed by a confused-looking Cassell, more out of politeness than anything else. The police officer’s half-hearted chuckle died away. “Well, I am something of a … hobbyist when it comes to bullets, so I shall give this my utmost attention.”
Juneau’s smile didn’t falter, but there was something forced about his voice. “Well, this shall be a diverting mystery for you, but alas I imagine we will have weighed anchor by the time you deduce anything conclusive.”
Cassell drew himself up to his full self-important five foot and some. “I assure you, Mr Juneau, that if I do determine anything of import I shall find a way of telegramming you. It is very likely, after all, that our culprit was a resident of Libreville and not a sailor on your fleet.” He tilted his head in a semi-formal bow. “Well, I must be about my duties. Good day, gentlemen.”
“We are fortunate,” Juneau sighed. “We have found a police officer who is diligent and not just in a hurry to see us and our troubles gone to sea.” He shook himself. “Come, we must aboard. It is almost time for the feast of coal.”
Baxter scowled. “I almost wish I had achieved something a bit more than a light wounding to save me from that.”
“If that had happened in this climate, my friend, you would succumb to an infection far worse than the black fever.”