by Tim Chant
Uproar greeted that pronouncement, some of it angry, some taking it in good part. Yefimov was staring at him, an odd look of calculation in his eyes.
“Well, it is moot of course,” Ekaterina said, her voice carrying easily through the hubbub. “We are painted ships on a painted sea, and none know where we are. We will be past Singapore and Hong Kong before any ambush can be organised, I am quite sure.”
“Well, this is true enough,” Baxter commented gruffly, and raised his glass to her. “Indeed, I am sure we will slip past the Japanese islands just as easily.” He was careful, despite his irritation, not to hint at the plan he and Juneau agreed that some of them at least would be going ashore before they reached the Sea of Japan.
“This is not what we want though!” Koenig protested hotly. “We must bring all to battle!”
A slightly embarrassed pause followed the outburst. “I think Mr Koenig has had slightly too much wine,” Juneau said after a moment. Baxter suddenly got the feeling a game was being played here, from the way the first officer’s voice teetered between disapproval and humorous indulgence.
The moment passed, Koenig apologised profusely to much laughter, and the dinner progressed as the ship sailed on into the night. Baxter felt his humour improving as the wine and vodka flowed, though he could not shake the feeling Yefimov was watching, carefully. He might even say balefully.
“Well, I think that went rather well,” Juneau said genially as the door to his cabin swung shut.
“It was a pleasant enough dinner,” Baxter said, trying to keep any sourness out of his voice. That was made harder by the fact that both count and countess were trying to suppress enormous grins and failing. “What are you two playing at?” he snapped.
His anger broke the dam of their self-control and they both broke down in laughter, Ekaterina falling into a chair and Juneau doubling up and clutching his midriff. “I am indeed sorry, my friend,” Juneau said as he regained his breath. He took off his spectacles to wipe his eyes. “Our little piece of theatre there would not have worked if you were in on it.”
“No offense, Baxter,” Ekaterina said. “You have many virtues, but we both felt acting is not one of them.”
He felt himself flush, but their humour was infectious and he felt the tide of anger subside. “Can I assume some devious plan has been set in motion to trap our friend?”
Ekaterina’s eyes sparkled, but there was a hard edge to the humour. “You can, Baxter. You can indeed.”
CHAPTER 16
“He hasn’t fallen for it,” Ekaterina fretted.
Baxter glanced at her, surprised to hear a note of frustration and concern in her voice. Of all of them, she seemed to be the most unflappable. “He will,” he said, unsure if he was as confident as he sounded or just wanted to be. “This is too good and opportunity for him to complete his mission. Even if he had given up hope on it, this will rouse him from that.”
She chewed her lower lip briefly. “He may choose to, what is it you say, keep his head down?”
He was beginning to notice that when she was agitated or concerned, her English broke down very slightly. He wanted to put his arms around her, hold her, reassure her. But even putting a hand on her shoulder, while they stood on the stern gallery, would not have been appropriate. Instead he shrugged. “Sometimes plans don’t work, no matter how careful you are. If he is intent on survival at this point, on avoiding notice, he will make no further sabotage attempts — and that, in itself, is no bad thing.”
“We need him to tell us who the remaining mutineers are!” she snapped, voice rising a bit too far.
“And we will find another way to identify them if we have to,” he said, making a slightly placating gesture with his hand.
“Given what Yefimov has done to you, personally, I find myself surprised by your pragmatism.”
He shrugged, slightly uncomfortably. “Well, I’m used to people who have crossed me not getting their just desserts — they don’t always deserve ’em either. And it’s like I said before — we sailors are a pragmatic bunch. Sometimes things don’t go the way you may want them to. Instead of railing against it, you just have to change your course.”
She took a deep breath, hands locked around the gleaming polished wood of the railing. Her fingers were long, but not delicate — he knew from personal experience how strong her grip was. “You are right, of course,” she said in a small voice, and the look she gave him spoke volumes. Of her understanding, that she was of a class and station that could never fully appreciate the notion of not being able to exact retribution for slight or injustice if they chose.
The gulf between them had rarely felt as wide as it did at that moment.
He broke the spell with a grin. “Of course, I’m sure Vasily and I, if we cornered the man, could get him singing.”
She smiled, but it was one tinged with the memory of what he’d done the night of the mutiny. The way he’d killed a man with his bare hands. “Thank you for the offer, Baxter, but I fear our friend must be caught red-handed.”
He bowed, his expression grave. “Of course, your Serenity,” he said with mock-seriousness, and her smile widened as he used the correct form of address for a Russian Countess.
There was a shout from the masthead, dimly heard over the churn of the screws only a few yards below their feet. The excitement was clear, though.
Land had been sighted.
They left the Malay peninsula, a dull, low, sullen landmass, in their wake two days later. The only settlement of size was, of course, Singapore, and that was British. There could be no safe haven for the squadron there, not even an opportunity to hove-to beyond territorial waters to take on coal.
There had certainly been no sallies of naval vessels, British or Japanese, or any suicide attacks by torpedo boats based there. The squadron had barely seemed to be noticed as it chugged slowly past, towing its cape of coal smoke with it. It was as though they had been forgotten about by the world at large; that disappearing into the South Pacific had been tantamount to falling from the face of the world.
“Hong Kong, then,” Baxter said quietly to Juneau. They had convened in his cabin, just the two of them.
“Both to deal with our friend, and for you all to go ashore,” Juneau said, his voice glum.
Baxter shared the feeling that they were an odd little family, had been since Madagascar, and Hong Kong would be where they would part ways. “Singapore would have been my preference,” he said gruffly. “But I could not, in good conscience, leave a job half finished.”
He knew that was a lie — he’d left plenty of things unfinished in his twenty and some years on the face of the Earth. His career in the RN, for one, and everything he had drifted between since. Yes, there had been external forces at work — but he realised there were times he could have stood his ground but had chosen to walk away.
It was a startling realisation, brought about by an acknowledgement that he had come this far not because it was something to be doing. Not just because of how he had come to feel about Ekaterina, his friendship with Juneau and some of the other Russians. It was time he saw something through, and putting a stop to Yefimov’s skulduggery had become that thing. And through thwarting Yefimov, putting one in Arbuthnott’s eye.
“Well, the point of decision will be soon, I feel,” Juneau said, his voice only slightly less morose. “Our friend will have to make his move, if he wants to take advantage of this intelligence. Beyond that — well, then we are on course for the Sea of Japan and anything else he does is moot.”
There was a gentle tap at the hatch to the cabin, and the two men exchanged glances. Some shared instinct told them that their quarry knew the same thing.
Tommy’s faced appeared around the hatch at Baxter’s summons, an excited grin on his face. “’E’s on the move, yer ’onours, and her ladyship thinks ’e’s making an attempt to contact the shadow.”
The look of shared understanding became shared purpose and they rose. For some days now,
a merchantman flying a Swedish flag had been following a parallel course to the squadron’s, closer inshore. Just keeping the Russian ships in sight, while remaining close enough to friendly ports to escape interference.
It could have been a perfectly innocent ship, a merchantman going about honest business. There was just something about her, though, about the way she was behaving, that made them all think that she was up to something. She didn’t even look Swedish.
Baxter reached into the locker next to his cot and pulled out the service revolver Juneau had entrusted him with. He knew exactly how much of a gesture of good faith that had been.
He offered it grip-first to the Russian. “You’re better with this than I am.”
Juneau took it without demure — he’d seen what the bigger man could do with his fists. “Well then, let’s see what he’s about, shall we?”
“It astonishes me,” Baxter commented as they moved through the decks, following Tommy’s eager lead, “that the countess has such an instinct for such things. Even I find myself following her instructions with little question.”
“She is an astonishing woman,” Juneau said with a slight, knowing smile.
Baxter had a sudden flash of insight. “It’s very … unusual for the security police to employ women,” he said casually.
“Only the one woman, as far as I know,” Juneau said. “It helps, of course, that she is an aristocrat, though I doubt not being of high birth would ever had held her back.” He stopped and turned to Baxter with a wan smile, laying a hand on his arm. “I have said too much. I would be obliged if you did not mention that to anyone.”
Baxter grinned. “Least of all your wife.”
Tommy turned to glare at them. “Would you two hod your chattering?” he snapped, taking both of them aback. “We’re almost there.” The lad gave them another hard look, and then led them round a turn to where Ekaterina was waiting, standing almost casually by one of the hatches from the superstructure onto the upper deck.
“He is in climbing up to the rear watch post,” she said, keeping her voice low but not indulging in melodramatic whispering. “I believe he has an electric torch.”
It was one of two options they’d considered. He would either try to steal a boat and make for a friendly shore; or the merchantman was in fact a shadow and he would attempt to signal her. Using one of the lamps mounted on the bridge wings would have been too obvious. “We must move immediately. Come, Tommy.”
Baxter regarded her with new eyes, now that her husband had confirmed what she was. He had to admit, he would have found the whole notion absurd if it wasn’t for her obvious capability and almost unconsciously commanding attitude.
She disappeared back the way they’d come, Tommy in tow. They didn’t need to discuss a plan — unlike the mad dash to the ship to head off the mutiny, they’d had time to consider this and had guessed correctly what Yefimov’s approach would be. Baxter and Juneau headed up on deck.
Baxter squinted up into the darkness. He’d spent a lot of time up those masts during the typhoon, and while he didn’t normally mind heights, he didn’t feel enamoured with the idea of going up again so soon. It had to be done, though, and done quickly. He could see a faint shimmer, light against the hazy dimness of the night, that must be Yefimov finally dragging himself onto the platform two thirds of the way up the mast.
He didn’t even ask Juneau who should go up, just started scrambling up the lines. He went fast, hand over hand, driving up with his legs. He had to be fast, but he had to be quiet as well. Yefimov had some complicated information to communicate – much of it false – but it wouldn’t take him all night.
He could hear the fellow muttering to himself as he finally managed to get himself settled. It was quiet enough up here, tens of feet over the deck and with barely any breeze, that he could hear the sound of a notebook being thumbed through.
Baxter paused below the platform, in a bit of a quandary. He knew he had the advantage of size and speed, and the fact he was comfortable working at this height. Yefimov had been conspicuously absent during the mad scramble up the masts in the storm. The traitorous bastard might have a pistol, though, and be prepared to use it. Baxter would be very vulnerable as he came up through the hatch in the underside of the platform.
He smiled grimly. There was a reason seasoned sailors in the RN had disparaged that easy route as ‘the lubber’s hole’. Moving fast so he didn’t have time to second-guess himself, and relying only on his arms, briefly he swung himself out from the rope ladder and swarmed up through the rigging. Went out, using the ship’s slight roll to give himself momentum, and swung up over the watch post’s wooden bulwark. Almost missed a handhold right at the end, but didn’t let himself think about that as he landed lightly on the platform, next to the unconscious body of the lookout.
He needn’t have bothered risking his neck like that. Yefimov was facing in the opposite direction, back towards the land, and was muttering to himself as he glared down into the bulb of the torch he was holding. Baxter caught something about the device’s parentage as he crept forward, covering the scant feet between the two of them. Yefimov hit the thing on the side, then swore copiously as it flickered into life, beaming straight into his eyes and almost dropped the thing.
Baxter could have laughed at the utter farcical incompetence of the whole situation.
“You’ve really not thought this through, have you?” he said softly, when he was standing right behind Yefimov.
Yefimov, already dazzled, jumped in surprise, spun round to blink up at Baxter. “What is the meaning of this?” he blustered. Men like Yefimov were always able to switch that on, no matter the situation. “How dare you interfere in my duties!”
He knew the gig was up, though, and was just going through the motions. Baxter glanced over the side of the platform, made out Juneau. The first officer was starting his own climb up, unwilling or unable to leave this to Baxter.
“It’s done,” he called down, pitching his voice to carry but not loud enough to wake people.
Baxter escorted the surly Yefimov back to the deck. It was a dangerous stretch, or would have been if the fight hadn’t gone out of the man. Juneau, waiting at the base of the mast, pulled himself up to his full height and linked his hands behind his back as Yefimov launched into an explanation that rapidly trailed off when he got no response. Baxter handed Juneau the confiscated notebook, which he flicked through with a studied casualness.
“I see you have more instructions for your tailor in London,” he said coldly.
Yefimov, realising just how much they knew, looked like he was about to weep.
“These are ridiculous measurements,” Juneau went on. “Though they look eerily like a longitude and latitude, and a likely time of arrival. Which would be embarrassing, taking delivery of a garment that would be large even on Mr Baxter here,” Juneau went on. He stalked forward, eyeing his subordinate. “But you must have known this plan was likely to fail, that as soon as you started flashing messages, as soon as you resorted to violence, that your perfidy would be discovered. Not even you are arrogant enough to think any of us would be fooled for long.”
“He was planning to flee the ship,” Baxter said. “We’re not far from a number of friendly harbours. Friendly to the likes of him, anyway.” Yefimov stared daggers at him, opened his mouth to speak. He was almost an afterthought in the conversation, though. “I imagine he was signalling the freighter to arrange a pick-up.”
“He wouldn’t be able to steal one of the larger boats easily,’ Juneau replied. “Even a small one would need a few hands to get over the side and then sail to land.”
“The revolutionary cell, what’s left of ’em,” Baxter said with cold certainty, and was pleased to see the traitor throw his hands up in disgusted surrender. Really, it was astonishing that he had lasted this long. “They’ve probably already got a boat ready to be launched — he wouldn’t want to stay aboard much longer anyway.”
Juneau’s eyes lit
up at the thought of capturing the last of the vipers who had threatened him, those close to him and his ship. “Go — gather up Vasily and those others we trust and make a search of the vessel. As quietly as you can!”
“And this wretch?”
“Mr Yefimov and I will go and see Captain Gorchakov,” Juneau said firmly, his tone and demeanour reassuring Baxter he had the situation under control. “It is past time we put a stop to this nonsense.”
The deck of a ship during the night could be an eerily quiet place. Just the gentle lap of the waves against the hull, the hiss of water passing under the bowsprit and gurgling down the sides. If the ship was under power there would be the deep thump of the engines that burned night and day, felt rather than heard, but instead the Yaroslavich sailed north and east with no sound beyond the creak of the auxiliary sailing rig. It would be days before the engine was ready for use again.
High above them, light spilled from the wheelhouse and glowed from the open bridge, but all was shadow as Baxter led Vasily, Koenig and two other trusted hands towards where one of the smaller ship’s boats was stowed. They had already checked two of the other likely vessels, working on the assumption there would only be a handful of men and they would want something they could launch quickly and quietly. They would aim to make their escape unnoticed, and if they couldn’t do that they would want to get away fast.
He held his hand up as he heard whispering voices ahead. Three dimly seen shapes, little more than shadows, crouched in the shelter of the smooth, white-painted curve of the boat. They were speaking guttural peasant Russian, so quietly he couldn’t make out much. He didn’t need to understand them, though, to pick up the tension and worry; and understood enough to pick up — after a few minutes — that they were indeed waiting on Yefimov and were concerned that he was overdue.