Death's Foot Forward

by George B Mair

  As he rushed back to Maya the girl was waiting for him in the hall. The alarm had been going for less than a minute but already they could hear shouts in the distance and see a flurry of figures rushing towards the house. ‘Top flat again,’ snapped Grant, pushing the girl towards the marble staircase and half carrying her as she stumbled along in her clumsy boots. They reached the top as three guards broke into the entrance hall, and a hail of bullets barked behind them when they dived out of sight into the top landing. ‘Here,’ panted Grant. He was gripping Maya by the arm with one hand and carrying briefcase and gun in the other as he almost flung her across Gusev’s office and through the gaping door in the panelling. His last glimpse was of Gusev’s staring eyes as he slipped it along its grooves back into position and heard a series of soft ‘clicks’ when the mechanism locked into position. ‘But how in Satan’s name we get out of here is another story,’ he growled.

  The girl was panting beside him, rubbing her aching wrist. ‘You don’t know your own strength,’ she whispered.

  They could hear the noise of men breaking into Gusev’s room and the sound of excited voices as they found his body. ‘If Sokolnikov knew about this other people probably know as well,’ said Grant viciously, ‘so let’s get the hell out of here and see where it leads.’

  The passage was lit by electric bulbs at every fifteen or twenty paces and seemed to run along the dividing wall of the building towards the Kremlin battlements above Alexandrovsky Gardens, but after thirty paces or so the passage swung sharp right and Grant guessed that it had now joined the great walls which then ran along to the Arsenal. If so, he reflected sourly, there would probably be a gory battle at the other end, because the place was likely to have plenty of people about, and he had run out of gas except for his matches. And then again how could they get quit of the Kremlin grounds? His original idea had been to force either Gusev or Sokolnikov to run them through the check point at Spasskaya Gate. Now one of them was dead and the other unconscious, as good as dead. The passage was curving right again and angling downwards. Slowly he reorientated himself and drew a mental map of their position. They must be short of the Arsenal but near the point where the House of the Council of Ministers connected with the Kremlin battlements. This was built in the 18th century and probably the secret passage had been made at the same time. Fifty paces later they stopped before a blank wooden partition. ‘This is it,’ he whispered. ‘And it’s anyone’s guess what lies on the other side.’

  ‘Please, David,’ panted Maya. ‘Give me just a quick rest. Five minutes.’

  ‘No,’ he snarled. ‘They’ll be after us in seconds. Only a question of time. Our only chance is to keep going. If we get out into the open there’s usually a collection of cars parked near here. Most of them chauffeur-driven. It still isn’t nine o’clock. So here’s the drill. Through this panel and get our bearings. If we really are in the Council of Ministers it’s such a bloody big building that we’ll be sure to meet someone or other. If so, you can pass yourself off as a cleaner or some damn thing and I’ll try a bluff on the strength of the General’s hat and stars but if all goes well we’ll find ourselves outside under that ruddy big dome and then we’ve to grab the first car available. If there’s a chauffeur good and well. If not then down the hill like hell and crash into Red Square ourselves.’

  ‘But the gate will be closed, David. Only a tank could force its way through.’

  ‘Then we’ll bluff it. The General’s cap and shoulder stars might give us long enough to stick up the guards. But it’ll be up to you to talk us out. And you’ll need to use basic language. Open the gate or you’re a dead duck. Savvy?’

  As he was speaking his fingers had been exploring the frame of the panel, which opened by releasing a simple catch at the side and then sliding it along on two well-oiled grooves. Clearly the passage was in frequent use. ‘Keep your fingers crossed,’ he whispered and eased it open. The door was less than five feet high and part of the ornamental woodwork decorating the mid-way landing of a staircase which led to a well-carpeted corridor below. But there was also the hum of conversation and a loud laugh as someone tinkled cups in a nearby room. ‘You go ahead,’ whispered Grant urgently. ‘Pass yourself off as a cleaner if anyone tries to stop you and I’ll be right behind. Take the first door outside that you see.’

  Tilting his hat jauntily towards the back of his head he put a cigarette into his mouth and drew out his box of special matches as the girl shuffled off. There was a cupboard at the bottom of the stairs and he gave her full marks when she paused, opened the door and lifted out a pail and mop.

  The corridor below was richly furnished with period chairs and heavy oil paintings. The doors were painted cream and gold, decorated with ormolu finger plates and handles and the corridor ran straight as a die towards a large foyer which Grant guessed would be the main entrance hall. His coat was too short by six inches, though it buttoned in front, and his seal-skin boots might pass at a pinch, but only a half-wit would fail to notice his check trousers. Whistling an excerpt from Swan Lake he steeled himself for the long stroll along a corridor which looked as though it would never end.

  In the distance he saw Maya cut left out of sight and then heard the muffled thud of a closing, well-hung door. Another one opened behind him and footsteps padded away in the opposite direction. He could see into still another room ahead and as he passed it two men were arguing just inside, their backs towards him whilst others sat in the background laughing. Casually lifting his hand in greeting he ambled on, a thick-headed match held ready to light a cigarette, and the gun tucked off-handedly under his arm beside his briefcase. Maya still had his bag, half-hidden under her flapping overcoat, and he could feel the glass ampoule pressing against his heart. At least that was something to take home, he grinned, and turned boldly into the foyer where two doormen in uniform glanced at him curiously as he waddled steadily forward. The place was completely silent. And then he noted a sudden look of doubt. The men were walking towards him, suspicious, but still not sure. He made to strike his match and as they stopped he waved the flame in front of them. They looked at it hesitantly and then one of them gasped, his fingers reaching for his throat. The concentration of vapour was almost negligible in a place that size and Grant knew better than to expect more than a slight diversion, but eyeing the other one expertly he suddenly threw a vicious rabbit punch to the side of the neck. The man dodged too late and dropped with a strangled gurgle of alarm whilst his mate stared stupidly around fumbling with his fingers. A trick of ventilation, thought Grant. One of them had got more than the other. Swiftly he stepped aside and dashed through the swing-door as the gassed guard slithered slowly to his knees.

  Maya was waiting outside and pointing to a row of cars parked in the distance. The moon was covered by scudding low clouds and visibility poor but they could make out the silhouette of chauffeurs in at least three of the sleek black Zims. ‘Me first this time,’ said Grant crisply. ‘But keep close to my heels and tell the driver what’ll happen to him if he doesn’t get us out of here fast. I’ve got Sokolnikov’s wallet. There should be a pass inside. Maybe we’ll use it to try and bluff the guard at the gate.’

  Whistling jauntily he marched briskly towards the first car, his gun half-concealed by his arm, and confidently opened the rear door. The chauffeur had been dozing. Surprised, he looked round, saw the General’s cap and saluted, speaking rapidly in a soft southern accent as Maya interrupted him from the open driving window. Even Grant could detect the almost hysterical violence in her voice as he dug the end of his gun against the man’s neck and urged her into the front seat. She was still mouthing threats when she slammed the door closed. The driver had pressed the starter. His face was pale and he was muffing the gears in his excitement. ‘Tell him to drive at regulation speed to Spasskaya Gate,’ ordered Grant curtly. ‘I’ll wave Sokolnikov’s pass if the place is closed, but if there is a free-way tell him he’s to go through it at top speed in third gear. He will then turn r
ight in Red Square and cut downhill to the river, where we’ll give him instructions. And tell him I’ll shoot his ear off if he jerks the clutch again,’ he added grimly as the car darted forwards, almost throwing him off balance. ‘And sidelights only,’ he continued, remembering Moscow’s regulations. He was peering anxiously ahead as they passed the rose garden, now thick with snow, and began to drop down the slight hill which led to freedom. ‘Now for it,’ he muttered, as the gaunt gateway loomed into view, the sentries on guard sinister with their flat regulation caps, and their high-boned faces bleary in the half-light. Beyond the arch he could see straight ahead into Red Square. The gate was open. It was a snap decision. The guards were unimpressive. Safer to rush them. He dug the gun more viciously than ever against the driver’s spine. ‘Out,’ he yelled. ‘Full gas and drive like hell.’

  He could hear Maya shouting his orders above the noise of the engine and the distraction of people outside. ‘On with it,’ he snarled, bellowing into the driver’s ear. ‘Step on it you stupid . . .’

  Maya said later that his voice terrified even her as the car surged forwards and rocketed through the arch, knocking down a sentry as it swerved into Red Square and shot towards the river.

  ‘Turn into Sofiysk Quaie,’ ordered Grant, ‘and tell him to stop when I say so.’

  They crossed the bridge over Moskva River doing eighty kilometres an hour and Grant shivered as the driver wobbled on the coarse snow into a skidding spin at the corner of Sofiysk. A bus crossed their path, blaring its horn furiously, and a Pobeda ripped the enamel from their front wing when the car righted itself, slipping for a second into a tail wobble before settling into a steady fifty along the river bank. ‘Stop here,’ he ordered, sweating.

  The car eased into the side. ‘Out,’ said Grant curtly to Maya. ‘And take my bag with you.’ He threw her the briefcase, closed the door, and then, gripping the match-box between his knees lit two matches at once, holding the flame close to the driver’s nose. All the windows were closed and he knew that in such a confined space each match held enough liquid gas to paralyse a man within twenty seconds. The driver fell forwards, limp over the wheel and then rolled sideways across the front seat. Jumping out Grant heaved him on to the road. Several cars had passed, but none paid attention as he opened all four doors and fanned them furiously in a frantic effort to clear the air. But he had still to take a chance. ‘Get in, sweetie, and keep your head out of the window. Whatever you do, don’t breathe inside the car. We’ll be on our way home within minutes.’

  He glanced at his watch again as he pressed the starter. Still not ten o’clock. The car fired first kick and he turned left at the bridge into Polyanka. Chang’s agent lived near Donskoy Monastery. He had memorised the route long in advance and slowed the car down to fifty kilometres, driving with extreme care as they crossed Dobrinsky Square into Mitnaya Street where he dropped Maya within five minutes’ walk of their destination. Quickly he handed over Chang’s snuff-box. ‘Tell the man you want to buy his ivory and that I have been delayed. The sliver he gives you must fit the drawer here. He’ll look after you until I get rid of the car. Going to dump it quite a bit away and walk back. Got the driver’s coat. Fits me better than Sokolnikov’s. See you in an hour or so.’

  But the girl was nearing the end of her resources. ‘Trust me, sweetie,’ he said smiling, ‘everything’ll be O.K.’ He gave her a long deep kiss, trying to infuse the last fraction of courage which she needed to see her through. She smiled slightly. ‘I’ve still got my ear-ring. Don’t worry, David. I’ll not let you down this time.’

  Gritting his teeth he turned left again and pointed towards Paveletsky Station where no one paid any attention as he parked beside a taxi rank and stepped out wearing the chauffeur’s hat and greatcoat. A good two miles of hard walking separated him from the address of Chang’s agent, a small wooden shop in a back street where city planning was still lagging behind but keeping to the busier roads he trudged his way back in a sullen mood of reaction and dark resentment. He had failed the mission. One small load of bugs after all that trouble! Gusev dead, certainly, but no guarantee that all his records had been destroyed or that his complete store of germs had been annihilated. And no knowledge whatsoever of his staff. Anyone of a dozen other men might have known as much as Gusev and the Admiral would be livid when the news broke. ‘You failed because of the girl. Told you not to mix work with women.’ And when he’d blown his top the old boy would offer him a job more within his blasted limits. Something in signals or communications. An office-berth clocking in from nine till five. Even Lyveden would be disappointed. ‘No use mincin’ matters, young David. Fact is you tried too much. Better if you’d left the girl alone till all the Gusev ends had been tied up. Pimpernel acts are washed up in your sort of job.’

  Viciously he kicked a slab of frozen snow into the gutter and turned into the network of small roads which led to Chang’s agent. Chang! He could just see that smooth face staring at him below those slotted eyes. ‘So we’re not the only amateurs, Doctor. I would have expected better things from a professional like yourself.’ Cursing his luck he turned wearily into the dimly-lighted doorway of a small antique shop, one of the very few in Moscow and kicked off the slush on his boots against a thick coconut-fibre mat whilst a nondescript individual behind the glass-topped counter looked at him politely.

  ‘I came to buy some ivory,’ said Grant. ‘My girl friend should have arrived a little while ago. She was going to look-see before making up her mind.’

  The man bowed politely. ‘A young lady did arrive, sir. But my best pieces are stored elsewhere and one of my assistants is showing her the collection.’

  ‘She had a rather valuable snuff-box.’ Grant was impatient of code signs and passwords. ‘But a small piece was missing. Part of a drawer. She hoped you might be able to give her a replacement.’

  The man shrugged his shoulders helplessly. ‘We can try, but these things are difficult. One has got to be careful to see that every little detail fits precisely and it is easy to make a mistake. We would have to examine the article before saying much more.’

  Grant sauntered forwards and slowly leaned forwards across the counter. ‘Every detail will fit precisely when I meet the young lady.’

  ‘Had you an appointment here?’ asked the man quietly.

  ‘I telephoned this afternoon. I was told that many tourists expected to find three prices in Moscow, one for the locals, one for Soviet visitors and one for foreigners. I was told that prices here would be honest.’

  The man snapped into action. ‘Go through to the back of my shop,’ he ordered. ‘I’ll close up and then we can talk business.’

  A dingy curtain partitioned off the two halves of the tiny store. ‘And now,’ continued the man urgently. ‘Change into these.’ He pointed to a nondescript suit of blue cotton jacket and pants, semi-tropical underwear and a cream shark-skin shirt. And as Grant peeled off his clothes everything was stuffed into an ancient tiled stove including Sokolnikov’s briefcase with its collection of photographs and negatives. ‘Better burned,’ said the man. ‘Mr Grant must disappear.’ He pointed to a heavy overcoat and thick gloves, a pair of highly-polished dress boots and a gaudy silk muffler. ‘These will keep you warm. You are a citizen of Malaya temporarily resident in Moscow, an engineer going by car to a friend’s ship which has broken down just off Yalta. Your papers are in order and in the name of Mr. John Brown. The vessel’s owner is waiting for you elsewhere along with your young wife Suzie. Follow me, please.’

  Opening a creaking back door Grant followed him into a small yard filled with logs and anthracite, a rubbish bin and half a dozen empty wooden crates. The outside gate was open and a van pointing towards the street beyond. ‘Inside,’ said the man urgently.

  He drove without speaking for almost half an hour and finally stopped at a filling station on the outskirts of the city where the roads gather themselves together for the long cut south towards the Crimea. A sleek Chevrolet was parked near
by, a youth polishing the windscreen whilst another man knelt alongside checking tyre pressures. ‘Go straight to that car and take a seat in the back.’ Grant sensed the urgency in his companion’s voice and lifting his gloves he opened the door. ‘O.K. and thanks a lot.’

  A woman was sitting in the Chev, her high cut Mandarin collar off-setting a pale, set face which was forcing a smile below a chic black hat trimmed with the trailing tail feather of a Bird of Paradise. Beside her, an impassive figure, muffled to the neck in furs, stared enigmatically towards him as he climbed inside. ‘Good evening, Mr. Brown. Just in time for our trip. Had a good day?’

  The lazy sing-song voice rocked Grant in his tracks.

  ‘Sit down, John,’ it continued, ‘your wife was beginning to wonder if you had got lost.’

  Chang! Maya! Grant forced himself to count ten before speaking. The girl was staring at him anxiously, and her hand had slipped into his own. He could feel her fingers trembling and sensed the swift beat of her racing pulse. ‘I don’t know where you’ve come from, sir, but for an amateur your timing is fantastic.’

  Chang bowed slightly as the car surged forwards. ‘I like to keep an eye on things,’ he murmured, ‘and there’s nothing like being on the spot when one expects accidents to happen. You took none of us into your confidence, but enough had been said to indicate that you would probably go to Russia during the early spring, and it was a relatively simple matter for an organisation like my own to check on the passenger bookings for flights to Moscow as the time drew near. Since your arrangements were completed three weeks ago I had ample time to handle the situation as I pleased.’