The Man From St. Petersburg

by Ken Follett

  Either way he had to get off the train, fast.

  What to do about the detective? He must be left behind, on the train, unable to give the alarm, so that Feliks would have time to get clear.

  I could tie him up, if I had anything to tie him with, Feliks thought. I could knock him out if I had something heavy and hard to hit him with. I could strangle him, but that would take time, and someone might see. I could throw him off the train, but I want to leave him on the train . . .

  The train began to slow down. They might be waiting for me at the next station, he thought. I wish I had a weapon. Does the detective have a gun? I doubt it. I could break the window and use a shard of glass to cut his throat--but that would surely draw a crowd.

  I must get off the train.

  A few houses could be seen alongside the railway track. They were coming into a village or a small town. The brakes of the train squealed, and a station slid into view. Feliks watched intently for signs of a police trap. The platform appeared empty. The locomotive shuddered to a halt with a hiss of steam.

  People began to get off. A handful of passengers walked past Feliks's window, heading for the exit: a family with two small children, a woman with a hatbox, a tall man in tweeds.

  I could hit the detective, he thought, but it's so hard to knock somebody unconscious with just your fists.

  The police trap could be at the next station. I must get off now. A whistle blew.

  Feliks stood up.

  The detective looked startled.

  Feliks said: "Is there a toilet on the train?"

  The detective was thrown by this. "Er . . . sure to be," he said.

  "Thank you." He doesn't know whether to believe me, Feliks thought.

  He stepped out of the compartment and into the corridor.

  He ran to the end of the carriage. The train chuffed and jerked forward. Feliks looked back. The detective poked his head out of the compartment. Feliks went into the toilet and came back out again. The detective was still watching. The train moved a little faster. Feliks went to the carriage door. The detective came running.

  Feliks turned back and punched him full in the face. The blow stopped the detective in his tracks. Feliks hit him again, in the stomach. A woman screamed. Feliks got him by the coat and dragged him into the toilet. The detective struggled and threw a wild punch, which caught Feliks in the ribs and made him gasp. He got the detective's head in his hands and banged it against the edge of the washbasin. The train picked up speed. Feliks banged the detective's head again, and then again. The man went limp. Feliks dropped him and stepped out of the toilet. He went to the door and opened it. The train was moving at running speed. A woman at the other end of the corridor watched him, white-faced. Feliks jumped. The door banged shut behind him. He landed running. He stumbled and regained his balance. The train moved on, faster and faster.

  Feliks walked to the exit.

  "You left it a bit late," said the ticket man.

  Feliks nodded and handed over his ticket.

  "This ticket takes you three more stations," the ticket man said.

  "I changed my mind at the last minute."

  There was a squeal of brakes. They both looked along the track. The train was stopping: someone had pulled the emergency brake. The ticket man said: "Here, what's going on?"

  Feliks forced himself to shrug unconcernedly. "Search me," he said. He wanted to run, but that would be the worst thing he could do.

  The ticket man hovered, torn between his suspicion of Feliks and his concern for the train. Finally he said, "You wait here," and ran along the platform. The train stopped a couple of hundred yards out of the station. Feliks watched the ticket man run to the end of the platform and down on to the embankment.

  He looked around. He was alone. He walked briskly out of the station and into the town.

  A few minutes later a car with three policemen in it went past him at top speed, heading for the station.

  On the outskirts of the town Feliks climbed over a gate and went into a wheatfield, where he lay down to wait for nightfall.

  The big Lanchester roared up the drive to Walden Hall. All the lights were on in the house. A uniformed policeman stood at the door, and another was patrolling, sentry-fashion, along the terrace. Pritchard brought the car to a halt. The policeman at the entrance stood to attention and saluted. Pritchard opened the car door and Walden got out.

  Mrs. Braithwaite, the housekeeper, came out of the house to greet him. "Good evening, my lord."

  "Hello, Mrs. Braithwaite. Who's here?"

  "Sir Arthur is in the drawing room with Prince Orlov."

  Walden nodded and they entered the house together. Sir Arthur Langley was the Chief Constable and an old school friend of Walden's.

  "Have you dined, my lord?" said Mrs. Braithwaite.

  "No."

  "Perhaps a piece of game pie, and a bottle of burgundy?"

  "I leave it to you."

  "Very good, my lord."

  Mrs. Braithwaite went away and Walden entered the drawing room. Aleks and Sir Arthur were leaning on the mantelpiece with brandy glasses in their hands. Both wore evening dress.

  Sir Arthur said: "Hello, Stephen. How are you?"

  Walden shook his hand. "Did you catch the anarchist?"

  "I'm afraid he slipped through our fingers--"

  "Damnation!" Walden exclaimed. "I was afraid of that! No one would listen to me." He remembered his manners, and shook hands with Aleks. "I don't know what to say to you, dear boy--you must think we're a lot of fools." He turned back to Sir Arthur. "What the devil happened, anyway?"

  "Feliks hopped off the train at Tingley."

  "Where was Thomson's precious detective?"

  "In the toilet with a broken head."

  "Marvelous," Walden said bitterly. He slumped into a chair.

  "By the time the town constabulary had been roused, Feliks had melted away."

  "He's on his way here--do you realize that?"

  "Yes, of course," said Sir Arthur in a soothing tone.

  "Your men should be instructed that next time he is sighted he's to be shot."

  "Ideally, yes--but of course they don't have guns."

  "They damn well should have!"

  "I think you're right, but public opinion--"

  "Before we discuss that, tell me what is being done."

  "Very well. I've got five patrols covering the roads between here and Tingley."

  "They won't see him in the dark."

  "Perhaps not, but at least their presence will slow him down, if not stop him altogether."

  "I doubt it. What else?"

  "I've brought a constable and a sergeant to guard the house."

  "I saw them outside."

  "They'll be relieved every eight hours, day and night. The Prince already has two bodyguards from the Special Branch, and Thomson is sending four more down here by car tonight. They'll take twelve-hour shifts, so he'll always have three men with him. My men aren't armed but Thomson's are--they have revolvers. My recommendation is that until Feliks is caught, Prince Orlov should remain in his room and be served his food and so on by the bodyguards."

  Aleks said: "I will do that."

  Walden looked at him. He was pale but calm. He's very brave, Walden thought. If I were he, I should be raging about the incompetence of the British police. Walden said: "I don't think a few bodyguards is enough. We need an army."

  "We'll have one by tomorrow morning," Sir Arthur replied. "We're mounting a search, beginning at nine o'clock."

  "Why not at dawn?"

  "Because the army has to be mustered. A hundred and fifty men will be coming here from all over the county. Most of them are now in bed--they have to be visited and given their instructions, and they have to make their ways here."

  Mrs. Braithwaite came in with a tray. There was cold game pie, half a chicken, a bowl of potato salad, bread rolls, cold sausages, sliced tomatoes, a wedge of Cheddar cheese, several kinds of chutney and some fru
it. A footman followed with a bottle of wine, a jug of milk, a pot of coffee, a dish of ice cream, an apple tart and half of a large chocolate cake. The footman said: "I'm afraid the burgundy hasn't had time to breathe, my lord--shall I decant it?"

  "Yes, please."

  The footman fussed with a small table and a place setting. Walden was hungry but he felt too tense to eat. I don't suppose I shall be able to sleep, either, he thought.

  Aleks helped himself to more brandy. He is drinking steadily, Walden realized. His movements were deliberate and machinelike, as if he had himself rigidly under control.

  "Where is Charlotte?" Walden said suddenly.

  Aleks answered: "She went to bed."

  "She mustn't leave the house while all this is going on.

  Mrs. Braithwaite said: "Shall I tell her, my lord?"

  "No, don't wake her. I'll see her at breakfast." Walden took a sip of wine, hoping it would relax him a little. "We could move you again, Aleks, if it would make you feel better."

  Aleks gave a tight little smile. "I don't think there's much point, do you? Feliks always manages to find me. The best plan is for me to hide in my room, sign the treaty as soon as possible, and then go home."

  Walden nodded. The servants went out. Sir Arthur said: "Um, there is something else, Stephen." He seemed embarrassed. "I mean, the question of just what made Feliks suddenly catch a train to Waldenhall Halt."

  In all the panic Walden had not even considered that. "Yes--how in Heaven's name did he find out?"

  "As I understand it, only two groups of people knew where Prince Orlov had gone. One is the embassy staff, who of course have been passing telegrams and so on to and fro. The other group is your people here."

  "A traitor among my servants?" Walden said. The thought was chilling.

  "Yes," said Sir Arthur hesitantly. "Or, of course, among the family."

  Lydia's dinner party was a disaster. With Stephen away, his brother, George, had to sit in as host, which made the numbers uneven. More seriously, Lydia was so distracted that her conversation was barely polite, let alone sparkling. All but the most kindhearted guests asked after Charlotte, knowing full well that she was in disgrace. Lydia just said that she had gone to the country for a few days' rest. She spoke mechanically, hardly knowing what she was saying. Her mind was full of nightmares: Feliks being arrested, Stephen being shot, Feliks being beaten, Stephen bleeding, Feliks running, Stephen dying. She longed to tell someone how she felt, but with her guests she could talk only of last night's ball, the prospects for the Cowes Regatta, the Balkan situation and Lloyd George's budget.

  Fortunately they did not linger after dinner: they were all going to a ball, or a crush, or a concert. As soon as the last one had left Lydia went into the hall and picked up the telephone. She could not speak to Stephen, for Walden Hall was not yet on the phone, so she called Winston Churchill's home in Eccleston Square. He was out. She tried the Admiralty, Number Ten and the National Liberal Club without success. She had to know what had happened. Finally she thought of Basil Thomson, and she telephoned Scotland Yard. Thomson was still at his desk, working late.

  "Lady Walden, how are you?" he said.

  Lydia thought: People will be polite! She said: "What is the news?"

  "Bad, I'm afraid. Our friend Feliks has slipped through our fingers again."

  Relief washed over Lydia in a tidal wave. "Thank . . . thank you," she said.

  "I don't think you need to worry too much," Thomson went on. "Prince Orlov is well guarded, now."

  Lydia blushed with shame: she had been so pleased that Feliks was all right that she had momentarily forgotten to worry about Aleks and Stephen. "I . . . I'll try not to worry," she said. "Good night."

  "Good night, Lady Walden."

  She put down the phone.

  She went upstairs and rang for her maid to come and unlace her. She felt distraught. Nothing was resolved; everyone she loved was still in danger. How long could it go on? Feliks would not give up, she was sure, unless he got caught.

  The maid came and unbuttoned her gown and unlaced her corset. Some ladies confided in their maids, Lydia knew. She did not. She had once, in St. Petersburg . . .

  She decided to write to her sister, for it was too early to go to bed. She told the maid to bring writing paper from the morning room. She put on a wrap and sat by the open window, staring into the darkness of the park. The evening was close. It had not rained for three months, but during the last few days the weather had become thundery, and soon there would surely be storms.

  The maid brought paper, pens, ink and envelopes. Lydia took a sheet of paper and wrote: Dear Tatyana--

  She did not know where to begin. How can I explain about Charlotte, she thought, when I don't understand her myself? And I daren't say anything about Feliks, for Tatyana might tell the Czar, and if the Czar knew how close Aleks had come to being killed . . .

  Feliks is so clever. How on earth did he find out where Aleks is hiding? We wouldn't even tell Charlotte!

  Charlotte.

  Lydia went cold.

  Charlotte?

  She stood upright and cried: "Oh, no!"

  He was about forty, and wearing a tweed cap.

  A sense of inevitable horror possessed her. It was like one of those crucifying dreams in which you think of the worst thing that could possibly happen and that thing immediately begins to happen: the ladder falls, the child is run over, the loved one dies.

  She buried her face in her hands. She felt dizzy.

  I must think. I must try to think.

  Please, God, help me think.

  Charlotte met a man in the National Gallery. That evening, she asked me where Aleks was. I didn't tell her. Perhaps she asked Stephen, too: he wouldn't have told her. Then she was sent home, to Walden Hall, and of course she discovered that Aleks was there. Two days later Feliks went to Waldenhall Halt.

  Make this be a dream, she prayed; make me wake up, now, please, and find myself in my own bed, make it be morning.

  It was not a dream. Feliks was the man in the tweed cap. Charlotte had met her father. They had been holding hands.

  It was horrible, horrible.

  Had Feliks told Charlotte the truth, had he said: "I am your real father," had he revealed the secret of nineteen years? Did he even know? Surely he must have. Why else would she be . . . collaborating with him?

  My daughter, conspiring with an anarchist to commit murder.

  She must be helping him still.

  What can I do? I must warn Stephen--but how can I do that without telling him he's not Charlotte's father? I wish I could think.

  She rang for her maid again. I must find a way to put an end to this, she thought. I don't know what I'm going to do but I must do something. When the maid came she said: "Start packing. I shall leave first thing in the morning. I have to go to Walden Hall."

  After dark Feliks headed across the fields. It was a warm, humid night, and very dark: heavy clouds hid the stars and the moon. He had to walk slowly, for he was almost blind. He found his way to the railway line and turned north.

  Walking along the tracks he could go a little faster, for there was a faint shine on the steel lines, and he knew there would be no obstacles. He passed through dark stations, creeping along the deserted platforms. He heard rats in the empty waiting rooms. He had no fear of rats: once upon a time he had killed them with his hands and eaten them. The names of the stations were stamped on sheet-metal signs, and he could read them by touch.

  When he reached Waldenhall Halt he recalled Charlotte's directions: The house is three miles out of the village on the north road. The railway line was running roughly north-northeast. He followed it another mile or so, measuring the distance by counting his paces. He had reached one thousand six hundred when he bumped into someone.

  The man gave a shout of surprise and then Feliks had him by the throat.

  An overpowering smell of beer came from the man. Feliks realized he was just a drunk going home, and r
elaxed his grip.

  "Don't be frightened," the man said in a slurred voice.

  "All right," Feliks said. He let go.

  "It's the only way I can get home, see, without getting lost."

  "On your way, then."

  The man moved on. A moment later he said: "Don't go to sleep on the line--the milk train comes at four o'clock."

  Feliks made no reply and the drunk shuffled off.

  Feliks shook his head, disgusted with himself for being so jumpy: he might have killed the man. He was weak with relief. This would not do.

  He decided to find the road. He moved off the railway line, stumbled across a short stretch of rough ground, then came up against a flimsy three-wire fence. He waited for a moment. What was in front of him? A field? Someone's back garden? The village green? There was no darkness like a dark night in the country, with the nearest streetlight a hundred miles away. He heard a sudden movement close to him, and out of the corner of his eye he saw something white. He bent down and fumbled on the ground until he found a small stone, then threw it in the direction of the white thing. There was a whinny, and a horse cantered away.

  Feliks listened. If there were dogs nearby the whinny ought to make them bark. He heard nothing.

  He stooped and clambered through the fence. He walked slowly across the paddock. Once he stumbled into a bush. He heard another horse but did not see it.

  He came up against another wire fence, climbed through it and bumped into a wooden building. Immediately there was a tremendous noise of chickens clucking. A dog started to bark. A light came on in the window of a house. Feliks threw himself flat and lay still. The light showed him that he was in a small farmyard. He had bumped into the henhouse. Beyond the farmhouse he could see the road he was looking for. The chickens quieted, the dog gave a last disappointed howl and the light went out. Feliks walked to the road.

  It was a dirt road bordered by a dry ditch. Beyond the ditch there seemed to be woodland. Feliks remembered: On the left-hand side of the road you will see a wood. He was almost there.

  He walked north along the uneven road, his hearing strained for the sound of someone approaching. After more than a mile he sensed that there was a wall on his left. A little farther on, the wall was broken by a gate, and he saw a light.

  He leaned on the iron bars of the gate and peered through. There seemed to be a long drive. At its far end he could see, dimly illuminated by a pair of flickering lamps, the pillared portico of a vast house. As he watched, a tall figure walked across the front of the house: a sentry.