Killigrew and the Sea Devil

by Jonathan Lunn

  He was in for a nasty surprise when he saw who it was, however.

  ‘Fancy meeting you here!’ she said.

  ‘Likewise, Countess,’ Killigrew said coldly. ‘It’s only fair to warn you that the Third Section hauled me in for questioning the other day—’

  ‘Really? And you can still walk? Remarkable!’

  ‘They were very curious about you. So am I, to tell the truth. Oh, and thank you for leaving me in the lurch at Prince Polyansky’s house the other evening.’

  She shrugged indifferently. ‘I managed to get out of there. I assumed you could too.’

  ‘It would have been easier if the champagne hadn’t been drugged.’

  ‘Yes, I rather thought it might be. I hadn’t left Gustav with any instructions to leave a bottle of champagne out for me, and it isn’t like him to use his initiative.’

  ‘You might have warned me. Supposing it had been the Third Section?’

  ‘The Third Section just break down the door: they don’t go to a lot of trouble to drug you first. Wojtkiewicz?’

  Killigrew nodded.

  ‘But he let you go. Seriously, M’sieur Bryce, I am glad to see you hale and hearty.’

  ‘Certainly hale. I’m not sure about hearty.’

  ‘What did Wojtkiewicz want to know about me?’

  ‘What makes you think he was interested in you?’

  ‘Pffh! I am not a fool, M’sieur Bryce. The champagne was clearly intended for me.’

  ‘Since you ask, he thought you might be an agent provocateur.’

  ‘An agent provocateur.’ She rolled the phrase around her mouth as if she were savouring a fine wine. ‘Yes, I think I like that description. Do you find me provocative, M’sieur Bryce?’

  ‘“Trying” would be nearer the mark.’

  ‘Ah, but you know I am no agent for the Third Section.’

  ‘I’m not sure I know anything of the kind.’

  ‘Then why would the Third Section ask you questions about me, if I was one of their own?’

  ‘To make me think you weren’t.’

  ‘Let’s say I am an agent provocateur, working for the Third Section. Why would we want you to think otherwise? Unless you had something to hide.’

  Killigrew smiled. ‘We all have something to hide… “Countess”. I could denounce you, you know.’

  ‘You could, but what good would that do?’

  ‘It might get the Third Section off my back.’

  ‘Ah, but if you were to denounce me, I could just denounce you right back… Commander Killigrew.’

  His stomach lurched, and not because the yacht emerged from the harbour at that moment, entering the choppier waters of the Gulf of Finland. Was there anyone in St Petersburg who didn’t know who he was?

  ‘Oh, yes, I’ve read all about your exploits in the Illustrated London News.’ The countess smiled. ‘Don’t look so worried, Commander: your secret is safe with me.’

  He looked around surreptitiously, but she had kept her voice low and there was no one else in earshot. ‘My friends call me “Kit”,’ he told her, raising his champagne flute to his lips. ‘And your secret…?’

  ‘Is also safe with me. But if I were you I should tell your Admiral Napier that celebrities don’t make the best spies. What good is a secret agent if, everywhere he goes, he is recognised?’

  ‘I’ve managed to hold my own so far.’

  She leaned forward to murmur in his ear. ‘Don’t worry. One day you’ll meet the right girl, and you won’t have to any longer.’ Moving closer to him also gave her the chance to pat him on the crotch without anyone else seeing.

  Unused to being groped in public, Killigrew started, spilling his champagne. He scowled at her, but she merely grinned impishly.

  ‘Just who the devil are you?’

  She glanced past his left ear. ‘Haven’t you heard?’ she asked, moving past him, and he turned to see her link her arm through that of an elderly Russian admiral. ‘I’m Admiral Rykord’s niece.’

  Beaming like the cat that got the cream, the admiral patted her hand and turned his attention disdainfully on Killigrew. ‘And who is this, golubushka?’

  ‘Oh, just some dreary little Yankee scribe.’ Wiggling her fingers at Killigrew in a mocking wave, she led Rykord over to the other side of the deck.

  Killigrew heard someone chuckling. He turned to see a dark-haired young man standing at the bulwark with a glass of champagne in one hand, watching the countess (or whoever the deuce she was) start to dance a waltz with Rykord. For one panicky moment, Killigrew wondered how much the young man had overhead, and then he relaxed: the young man had not needed to hear a word, the tableau had told its own story.

  ‘Well, I’m glad one of us can find something to laugh at!’ Killigrew said sourly.

  The young man grinned. ‘I’m sorry, that was rude of me.’ He was another Swede – or a Finn – by his accent. ‘I meant no offence.’

  Killigrew waved dismissively. ‘None taken. I guess that was kinda funny, seen through anyone’s eyes but mine.’

  ‘You’ll have to forgive me. These days it is so hard to find anything to laugh at; when I do I have to seize the opportunity in both hands.’

  ‘Woman trouble, eh?’

  ‘Hm?’ The young man chuckled again. ‘No, nothing like that. I’ll leave that to you,’ he added with a smile. ‘No, I’m just sick of this damned war. Can you tell me what it’s about? If you can, you’ll be the first.’

  ‘Something to do with the Eastern Question, I think.’

  ‘I hear Lord Palmerston says only three men have ever understood the Eastern Question. He says one’s dead, one went mad, and he’s the third!’

  ‘That sounds like Pam,’ admitted Killigrew.

  ‘You know what I’d like to do?’ asked the young man. ‘I’d like to build a weapon so terrible, so destructive, it could destroy a whole city and wipe out everyone in it, just like that.’ He snapped his fingers under Killigrew’s nose. ‘And then I’d give the secret – not sell it, mind you, but give it – to every government in the world.’

  ‘In the hope they’d all blow each other up? It’s a prime notion, don’t get me wrong, but don’t you figure there’s a danger they might slaughter the rest of us in the process?’

  ‘But don’t you see?’ the young man asked eagerly. ‘If every nation had a weapon of such awesome power, they’d be too frightened to use it, for fear the country they were at war with would use their own weapon in retaliation. Maybe then we’d see an end to war.’

  ‘Wouldn’t work,’ said Killigrew. ‘They might be too afraid to use it, but it wouldn’t stop them from using conventional weapons, so wars would go on just the same. Governments would just agree not to use your secret weapon. You’d be amazed at what agreements governments can reach when they’re supposed to be at war with one another. In fact, if anything, it would make war more likely.’

  The young man frowned. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Well, look at the world as it is without your weapon. Each time the French build a man o’ war, the Limeys have to build a bigger, better one. So then the French have to build two that are even bigger and better than that… and so on ad infinitum. And once you’ve got all these warships in the world, the governments that control them start feeling they have to use them. Do you really figure it would be any different with your secret weapon?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that.’

  ‘You’ve got to understand the military mind. Besides, imagine a world full of weapons like that. Sooner or later, one would be used. Even if it were an accident, the consequences would be appalling. And just look at the poltroons who comprise our governments. Would you trust those idiots with decisions of that magnitude?’

  The young man held up his hands in defeat. ‘All right, all right, perhaps it’s not such a good notion. What would you do?’

  ‘Me? About what?’

  ‘To put an end to war.’

  ‘I don’t reckon you
can. I’m sorry to have to say it, but I think it’s in our nature. People say that we’re somehow superior to all the other animals in creation because of what mankind has achieved, but what have we achieved? I mean, really? You don’t see animals making war on each other, do you? Oh-kay, a lion may slaughter a wildebeest, but that’s just nature for you, red in tooth and claw. They have to do it, to survive. But war… where’s the benefit in that? If you want my opinion, we’re the dumbest animals in creation. With all the technology we’ve developed, we could have it all, but instead we choose to make life difficult for each other at every opportunity; which is effectively the same as making life difficult for ourselves. And that makes no sense at all.’

  The young man laughed. ‘You sound like a nihilist!’

  Smiling, Killigrew shook his head. ‘No, just a cynic.’

  ‘Scratch a cynic, you’ll always find an idealist underneath.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Come on, there must be something we can do. Even if we can’t put an end to war for all time, there must at least be a way to make people realise there’s nothing glorious about it. It’s just brutal, nasty and messy.’

  ‘I figure it’s the culture we live in. You just said it yourself: we glorify war. We need to change people’s attitudes. Take a walk around any city in the modern world. Who do we put statues up to? The poets, the artists, the composers, who enrich our lives with their art? No. We raise statues to the statesmen who start wars, and the generals and admirals who fight them.’

  ‘Sometimes I wonder if the artists are as much to blame as the statesmen and the generals and admirals. There are plenty of poets out there who glorify war. Look at Tennyson.’

  ‘Sure, but they’re just mutton-heads.’

  The young man knitted his brow. ‘Still, I think you might be on to something there. Perhaps we should work to create a society in which the peacemakers are celebrated, and the warmongers are treated as the poltroons they are.’

  ‘Instead of giving medals to soldiers, give them to peacemakers instead?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Killigrew shook his head. ‘Medals wouldn’t be enough. Soldiers and sailors may treasure the medals they get, but that ain’t what they fight for.’

  ‘Then what do they fight for? Love of country?’

  ‘Cold hard cash.’

  ‘Ah, that cynical veneer of yours is showing again!’ the young man said with a smile.

  ‘Practical,’ Killigrew said defensively. ‘I’m just being practical. If you were to offer a cash prize with your medals for… for services towards world peace, you might be on to something.’

  ‘Well, I suppose I’m in the right line of work to raise the money.’

  ‘Oh? What is it you do, exactly?’

  ‘I’m an armaments manufacturer.’

  Laughing, Killigrew almost choked on his champagne.

  ‘It’s true,’ insisted the young man.

  ‘Forgive me for saying so, but ain’t that kind of an odd line of work for a guy who hates war so passionately?’

  The young man shrugged. ‘Family business. See that fellow over there?’ He nodded towards the square-jawed man in the fur coat who had been talking to Zhirinovsky and Professor Jacobi earlier. ‘That’s my father. Armaments manufacturer to the Tsar, no less. If it were up to me, I’d be a writer.’

  ‘What kind of armaments does your father manufacture?’

  ‘Oh, secret weapons,’ the young man said airily.

  ‘Really? I don’t suppose he knows where I could find an underwater boat, does he?’ Killigrew muttered into his champagne.

  The young man shook his head. ‘We only build infernal machines. If it’s an underwater boat you’re interested in, you’d have to speak to Herr Bauer.’

  It took a conscious effort on Killigrew’s part not to let the champagne flute slip from his fingers to shatter against the deck. ‘Wilhelm Bauer?’ he said, slowly and carefully.

  The young man nodded. ‘The Khimera is supposed to be a big military secret, but everyone in St Petersburg knows what he’s been up to in that shed at the Duke of Leuchtenburg’s shipyard. They moved it to the testing pool in Novaya Gollandia last week, so I suppose it must be finished now.’

  Killigrew guessed that the Khimera was the name the Russians had given the submersible: evidently someone at the Russian Admiralty did not have a very high opinion of the contraption’s feasibility.

  ‘Anyhow, now you know my dirty secret, what’s yours?’ asked the young Swede.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘What do you do for a living? You’re not a military man, and you’re not a scientist or an engineer: if you were, we’d have met before now. And you’re clearly not a politician.’

  ‘Kind of you to say so. Funnily enough, I’m a writer. Well, a journalist, anyhow.’ He proffered his hand. ‘John Bryce, of the New York Herald.’

  ‘Alfred Nobel of Nobel and Sons, at your—’ the young man began automatically, and then he blanched and stared at Killigrew in horror.

  ‘Whatever’s the matter?’

  ‘You… you’re a reporter?’ Nobel raised a hand to his mouth as if to stifle his own words, but that was bolting the proverbial stable door.

  ‘I’m sorry, I guess I should have warned you. If you’re embarrassed to be seen in my company, I can always move over to the other side of the deck. I won’t take it personal.’

  ‘But… I just told you all about Herr Bauer’s secret weapon…’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Killigrew assured him. ‘I won’t tell anyone.’

  ‘You won’t tell anyone?’ Nobel was incredulous. ‘But… you’re a reporter! And it’s got to be the story of the century!’

  ‘Sure, but who’d believe it in New York? If I put that in my next dispatch, you know what the telegram I’d get back from my editor would say? Just nine words: “Ha ha ha ha ha stop. You’re sacked. Ends.” Which reminds me, have you heard the one about the alsatian that goes into a post office to send a telegram?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘It takes a form, picks up a pencil in its paw, writes, and hands the form to the clerk. The clerk looks at it, and sees it’s written: “Woof woof woof woof woof woof woof woof woof.” So he says to the alsatian, “That’s only nine woofs. For the same cost you could send another woof.” And the alsatian gives him a funny look and says, “Yes, but that would be silly.” ’

  Nobel stared at him, and then shook his head with a wry chuckle. ‘Do you promise you won’t tell anyone about the underwater boat?’

  ‘You have my word of honour,’ Killigrew assured him. I might go to Novaya Gollandia tomorrow night and blow it up, he thought to himself, but I won’t tell anyone. ‘Besides, you said it yourself: everyone knows already.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘Everyone knows what already?’ asked Zhirinovsky, stepping up behind him and startling him.

  Killigrew recovered himself quickly. ‘Oh, the one about the alsatian who goes to a post office to send a telegram. Everyone’s heard it.’

  ‘Woof woof woof woof woof,’ grinned Nobel.

  Clearly at least one person in St Petersburg did not know it: Zhirinovsky looked from Killigrew to Nobel and back again as if they were both barking mad. ‘If I could just tear you away from young Master Nobel’s company for five minutes,’ he said at last, ‘there are certain matters I should like to discuss with you.’

  Killigrew smelled something nasty, and it was not the canals. He feigned nonchalance. ‘Be my guest.’

  ‘Not here.’ Zhirinovsky gestured around the upper deck. ‘In my stateroom.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Killigrew gestured for the admiral to lead the way, and turned back to Nobel before following. ‘I’ll leave you to design your peace medals.’

  Nobel nodded and raised his champagne glass. ‘And the cash prize! Don’t forget the cash prize!’

  ‘Peace medals?’ echoed Zhirinovsky as Killigrew followed him down the hatch to the lower deck. ‘Cash prize? What was al
l that about?’

  Killigrew looked him up and down. ‘You wouldn’t understand,’ he said with a smile.

  On the lower deck, Zhirinovsky turned at the bottom of the companion ladder, blocking the way aft to where his stateroom presumably was, and gestured down the next hatch. Common sense dictated that if Killigrew was going to make a break for it, now was the time to do it, when he only had Zhirinovsky to deal with. Except he was on a yacht a mile out from St Petersburg: there was nowhere to make a break to. This was one little drama he was going to have to play out to its conclusion.

  He preceded Zhirinovsky down the next companion way, passing through the next door into the gloomy hold, lit only by a couple of lanthorns that swung from the deck head, casting eerie shadows across the crates and barrels stowed there.

  He had hardly stepped across the threshold when something slammed into his stomach, driving the wind from him. He sank to his knees, and something was smashed across the back of his neck. Retching, he collapsed on to his hands and knees, but then felt himself grabbed by the arms and hoisted to his feet. Through eyes that watered with pain, he saw Zhirinovsky’s coachman, Glazovoi, standing in front of him, patting a cant hook against the palm of one hand while two burly sailors with close-cropped hair held him firmly between them.

  Zhirinovsky moved past them to stand where Killigrew could see him in the hellish glow of the lanthorns. ‘I’ll keep this short if by no means sweet: Mam’selle Orlova is mine. Do you understand?’

  ‘Really?’ Killigrew glowered at him. ‘We don’t hold with slavery north of the Mason-Dixon line.’

  ‘You are not in your United States now, M’sieur Bryce. But I think Glazovoi can explain it better than I can – explain it in a way that will help you to remember if you should chance to run into Mam’selle Orlova again.’ Zhirinovsky turned to the coachman. ‘Keep M’sieur Bryce entertained while I attend to my other guests.’

  Grinning, Glazovoi nodded, and waited for Zhirinovsky to go out. Once the door had closed behind him, the coachman rammed the butt of the cant hook into Killigrew’s guts. The commander doubled up in agony, his legs crumpling beneath him so that the two men on either side of him supported his weight.