Glazovoi moved behind them, out of Killigrew’s line of sight. The commander braced himself, but nothing could have prepared him for the searing agony of the cant hook being slashed across his kidneys. The two men holding him let go, and he staggered forward to slump against a stack of crates. As Glazovoi came at him again, Killigrew grasped one of the cargo battens holding the crates in place and tried to pull himself up, but the batten broke free of the beams. The cant hook swept over his head to bury its point in one of the crates as Killigrew sprawled on his back in the bilges.
Glazovoi stood over Killigrew, trying to pull the cant hook free. Realising he still held the cargo batten in his hands, the commander pushed himself to his feet and swung it back over his shoulder. Glazovoi let go of the hook and raised his arms to protect his head. The batten smashed against one of his wrists, and he stepped back with a yelp, nursing his arm.
Killigrew swung the batten again. There was not enough room between the crates to get a good swing up, but the tip of the batten whipped Glazovoi across the face, drawing blood and snapping his head around.
As Glazovoi retreated, the two sailors squeezed past him into the gangway between the crates to come at Killigrew again. He grabbed hold of a couple of battens overhead and pulled himself up between them, lashing out with both feet to catch the first in the chest and send him staggering back into his shipmate. Killigrew clambered up between the crates – not that there was much space overhead – and braced himself in position, his head twisted at an angle, his shoulders hard against the deck head. He pulled another batten free to jab one end of it at one of the sailors who tried to clamber up after him. He caught him in the throat and the man fell to the deck. As the other sailor tried to follow him, Killigrew pulled one of the crates over so that it toppled down into the gangway, knocking the man to the deck and pinning him there.
Killigrew dropped down on to the crate – the sailor beneath it groaning pitifully at the additional weight – and jumped over the other sailor who lay unconscious on the deck to confront Glazovoi, who had pulled the cant hook free and now held it in his good right hand as he stood at the mouth of the gangway, blocking Killigrew’s escape. The commander snatched up one of the fallen battens and raised it to parry as the coachman swung the cant hook at his head. The wooden batten splintered easily, and Killigrew scarcely managed to duck before the hook connected with his ear. But Glazovoi had put too much strength behind the blow and he staggered, twisting, leaving himself wide open. Killigrew stabbed him in the face with the splintered end of the batten. The coachman dropped the cant hook with a grunt and raised a hand to his bloody cheek. Killigrew caught him by the arm – intentionally taking him by the broken wrist; this was neither the time nor the place for chivalry – and twisted it up into the small of his back. Glazovoi screamed in agony, and Killigrew drove him down the gangway, ramming him head first into the crates stowed on the other side of the main aisle. He lifted a knee into the coachman’s crotch from behind, and as the coachman sank to his knees Killigrew seized his head in both hands and threw it against the side of a crate, splintering the wood.
Glazovoi sank to the deck and lay still.
Killigrew stood for a moment with his hands on his knees, gasping. He had not killed any of them – thank God! The last thing he needed was to get embroiled in a murder investigation – but they would not be in a hurry to tackle him again. When he had caught his breath, he brushed his hair back into place with his fingers, shot his cuffs, readjusted his cravat, and dusted himself off.
There was only one place on board where he would be safe until they returned to the quay: he made his way back up to the upper deck.
The guests still stood around talking or waltzing to the music of the band. Zhirinovsky was laughing at some joke Nobel père had told him, although the grin was quickly wiped off his face when he saw Killigrew emerge from the hatch. Smiling – it was an effort, but he managed it – the commander took a champagne flute from the tray of a passing flunkey and raised it in a mocking toast to the admiral.
Zhirinovsky remained where he was, listening to Nobel père, but from the way he kept glancing in Killigrew’s direction it was clear to the commander that the admiral’s mind was elsewhere.
A short while later one of the sailors Killigrew had beaten in the hold came on deck, looking very battered. Glaring at Killigrew, he crossed the deck to where Zhirinovsky stood, but before he could say anything Zhirinovsky signalled for silence, and made his excuses to Nobel before steering the sailor to a spot on the deck that was free of potential eavesdroppers. The sailor spoke at length, shooting the occasional scowl at Killigrew, while Zhirinovsky listened patiently. When the sailor had finished, Zhirinovsky spoke to him in low, urgent tones. The sailor nodded and went below once more.
Killigrew positioned himself with his back to his starboard bulwark. Zhirinovsky was not going to try anything in front of his guests. But the admiral had something on his mind, that much was obvious; and if trouble was on its way, Killigrew wanted to see it coming.
A few of the other guests came over to make small talk with him but, like Zhirinovsky, his mind was on other things, and he learned nothing of any import. What mattered was that thanks to Nobel fils he now knew where Bauer was testing the Sea Devil; whether he would live long enough to use that information remained to be seen. He cursed himself for a fool, for jeopardising his mission by becoming involved with a woman.
An hour later the yacht’s engines started up once more, and they turned and headed back to Vasilyevsky Island. Killigrew checked his watch, wondering if Zhirinovsky had decided to bring the ball to a premature conclusion, but Glazovoi had smashed the watch with the first blow of the cant hook. He sighed and tucked it back in the fob pocket of his waistcoat.
The yacht entered the harbour, and he watched as they drew near the quayside. Already he could smell the sewage in the canals; while in the city, it was amazing how quickly one’s nose grew accustomed to the stench, so that after a while one barely noticed it; but after getting a whiff of the fresh sea breezes in his nostrils, now the stink of the canals seemed stronger than ever.
The yacht manoeuvred into position alongside one of the jetties and sailors threw mooring ropes to the waiting dock workers. Once the yacht was moored, the gangplank was lowered, and Zhirinovsky stood at the entry port to accept his guests’ thanks as they filed down. Two of the sailors took up position on either side of the entry port, watching Killigrew with narrowed eyes. This was going to get ugly. Unless…
Killigrew handed his empty champagne flute to a flunkey, grabbed hold of one of the stays supporting the foremast, and swung himself up on to the bulwark. From there he scrambled up on to one of the paddle-boxes and leaped for the jetty.
It was a drop of some twenty feet: he hit the planks and rolled over, before picking himself up and dusting himself off as casually as if that was the way everyone disembarked from a ship. Walking past the foot of the gangplank, he looked up to where Zhirinovsky stood at the entry port, glowering down at him. Killigrew smiled and waved up at him. One of the sailors asked Zhirinovsky a question, but he just shook his head without taking his hate-filled eyes off the commander.
* * *
Killigrew slipped out of the back door of his hotel that evening and made his way to Wojtkiewicz’s house. The Pole had a large dining room with a long mahogany table, but the butler showed the commander to a room in the kitchens, where Killigrew was astonished to find Wojtkiewicz finishing supper with Anzhelika Orlova in a smaller, cosier room.
As soon as she saw Killigrew standing on the threshold, however, she rose from her seat with a smile of delight and ran across to embrace him. ‘John!’
‘Lika! What the Sam Hill are you doing here?’
‘Looking for you,’ grated Wojtkiewicz, his expression torn between amusement and annoyance.
‘You are not pleased to see me?’ she asked Killigrew.
‘Delighted,’ he assured her. ‘It’s just… unexpected, that’s al
l. You know, your fancy man warned me to keep away from you today.’
She flushed. ‘He is not my fancy man! He thinks because he is my sponsor, that makes me his serf… but when he touches me, I feel sick.’
‘Then why not find a new sponsor?’
‘It is not so easy, in Russia. Besides, Zhirinovsky would never let me go. That is why I must leave the country. There is nothing to keep me here in St Petersburg.’
‘Leave the country! Where will you go?’
‘France. I have friends at the Paris Opera.’ She looked hopefully from Killigrew to Wojtkiewicz and back to the commander again. ‘You will help me?’
‘What makes you think we can help you?’ demanded Wojtkiewicz.
She looked crestfallen. ‘You… you must have friends? Know people…?’
The Pole sighed. ‘I’ll make enquires, see what I can do for you. But I’m not making any promises, do you understand?’
She nodded gravely.
Wojtkiewicz checked his watch. ‘And now it’s getting late. I’ll have Casimir show you to your room.’
After Anzhelika had left the kitchen, Wojtkiewicz poured out two glasses of vodka and handed one to Killigrew.
‘She’s staying here?’ the commander asked him.
‘She hasn’t given me much choice!’ scowled the Pole. ‘She says she’s frightened to go back to her lodgings. You know, if I had one scrap of sense, I should kill you both and dump your bodies a very long way from here. For all I know, you could both be agents provocateurs for the Third Section.’
‘Hm. I don’t suppose you could just dump our bodies a very long way from here – preferably in the vicinity of Danzig – and forget about the killing part of it altogether?’
‘Get you out of the country, you mean? It would certainly be in my best interests to get you away from me, before you destroy yourself and drag me down with you. I’ve got a cargo of vodka sailing for Danzig tomorrow morning. The master of the ship carrying it owes me a favour. If we move quickly, I can probably have you both smuggled on board—’
‘Ah. No can do, I’m afraid. There’s somewhere I’ve got to be tomorrow night.’
Wojtkiewicz closed his eyes. His lips did not move, but Killigrew guessed he was counting to dziesiec in an effort to contain his temper. ‘If you don’t go tomorrow, you’ll have to wait until Monday morning.’
‘So be it.’
‘Dare I ask what new mayhem you’re planning to brew up tomorrow night?’
Killigrew sighed. It was about time he took Wojtkiewicz into his confidence; if the Pole had intended to betray him, he would have done it long before now. ‘I’m looking for Bauer because we think he’s built an underwater boat for the Russians. It’s my job to find out more, and today I learned it’s being tested at Novaya Gollandia.’
‘Now you know where it is, why not head straight back to London to warn your Admiralty? Why wait until next week?’
‘Because I mean to go to Novaya Gollandia to destroy it.’
Wojtkiewicz stared at him. ‘I see.’
Killigrew smiled wanly. ‘Aren’t you going to tell me I must be out of my mind?’
‘That goes without saying. But if you were the kind of man who gave up so easily when he was this close to achieving his goal, you’d never have come to St Petersburg in the first place.’
‘Pity. I was rather hoping you were going to try to talk me out of it.’
Wojtkiewicz grinned. ‘Oh, no! You don’t get out of it that easily! Novaya Gollandia, eh? That’s only a few streets from here, as it happens. It’s an island in the middle of the city.’
‘I thought this city was nothing but a mass of islands?’
‘You’re not far wrong. Novaya Gollandia is surrounded by water on three sides: the Admiralty Canal, the Kryukoff Canal, and the Moika.’
‘And on the fourth side?’
‘There is no fourth side: it’s shaped like a right-angled triangle, with the Moika forming the longest side. And on the inner side of the canals, the perimeter is lined with rows of warehouses on all three sides, so that the centre of the island is all but hidden from the outside world. And believe you me, breaking in there is not going to be easy.’
‘I dare say, but I must make the attempt nevertheless. Presumably there are bridges?’
‘Aye; all heavily guarded, though.’
This all sounded very dispiriting, but Killigrew would not be put off so easily. ‘I’d like to see for myself.’
‘Be my guest. Tomorrow morning I’ll take you for a walk around the outside.’
A grandfather clock tolled eleven in the hallway. ‘It’s getting late, and at my age I need my beauty sleep,’ said Wojtkiewicz. ‘I’ll leave you to tell Anzhelika the good news. Her door is on the left in the east wing. You know she’s in love with you, don’t you?’
Killigrew stared at him. ‘That’s ridiculous. She hardly knows me.’
‘Who said love ever had to make sense? Be gentle with her, Killigrew. If you break her heart, I’ll break your neck.’
Killigrew sensed Wojtkiewicz was not just saying it, either. He took his leave of the Pole and made his way upstairs, knocking on the door to Anzhelika’s room. ‘Who is it?’ she called.
‘Me.’
‘John? Come in!’
He opened the door and stepped into an elegant bedroom dominated by a large four-poster bed. Anzhelika was sitting at the dresser, wearing a provocative nightdress that doubtless belonged to one of Wojtkiewicz’s mistresses; Killigrew sensed the Pole had more than one. The commander was not shocked by her state of undress; before he had met Araminta, he had spent a lot of time in the company of opera dancers back in London, and he knew that theatrical women – used to sharing dressing rooms – were more relaxed about being seen en déshabillé than most ladies of his acquaintance.
As soon as he entered and closed the door behind him, however, she rose to her feet and turned to face him, toying with two silk ribbons that hung down from the bow tying the rather décolleté neckline of the nightgown.
‘We can get you out of the country tomorrow morning,’ Killigrew told her. ‘If that’s what you want.’
‘Oh, John!’ She ran across to him and flung her arms about his neck, planting kisses all over his face. Then she broke off and stepped back, frowning prettily. ‘What about you?’
He shook his head. ‘There’s something I have to do before I can leave.’
‘What?’
He smiled. ‘Let’s just say I’ve got a lead on an important news story.’
‘When will you be leaving?’
‘Monday morning.’
‘Can I not wait until then, and travel with you?’
Killigrew grimaced. If what Wojtkiewicz had said was true – and from the way she looked at him, he had a feeling it might be – she was going to get a nasty surprise when she discovered who and what he really was. Yet he could not tell her the truth. Her desire to leave the country was motivated by her fear of Zhirinovsky, but that did not mean she did not love her country. What would she do if she found out why Killigrew was really in St Petersburg? Whatever his feelings for her, he could not afford to take the risk of finding out by telling her the truth. The whole business was starting to make him feel unclean. He sighed. What a lousy, filthy business espionage was! He desperately wanted to give her a scrap of truth, if only as a sop to his own conscience, but the best he could come up with was: ‘All I can tell you is that I can’t make any promises.’
She smiled. ‘I trust you.’
He shook his head. ‘There are a thousand and one things you don’t know about me.’
‘Why not explain them to me?’
‘I wouldn’t know where to begin.’
She pulled on the ribbons so that the bow came adrift, and with a shrug of her shoulders the nightgown slipped down to gather in a pool around her ankles. ‘Start here,’ she suggested.
Chapter 14
Breaking and Entering
After returning to his ho
tel in the small hours of the morning, Killigrew got a couple of hours of much-needed sleep and went out again after breakfast. He gave Tweedledum and Tweedledee the slip in the crowds of shoppers beneath the arcades of the Gostiny Dvor, a huge complex of various shops all huddled together in one vast building. There he lost his pursuers without difficulty amongst the crowds emerging at the back of the complex and turning right on to Lomonosoff Street until he reached the Yekaterina Canal.
He followed the canal for over a mile, crossing from one embankment to the other each time he came to one of the many bridges that crossed it, even doubling back on himself just to make sure the Third Section had not got too clever and sent a second pair of agents to tail him. Once he was confident he had shaken off all his shadowers, he crossed the canal at the narrow Lions’ Bridge, named after the pair of rampant cast-iron lions that supported the suspension chains. A short walk down the Officers’ Street and left on to Glinki Street brought him to the Moika River, where Wojtkiewicz stood waiting for him on the Bridge of Kisses, muffled against the chill of the summer morning in an overcoat, comforter and fur hat. He leaned against the railing, gazing up the Moika to where the scaffold-covered dome of St Isaac’s Cathedral rose above the rooftops. He did not look round as Killigrew walked past behind him and leaned against the railing half a dozen feet further on.
‘You weren’t followed?’ the Pole asked without looking in Killigrew’s direction.
‘Only for a very small part of the way.’
Wojtkiewicz turned away from the railing and sauntered across the bridge. Killigrew fell into step beside him, and when the two of them turned the corner on to the embankment of the Kryukoff Canal, the island of Novaya Gollandia lay opposite them.
As they strolled north along the embankment, Killigrew was able to get a good look at the island; the outer face of it, at any rate. The canal was about twenty yards wide. Beyond that, a screen of birch trees growing from the grassy embankment partially screened the backs of the tall, red-brick warehouses beyond. There were no gaps between the warehouses, so that they presented an impenetrable screen around the centre of the island. There were windows, but none at ground level.
Killigrew and the Sea Devil Page 27