They saw at once why the city was so quiet: if half the population had fled in fear of the supposedly imminent bombardment, then the other half had come to the downs to view the fleet. Well-to-do families sat in their landaus and victorias, feasting from picnic hampers, smiling and laughing beneath the warm summer sun, women flirted beneath twirling parasols, and a brass band played cheerful tunes. Some enterprising folk had set up barbeques and were selling cuts of meat and sausages, or dispensing beer from kegs; all for inflated prices, naturally. There was a distinct carnival atmosphere. After forty years of peace in Europe, war had become entertainment.
Plenty of the sightseers had brought telescopes and opera glasses – a few more enterprising souls were renting out their own, and charging by the minute – so Killigrew felt no qualms about taking out his miniature telescope to view the fleet for himself. The ships had anchored about two and a half miles south of Helsingfors, beyond the reach of Sveaborg’s guns. He quickly picked out the Duke of Wellington, the largest of them all, riding at the centre of a cluster of warships at anchor. And there was the Ramillies. It was just past four o’clock – eight bells in the afternoon watch – and by now the crew would be clearing the deck.
‘Twenty mortar vessels,’ he counted under his breath, ‘nineteen gunboats, six steam frigates, six support vessels, five ships of the line, four blockships, three paddle-sloops, two corvettes…’
‘And a partridge in a pear tree,’ concluded Anzhelika. He glanced at her, and she grinned.
‘Well, the Duke’s still there,’ he told her. ‘All present and correct, as far as I can see.’
‘If the fleet arrived yesterday afternoon, surely this underwater boat has had plenty of time to make an attack?’
‘Maybe it already did, and failed. Or maybe the Russians were caught by surprise. Perhaps the Sea Devil isn’t ready yet. Or perhaps the Russians aren’t in any hurry.’
‘But you cannot count on that.’
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘I can’t.’
His gaze fell upon a small islet about a mile and a half to the south, where he could see French marines setting up a battery of five brass thirteen-inch mortars. There could be no doubt about it: Dundas had finally screwed his courage to the sticking place and the Allies’ preparations for the bombardment of Sveaborg were in earnest.
Killigrew turned his attention to the maritime fortress. A neo-gothic castle perched on a crag overlooking the Rhine might look more impregnable, but such a castle would only last about half an hour under a sustained bombardment from the shell-guns of a single decker. No, a gothic castle was all very picturesque, but the days of castles had died with chivalry and knights in shining armour. For true menace – for a sight that filled your heart with a foreboding sense of impregnability – you needed a modern fortress: squat, ugly, and indomitable.
A complex spread across five of the low-lying islands off the Finnish coast, Sveaborg had first been built in the previous century by Finland’s Swedish overlords, in a style of which Vauban would have approved: all casements, ravelins and glacis to deflect the round shot of attacking men o’ war. But the fortress had been strengthened and modernised when the duchy had become part of Russia; and according to the latest reconnaissance reports from the fleet that Killigrew had seen back in London, now it was in the process of being modernised yet again in preparation for the British attack that everyone anticipated. Bunkers were being strengthened against mortars, new forts built, extra artillery batteries added.
The five islands – Vargon, Gustafvard and East, West and Little Svarto – clustered close together, four of them linked by bridges built across the narrow channels that separated them. Barracks, dockyards, gunboat sheds, factories, foundries, administrative buildings, an arsenal, a magazine, a hospital and a church were all housed within the crenellated granite walls that frowned over the rocky outer shores of the complex. There was even a mill for grinding the fortress’s copious supplies of grain into flour. A complete and self-contained community, the complex could hold out for weeks if not months in the event of a siege. A year ago, the incomplete fortress of Bomarsund had fallen to the Allies in a matter of days; but they would find Sveaborg an altogether tougher nut to crack.
‘What are those boats doing?’ asked Anzhelika.
Killigrew trained his telescope to where she pointed, at the sea between the fleet and the fortress. There were dozens of launches, pinnaces, cutters and dinghies from the fleet, moving slowly about the water in fits and starts. At first he could not work out what they were doing: they seemed to be working in pairs, dredging lines between them. Finally, it hit him. ‘They must be sweeping the sea for infernal machines,’ he explained. ‘That’s where the fleet will probably take up position for the bombardment: Dundas won’t send the gunboats and mortar vessels in until the area’s been thoroughly surveyed for hazards.’
‘How long will that take?’
‘A day or two. They don’t seem to be in any hurry.’ But why should they be? he asked himself. The only Russian ships in the vicinity rode at anchor in the bay behind Sveaborg, protected by its batteries, and they were outnumbered and outgunned by the Allied fleet. The Russians would have to be mad to sally out, and Dundas and Seymour knew it. So they could take as much time as they wanted to prepare the bombardment.
Killigrew and Anzhelika had missed dinner, but since he was feeling flush after his transaction with the owner of the livery stables, he stumped up for a couple of smoked sausages, and rolls to wrap them in. He handed one to Anzhelika, and the two of them munched on the snacks as he led the way back into the city. When they had finished, Killigrew produced a linen handkerchief so they could wipe the grease from their fingers and chins.
‘What do we do now?’ Anzhelika asked as they walked back along the promenade. ‘Try to steal a boat to get to the fleet, to warn them about the Sea Devil?’
‘Not much point,’ Killigrew told her. ‘Admiral Seymour wouldn’t believe me. Dundas might, but if he did he’d just call off the attack. And that would be almost as disastrous as if the Sea Devil did sink the flagship.’ The result would be the same: no Allied ship of the line would dare go within range of a Russian port for fear of the Sea Devil, and the blockade of Russia’s Baltic ports would be broken.
‘So what do we do?’
‘I’m not sure what can be done,’ said Killigrew. It was a white lie: he had a very good idea of what he had to do, but it was not a prospect that he cared for, and he certainly did not want to worry her. ‘We have to try to contact the Wolves of Suomi and find out how much help they’ll be prepared to give us… if any. But first, we need to set up a base of operations.’
* * *
An elegant four-poster bed dominated the middle of the bridal suite, and there was even a separate but en suite room for their own private bath, with running water (cold and hot) and one of the latest flushing water closets.
There had been no baggage to carry for the chambermaid who had shown them up to the room, but Killigrew tipped her generously from the wad of notes the owner of the livery stables had paid him.
‘Thank you!’ She curtsied and hurried out, closing the door behind her.
Anzhelika leaned her back against the wall behind her and folded her arms. ‘So, this is your notion of a base of operations,’ she remarked drily.
He shrugged, grinning. ‘If you’ve got to go, you might as well go in style. Besides, after four nights of living rough we both deserve to enjoy rather more salubrious surroundings.’
Booking into Helsingfors’ finest hotel was a calculated risk, but one Killigrew thought they could afford to take: Third Section surveillance was not as intensive in this city as it was in the Russian capital, and if their agents were trying to identify the Wolves of Suomi they would be more interested in locals than in a Swedish merchant and his Russian wife. Killigrew’s greatest fear was that someone was going to recognise Anzhelika as the prima ballerina of the Mariinsky Ballet. She insisted she had never danced in Helsingfor
s, but Killigrew knew it was not improbable that more than one resident of the city might have seen her dance on a visit to St Petersburg.
He divided the wad of notes into two, and handed half to her. ‘You’ll need some new clothes; head up to the end of the promenade by the fish market and turn left, you’ll find plenty of dressmakers’ shops on the esplanade.’
‘How much should I spend?’
‘As much as you like.’
‘Why, Herre Johansson! I think you must be the perfect husband!’
He chuckled. ‘You’re too kind, Fru Johansson! Get me something while you’re about it.’ He gave her his measurements: it would have to be off the peg, but there was no time to wait around for a tailor’s fitting.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to the university.’
He walked with her as far as the fish market, and while she turned left on to the esplanade he cut through a side street into Senate Square. The ground sloped up to the north, where the cathedral stood at the top of a broad flight of stairs; the senate building was over on his right, and the university on his left. There was a notice board inside the hallway with various notices tacked to it. A number of public lectures had had the word ‘cancelled’ scrawled over them – due to academic nervousness about the intentions of the Allied fleet, no doubt – but there were more that were still on for that night. Fleet or no fleet, it was largely business as usual in Helsingfors that day.
One notice in particular caught Killigrew’s eye:
Professor Rasmus Forselius
(University of Helsingfors Department of Geology)
will give a public lecture in
Subaqueous Deposits
at 8 p.m. on Tuesday 7 August
Lecture Theatre 1
Price of Admission: One Mark
‘…The abundance of carbonate of lime produced by springs in regions where volcanic eruptions or earthquakes prevail is explained by the solvent power of carbonic acid. As the acidulous waters percolate calcareous strata, they hold a quantity of lime in suspension and carry it up to the surface where, under diminished pressure in the atmosphere, it may be deposited or, being absorbed by animals or vegetables, may be secreted by them. Which point brings my lecture to a conclusion.’
The audience rose for a rapturous standing ovation; even Killigrew, who cried out ‘Encore! Encore!’ until Anzhelika pulled him back down into his seat.
‘What?’ he asked her. ‘I enjoyed it. Fascinating stuff.’
‘Really?’
‘No. Actually, I didn’t understand a word of it.’
‘Then why draw attention to yourself?’
‘Imagine you’re a Third Section informer on the lookout for a British spy in a university lecture hall. Who’s the most likely candidate? The chap standing up at the end and shouting “Encore!”, or the fellow sitting quietly at the back?’
‘They teach you this in spy school back in England, do they?’
‘Lor’, no. I’m making it up as I go along.’
The rest of the audience had risen to its feet and was filing out of the lecture theatre. On the stage, Professor Rasmus Forselius gathered up his notes and tucked them in a satchel. Killigrew had been expecting someone older, perhaps bald-headed with a goatee beard: in fact Forselius was about forty; not tall, but well built, with a clean-shaven jaw and rather long blond hair.
As some of the people filing out of the university into Senate Square set off walking, others waited for their carriages or flagged down cabriolets. Killigrew bagged a cabriolet while there was still one spare, asking the driver to wait: he did not know whether the professor would be leaving in a carriage or on foot.
He looked at Anzhelika, her dark eyes peeping at him over the muffler wrapped over her nose and mouth. Wrapped up in her warm clothes, she looked even more vulnerable than ever. ‘Perhaps you should go on to Åbo ahead of me,’ he suggested. ‘Try to find a boat and get out of the country as soon as you can.’
She shook her head. ‘Oh, no you don’t. I’m staying right here with you.’
‘I’d feel a lot happier if you went. Please, Lika, for your own safety.’
‘I can look after myself…’ She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead.
‘Are you all right?’
‘A bit of a headache, that’s all. Perhaps I should go back to the hotel and lie down.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘You’re supposed to meet the professor, remember? Do not concern yourself, I’ll be all right.’
Killigrew glanced around the square. He was starting to wonder if perhaps Forselius had gone out some back way when he saw the professor emerge from the building and set off walking, one hand in the pocket of his frock coat, the other swinging his satchel as he whistled jauntily to himself. He did not make for any of the waiting carriages: Killigrew guessed he lived nearby. ‘At least take the cabriolet,’ he told Anzhelika, helping her up. ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve some powders back at the hotel; I’ll be all right in an hour or two. Will you be long?’
‘That depends on how co-operative the professor is willing to be. I’ll try to join you for supper.’
She smiled. ‘I’ll have them put some champagne on ice.’
‘Make it the ’forty-six, if they have any left.’
She gave the cabbie the name of the hotel, and Killigrew watched her depart before looking around for Forselius. The professor was already a hundred yards away, and Killigrew had to walk briskly to narrow the gap.
He followed him up the street between the university library building and the cathedral, into the smart residential area to the north of the city. The professor passed through the front door of a fine-looking town house – a butler appeared, to let him in – and Killigrew continued towards the end of the street. Then he doubled-back, making sure that no one had been following him while he had followed the professor, and pulled on the doorbell.
The butler answered the door. ‘Ja?’
‘Is this the home of Professor Rasmus Forselius?’ Killigrew asked in Swedish, a language in which he was a good deal more fluent than Russian.
‘Indeed it is, sir.’
‘My apologies to the professor – I appreciate the hour is unsocial – but I wonder if I might have a word with him?’
‘Do you have a card?’
Killigrew shook his head. ‘Just tell him Colonel Nekrasoff of the Third Section is here to see him.’
Scarcely a muscle flickered in the butler’s face. ‘Very good, sir. If you’ll wait here I’ll see if the professor is in.’ He withdrew and closed the door behind him.
Killigrew did not wait for him to return, but casually made his way to the alley at the back of the house. Even as he arrived, the kitchen door opened and the professor emerged, struggling to pull on his overcoat while transferring his satchel from one hand to the other. He ran straight into Killigrew and would have fallen to the cobbles if the commander had not caught him.
‘Excuse me,’ he muttered, and tried to brush past, but Killigrew held him fast.
‘You’re in a hurry, aren’t you? What does a loyal subject of the Tsar have to fear from an agent of the Third Section?’
Forselius stared at Killigrew. In the light from the back of the house, the commander saw the professor’s shoulders slump and the colour drain from his face.
‘It’s a nice night,’ said Killigrew. ‘What say you and I go for a little walk?’ Keeping a firm grip on the professor’s arm, he steered him towards the end of the alley.
‘What do you want with me? I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. Tell me, Professor Forselius, does the name Wojtkiewicz mean anything to you? Mscislaw Wojtkiewicz?’
‘I don’t know that name.’
‘That’s funny. He knows yours. He tells me he met you in Siberia.’
‘He might have done,’ Forselius admitted truculently. ‘I met a lot of people in
Siberia. You can’t expect me to remember all their names.’
‘He tells me you might be able to put me in touch with the Wolves of Suomi.’
‘I don’t know anything about that.’
‘Oh, but I think you do.’
‘Look, what’s all this about? What do you want with me?’
‘I need your help.’
‘You need my help!’ Forselius peered at Killigrew. ‘You’re not an officer of the Third Section!’ he decided accusingly.
‘Perish the thought! I’m a British spy.’
‘British!’ Forselius scowled. ‘And why should a Finn want to help an Englishman?’
‘Because we have an enemy in common.’
‘The Russians?’
Killigrew nodded. ‘With the help of the Wolves of Suomi, I can hit the Russians where it hurts. Will you take me to them?’
‘I told you, I don’t know any of the Wolves of Suomi.’
‘You still don’t trust me?’
‘Well, now that you mention it…’ sneered Forselius.
Killigrew sighed. ‘Just tell them I’m staying at the Grand Hotel under the name of Herre Johansson, and if they’ll contact me I have a proposition for them which may be to our mutual advantage.’
* * *
Anzhelika collected the key to her room from the reception desk and made her way upstairs. Unlocking the door, she stepped into the darkened room. She was reaching for a box of matches to light the oil-lamp on the bedside cabinet when someone grabbed her from behind, clamping a mouth over her hand.
She sank her teeth into it. The man muffled a yell, and she rammed an elbow into his ribs, breaking free.
‘Lika, it’s me!’ gasped her assailant. ‘Kit!’
Recognising his voice, she relaxed and struck a match. ‘What devil do you mean by it, hiding in the dark and frightening the living daylights out of me?’ She lifted the glass flue from the oil-lamp and applied the match to the wick.
‘I frightened the living daylights out of you?’ he retorted angrily. ‘You told me you were coming straight back here. What was I supposed to think when I returned and found no sign of you? I thought you’d been picked up by the Third Section.’
Killigrew and the Sea Devil Page 34