Killigrew’s eyes slowly became accustomed to what little light came through the grille in the door, and he saw that both Stålberg and Lindström had been subjected to the Ryzhago treatment, if their dishevelled clothes and battered faces were any indication.
‘Have you become a Hindoo, Herre Killigrew?’ asked Stålberg.
‘Eh?’
‘You would appear to have a caste mark in the middle of your forehead.’
‘Oh! Would you believe me if I told you that’s where I shot myself?’
‘I see,’ Stålberg said dubiously. ‘Any particular reason?’
‘It seemed like a good idea at the time.’
‘You did not do a very good job of it, did you?’ remarked Lindström. ‘I mean, you’re still walking.’
Killigrew grinned through the pain of his wrists and shoulders. ‘Thick skull. I don’t suppose either of you gentlemen know a way out of here?’ he asked, trying to sound breezy.
‘We were rather counting on you to rescue us,’ said Stålberg. ‘Somehow I had a feeling that sooner or later you’d be joining us, one way or another. Is the Allied fleet still anchored south of Helsingfors?’
Killigrew nodded.
‘So it’s a toss-up whether the Russians execute us before the bombardment begins or vice versa,’ said Lindström. ‘How long, do you think?’
‘The last time I saw the fleet, it looked as though they were making their final dispositions.’
‘Then they could launch their bombardment any time now?’
The commander shook his head. ‘They won’t attack until dawn.’
‘Why not until then?’
‘We British always attack at dawn. It’s sort of a tradition with us.’
‘So, we have only a few hours to get out of here.’
Killigrew nodded, and looked about. ‘This time last year, one of the men under my command managed to escape from a Third Section gaol using only a pair of woolly socks and a button.’
‘A pair of woolly socks and a button?’ echoed Stålberg. ‘How in the world did he manage that?’
‘Good question. I kept meaning to ask him, but unfortunately I never got round to it.’
* * *
After seeing Killigrew safely locked up in the dungeons below Fort Gustaf, Nekrasoff returned to the citadel on Vargon, where the ball was still going strong into the small hours of the morning. He had been to enough of these functions to know the dancing would continue until long after the sun had risen.
But he was in no mood to enjoy himself, and the taste of champagne, which should have been celebratory, turned flat and sour in his mouth. Killigrew locked up and scheduled for execution at dawn… it was too good to be true. The Englishman was a resourceful devil, and part of Nekrasoff wanted to go back to Fort Gustaf to make sure personally he did not escape this time. He tried to tell himself he was fretting about nothing, but he could not shake off a niggling feeling there was something he was forgetting, some X-factor he had not taken into account.
‘Sir?’
He turned to see Ryzhago approaching through the throng. ‘What is it?’
‘We’ve found Lieutenant Kizheh, sir.’
‘Ah, good. About time, too. Where is he?’
‘He’s dead, sir. They found his body stuffed in the bow locker of the ferry with that of a matros.’
‘Dead?’
‘Murdered, sir.’
Nekrasoff grimaced. ‘I hardly thought he’d suddenly fallen victim to typhoid. How?’
‘I’m no surgeon, sir. But from the bruises on his neck I’d say he was strangled.’
The colonel thought about it, and nodded. ‘Well, it would tie in with what we’d already assumed. Killigrew gained access to Sveaborg by posing as one of the guests coming to this ball. Didn’t I always say this was going to be a security nightmare?’
‘That you did, sir. There’s something else you ought to know: the dead matros found with him was killed differently. Stabbed in the throat.’
Nekrasoff shrugged. ‘So he stabbed one and strangled the other. Our Commander Killigrew is a versatile man.’
‘Yes, sir. It’s just that I can’t help thinking that his accomplice who broke into Novaya Gollandia with him last Thursday used throwing knives to kill several of the guards.’
Nekrasoff felt as though he’d been stabbed in the stomach. He stared at Ryzhago in horror as the implications of his words sank in. ‘He’s not alone! Come on!’
The two of them almost had to fight their way through the crowd of drunken guests to get to the gateway. Fortunately, Ryzhago was the sort of man people tended to step aside for, drunk or sober.
Sergeant Obukoff was still on duty in plain clothes at the gateway, even though the guests had stopped arriving long ago. ‘Sergeant, a man arrived here earlier tonight,’ Nekrasoff told him. ‘About five foot eleven, lean build, saturnine complexion, black hair, brown eyes, aged about thirty…’
Obukoff thought for a moment. He had a phenomenal memory for names and faces, which was exactly why Nekrasoff employed him for jobs like this. ‘Sounds like Herre Ambrosius Ögren to me, sir.’
‘Ögren! Chert! I don’t believe it!’
‘What’s wrong, sir?’ asked Ryzhago.
‘I spoke to her! Damn it, I even danced with her!’
‘Who, sir?’
‘His accomplice: Fru Ottilia Ögren… if that’s her real name, which I very much doubt. She’s here, damn it! Brunette, brown eyes, good figure, late twenties or early thirties. I left her with Admiral Prince Zhirinovsky earlier…’ Nekrasoff glanced back into the compound. ‘Damn it, where’s he got to?’
‘They left the compound together, sir,’ said Obukoff. ‘I think he was taking her to his billet.’
‘What do you mean, you think he was taking her to his billet? Did you hear him say so?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then what makes you think they were going to his billet?’
‘Well, he had an arm around her shoulders and… not to put too fine a point on it… a bulge in his crotch like the Kamchatka Peninsula.’
‘Thank you, Obukoff, I think we get the picture,’ snapped Nekrasoff. ‘When was this?’
‘About thirty minutes ago, sir.’
‘Thirty minutes! Chert! We must find her, damn it! I’ll check his billet. Obukoff, round up all the men you can find – matrosy, soldiers, I don’t care whose toes you have to tread on but get as many men as you can – and order them to search every inch of this base. Vargon, East, West and Little Svarto, Gustafvard – I want no stone left unturned, do you understand me? And I want guards on every bridge. Make sure they have descriptions of both the woman and Killigrew. When you’ve done that, I want you to go to Fort Gustaf and join the gaolers watching Killigrew’s cell. You stay there and make sure he doesn’t leave until I come for him, do you understand me? I don’t care if the Grand Duke himself arrives ordering his release, you let no one past until I get there.’
‘Yes, sir!’ Obukoff hurried off.
Nekrasoff turned to Ryzhago. ‘Come on!’
* * *
Aurélie made her way upstairs and found the bedroom, then closed the door again and tiptoed back across the landing in time to hear Zhirinovsky dismiss his servants. She re-entered the bedroom, closing the door softly behind her, and took up position pretending to rearrange her hair in front of the cheval-glass.
The door opened and Zhirinovsky entered with a schtoff of vodka in one hand and two tumblers in the other. ‘I thought perhaps a drink would help calm your nerves,’ he explained.
‘Oh, Samya! You are so thoughtful. However can I repay you?’
‘I’m sure I can think of something.’ He put the bottle and the glasses down on the dresser. When he turned back to face her, they stood barely inches apart. He could restrain himself no longer. He seized her in his arms and mashed his lips against hers, trying to force his tongue between her teeth.
Smiling, she pushed him gently away. ‘Not so fast, darling!’<
br />
‘I cannot help myself, Ottilia! I must have you now!’
‘But do you not think that some pleasures are best lingered over?’ she teased him archly.
He whimpered. ‘Oh God, yes!’ he moaned. He looked ready to burst.
She moved closer to him so she could whisper in his ear. ‘Close your eyes. I have a little surprise for you.’
He closed his eyes. She moved behind him and picked up the stool from in front of the dresser.
‘Can I open my eyes yet?’ he pleaded.
‘Not just yet,’ she told him, hefting the stool over her head. She smashed it against the base of his skull.
He crumpled to the floor. ‘I’ll bet that surprised you, you gross pig!’ she spat at his unconscious body.
She dragged him on to the bed and stripped his clothes off, tying his wrists and ankles to the bedstead. There was nothing like being naked and tied up to leave a man feeling vulnerable. Before she could revive him to start interrogating him as to the whereabouts of Stålberg and Lindström, however, she heard hammering at the front door downstairs.
She hitched up her skirts to pull the turn-over pistol from her garter and stepped out on to the landing in time to see the door burst open. Ryzhago stumbled through into the hallway below. She knew all about Ryzhago, of course: her superiors in Paris had a file on him a good two inches thick. She racked her brains, trying to remember something in that file that she could use against his superior strength, but the only thing she could remember from when she had studied it was a heartfelt desire never to meet him in person.
She raised the pistol and fired, but he threw himself on the floor, out of her line of sight. Nekrasoff followed him into the hallway, blazing up the stairs with his own revolver. A bullet smashed through the banister close to where she stood, and she cried out as splinters flew into her face, almost blinding her. She recovered in time to fumble with the turn-over pistol, rotating the second barrel into position. She squeezed off the second shot as Nekrasoff dashed for the cover of a doorway, and then Ryzhago had picked himself up and was charging up the stairs towards her.
She pulled the stiletto from its ankle-sheath, but there was no time to reverse her grip to throw it: she used it like a dagger, plunging it into Ryzhago’s upper right arm. He gave a sob of pleasure, smiled beatifically at her, and then backhanded her across the face, knocking her down. When she looked up, Nekrasoff was standing over her, his revolver levelled at her. Ryzhago plucked the stiletto from his arm, buried it up to the hilt in the banister, and grabbed Aurélie by the hand, hauling her to her feet. She struggled in vain in his grip.
‘Take her to the black house,’ Nekrasoff told her. ‘We’ll let her stew for a while before I interrogate her.’
‘Let go of me! Filthy pig!’ she spat, trying to kick him.
Nekrasoff raised a hand to caress her cheek, and she jerked her head away with loathing.
He smiled. ‘Still some fight in you, eh? We’ll see if you’re so feisty after my men have taken turns at you.’
Chapter 23
Countdown
The first traces of dawn were visible in the sky over Sveaborg when the ships of the fleet tolled seven bells. The boatswains’ mates on each ship piped ‘Wakey, wakey’ and the seamen below decks rolled out of their hammocks, grumbling and swearing amongst themselves at the early start to the day. They lashed up their hammocks into tight rolls and carried them up on deck, where they were put in the netting on the bulwarks for added protection against shot and shell.
‘Clear for action,’ Captain Crichton told Commander Tremaine while the hands relieved themselves at the head.
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘Not that we’ll see any fighting today,’ Crichton added wistfully. ‘Or rather, we’ll see plenty of fighting – we just won’t get to take part in it. Leave that to Adare and his lads in the Swiper, and the other crews of the gunboats and mortar vessels. Youth will have its day, eh, Mr Tremaine?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Still, we must be ready for any eventuality.’
‘Do you think there’s a chance the Russian ships will counter-attack, sir?’
‘I doubt it, but who knows what tricks the Russkis have up their sleeves? Wait until our people have eaten breakfast, and then give the order to beat to quarters. Sir Richard’s orders are for us to pray for a successful days’ work at six, so we’ll have breakfast an hour earlier. That should give the men plenty of time to get something to eat before divine service. Better have the holders start bringing up the day’s victuals at once.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
As Tremaine turned away, the first lieutenant emerged from the after hatch and saluted Crichton. ‘Good morning, sir.’
‘Good morning, Masterson. Looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day, doesn’t it?’
The lieutenant smiled. ‘I suspect that depends upon your point of view, sir. I don’t think the Russians will remember it as such.’
‘That remains to be seen, Mr Masterson.’
A few minutes after sunrise, Rear Admiral Dundas left the Duke of Wellington with Commodore Pelham and hoisted his flag in the Merlin, in which steamer they made a tour of inspection along the whole line of mortar vessels. The Duke herself, meanwhile, hauled a few hundred yards nearer the line, so there would be less chance of any signals being misread; a danger that would become too real once the smoke of battle started to drift across the anchorage.
At six o’clock, the crews of the fleet – on ships of the line, mortar vessels and gunboats alike – raised their voices in song to the tunes of two dozen different hymns, accompanied by fiddles and harmoniums where players for these were available, wafting across to where they were heard in Helsingfors.
On board HMS Swiper, Lieutenant Adare chose ‘Bound for the Promised Land’ for the morning’s hymn. Although not particularly religious for the most part, the men liked nothing better than a good hearty singsong, and they sang with gusto – always an indication that morale was high – while Molineaux played the chords on his guitar. He liked the tune, although he was not sure he cared for the implications of the words. He knew they were not planning a landing today, so Russia could not be the promised land, which only left one logical alternative… not that the prospect of an afterlife bothered him, as he did not believe in it; but he knew the way there, and did not care for that prospect one little bit.
HMS Swiper was a hundred feet from stem to stern, with a slim funnel rising between her two rakish masts. There were only sixteen inches of freeboard between the floatation line and the bottom of the entry port, and her flat keel gave her a draught of a mere six and a half feet, so there was little danger of her running aground in the shoals of the Baltic. Although she was designed to be small and manoeuvrable, the three sixty-eight-pounders on her upper deck meant she packed a devil of a punch, and with a top speed under steam of seven and a half knots, she could get out of trouble just as fast as she got into it.
When they had finished singing, Adare read from The Articles of War in place of a lesson from the Bible, and finished off with the Lord’s Prayer: the only prayer he knew, so far as Molineaux could tell. ‘And for what the Russians are about to receive, may the Lord make them truly thankful!’ he concluded with a grin, prompting huzzas from the crew. ‘All right, lads,’ he said once they had quietened down. ‘Port watch make your way down to the mess to get some breakfast, starboard watch remain on deck to clear for action. Mr McGurk, be so good as to ask Mr Varrow to start getting steam up.’
‘Hughes! Iles! Start spreading some sand on this deck!’ ordered Molineaux.
‘Sand?’ echoed Hughes, a stocky, dark-haired Welshman with a pockmarked face. ‘What’s that for?’
‘So we don’t slip in the blood,’ lies told him.
‘What blood?’
‘Yours, if you don’t stop asking stupid questions and do as I tell you!’ Molineaux snarled at the Welshman. ‘Look lively, there!’ He turned to where Endicott stood over the fo
re hatch, watching the shells being brought up.
‘All right, that’s enough!’ Endicott told his crew. ‘We’ll bring up the others as and when required.’ He turned to Molineaux. ‘God knows, it’d only take one going off on board this little ship to send her to the bottom!’ A devout Catholic, he crossed himself piously. ‘It’s a good thing God’s on our side, eh? I’ve a feeling we’re going to need all the help we can get!’
‘Yur,’ Molineaux agreed sceptically. His mother had raised him and his brothers to be devout Baptists, except that the crowd he had grown up with at the Rat’s Castle had not believed in God, and nothing he had seen from that day to this had convinced him that his mother was right and they were wrong. ‘Of course, it’d be a lot more reassuring if I didn’t know that just across the way the Russians are praying as fervently to the same God that they’ll win. Let’s hope your man upstairs don’t granny Russian, eh?’
‘You’re a godless wretch, Wes, you know that? When you die you’re going straight to hell.’
‘Reckon I am, at that,’ Molineaux agreed cheerfully. For him, this was not a crusade; nor was it about the Danubian Principalities, or the Eastern Question. It was about earning two pounds, fourteen shillings and thruppence a month, and trying not to get killed in the process.
He glanced at Endicott. ‘You’re in the larboard watch; aren’t you going down to breakfast?’
The Liverpudlian shook his head. ‘Not hungry,’ he muttered.
‘Not frightened, are you?’
Endicott drew himself up to his full height. ‘Only of getting summat wrong, like. This’ll be the first time I’ve been a gunner’s mate in action; and I suppose I’m acting gunner on this tub. I don’t want to make a muck-up first time out. Don’t worry,’ he added, seeing the concerned look in Molineaux’s eyes. ‘I’ll be all right once the shooting starts. It’s the waiting that bothers me. I just wish we could get on with it, you know?’
‘Me too.’ Molineaux checked his pocket watch. ‘Only forty-five minutes to go now.’
Killigrew and the Sea Devil Page 44