Endicott cast an eye in the direction of the mortar boats. They should all have been in position over an hour ago, but even now some of them were still warping in. ‘We’ll never be ready on time.’
‘Stop worrying,’ Molineaux told him. ‘The Ivans aren’t going anywhere.’
* * *
From the outside, the only sinister thing about the black house was that it was built of granite rather than the red bricks that predominated throughout East Svarto, and was unpainted. Ryzhago had taken Aurélie down to a basement room with bare, whitewashed walls, tied her up in a chair and left her, locking the door behind him. That had been hours ago. She wondered what time it was now. After six o’clock, she guessed: more than sixty hours since the Allied fleet had dropped anchor off Helsingfors. She did not need to be a naval officer like Killigrew to know the crews of the ships had had more than enough time to prepare their bombardment.
If she had to die, she would prefer to be blown apart by the shells of her own Allies than taken back to St Petersburg for a show-trial and a firing squad. But she would have preferred not to die at all. While her work for military intelligence had often put her in a position where death was a very real possibility, she always managed to convince herself that it was something that only ever happened to other people. But she knew she had been lucky in that respect, and sooner or later her luck was bound to run out.
Was today that day? She felt sick at heart: she was not ready to die. She enjoyed life too much. Her patriotism always came second place to the pleasure she took in her work, outsmarting statesmen and soldiers who looked down at her, regarding her as fit only for bedroom activities, little thinking that a battle might be lost and won by their boasting. Looking back on her life, it was odd to think that the little girl from the back streets of Marseilles had grown up to make fools of some of the leading statesmen of Europe.
Snap out of it, she told herself. Reviewing your life as if it was over. You’re not dead yet…
The door opened and three very large, very ugly men filed inside, the last one locking the door behind him and pocketing the key. ‘Who’s first?’ asked one.
‘Me,’ said another, advancing on Aurélie.
Her superior in Paris had warned her about the various methods their enemies might use to break down her resistance under interrogation, and she had already suffered this one once before at the hands of the Austrian secret police. She was damned if she was going to undergo that ordeal a second time.
‘Not so fast, boys,’ she told them, trying to make her voice sound husky and seductive, although to her own ears it sounded as hoarse and harsh as the croaking of an asthmatic crow. ‘I can take all three of you on at once.’
‘That is not humanly possible!’ muttered one of them. ‘Is it?’
‘Of course it is,’ she told them. ‘Just use your imaginations.’
They used their imaginations. Sweat broke out on their faces, although whether at the prospect of a gang-bang, or simply from the effort of thinking, she could not tell.
She flapped her hands at them. ‘Just untie my wrists, and I’ll show you how.’
‘Don’t do it, Sergei,’ said one. ‘It is a trick.’
‘Oh yes? And what is she going to do against three of us? You can stand watch while Anatoly and I enjoy ourselves, if you’re that worried. I reckon she can please two of us twice as well as three!’
Only a complete fool would have freed her arms. Fortunately, the sight of an attractive, helpless woman was enough to turn ninety-nine percent of men into complete fools. One of them unbuckled her wrist restraints. ‘You’re going to regret your offer, golubushka. I’ll make you scream. Now, let’s see what you’ve got under those petticoats of yours—’
‘Let me show you.’ She stood up, rubbing her chafed wrists and bent over, hitching up her skirts to reveal her legs, all the way up to her knees. Sergei and his friends were still gawping at her shapely calves when she flicked one of her feet into his crotch. He dropped to his knees with a hoarse scream, and she slammed the heel of a half-boot into his nose. Anatoly swung a fist at her, but she ducked below it, driving a small but well-aimed fist into his solar plexus. He doubled up with a gasp, and she lifted a knee into his face, throwing him down across Sergei’s unconscious body.
The third man lumbered towards her, trying to grab her. She easily dodged aside and he stumbled on, allowing her to grab a fistful of his hair as he staggered past. She smashed his head against the wall and he sank down to lie on top of his two companions.
She stood there, breathing hard with her hands upon her knees. ‘Told you I could take all three of you on at once,’ she panted.
The reaction came at once. She recognised the symptoms – trembling, dizziness – and fought them off. Taking off their belts and socks, she tied and gagged the three men before retrieving the key from Anatoly’s pocket, along with his revolver.
She unlocked the door with her left hand and threw it open, stepping to one side as she did so in case a fusillade of shots came down the stairs. But from above, there was nothing but silence.
With a supreme effort she picked up the unconscious Sergei – nom d’un chien, but he was heavy! – and propped him up against the wall beside the door, letting him fall across the threshold. No bullets thudded into him. Upstairs, all was silent. She peered cautiously around the door, keeping her head low, and saw no one. Gaining confidence, she staggered upstairs with the revolver in her hand. The house was as silent as the grave of a Trappist monk. The only sounds she could hear were the distant shouts of NCOs barking orders to their men somewhere outside. There was no sign of Nekrasoff or Ryzhago.
She found a washstand and a jug of water. The water was cold, but that was for the best: she splashed it on her face to revive herself. Three black leather greatcoats and wideawakes hung from a row of pegs in the cubby-hole beside the door. She put on a greatcoat and gathered up her hair, cramming it into the crown of one of the wideawakes.
She looked at herself in the mirror: she still looked like a woman in a man’s clothing. She did not have the time or the facilities to do anything about that: all she could do was hope that she would pass muster if seen from a distance. Pulling the brim of the wideawake down, she tucked the revolver in a pocket of the greatcoat and went outside.
The sun was already well over the horizon, rising into a bright blue sky. What time was it? It could not be long until the fleet began its bombardment; but in truth she had no idea when that would be, if ever. All she could do was assume she still had time; otherwise, she might as well lie down now and wait to die.
Walking on shaky legs, she made her way through the houses of East Svarto. Occasionally she passed ensigns and michmanis running to and fro with messages, but they did not give her a second glance. All your life you’ve wanted to prove you were just as tough and able as any man, she reminded herself. Now’s your chance: you can either give up and lie down to die, or you can prove it.
She forced herself to go on.
There were two soldiers on guard on the bridge across Artillery Bay. She thought about turning back, looking for some other way to Gustafvard – which meant swimming the channel – but it was too late: they had already seen her. Nothing for it but to brazen it out. Well, she was good at that.
She almost made it too: they were not paying much attention, and she got five paces past them before one of them called out after her.
‘Stop!’
She froze. She could hear their booted feet on the wooden boards of the bridge as they came after her.
‘Turn around,’ ordered one. She turned and saw he had unslung his musket. ‘Chert!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s a woman!’
She grabbed the musket by the barrel, jerked it out of his hands, and slammed the stock back into his jaw. The other was still trying to unsling his own musket when she chopped him across the edge of the neck with the stock, bringing him down.
She tipped the two bodies over the rail into the channel, and just in time:
a gaggle of guests from the ball appeared from the direction of the citadel on Vargon. She realised the music had stopped playing: the ball was finally over, the last of the guests drifting homewards. They were too drunk and full of chatter to notice her. Slipping down the side of the citadel, she crossed one of the bridges on to Gustafvard.
She felt her second wind coming as she crossed the island to the fort at the south-east corner. Entering the maze of ravelins and bastions, she looked in vain for the entrance until she all but bumped into a lieutenant of artillery.
‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded. ‘There are no civilians allowed on Gustafvard… wait, you’re a woman!’
She pulled the revolver from her pocket and jammed the muzzle against his side. ‘And you’re going to take me to where they’re holding the prisoners. Any tricks and you’re the first to die.’
The colour drained from his face. He led her deeper into the maze, finally taking her into the tunnel under the fort where they descended the steps to dungeons.
‘Knock on the door,’ she told him at the bottom.
The grille slid open a moment after his knock. Standing behind him, she lowered her head so her face was hidden behind the brim of the wideawake. Two beady eyes peered out at the lieutenant, and a moment later the grille was slammed shut and a key turned in the lock.
Aurélie slammed the revolver’s butt against the back of the lieutenant’s head. As he crumpled to the floor, she stepped over him and threw her shoulder against the opening door. It slammed into the man on the other side, bowling him over. Aurélie dived through the gap, rolling on the straw-strewn flagstones beyond to rise on one knee. Searching the dungeon, she spotted the second gaoler and shot him twice in the chest. The man who had opened the door was starting to recover; she put her last bullet through his forehead.
The anxious face of a young man appeared at the grille in one of the cell doors. He was dark-haired, with a goatee beard and moustache in the Imperial style. ‘What’s going on out here?’ he demanded in good French.
‘It’s called a rescue,’ she grunted, taking a large ring of keys from the belt of one of the gaolers and unlocking his cell door. There were a dozen men in the cell behind him, big, burly fellows in the uniforms of matelots of la Royale, grubby from their incarceration.
The young man who had first addressed her wore an officer’s uniform. ‘Mon Dieu!’ he gasped. ‘You’re—’
‘A woman, yes, I know. Please, let’s not get into that now.’
‘But… who are you?’
‘Lieutenant Aurélie Plessier of Military Intelligence.’
He clicked his heels and bowed low to kiss her hand. ‘Enseigne de Vaisseau Paul Verne at your service, Mam’selle. They sent a woman to get us out?’
‘Not exactly. Would you mind if we discussed it on the way? The fleet’s about to start bombarding this place any moment now.’ She peered past him at the astonished matelots who were rising to their feet to follow him out of the cell. ‘Is Commander Killigrew here?’
‘Commander who?’ asked one of them.
She checked the other cells, until she found the one with Stålberg and Lindström in it. ‘Mam’selle Plessier!’ gasped the friherre. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Answering a lot of foolish questions!’ she snapped back, trying each of the keys on the ring until she found one that fitted the locks on their shackles. ‘Have you seen Killigrew?’
Stålberg’s face became grim. ‘I am desolated, mam’selle…’
Her blood ran cold as she anticipated what he was going to say next.
‘Nekrasoff came for him with that big brute he keeps in tow. They’ve already taken him.’
‘How long ago?’
‘A good quarter of an hour.’ He clasped her by the shoulder. ‘I am sorry, mam’selle, but they were taking him to a firing squad. By now he is dead already.’
* * *
An expectant hush reigned over the Allied fleet. On every ship and boat, from the Duke of Wellington down to the smallest dinghy, the petty officers had piped for silence. Gentle waves lapped at wooden hulls. Timbers creaked and hawsers groaned. Steam hissed from the engines of the gunboats like horses champing at the bit as they awaited for the signal to begin their manoeuvres, smoke rising into the clear blue sky from their slender funnels. Overhead, a seagull rose suddenly from a nearby skerry, mewing harshly. Startled, a seaman sitting in a cutter nearby swore vilely.
‘Keep silence, there!’ hissed the coxswain.
‘Don’t tell me!’ muttered the seaman. ‘Tell the bloody birds!’
On the gunboats and mortar vessels, all eyes were on Her Majesty’s mortar vessel Pickle. The gun crew on the Pickle were in their positions around the squat, ugly mortar that dominated the upper deck, but their eyes were fixed on the screw frigate HMS Euryalus, moored abaft the line of mortar vessels with the other support ships. And on the Euryalus, all eyes were on the Duke of Wellington, moored halfway between the supply vessels and the fleet’s ships of the line with Rear Admiral Dundas’ flag back at the masthead.
‘What the devil are they waiting for?’ hissed the lieutenant standing on the Pickle’s quarterdeck next to Captain John Weymiss of the Royal Marine Artillery.
‘Patience, Lieutenant, patience,’ Weymiss replied. Only his eyes were fixed on the batteries of Sveaborg. ‘All good things come to he who waits.’
‘The Duke’s signalling Euryalus, sir,’ reported one of the midshipmen.
‘What’s she saying?’ Weymiss asked without taking his eyes off Sveaborg.
The lieutenant raised his telescope to one eye. ‘“Is all ready?” Damn it, all’s ready! It’s been ready for fifteen minutes! I thought this bombardment was supposed to commence at seven? It’s nearly half-past now!’
‘There goes Euryalus’s reply,’ said the midshipman.
‘“Nearly; one boat shifting berth”,’ read the lieutenant. ‘We’re waiting on one boat?’ he almost exploded.
‘Festina lente, Lieutenant,’ Weymiss remarked coolly. ‘Can’t go rushing into these things half-cocked.’
* * *
‘Blindfold?’ the lieutenant commanding the firing squad asked.
‘For your men?’ asked Killigrew. ‘Capital notion!’
‘For you, I meant.’
‘He knows what you meant,’ snarled Nekrasoff. ‘Get on with it!’
Killigrew stood on the parade ground on East Svarto, in front of a whitewashed wall pock-marked enough to suggest that executions were not all that uncommon in Sveaborg. Half a dozen men of a regiment of line infantry were ranged before him a few yards away, standing rigidly to attention. They were in their full-dress uniforms: at least he was going to be executed with style, he noted wryly. He squinted up at the sky, a clear pale blue with only the occasional tuft of cloud. It was a glorious day to die.
He guessed it was past seven o’clock. He wondered what time the bombardment was due to start. Probably not in time to kill him before the firing squad did. Probably just as well: he was in no position to appreciate the thought of being killed by his own side, and besides, he preferred the quick, clean death of a bullet through the heart to the possibility of being horribly maimed by a shell. He was not afraid to die, did not feel he had not had a fair crack of the whip. He had lived life to the full and faced death so many times in the past, he felt as though he had been living on borrowed time for years now. His only regret was that he would not now get the chance to choke the life out of Nekrasoff with his own hands; although it was some consolation to know that the colonel’s hours were numbered, if only Dundas and Seymour would get a move on and start the bombardment.
‘Squad!’ barked the lieutenant. ‘Present… arms!’
Killigrew cleared his throat. ‘You know, in my country, it’s traditional to grant the condemned man a last request.’
‘Yes, well, you’re not in your country now, are you?’ snapped Nekrasoff. ‘I suppose you want to sing “Ten Thousand Green Bottles”, or have the firi
ng squad stand a little further back – say, five miles away – or some other witticism to show off how brave you are in the face of death.’
‘I was only going to ask for a last cheroot.’
‘With a poisoned dart in it to shoot the lieutenant here, I suppose? No, Mr Killigrew. It ends here and it ends now. No final tricks, no last-minute reprieves—’
The lieutenant cleared his throat. ‘There’s someone coming, sir.’
Nekrasoff turned to see a michmani hurrying across the parade ground to where they stood.
‘I expect that’s my last-minute reprieve,’ said Killigrew.
‘Somehow I doubt it,’ said Nekrasoff. ‘Carry out your duty, Lieutenant Rudenko.’
‘Don’t you think we should wait, sir? I mean, if it is a last-minute reprieve from the Grand Duke…’
‘All the more reason to shoot the prisoner now, Lieutenant! I’ve tracked him for too long to let him escape me now. You have no idea how many times I’ve had this devil in my grasp, only for him to slip through my fingers! Well, not today. Today – this minute – he dies. Do you understand me?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Rudenko glanced dubiously at the michmani, who had completed his crossing of the parade ground during Nekrasoff’s peroration and now stood behind the colonel, saluting.
‘Colonel Nekrasoff?’
Nekrasoff closed his eyes as if in pain. ‘Yes?’ he hissed without turning to face the michmani.
‘Rear Admiral Matyushkin wishes to see you immediately, sir.’
‘All right. I’ll be there in five minutes.’
‘He did stress “immediately”, sir.’
Nekrasoff rounded on the young man. ‘If the Tsar himself wanted to see me five minutes ago, it would not drag me away from seeing this man finally get his just deserts!’ he snarled, pointing at Killigrew.
The michmani quailed.
‘Perhaps you ought to go, sir,’ said Rudenko. ‘With all due respect, we don’t need your supervision to execute the prisoner.’
Killigrew and the Sea Devil Page 45