by Ashton, Hugh
“So the Chief wants me to go back there? Does he remember that the bastards are still looking for me after that bank job?”
“That was in Tiflis,” Zinoviev soothed him. “There’s no way anyone's going to be looking for you in Moscow, let alone in the woodland fifty kilometres from the city.”
Kolinski shrugged. “Show,” he demanded, holding out his hand for the sheets of paper that were sticking out of Zinoviev’s pocket. Wordlessly, Zinoviev handed them over, and Kolinski bent his huge shaggy head over the orders, mouthing the letters to himself as he read, a little slowly and painfully. “It’s not the Chief’s writing,” he complained. “It’s been done on one of those machines. Are these really the Chief’s words? And that’s not his signature. I know his signature. I see it when I take his cheques to the bank.”
“Don’t worry about it. The Chief knows all about this and this is exactly what he wants to happen. The reason he hasn’t signed it is for your good, and the Chief’s good,” Zinoviev told him. He held out his hand for the papers.
“What?”
“I want those back,” said Zinoviev. “I have your copy here.”
“Here you are,” passing the papers back, and receiving another set in return. Kolinski looked at what he’d just been given. “This is rubbish! What sort of joke are you playing on me here? I may not have your brains and your education, but that’s no reason to pass off this nonsense on me. I can’t read a damned thing here.”
Zinoviev flinched instinctively as the giant leaned forward. “Please listen to me. This is for your safety. This is the same as what I gave you just now, but it’s in code, so that if anyone picks up these papers, they’re not going to see anything useful. Just nonsense, as you said.”
“I told you, I don’t have your brains. How do I start to make sense of it?”
“It’s easy. Just add two to the letter on the paper to get the real letter.”
“What do you mean?”
“All right, you know your alphabet?”
“Of course. As, buki, vedi, glagol, dobro, yest—”
Zinoviev interrupted him. “Fine. So you now take this first letter.”
“Buki.”
“Right. And move on two in the alphabet.”
“Glagol?”
Zinoviev nodded. “Carry on with the other letters.”
“Got a pencil and some paper?”
Zinoviev passed over a pencil and a notebook open at a blank page. The giant man clumsily traced out his letters, sucking the tip of the pencil in concentration from time to time. After a minute or so he looked up, an enormous grin on his face. “It’s magic, isn’t it? The way you can hide words like this?”
Zinoviev had to smile a little at Kolinski’s naivety. “It is useful, yes,” he agreed. “Can I have my paper and pencil back, please? You can remember how to do this? Just in case you forget the details of what you’re meant to be doing, or how to go about things.”
The big man nodded. He scratched his head. “How much money should I give this man with the machine?”
“As little as you can to get him on our side. And try to leave him in one piece if the money doesn’t work, if possible. He’s no use to us as damaged goods. But if there’s no way at all that he can be persuaded, then he must be stopped completely. Understand?”
Kolinski grinned. “I can persuade him with my little finger, and I wouldn’t even leave a mark on him. I don’t think anyone’s going to argue with me. Don’t worry about it.” He looked again at the paper, and started to count on his fingers. “Are you going to give me enough to live on?” he asked. “It’s not that I want the money, but I’ve got to eat. And when I eat, I eat a lot.” He slapped his belly, which resounded like a drum.
“Don’t worry about that,” Zinoviev assured him. “The Chief and I have a real interest in you carrying out this mission successfully, and we know how you need to eat.”
“And drink.” The bearded face broke into a smile, and Zinoviev was faced with an uneven row of blackened and broken teeth.
“And drink,” Zinoviev agreed. “I really wish that you would see a dentist, Comrade. Those teeth are really frightening.”
“That’s the way I like them,” replied Kolinski. “As long as they don’t hurt me, that’s fine by me.”
“So here’s the money.” Zinoviev pulled a leather bag from an inside pocket, and spilled the contents onto the table.
A few minutes later “…one hundred and eighty, one hundred and ninety, two hundred. That’s two thousand roubles in gold tens. And,” pulling out another bag, “three hundred gold German marks. Easily enough to buy your tickets to Moscow, to get to the site, and to pay off Lebedenko. And to buy you enough vodka to keep you happy.”
The giant grinned. “It will be in good hands, believe me.”
“And here are your passport and papers. You’re Swiss, remember. No Russian here or in Germany or Sweden. You can start speaking Russian again when you get to Finland, but you’d better stick to German when you’re talking to the guards or the police. And try to speak with a Swiss accent, if you can manage that.”
“Jawohl,” grinned Kolinski. “I think I can manage that.” He looked through the papers and came to the Swiss passport and identity documents. “I’m not too good at reading this German lettering. Just tell me who I am and what I’m doing.”
“You’re Peter Helling. You’re a farm labourer living in Liestal, outside Basel. You’re unmarried.”
“Why am I travelling?”
“Because you had a school-friend who went to Russia a long time ago, and you want to see him again. He’s ill, and he sent you this letter.” Zinoviev pointed to an envelope in the papers he had just handed over.
“Suppose they check the address on this letter to see where he lives?”
“They’ll find a sewage works outside Moscow. And by the time they’ve discovered that, you will be far away, and using a different name. One of our comrades will meet you here in Petrograd on the 27th and give you your new papers, and any news and details of any changes to your instructions. Remember this date and time and place written here.”
Kolinski took the proffered paper. “It says the 29th here, at 2 o’clock. You just told me the 27th. And why isn’t this in that code you showed me just now?”
“Actually, it is in a sort of code,” explained Zinoviev. “Listen carefully. Take away the hour of the time from the date.”
“Oh, the 27th. I see, I think. So if the time was 3 o’clock, it would be on the 26th?”
“That’s right. Well done. So if the police see this somehow, and want to meet you and the other comrade, they’ll turn up two days late, and you’ll have had your meeting and you’ll be out of town by the time they get there.”
“That’s pretty clever,” said Kolinski. “I like that.” He scratched his head and thought. “That gives me three weeks – plenty of time if I start today or tomorrow.” Zinoviev nodded.
“That’s fine, then,” said Kolinski. “I’ll start packing my things.” He stuck out a massive paw to be shaken. It was clearly a signal for Zinoviev to leave, and Zinoviev took the hint. He wasn’t about to start an argument with Kolinski. Though he was not a small man, Zinoviev’s hand was lost in the great palm that enfolded his.
“I’d hate to be the man who crossed you,” said Zinoviev, releasing his hand from the painful grip.
“Then you’d better make sure that you’re not,” replied Kolinski, grinning his terrifying smile.
As Zinoviev left, Kolinski moved swiftly with surprising silence to the door, where he listened, standing completely motionless. When he was satisfied that Zinoviev had reached the bottom of the stairs and had let himself out of the front door, he moved again, locking the door of his room. He took three paces to the window and stood to one side, observing the street below. He could see Zinoviev moving off, back towards the area where he knew Lenin was living, and watched until the other moved out of sight round the corner.
He moved bac
k to the bed and picked up the leather bags into which Zinoviev had replaced the gold coins, tossing them lightly in his hand. He felt the weight of the coins inside with pleasure. His next move was to undo the broad leather belt holding up his shabby trousers and remove it. His large fingers felt the inside of the belt and pulled at a place where two strips of leather adjoined, to reveal a slot into which he carefully threaded about half the gold pieces. When he had done this, he picked up the belt, and hefted it in his hands. He grinned to himself as he re-fastened it round his waist. Next, sitting on the creaking bed, he removed both boots. He removed the heels from them, using a large sheath-knife, which he retrieved from its hiding-place under the pillow. The heels were hollow, and Kolinski packed the cavities with the remaining coins, distributing them between the two boots. Before hammering the heels firmly back into place, he stuffed some old newspaper, which had been acting as a tablecloth, around the coins. After he’d put the heels back on the boots, he held up each in turn and held it to his ear, shaking it. Satisfied that the noise of the coins was now completely muffled, he replaced the boots on his feet.
His next move was to the wardrobe. With his great height and long arms, it was easy for him to reach the heavy Nagant revolver, resting behind the decorative carvings on the top of the wardrobe. He grunted a little as he reached somewhat further back, and produced a box of 7.62 mm cartridges. Though his fingers were large, they moved with deceptive delicacy as he disassembled the unloaded pistol and wiped the parts with an oily rag from his back pocket.
He hesitated as he reassembled the gun, reaching for the cartridges, but changed his mind, and left the gun unloaded as he stuck it into the back of his waistband. The box of cartridges was wrapped in a spare set of underclothes that went into a small travelling bag, along with two pairs of socks and shirts, which enclosed the sheath knife. A few toilet articles, chiefly consisting of a bar of gritty soap and a straight razor, followed, and the bag was closed.
Wrapping a long black overcoat around him, and perching a broad-brimmed hat on his head, Kolinski picked up his travelling bag, and left the room. He didn’t bother to close, let alone lock, the door behind him. At the front door of the house he looked carefully in both directions before turning left, heading in the direction of the station.
Chapter 5: Whitehall, London
“It is the key to winning this dreadful war in which both our nations are engaged.”
Brian and Harry arrived at the appointed room at the Foreign Office at the time they had been given by C’s secretary. The room was empty, with no-one sitting in any of the chairs arranged around the long antique table.
“Never been in a place like this before,” said Harry. “Blimey, that’s a lovely bit of timber, that is.” He ran his hands appreciatively over the polished surface of the table, and bent down to look underneath. “Someone did a great job of work on the underpinnings there, I can tell you. Beautiful bit of timber, that is,” he repeated.
“I’m sure Mr Sheraton would be pleased to hear your judgement on the matter,” replied Brian, amused.
“And these paintings on the wall,” continued Harry, standing up. “Who are these people?”
“Politicians we don’t care about any more.”
“Then why put their pictures up there? Gloomy load of buggers, if you ask me. All look bloody constipated.”
These last words were spoken just as a Foreign Office official, immaculately dressed in a formal frock coat, entered the room. He looked quizzically at Brian, who was dressed in a somewhat disreputable civilian tweed suit, more suited to the racecourse than Whitehall, and Harry, who was also in shabby, albeit clean, civilian clothes.
“Excuse me, my men, but I hardly think you are meant to be here. Weren’t you chaps told that tradesmen are required to be accompanied by one of the porters at all times while working within the building? What the devil are you doing here anyway?” He flapped a hand at them as if shooing away flies.
Brian drew himself up to his full height of six foot three, and stared down in silence at the pompous flunkey for a few seconds. The civil servant appeared to wilt a little, even before Brian started speaking, with his upper-class Harrow drawl somewhat exaggerated. “Oh, I rather thought we actually were in the right room, don’t y’know? I’m bally positive that C told us to wait for Colonel Petrov in Room 46. If this isn’t Room 46, I’m dreadfully sorry and all that, and perhaps you wouldn’t mind showing us to where we are meant to be?”
The clerk started to stammer. “Well, yes, this is Room 46. And yes, there is a meeting with Colonel Petrov scheduled here with Lieutenant Finch-Malloy and his sergeant. I’m most dreadfully sorry. You must be Lieutenant Finch-Malloy, and this here is your sergeant, then.”
“Indeed so. This is Harry Braithwaite, and I am, as you so acutely deduce, Brian Finch-Malloy.”
“Well, please, both of you, won’t you take a seat while I bring Colonel Petrov here to meet you?”
“Thank you, my man,” replied Brian, loftily.
As the official left the room, Harry turned to Brian and grinned. “That was bloody wonderful, Brian. I wish I could pull off stunts like that.”
“You have your own social skills, Harry, never fear.”
The door re-opened and a rather corpulent bearded figure in morning dress of an indefinably foreign cut entered, followed by another man, who appeared to be English, but was obviously not the social equal of the first.
Brian held out his hand to the first man. “Colonel Alexei Dimitrovich Petrov, I take it?” he asked in Russian. The other man’s eyes lit up with pleasure at hearing his own language spoken, and he returned Brian’s handshake. “And this is?” continued Brian, in English, gesturing to the other man.
“Detective-Inspector Hankey of the Special Branch, sir,” in a slight East Anglian accent. “My job is to see that the Colonel comes to no harm around London. We have reason to believe that there are several people in town right at this very minute who would be happy to see him out of the way. Begging your pardon, sir,” to Petrov.
“And this gentleman here?” Petrov asked Brian in Russian, gesturing towards Harry.
“My friend and colleague, formerly my sergeant in Flanders, Harry Braithwaite.”
“I am sorry that I don’t speak Russian, sir,” said Harry in German. “However, I do speak some German.”
Hankey appeared impressed at this display of linguistic fireworks, but said nothing. Petrov broke into a wide grin. “At last!” he exclaimed in German. “I find not just one, but two Englishmen who do not seem to believe that English is the only language in the world. Do you speak German, Lieutenant?” he asked Brian in Russian.
“Indeed so, Colonel,” replied Brian in German. “And I will be more than happy to conduct our conversation in that language, if that is agreeable to you.”
“Well,” said Petrov, when the three were seated at one end of the table. Hankey stood, his back to the wall, watching the door. “Has your strangely named superior told you anything about this meeting?”
“He mentioned that there was a technical development about which you wished to inform us.”
“Absolutely correct. Lieutenant, do you know the meaning of the Russian word Netopyr?”
Brian thought for a few seconds. “Not a word with which I am familiar, I am afraid.”
“Never mind. It means a kind of bat – Fledermaus – and it is the key to winning this dreadful war in which both our nations are engaged.”
Harry spoke. “I’m guessing here, but it seems to me that you’re describing some kind of aircraft.”
Petrov looked at Brian. “Lieutenant, do you usually allow the Sergeant to speak without permission?”
Harry flushed, but Brian spoke up firmly. “If Harry here hadn’t spoken up without permission on a number of occasions in the past, I would be dead by now. I am very happy for him to say what he wants whenever he wants without waiting for my approval.”
Petrov took the implied rebuke well. “Very good, Li
eutenant. Your attitude seems a trifle unusual, but I will overlook this, given that we are all out of uniform.” He turned back to Harry. “In answer to your question, Sergeant, it is not a flying machine, though that is a reasonable assumption, I grant you. We call it Netopyr because when we first saw the model of the full-sized machine being carried into the room, it reminded us of a nesting bat. It is, however, very much a land-based engine. Its aim, put simply, is to assist the infantry as they advance and to carry the battle into the enemy’s camp.” Harry frowned. “Yes, I know the difficulties you are going to mention. Maybe a drawing will help.” He reached inside his coat and brought out a bundle of papers, which he unfolded and spread out on the table before them.
Brian and Harry bent over the table.
“Ah, I begin to understand,” said Brian.
“As you say, sir, the drawing makes it a lot clearer. I begin to understand what you mean when you say this takes the battle to the enemy,” said Harry.
“Ingeniously simple,” agreed Brian, adding hurriedly, “I mean that as a compliment.” He and Harry resumed their study of the plans.
“Sorry, sir, but I can’t read Russian. What does that say?” asked Harry, pointing to a label on one of the drawings.
“Gun turret,” replied Petrov.
“What sort of guns?” asked Brian.
“That has yet to be finalised, and indeed, that is one of the areas where I believe you may be of help to us. The current thinking is to mount two 47-millimeter guns there – I think you British would call them three-pounders – together with a number of machine-guns. But, as I say, we require expertise from those who have been out there fighting on the Western Front in order to make these decisions.”
Harry had been poring over the drawings. “Engines here, sir? What type?”
“Maybachs are fitted to the prototype, but obviously we have no supply of such engines for future production. I am hoping to arrange that we can use some of the new Rolls-Royce Eagles. Quite frankly, our Russian industry would not be capable of producing such engines in the quantity we anticipate. The French have their own problems, the Swedes aren’t interested in helping us, the Americans seem to have no wish to assist us, and the Confederates have no such industry. So that leaves the British alone as a possible source of engines.”