by Ashton, Hugh
“And he has a very heavy belt as well as heavy boots,” added Horton, who had unthreaded the article in question from around the waist of the sleeping giant. He passed it to Brian.
“You’re right,” said Brian. “There’s something in that belt. Look, it doesn’t bend as easily as you’d expect.” He examined it closely. “The stitching’s weak here.” He looked more closely, and suddenly said, “Look, Commander. You should take these boots and this belt and store them in your cabin away from public view. For God’s sake, sir, no-one else must know about these things, believe me.” He thrust the boots and belt into Horton’s hands. “Sir,” he continued, as Horton hesitated. “I have no authority to order you to do anything, you know that. Please, just trust me on this.”
Mystified, Horton meekly did as Brian had suggested, while Brian continued to strip and dry the mysterious passenger. “Some ugly scars,” he commented, as he towelled the massive torso.
“The marks of the knout, if I’m not mistaken,” said Petrov softly in Russian. “We have a very interesting passenger indeed, Lieutenant.”
“I think we do,” agreed Brian, as the boatswain returned with a rum bottle, filled with hot water, and re-corked. “Right-oh, bosun, thank you very much indeed.” He wrapped the bottle in a towel and placed it against the man’s abdomen. “Should be the blighter’s feet, but they stick out a bit. Better get another blanket. My, he is big, isn’t he?”
Horton returned. “I assume you have your reasons for asking me to do that just now? Hiding the boots and belt?” he said to Brian.
“Indeed I do, sir,” said Brian. “But now is not the time or place to talk about them. I’ll have him all tucked up and ready for dreamland in a minute or so. The three of us, and Lieutenant Braithwaite, should talk in your cabin. Bosun, if you would be so good as to pass the word for Lieutenant Braithwaite and ask him to meet us in the Captain's cabin?”
“Aye, aye, sir,” replied the boatswain, after a puzzled glance at Horton, mutely asking if he should be taking orders from this Army lieutenant. Horton nodded, and the boatswain departed.
“I’ll meet you in a few minutes,” Brian said to Horton and Petrov. “Just let me make the Sleeping Beauty comfortable.”
He quickly tucked the blankets round the unconscious man, and resumed the search of his pockets. Nothing of interest, other than a few scraps of white cloth and some small German coins, and what had presumably been paper money. He was just turning to meet the others in Horton’s cabin, when he noticed what he at first took to be a fly on the side of the sleeper’s neck. Surprised to see such a thing in the submarine, he moved to brush it off, and then realised it was a small tattoo in the shape of a star. Yet another oddity. As he turned away, he bumped into Harry, who was on his way to the captain’s cabin.
“Good,” said Brian. “I hope you’ve been enjoying yourself while we’ve been busy sinking German destroyers.”
“I’ve been learning a lot about diesels and about electrical propulsion systems. Good bunch of blokes in that engine-room. Don’t half know their stuff,” he said.
“Well, we have a problem of a different kind. See him?” pointing to the castaway.
“Can’t hardly miss him, can you?” Harry grinned. “Who is he?”
“That’s what we don’t know. He’s a bit of a mystery man, but I have my ideas.”
They entered Horton’s tiny cabin, and drew the curtain for privacy. There was one chair, occupied by Petrov, as the most senior officer present. The rest squeezed side by side to sit on the bunk.
“So, what’s all this about, Finch-Malloy?” asked Horton. “I’m a busy man, trying to skipper a temperamental piece of machinery through enemy waters, if you hadn’t noticed.”
“Sorry, sir,” said Brian. “A few rather interesting things about our guest. Colonel Petrov has made the guess that he is a Russian, and this seems to be borne out by the note in his pocket that indicates a meeting in Petrograd soon. A clandestine meeting, by the look of it, with signs and countersigns. Very hush-hush. And, again according to Colonel Petrov, the man has the marks of the knout on his back, which means, Colonel?”
“Almost certainly he has been in a Siberian prison camp, where the knout is used as a means of punishing those who step out of line.”
“I noticed just now that he has a small five-pointed star tattooed here.” Brian touched the side of his own neck.
“Ah,” said Petrov. “One of the Oupinski gang, I would guess.” The others looked at him quizzically. “A criminal gang – highway robbers – but with very strong links to the socialists. There have been rumours that the proceeds of their robberies largely went to fund revolutionary activity.”
“So we have a Russian bandit on board,” said Horton. “Wonderful. And what’s all the mystery about the boots and belt?”
For answer, Brian picked up the belt, which was resting on the floor under the chair, and worked at the seam on the inside of the belt. A gold piece fell out, followed by another, and another. Working his fingers along the belt, Brian extracted over a dozen gold coins.
Horton whistled and picked up one of the pieces. “Russian roubles.”
“This one’s a German coin, I think, sir,” said Harry, holding it up to Petrov.
“Quite right.”
“And I’d lay odds that the heels of his boots are hollow and hold more gold coins. The plot thickens,” said Brian.
“Indeed it does,” agreed Horton. “Any suggestions?”
“He’s committed no crime,” said Brian. “I really don’t see how you could arrest him and keep him under confinement.”
“I wouldn’t like to do it in any case,” said Horton. “The brute could do a lot of damage to the boat if he put his mind to it, without even trying too hard. And as you say, he’s committed no crime.”
“So we dry out his papers and put them back, as well as putting the gold back in his belt, and we pretend we know nothing,” suggested Brian. “We aim for Reval, rather than Kronstadt, and put him ashore at the first opportunity.”
“And I pass orders to the Okhrana to follow him and arrest him as soon as he spits on the pavement,” said Petrov. Brian nodded agreement.
“I think it would be a good idea if he didn’t know that Colonel Petrov was on board,” said Harry, suddenly. “It seems to me that we shouldn’t let him know there’s anyone on board who can read Russian or knows what that tattoo means.”
“I agree,” said Brian.
“That is a good thought, Lieutenant,” said Petrov approvingly to Harry. “No hardship for me to keep to my bunk out of his way for another day or so.”
“And we can always keep him in the sick bay until we dock,” said Horton.
“Agreed, then,” said Brian.
-oOo-
After the conversation in Horton’s cabin, the three visiting officers retired to their bunks. Since dawn was about to break, and Horton had no wish to be spotted on the surface, he ordered the submarine to dive.
None of the three had any wish to speak for the time being, and each lay on his bunk, thinking his own thoughts, as the hum of the machinery filled the hull.
The day and night it took for E9 to arrive at Reval passed relatively uneventfully. Brian spent a large part of the time sitting by the castaway’s bed, listening to the noises and words that he spoke in his semi-delirious state. All was in Russian, confirming their suspicions, and Brian wrote it down as he listened. “Chief”, “Lenin”, “the cause”, and, somewhat unusually, “Hilda”, were names and words that came up relatively often. When he reported them to Petrov, the latter frowned.
“He’s definitely one of the revolutionaries. Lenin is what the leader of those Bolsheviks calls himself. You said you used to know him as Ulyanov. Well, now he’s called Lenin.”
“Which means what?”
Petrov shrugged. “Someone told me it was derived from the Lena River in Russia, but I really don’t know and it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that we have a rather dangerous
revolutionary on our hands here. For the sake of us all, I hope we reach port soon. Commander Horton is quite right when he says it is dangerous to have such a man aboard a vessel like this. And I will certainly make sure that the police will follow him and detain him if necessary.”
“I’m sure he has a criminal record,” said Brian. “My knowledge of Russian law is limited, but I would have thought you could do something there.”
“If we knew who he was, you are right. But I know this type of scum. They take a stubborn pride in not telling the authorities anything. You could flay the skin off that man’s back, and he would make it a point of honour to keep his mouth shut, even to tell us his name. It would be better for the police to follow him and find out what he’s up to. Maybe he can lead us to the rest of the gang.”
“Well, you know where and when you can find him in Petrograd, thanks to that note.”
“We do. I just hope that he doesn’t have any plans for destruction and mayhem before that.”
At last E9 surfaced again, and fresh air swept away the stink that had been accumulating over the past day.
“Nearly into Reval,” said Horton to Brian. “We should be docked in an hour or so. How’s the patient?”
“We’re going to have to stretcher him out, I think, sir,” said Brian. He’s not in any state to walk or do anything under his own steam. Petrov thinks that he should be allowed to go free and lead the police to whatever terrorists he’s planning to hook up with. So we’ll get him to a naval hospital, where the security will be tight enough, and your people will know where he is until he is discharged. And I’ll make sure it’s me who carries his boots and his belt with the rest of his things. I don’t want anyone else to suspect anything about them.”
Horton shook his head. “That’s all out of my class,” he said. “My job is this lady here,” patting the side of the hull, “and looking after the men who sail in her. Coming up to the conning tower to watch us berth, or are you still going to continue playing Florence Nightingale with our friend?”
“I want to keep an eye on him.”
As Horton had predicted, E9 was safely berthed within a couple of hours. Petrov was the first to leave the submarine, hurrying ashore to arrange for an ambulance for the castaway, and to advise the police and other authorities as to what had happened.
The ambulance drew up on the quayside a little more than an hour after Petrov had left, and two burly Russian stretcher-bearers made their way down E9’s ladder.
“We can’t take a monster like that up the ladder on the stretcher,” one of them said in Russian.
“Bones breaked, you know?” the other asked Brian in accented English.
“Not that we have discovered,” replied Brian in Russian. The orderlies seemed impressed by Brian’s ability to speak the language, and Brian went on, “He seems to have suffered quite a lot from the cold, and he swallowed quite a lot of water, which all came up when we brought him on board. As far as getting him off this boat, I’m sure that we’ll find a way with some of these sailors helping you.”
“Where are his clothes?” asked the other Russian.
“In the Captain’s cabin, where they’ve been drying. I’ll bring them with him to the hospital.”
Somehow the Russians and some of the E9’s sailors managed to push, shove and haul the comatose body up the ladder, and onto the waiting stretcher on deck, from where it was carried into the ambulance. Brian followed with the man’s clothes, now dried and made into a bundle, and climbed into the back of the ambulance with the patient.
A minute or so after the ambulance set off, the man lying on the stretcher opened his eyes with a start. His eyes roved around the ambulance, without his head moving or his neck turning, and came to rest on Brian, who had been watching him.
“Where am I?” he asked Brian in German.
“In Russia. Reval,” answered Brian in Russian.
The man showed no surprise at being addressed in Russian, but replied in the same language. “What happened?” he asked. “I fell out of the lifeboat and it was cold, and then..?”
“We were on a British submarine travelling here to Reval, and we picked you up out of the water.”
The man appeared to think about this, and then suddenly realised what he was wearing, or, to be more precise, what he was not wearing. “My clothes and my boots. Where are they?” He sounded a little panic-stricken.
“Right here,” Brian reassured him, holding up the bundle of clothes.
“Is my passport in there, and all my papers?” was the next question.
“Your Swiss passport’s there. And your Russian one,” added Brian, a little maliciously.
A look of panic spread over the man’s face. “Where am I? Why am I strapped down like this?”
“Easy, easy. You nearly died out there. You’re not a well man at all, and you’re going to the hospital in an ambulance. And you’re strapped down because that’s what they always do when people travel in an ambulance.”
“Which hospital?”
“The naval hospital. It’s the best, and it’s closest.”
The panic that had overtaken the man seemed to leave his face, and he relaxed a little. He continued to look at Brian, and eventually came out with, “You’re not Russian, are you? You’re not from Moscow or Petersburg, I can tell. Polish? Ukrainian? Czech? Estonian? Latvian?” Brian continued to shake his head.
“I’m British,” he said at last.
The man seemed surprised by this. “Where did you learn your Russian?” he asked.
Brian thought of teasing him by answering “from Lenin”, but held his tongue. The ambulance drew to a halt, and the rear doors were opened. Brian followed the stretcher down the grimy halls to a room with just one bed in it, where the castaway was laid.
“I’ll just put your things here,” said Brian to the man, putting the bundle down on the wooden chair by the bed. “Everything’s there. And I’ll be off, and I probably won’t see you again, so goodbye.”
There was silence from the bed. Brian thought the man must have lost consciousness again, but when he looked, the eyes were open, watching him with the kind of malevolence that reminded Brian of a wolf or some other savage animal.
Brian turned and walked out of the room. He looked back as he went through the doorway. The yellow eyes were still watching him. He walked back along the corridor, trying to ignore the noises and smells that came from the rooms on either side, until he came to the entrance where the ambulance was still parked. He waited until the two ambulance-men returned, and offered each of them a cigarette, which they accepted gratefully.
“Where’s Colonel Petrov?” he asked them.
“Who?”
“The man who asked for you to come to the docks to pick up that man.”
The older Russian shrugged. “No idea who you’re talking about. Talk to our section chief. He’ll know.”
Brian dragged the directions for the ambulance office slowly and painfully from the two men, and set off across the yard. Behind the desk sat a uniformed petty officer, obviously the man in charge.
“Who?” he said, when Brian asked for Petrov.
“The man who came here and asked for an ambulance for the British submarine.”
The petty officer’s face cleared. “Oh, yes. Colonel Petrov,” he said, with heavy emphasis. “Of course that’s his name. Stupid of me. You’ll find him at the Catherinethal.”
“And where and what is that?” asked Brian.
“You don’t know?” said the petty officer suspiciously. “Everyone knows where the Catherinethal is.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Brian. “I arrived here,” he looked at his watch, “about ninety minutes ago, on the British submarine that carried Colonel Petrov and me here from England.”
“You’re a friend of the Colonel?” The petty officer seemed nervous.
“I work with him. He is my colleague, I suppose you could say.”
The petty officer leaped to his feet
and snapped to attention. “My apologies, sir. This way, Your Honour. I’ll fetch a car to take you there immediately, Your Excellency.”
Now what hornet’s nest had he disturbed? Brian thought to himself.
-oOo-
Chapter 8: Reval to Petrograd to Moscow, Imperial Russia
Brian couldn’t help noticing that she had a pair of the most beautiful dark eyes he had ever seen, set in a heart-shaped face that almost knocked the breath out of him.
An old Daimler arrived noisily outside the office a few minutes later. “This way, Your Excellency,” said the petty officer, who had returned with the car. He rushed forward and held the back door open for Brian.
“Thank you,” said Brian, returning the man’s salute as the car moved off and drove out of the dock area through the streets of Reval. Catherinethal turned out to be a beautiful building in Baroque style, set in some of the most elegant formal gardens that Brian had ever seen. The chauffeur drew up in front of the mansion’s front door, leaped out of the driver’s seat and had the door open for him before Brian had fully realised that the car had stopped. As Brian walked up the steps to the front door, it swung upon, and a gorgeously liveried flunkey bowed and asked him his name and business.
“Brian Finch-Malloy, of His Britannic Majesty’s Coldstream Guards. I’m here to see Colonel Petrov.” The servant extended a silver tray in Brian’s direction. “I regret that I seem to have left my cards at home.”
“Sir?” enquired the footman. “May I ask once more whom it is that you wish to meet?”
“Colonel Petrov,” repeated Brian. “I was told he was here.”
“If you would be kind enough to wait here, sir, I will make enquiries as to whether the gentleman with whom you wish to converse is in residence. May I trouble you to repeat your name, sir?”
After Brian had repeated his name, the footman strode off down the hall, leaving Brian under the watchful eye of another servant. Brian looked around at the furniture and decorations of the place. Fit for a king, he thought. Craftsmanship and artistry that for some reason he had never associated with Russia. He wondered what Harry Braithwaite, with his appreciation of the Sheraton table in the Foreign Office, would make of all this.