Red Wheels Turning

by Ashton, Hugh

“What’s that meant to mean?”

  “Well, maybe you’ll end up marrying a Grand Duchess, but I don’t think I’m going to, do you?”

  “Me? Marry her?” Brian burst out laughing. “You’re joking, old son.”

  “You’ve gone soft on her. I can tell it in your eyes,” replied Harry. “How long were you with her?”

  Brian considered. “About thirty minutes, I suppose. Maybe a little longer. Anyway, not long enough to ‘go soft’ on a girl, as you put it.”

  “That’s plenty of time,” replied Harry. “I saw it with my brother Sid. He hadn’t met his Maggie for more than fifteen minutes, he told me, before he made up his mind that he was going to marry her.”

  “Rubbish. Complete rot,” said Brian firmly, but when he thought about it, he realised there might be more to Harry’s words than he wanted to admit. “Anyway, even if I did feel that way about her, there’s no way on earth that I could marry a Grand Duchess. She’s probably promised to some Russian prince or Austrian duke or something. Probably has been engaged since she was four years old or something. That’s the sort of thing they do,” he added morosely.

  “See? You’re already sounding jealous.” Harry laughed.

  “Me? Jealous? You’re joking.” But inside, Brian wondered a little. Something about Maria had struck him hard. It wasn’t the first time it had happened to him, but it was the first time it had happened with someone of such a high social rank and so far out of his reach.

  On the train to Petrograd, though their tickets had “First Class” printed on them, the usual class for all officers travelling by train, it seemed that their carriage was unoccupied except for their party: Petrov; Maria, who had the use of a compartment to herself at the other end of the carriage to those of the three men; and some servants, including two maids for Maria.

  Much to Harry’s embarrassment, Petrov had insisted that both Brian and Harry accept the services of two Russian servants each, at least until they reached Moscow.

  “What am I meant to do?” asked Harry. “I’m not used to having servants waiting on me.”

  “Relax and enjoy the ride,” Brian told him. “As far as I can tell, these blokes wouldn’t be doing anything useful if they weren’t looking after you and making sure that you had a clean shirt to wear every day.”

  “Well, I’m not going to let that one with the long black beard shave me,” Harry had retorted. “I swear he drinks. Have you seen his hands shaking?” Harry came from a Nonconformist family, and claimed to have touched alcohol only once or twice in his life. Brian, who had no such scruples, appreciated that Harry never tried to convert others to this point of view, but simply claimed that it wasn’t for him to judge others in these matters.

  “Of course he drinks. Everyone in this country drinks. It’s the only way to survive here. But you’re right, I wouldn’t let him shave me, either. It’s something I’ve always done for myself, anyway.”

  -oOo-

  As it happened, the stay in Petrograd was less socially demanding than they had feared. Both Harry and Brian, whose formal wardrobes were non-existent, were relieved. Harry, who had been instantly charmed by Maria’s lack of pretension, which had almost helped him to forget her social rank, felt he could claim some credit for this avoidance of the social whirl. He had stammeringly explained to Maria that Brian and he were not important, and were not nobility in any shape or form, and therefore were unfit to join polite Petrograd society, especially in the clothes they had with them. Maria had taken the hint and passed the message on to her father.

  They did, however, have to meet an aide to the British Military chargé d’affaires, a relation of a friend of Brian’s, who seemed less than happy about their visit.

  “Damn’ funny business, if you ask me. Why didn’t the blighters tell me straight off about whatever it is you’re meant to be doing here, instead of sending this Colonel Petrov, whoever he may be, off to London to make a bloody nuisance of himself?”

  Because they couldn’t trust you to keep your mouth shut, said Brian to himself. Charles Featherington’s inability to stay sober for more than a couple of hours at a time had been something of a cause for wonder throughout the whole Brigade of Guards when he’d been a serving officer. His secondment to the Foreign Office as a diplomat, following an incapacitating injury resulting from a riding accident, obviously hadn’t changed things that much, thought Brian, noting the red nose and broken veins of the man sitting opposite him. He’d always liked him when they’d been growing up together, but despite having been at school with him, and his being a friend’s cousin, Brian had little regard for Featherington’s professional abilities, either as a soldier or as a diplomat.

  “So can you tell me where you’re off to? Just as a courtesy, in case we need to get hold of you?” demanded Featherington.

  “Don’t actually know the details yet, old boy,” said Brian as airily as he could manage. “Somewhere outside Moscow, that’s all we’ve been told.”

  “So you don’t know what you’re going to see?”

  “We know as much as you do. Some sort of wonder weapon that the Russkies have cooked up. Probably a complete load of cobblers,” replied Brian. “Waste of time sending us.”

  “What sort of wonder weapon are you talking about?”

  “It’s a—” Harry started to answer, but broke off as he received a sudden sharp blow to his ankle.

  “It’s a mystery,” Brian continued hurriedly. “They’re not talking a lot about it until we see it.”

  They had left the Embassy, and were sitting in the back of the staff car provided for them, when Harry turned to Brian.

  “That bloody hurt,” he complained, rubbing his ankle. “Did you have to kick me that hard?”

  “Sorry about that. It wasn’t meant to hurt that much. Just enough to shut you up,” replied Brian. “But the less Featherington knows about this, the better.”

  “Why? He’s on our side, isn’t he? Why shouldn’t he know?”

  “That, Harry, is a question that has a very complicated answer.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “What I mean is that before we left, C called me in to see him alone. I have been saddled with another mission as well as the ones you know about, and I didn’t want to tell you before now because, with all due respect, you’re too damned honest. You’re very bad at telling lies, so I didn’t want you to know the truth.”

  “And the truth is?”

  “That the Germans have been too lucky on the Eastern Front over the past few months. They seem to have known in advance exactly what they were going to be up against in terms of Russian forces, and the defences they were going to meet. Not every time, but a lot of the time.”

  “So what’s that got to do with us?”

  “C pointed out to me that the only operations where the Germans have known what was happening were those where the Russians had been discussing their plans with the military liaison of the British Embassy. I’m guessing that this all came through Colonel Petrov, and the whole business with this weird war machine is very secondary to his main purpose in visiting London, which was to get help from our side in finding the traitor in the British Embassy. It seems to be my job to find out who it is, and get him back to London.”

  “So what makes you think it might be Featherington? I thought he was your pal. And what a rotten thing, to ask you to do something like that. Couldn’t you have refused?”

  “And what would that make me if I refused? A party to treason?” replied Brian. “Believe me, this is not easy, and I am not at all happy about having to do it. Why does it have to be poor Featherington? Well, it doesn’t have to be, but I’m afraid all the evidence seems to point that way. He’s a weak man. He bets a lot on the gee-gees, and he has an infallible gift for picking losers. That and his drinking habits – and the drinking and the gambling are probably connected – mean that he’s always short of money, and whatever moral fibre he has ever possessed has been weakened. He’s a prime
candidate for recruitment by the Germans.”

  “But you have no proof,” objected Harry.

  “And I’m sorry to tell you that it’s our job – both yours and mine – to provide the proof,” replied Brian. “It’s a dirty job, and I am not happy about having to do it—”

  “—so you’re going to ask me to take over,” interrupted Harry.

  “Not at all,” snapped Brian. “You know bloody well that I don’t pass the dirty work over to you. That was a damned silly thing for you to say. ” It was rare for Brian to speak that way to Harry, and there was an uncomfortable silence for about half a minute. “I was going to say that I will do it, with the greatest possible hope that C and Petrov are wrong, and that it is actually someone else who is passing all this information to the Germans. If they are right, though, and Featherington is guilty, then...”

  “Then what?”

  Brian encircled his throat with a finger and thumb and jerked upwards. Harry flinched.

  “Really?”

  “Unless they decide to shoot him.” Brian rubbed his chin. “Harry, you’re right. Featherington, damn it, despite all his faults, is a pal of mine. He’s good fun to be around when he’s sober, and he was one of the best wings in the house footer matches. I remember the time he broke into the school sanatorium one time with a box of white mice…” Brian grinned at the memory, but the grin swiftly disappeared as he spoke again. “He’s the cousin of a good friend of mine, Henry Dowling. Don’t like his mother much, but his father’s a good man. This will break his heart, and the heart of the whole family.” Brian stopped speaking, and his next words, which followed after a few minutes’ silence, sounded as though they came from a different man. His voice was faint, as he turned to look away from Harry and spoke. “You know, Harry, I really don’t want to do this. This really is too much for me. Just you be thankful you don’t have to send one of your friends to the gallows.” Brian put his head in his hands, and his shoulders began to shake.

  “I think it’s downright rotten of them, asking you to do the dirty on your friends like that,” said Harry. “I think we should go straight back to England, and tell C that. And if you won’t, I will.”

  Brian straightened up and looked Harry in the face with his reddened eyes. “I can’t do that, and neither can you.” His voice was so quiet that Harry had to strain to catch the words. “There’s no way I can refuse to do this job. Believe me, Harry, I appreciate your thoughts and your sympathy. But we’re both officers in His Majesty’s Army, damn it. This is a foul thing for me to have to do, but it’s orders. If I have to do it, I will, but I’m going to hate myself for the rest of my life for doing it.”

  “It’s C you should be hating, not yourself,” replied Harry.

  “It’s C’s job as well, and I’m sure it’s no fun for him, either. His job is to keep the country safe and to beat the damned Boche. So he just moves us all round like pawns on a board. All of us, damn him.” A long pause. “Harry, I’m going to need a drink when we get back. It’s really too much for me to think about stone cold sober. A bloody great drink is what I need. I know you don’t usually drink, but do you think you could break the habit of a lifetime, and keep me company? I drink a bottle of vodka, you drink one of those tiny little glasses? Will you do that for me, Harry? Keep me company? I don’t want to drink alone. Make me feel like poor old Charlie.”

  Harry said nothing, but nodded silently. Neither man said anything more as the car continued its journey to their quarters.

  -oOo-

  From Petrograd, they continued to Moscow. True to his word, Harry had drunk a thimbleful of lemon vodka at Brian’s request, while Brian had finished the rest of the bottle.

  “Did that really do you any good?” asked Harry, when Brian finally came to, moaning and clutching his head.

  “I suppose not,” Brian had replied. “Bloody stupid of me, really, I suppose. I feel like death warmed over. But at least I forgot about what I was meant to be doing for the time I was drinking.”

  “But it didn’t make it go away for good, did it?” Harry couldn’t resist a slight needling of his friend.

  “True.”

  The luxury that they had enjoyed on their train journey to Petrograd was continued on the journey to Moscow. Their train was once again a sleeper, and their party, which continued to include Maria, again had a carriage to itself.

  Brian, still groaning inwardly, was nevertheless appreciative of the comfort. “This is magnificent,” he said to Petrov. “This is by far the most impressive train that I’ve ever travelled on,” as the three officers and Maria sat together over a luxurious dinner.

  “Ah, but we have more impressive trains than this,” replied the Russian. “Before we go to see the Netopyr, I want you to take a look at one of them.”

  “Trains aren’t really a passion of mine,” replied Brian. “Lieutenant Braithwaite is the engineer, not me.”

  “Even so, I think you’ll both find this one quite interesting,” replied Petrov, with a smile. “It’s not really very much like this train. However, I have something a little more serious and urgent to discuss. Lieutenant,” he said, looking at Brian slightly quizzically, “are you in a fit state to talk about serious matters right now? Maria, you may stay or you may go, as you think fit.”

  “Is that a not-so-subtle hint that you don’t want me listening?”

  “If you stay, then I must have your word that nothing is to be said of this to anyone else. I know you have your friends in the Embassies in Petrograd. They must never hear of this.”

  “You have my word, Father.”

  “Very good. Now, Lieutenant,” turning back to Brian. “Has our good Russian vodka robbed you of your ability to concentrate on serious matters? Are you ready to join us in the land of the living?”

  Brian gave a rueful smile, and nodded.

  “In that case, I’ll come straight to the point. The drowning man whom we picked up in the submarine was, as I explained to Lieutenant Finch-Malloy, a Bolshevik agitator, or to be more precise, a terrorist. I placed him in custody in the Naval Hospital, with a view to his being questioned as to the whereabouts of his confederates as soon as he recovered.”

  “I explained this to Lieutenant Braithwaite,” said Brian.

  “Well, there are two new things that have only just been discovered and the report about them has only just been delivered to me. The first concerns that piece of paper typed in Russian that we found and which you couldn’t make sense of, if you remember that.”

  “Yes?”

  “Before I gave it back to you for you to return it to Kolinski’s pocket, I copied the writing on it. It turned out to be a very simple code indeed. So simple that I’m not sure why they bothered to use it. I didn’t bother trying to make sense of it while we were on the submarine, but turned it over to one of my officers when we arrived in Reval.”

  “And presumably this very simple code has been broken?”

  “Indeed. It turns out that this terrorist is bound for the same destination as we are. Your old friend Lenin has all the details of the Netopyr, which have been passed over to the Bolsheviks.”

  Brian groaned. “Another traitor, sir?”

  Petrov shook his head ruefully. “It would appear so. And a traitor working for the Bolsheviks is just as much of a hindrance to the Allied war effort as one working for the Germans. To continue... It seems that our friend Kolinski has orders to commandeer the Netopyr for the Bolsheviks, using a mixture of bribery and force directed towards the unfortunate inventor who directs the project.”

  “How likely is that to happen? His commandeering the machine, I mean.”

  “Not very likely, we think. As far as I am aware, Lebedenko is completely loyal to His Imperial Majesty, and we really don’t consider that he would betray that trust. Indeed, I may tell you that the Netopyr is actually being funded out of His Imperial Majesty’s personal purse. Lebedenko owes a debt of gratitude which is personal, rather than patriotic, in nature. I may be wr
ong, of course, but I don’t think so.”

  “Well, let’s assume that Lebedenko is loyal and refuses to bow to the pressure of bribery, and is brave enough to stand up against the threats of that Bolshevik monster. What then?”

  “According to those coded orders, Kolinski is then to kill all the engineers working on the project, except for his informant, and then to destroy the prototype and all the plans.”

  “So,” said Harry, “it would appear that we have one more job in front of us. We have to save the Netopyr and its inventors from these revolutionaries?”

  “Absolutely, Lieutenant. And I also have my own personal reasons for wishing to see this project succeed. I have been promoting the idea of the Netopyr heavily to the General Staff, and much of whatever personal prestige and credibility I have rests on the success of this device. If the project were to fail, or God forbid, fall into the hands of the revolutionaries, my stock within those circles would be worthless.”

  “Well, it’s not going to happen, anyway,” Brian pointed out. “Kolinski is safely in a cell in the Naval Hospital in Reval, isn’t he, sir?”

  Petrov frowned. “I’m sorry to tell you that this is no longer the case. The report I received earlier was in two parts. What I have just told you was the first part. The second part described Kolinski’s escape from where we left him.”

  “I thought you said he was in a guarded locked cell, sir?”

  “He was, but we left the keys to the cell with him when we took him off the submarine.” Brian frowned in puzzlement, and Petrov continued. “I am referring to the gold which we failed to remove from his belt and his boots. He bribed a nurse and his guards, as we have discovered from our interrogation of one of the latter. He gave each of them one of those gold pieces, and promised more in return for their promise to help him break out from the hospital.”

  “I take it he doesn’t keep his promises?” suggested Brian.

  “Correct. The nurse and the guards took the first instalment, and decided between themselves to accept his offer and let him escape. Their idea was simply to leave his cell door unlocked, as if by accident, and let the escape seem to be a matter of simple carelessness.”