Faked Passports

by Dennis Wheatley

  A quarter of an hour later they were on the road again. Their conversation with the station-master and military had occupied the best part of three-quarters of an hour but they reached the village of Baylik at 8.25, and found that the train had been waiting for them for only just under an hour; which, as Gregory pointed out to his companions, was nothing abnormal for any train on that railway.

  The train was packed, mostly with troops, but as Gregory’s warrant conferred almost limitless powers upon him he determined to see to it that his two men had good accommodation. Both of them had alternatively ridden or driven during the seven hours’ crossing of the lake, and for a further five hours they had taken turns in driving the eighty miles from Rabaly to Baylik; so, tough, hefty fellows as they were, they were both nearly asleep on their feet. Having tackled an officer he had a carriage cleared of troops and made Boroski and Orloff lie down at full length on the two seats so that they could sleep in such little comfort as it was possible to secure for them.

  He was in slightly better trim as, although it was nearly twenty-six hours since he had got out of bed at General Headquarters the previous morning, he had lent a hand with the horses only during the last stages of the terrible journey across the Lake and, not having had to drive at all, he had been able to doze for a good part of the time. Moreover, he yet had work to do. It was essential to his peace of mind that he should ascertain as soon as possible whether the two Gestapo men were on the train, and directly it moved out of the station he set about the job.

  The wintry daylight now disclosed the snow-covered landscape. To the left of the track the forest stretched almost unbroken with only a clearing round a village here and there; but to the right there were sometimes gaps between the trees several miles in length as the railway ran alongside the creeks on the west of Lake Onega which stretched, a vast expanse of frozen snow, as far as the eye could see. Slowly but methodically Gregory pushed and bumped his way along the crowded corridor of the train, peering at the sleepy, dirty faces of the occupants of each carriage. The Gestapo men would almost certainly be wearing furs in such a climate but he felt sure that he would have no difficulty in recognising them both from their appearance and their luggage; yet none of the few civilians that he could see in the crowded compartments looked the least like Germans.

  However, the train was not connected by corridors all the way along, so having examined one portion of it he had to wait until it had pulled up, get out, and reboard another portion of it to examine that. The business was a long and tiring one and took him the best part of four hours; but when the train pulled into the town of Perguba, at the head of Lake Onega, he had fully satisfied himself that the Gestapo agents were not on it.

  Rousing his two companions he took them to the station buffet to give them a good meal and while they ate he considered the position. It now seemed probable that the Gestapo men had not started until the previous evening, in which case they were one or perhaps more trains behind him; but there was still just a chance that they might have caught the 1.40 from Leningrad. If they had, it would normally have given them a lead of two hours and five minutes over the train he was on, but he himself had held that up at Baylik for just under an hour, whereas in the ordinary way it would probably not have stopped at such a small place for more than twenty minutes. The train ahead, therefore, now had a lead of approximately two hours and forty minutes; five times as long as was necessary to arrange the formalities of the most ceremonious firing-squad. Somehow he had got to get on the train ahead and make dead certain that the Gestapo agents had not caught it.

  When they had finished their meal he got Boroski and Orloff to take him to the station-master and, producing his famous order once again, he demanded that the train ahead should be held until the train in which they were travelling could catch up with it; but here, for the first time, he met with determined opposition.

  To hold a train for an hour or so was one thing, said the man, but to hold it for three hours was quite another. In peacetime Perguba was a quiet little town where officials led a pleasant life and were not bothered with such mad requests, and a couple of trains a day were quite sufficient to satisfy everybody. But now that there was a war on things were very different; everyone had to work night and day; the traffic on the line was chaotic; military officers were always demanding impossibilities. To do as Gregory suggested would upset all the traffic and make bad infinitely worse.

  “It is by the order of the Marshal and my business is most urgent,” Gregory snapped with a cold authority which he had often found extremely efficacious when forced to browbeat petty officials; but the man was obdurate. He pointed out that the order said that Gregory should be given every assistance to facilitate his journey, but not that trains should be held up for him unnecessarily; and that in this case it was not necessary to hold up the train ahead, because it would have to wait until Gregory could reach it and, therefore, would not get to Kandalaksha any quicker than the train he was on at the moment.

  Seeing that it was useless to argue further Gregory began to insist that his train must put on more speed in order to get him to Kandalaksha as soon after the other train as possible. In consequence, the engine-driver was summoned.

  He shrugged his shoulders a great deal and waved his hands, asking if they thought that his engine was an aeroplane. They knew quite well, he said, that it dated from pre-Revolution days and was held together only by bits of wire and his own brilliance as an engineer. Moreover, how could anyone get more than twenty-five miles an hour out of an engine when they had only wood fuel on which to stoke it?—and that was all that was procurable in this part of the country.

  Gregory produced his order again and told the driver that whatever his difficulties might be he had got to catch up the other train because, if he did not, Marshal Voroshilov would have him shot as a saboteur and an enemy of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.

  The engine-driver’s mouth fell open in comical dismay and promising to do his best he hurried out to get his ramshackle engine going. Five minutes later they started off at a pace quite unprecedented and with such suddenness that a number of the passengers were left shouting indignantly on the platform.

  It was now past one o’clock and Gregory was very nearly all-in. He had done everything conceivable to expedite his journey, so he lay down on one of the seats in his carriage while Boroski took the other and Orloff the floor, and they all went to sleep.

  Although the two Russians had had four hours’ sleep apiece during the morning they slept like the troopers they were, and Gregory was so exhausted that he, too, slept heavily, so it was getting on for midnight when they were awakened by a particularly violent series of jolts. The train had come to a halt in another station, which they soon discovered to be Kem.

  Directly they had roused up they went along to see the engine-driver to find out how much time he had managed to make up, and they caught him just going off duty. He protested that he had done his very best, but he had succeeded in making up only an hour. His relief arrived while they were still discussing the matter, so the new man was questioned as to whether he thought he could catch the train ahead before it arrived at Kandalaksha. He proved as pessimistic as his colleague but Gregory cut short his complaints about the engine and asked, through Boroski, for a definite answer as to whether or not they could catch up the other train.

  The reply was, “No”. From Kem to Kandalaksha was under two hundred miles and the new driver said that it was quite impossible to make up the best part of two hours in that distance. Gregory then ordered the whole party to the station-master’s office and on the way told Boroski of a new décision he had taken. If the second train could not catch up the first, its engine could; so they were going to abandon the whole string of coaches and proceed on the engine with every ounce of speed that it could muster.

  The station-master argued and protested. It would take at least two hours to get another engine out of the yard and ready to carry on the abandoned train;
and where, at this time of night, could he be expected to find another driver? But Gregory flung discretion to the winds and sternly pronounced an ultimatum. Either they let him have the engine or he would go straight to the local G.P.U. and have both station-master and driver arrested pending the lime when he could see Marshal Voroshilov again and make it his personal business to have them both hanged, drawn and quartered. Under this dire threat, with many gesticulations and expostulations, they at last gave way and Gregory was at last allowed to have his engine.

  Once it was going, with only a single coach behind it as ballast to keep it on the rails, their speed was more than doubled and on straight stretches of the line the driver managed to rev. it up to the incredible speed of fifty miles an hour. Gregory rode with Boroski and Orloff in the bunker to make certain that the driver did not slacken in his efforts, and as he sat there on the pile of logs he cursed himself for not having thought of this excellent expedient before; since if he had commandeered the engine to start off with, at Baylik, they would easily have overhauled the train ahead by now.

  The glowing furnace of the engine gave them some heat, but the bunker was open to the icy wind so from time to time they took a hand in heaving wood to keep themselves warm, as the solitary engine roared on through the dark night, a cascade of sparks streaming from its funnel.

  They had left Kem at half-past twelve and covered the next hundred miles in two and a half hours; so by three o’clock in the morning they were keeping a sharp look-out for the rear lights of the train they were pursuing, expecting to catch it up at any moment. Gregory was now satisfied that even if the Gestapo men were on the train ahead they could not reach Kandalaksha before him; but he was feverish with impatience to board it at its next halt so as to place the matter beyond all possible doubt.

  They had been travelling south-west for the last twenty miles, as a creek running inland from the White Sea necessitated the line making a huge hairpin bend and they had just reached its extremity, where the track curved back towards the north, when the engine-driver shouted something to his stoker and grabbed the brake lever. Peering anxiously from the cab Gregory saw that a red light was being waved on the line ahead of them; with a scream of ill-oiled brakes the engine slowed down over the next quarter of a mile and came jerking to a halt within twenty yards of the light.

  A man who was holding a red lamp approached and called out to them; upon which Boroski and Orloff, who had now entered into the excitement of the chase with as much enthusiasm as Gregory, exclaimed simultaneously:

  “He says the bridge is down.”

  Gregory used an Italian oath which in the imagination of man has never been exceeded for its blasphemy, and asked them to get details. After an excited conversation, in which Boroski, Orloff, the driver, the stoker and the man with the lamp all joined, his guides told him.

  “It is the Finns. Before turning north-east again the railway crosses a bridge at this point, which spans a river running into the creek. The Finnish frontier is only sixty miles from here. This is the fourth time during the war that one of what the Finns call their ‘death companies’ has come through the forests unknown to us and blown up this bridge in the middle of the night. They creep up so quietly that the sentries cannot see them and they are always cutting the telephone and telegraph wires, because it is impossible for us to keep sentries posted every fifty yards along the line.”

  “When did this happen?” Gregory asked.

  “It has only just occurred. The man with the light is surprised that we did not hear the explosion, but the roar of the engine must have drowned it and we should not have seen the flash because of the curve in the line and the surrounding trees. The Finns are cunning fellows and they always try to blow the bridges up just as a train is passing over.”

  “Good God!” exclaimed Gregory. “Do you mean that the train ahead of us has been wrecked and gone crashing headlong on to the ice of the river?”

  “No. This time the Finns exploded their dynamite a few minutes too late and the train was almost across; only the two last coaches were wrecked. It was lucky, though, that this man happened to see the sparks flying from our engine; our train is not due here for another two hours yet. If he hadn’t pulled us up we should have gone through the broken bridge and all been killed.

  The man with the lamp climbed on to the running-board of the engine and the driver turned over the lever. Puffing on slowly for a few hundred yards they rounded the curve and pulled up again. Ahead of them they could now see the silhouette of the bridge and moving lights beyond it where the people from the train were examining the wrecked rear coaches and rescuing their occupants.

  Gregory was half-numb with cold and most terribly tired but his brain was still quick enough to realise that, for him, the wrecking of the train ahead was a blessing in disguise. He had only to cross the river to find out whether or not the Nazis were on the train. If they were not, he had got ahead of them by his dash across Lake Ladoga; if they were, it mattered no longer now that they could not possibly reach Kandalaksha before him; but the confirmation of either fact would be a blessed relief after the crushing anxiety that had tortured him for so many hours.

  Leaving the engine they walked to the river-bank and scrambled down it on to the ice. Shouts and cries came from ahead and they could now see that it was the furthest of the three spans of the bridge which had been wrecked. The last two coaches of the train had snapped their couplings, run backwards down the collapsed span of the bridge and crashed through the ice, where they lay, half-submerged, one on top of the other.

  As Gregory’s party mingled with the crowd of people from the train he learned that one of the coaches contained only military stores and that the other was the guard’s van in which eight or ten people had been travelling. An officer had taken charge of the proceedings and was directing some of the troops as they tried to rescue the poor, shouting wretches entrapped in the van; while the rest stood on the ice round the great hole which the two coaches and the broken bridgework had made in it.

  A number of the men had torches or lanterns so there was quite enough light in which to see people’s features, and for ten minutes Gregory moved among them trying to ascertain if the Gestapo agents were anywhere in the crowd; but he could see no-one who looked even remotely like a German S.S. man. Yet there were two or three hundred people standing there in the uncertain light, so having sent Boroski off with his suitcase to secure seats for them in the train, which he assumed would start again when the injured and dead had been got out of the guard’s van, he continued his search.

  Suddenly a cry of terror went up from a dozen men all round him. The ice upon which they were standing had begun to move. It tilted beneath him quite slowly but he instantly guessed what had happened; the falling coaches had cracked the heavy ice for some distance round the hole that they had made, and the weight of so many people as they all crowded together at the jagged edge of one huge slab that had broken free was causing it to turn over. With screams and shouts the terrified men strove to dash for safety but as the ice tilted more sharply they could not scramble up its slope and slid backwards from it into the water. Swept off his feet in the press, Gregory was carried in with them.

  As he went under the cold was so intense that it seemed to pierce his heart like a knife. Striking out blindly he came to the surface; only to be clawed round the neck by a frantic soldier who could not swim. Gregory knew that he would be dead himself in another minute if he could not get out of that deadly, gripping cold which went through his furs as though they were paper and paralysed his muscles. In a fierce determination to live he thrust the man off and grabbed the edge of the ice which, being relieved of its weight, had now fallen back into place. Next moment a man who had managed to retain his balance hauled him to safety and as he crouched, shuddering where he lay, he suddenly realised that it was Orloff who had rescued him.

  Half a dozen other men had also been saved but a number of their comrades had died instantly from the shock
of the immersion while others, again, had come up under the ice and so were past all aid.

  The cold was so intense that the drips from the victims of this new catastrophe were already freezing into icicles as they were hurried away up the far bank towards the train. By the time they got to the engine their clothes were frozen on them; but huddled by the furnace they thawed out and as soon as it was possible began to strip. In spite of the heat from the furnace the cold of the air seemed to burn them as parts of their bodies were exposed to it, but blankets were brought to wrap them in while their clothes were dried. The cab of the engine was only just large enough to hold them all but they huddled up there, with their teeth chattering and their limbs aching, until their clothes, which the driver was holding garment by garment to the engine fire, were dry enough to put on again.

  It was an hour before Gregory was able to rejoin his companions. He still felt chilled to the bone and had a splitting headache; but he resisted their attempts to persuade him to lie down as he was determined to make certain whether or not the Gestapo men were on the train. Now that he had succeeded in catching the train it no longer mattered in the least, since he had Voroshilov’s order for Erika’s release in his pocket and General Kuporovitch would naturally accept that as a higher authority than any document the Gestapo men might produce from the Foreign Office, but to find out if the Nazis had caught the 1.40 from Leningrad on the previous day had now become an obsession with him.

  When they had arrived at the bridgehead it had been three o’clock in the morning. It was half-past five before a move was made for the train to proceed again. As the people climbed on board Gregory went from carriage to carriage and he was still at it long after the train was in motion. It was after seven before he had fully convinced himself that the S.S. men were not on this train either. Half-dazed with fatigue, but completely satisfied, he made his way back to Boroski and Orloff and sank down to sleep in the seat they had kept for him for the rest of the way to Kandalaksha.