Alexander and Captain Scott looked at one another, exchanged grins, and then looked back at Sheppard.
“Well, that settles it. The intelligence we have been gathering over the past year appears to be accurate, and this last piece of the puzzle confirms it,” said Alexander, quite excitedly.
“Admiral, I have to agree, this does seem to confirm our suspicions, and if I may be so bold, we should revisit your contingency plan in light of this new information,” replied Scott.
“Gents, please, you are both losing me,” said a bewildered Sheppard.
Alexander smiled and leant forward in his chair until he could look Sheppard in the eyes. “My dear Christopher, we have been steadily receiving information from Russian émigrés contacts here in England and from reliable sources deep inside Russia itself, for several months now, claiming that the Czar once had an affair with a beautiful young ballerina. As a result of this affair, an illegitimate daughter was born. The mother died in childbirth, but the child lived and was whisked far away from Moscow to a country estate belonging to Major-General Alekseev for safekeeping and to avoid a scandal that the Romanov dynasty could ill afford. She was raised as the Alekseev’s granddaughter.”
Scott added, “We had until today only suspected what you have now confirmed—that there really is a possible heir to the Russian throne still alive. That is why an assassination team was sent to kill Alekseev and gather the information that you have brought to us. You see, captain, it is now a race to find the heir…one that we cannot afford to lose. The Reds only suspect what we know, and if they discover the truth, they most certainly will want this girl dead. And this is something that his majesty’s government does not want,” Scott explained.
“And neither do I,” said Alexander pointedly.
“So she’s somewhere in Russia?” asked Sheppard.
“Not exactly, Christopher,” said Alexander. “It was reported that General Alekseev’s wife and granddaughter escaped by train just before the Reds overran the town of Provino in 1919. Red agents murdered General Alekseev, while his family barely got away with their lives. It would appear that they eventually made their way east to the safety of Admiral Kolchak’s advancing White forces. However, he had a war to fight, and not knowing who the young girl really was, he decided that he had no time to look after yet another displaced aristocrat’s family, and sent them onto Vladivostok via the Czech controlled Trans-Siberian Railway line. However, somewhere around Irkutsk, in central Russia, something happened. The train, we believe, was derailed by saboteurs and in the resulting chaos, the women became separated from their protectors, never to be seen again,” Alexander explained.
“Taken where and by whom?” asked Sheppard, wondering why they were bothering to explain any of this to him.
“A thoroughly reliable source in the Far East told us that they were taken to an old military fort at Turta, a small hamlet just inside Mongolia, by renegade White forces led by a highly delusional and traitorous former Czarist officer,” said Scott, as he took a sip of his sherry. “The man’s name is Gustav Reimer. Born in the then Russian part of Poland, educated in St. Petersburg, he rose through the ranks quickly and became a colonel in the Czar’s Imperial Guard just before the outbreak of the Great War. When the Russian Civil War erupted, he achieved notoriety for both his tactical skill and his unbelievable cruelty towards the Bolsheviks. His barbarity drove more people into the arms of the Reds than could be accepted by his superiors, so he was eventually considered a liability by the Whites and dismissed in disgrace.”
Alexander added, “However, Reimer and a loyal group of hard-core fanatics had other ideas, and set out for Mongolia to set themselves up a fiefdom, with Reimer naturally as its dictatorial warlord. He actually fancies himself as a descendant of Ivan the Great, no less. He has adopted the rather grandiose title of Lord Protector of North-Central Mongolia. By all accounts, he is quite ruthless and completely insane.”
“So what did he want with the women for?” asked Sheppard.
“That part is easy. He sells them to the highest bidder,” said Scott. “He does not care who pays—Reds, Whites, whomever, he only cares that he gets paid.”
“So he steals people to help finance his little empire?”
“Precisely,” said Alexander.
“But this all happened eight years ago,” said Sheppard, “Surely the women have been sold off by now.”
“Not according to our sources,” said Scott.
Sheppard looked at his uncle not sure what to say. “Uncle Alexander, with all due respect, I’ve got to be honest here, this all sounds a little too fantastic,” said Sheppard, trying his best to be respectful. “If I am following all of this correctly, you both believe that an illegitimate heir to the Russian throne was hidden away as General Alekseev’s granddaughter and is now being held, for whatever purpose by a raving madman inside Mongolia, the Far East’s version of the American Wild West.”
“I couldn‘t have summed it up better,” replied Alexander, with a toast from his upraised sherry glass.
“I’m not sure what any of this has to do with me, but if this man likes money, why don’t you just send someone to buy her freedom and be done with it?” said Sheppard.
“Captain Sheppard, it may seem to be that simple, but in that part of the world nothing ever is,” said Scott. “A deserter from Reimer’s private army told one of our embassy agents in China earlier this year that Reimer believes that this girl is his personal good-luck charm. Considering his mental state and his love of illicit narcotics, I doubt that he will part with the girl for any amount of money,” Scott explained.
“Gentlemen, why does this heir to the Romanov throne matter to you, or the British government?” asked Sheppard, trying to understand what all of this meant and where it was going.
Scott stood and walked over by the fireplace, before turning to face Sheppard. “Captain, in 1917, after the Bolsheviks seized power for themselves, the King wished to have the Czar and his family come to England. However, the government, still desperately fighting the war in France, knew that any show of support for the despotic policies of the Czar would be political suicide, so they quietly, but firmly blocked his request. The King and successive governments have been at loggerheads over this issue ever since. The current Prime Minister wishes to correct what he believes was a foolish decision and has privately made the issue of saving at least one member from the Romanov family a bit of a face-saving must for his government,” explained Scott.
“Quite correct,” added Alexander, banging his hand on his chair’s arm. “Stalin, that cold-blooded butcher is tightening his grip throughout Russia. Our sources tell us he is planning to celebrate the tenth anniversary of the Bolshevik Revolution with a series of show trials aimed at rooting out and eliminating any opposition, real or imagined, to his regime. If he could get his hands on a member of the Romanov family and try her as an enemy of the state, the propaganda effect would be massive,” said Alexander. “Our government sees Stalin’s growing power as a threat to the continued peace in Europe and our empire. Anything we can do to weaken his grip will be seen as a positive step, no one wants another war in Europe.”
Sheppard sat there, his subconscious telling him to tread lightly.
Alexander turned in his seat and looked deep into Sheppard’s eyes. “Chris, you may not want to hear this, but your brother Thomas didn’t die in an accident…he was murdered,” said Alexander solemnly.
The news struck Sheppard in the heart like a lightning bolt out of the blue. “I’m sorry sir, I don’t understand,” stammered Sheppard.
Alexander took a deep breath and then continued. “Chris, Thomas was more than an officer in the Royal Navy. He was also a member of military intelligence and worked directly for me.”
Sheppard sat there looking at his uncle in disbelief.
“I’m sorry that you had to find out this way, but he was murdered by Red operatives,” said Alexander. “He had been cultivating a relationship
with Prince Alekseev for over a year, had he been alive, he would have gone to Alekseev’s house last night, not you.”
Sitting back in his seat, Sheppard felt as if someone had just sucker punched him in the gut. It was all too much to hear all at once.
Alexander stood, walked over to the fireplace, and looked at the roaring orange and red flames for a few moments before turning back and looking down at Sheppard, who was sitting there with a pained look on his face. “Christopher, I know it’s a lot to ask after what I have just told you, but we need help,” said Alexander. “It is imperative that someone goes to Mongolia without delay and secures this girl’s freedom, no matter the cost, and brings her safely back to England before the Reds ever find out what is going on. Their intelligence services are unbelievably good and very ruthless; they won’t hesitate to kill this girl, and anyone who gets in their way.”
Sheppard could hardly believe what he was hearing. “You mean me…don’t you?” blurted out Sheppard. “Gents, I am not even a member of your secret services. Hell, I retired from active duty at the end of the war.”
“Yes, yes, all of that is true,” replied Alexander. “But Captain Scott believes that you are the right man for the job, and after last night, I fully agree with this assessment.”
Sheppard shot Scott a stern look. “Captain Scott, you don’t even know me. Why do think I’m the right man for this assignment?”
Scott took a second before responding. “You were born in America, but soon moved to the Crimea, where your family has—or more accurately, had—oil interests, as you still do in China, Mexico and all over North America. Your mother, the admiral’s youngest sister, had you schooled in Russian, Spanish, German, and French when you were a child. Your father is an American entrepreneur with a knack for languages—much like you and your mother. If your school records are accurate, your childhood was spent traipsing all across the globe. Your nanny was a Russian, who spoke to you and your late brother exclusively in Russian. As a result, you read, write, and, most importantly, speak Russian fluently, with absolutely no trace of an accent.” Scott paused to remove his silver-rimmed glasses and then cleaned them with a cloth. He continued. “When the Great War broke out you were in the United States, preparing to go to university. Rather than follow your brother home to England and serve in the Royal Navy, you instead joined the Canadian Army as a private and served for the duration of the war, where you rose to the rank of Captain. You were awarded a battlefield commission and the Distinguished Service Cross for bravery at Vimy Ridge, so all of this, combined with your actions last night, made it obvious to us that you can handle yourself in dangerous situations.”
“All right, I get the point; you did your homework,” said Sheppard harshly.
“Chris, please don’t be mad at Captain Scott. After all, he is only doing his job, as am I,” said his uncle defensively.
“Uncle Alexander, this just seems so preposterous,” offered Sheppard. “I have never been to Central Russia, and I can assure both of you that I most definitely have never travelled anywhere near Mongolia. Why not just assign one of your men, the ones in the Far East that you mentioned earlier, to get her out?”
Scott took a deep breath and then spoke. “Trust me captain, we thought about that too. However, the more people we involve, the greater the chance that the Reds will find out what is going on and send someone themselves to murder the girl. Besides, my people are under constant observation by the Reds, here in England and abroad. Any move they make will certainly trigger a response from the opposition.”
“Chris, your brother thought this important enough that he gave his life,” Alexander said. “You are an unknown commodity to the other side, and that makes you the ideal person to go.”
“Captain Sheppard, please understand that we are doing this outside the normal chain of command,” said Scott. “This noble assignment came directly to us as a personal request from the Prime Minister’s office.”
Something inside Sheppard’s head snapped. “There is nothing noble about being dead,” said Sheppard angrily at Scott. “I got a belly full of killing in France. You try living in a rat-infested trench while corpses rot on the barbed wire right in front of your position. You bloody well try that and then come talk to me about what is and what is not noble.”
Alexander raised his hand to calm the discussion. “Perhaps a poor choice of words,” said his uncle, looking between both men. “But I agree with the sentiment.”
Sheppard took a deep breath and then looked into his uncle’s green eyes. He knew deep down that he didn’t have much recourse. His uncle and his compatriot had skilfully painted him into a corner; they knew he would never disgrace his brother’s memory.
“Damn you both, straight to hell,” Sheppard cursed. Standing up, he walked over to the fireplace to contemplate his answer. He couldn’t let a young woman be murdered, even if none of this were his fight. Turning around, he looked over at both men. “All right, I’ll do it, but only because my brother thought it important enough to die for, and because you personally asked me to do this Uncle Alexander. Now just how the hell do you gentlemen propose to get me in and out of Mongolia?”
Alexander stood and walked over beside his nephew. “Excellent Chris, excellent, just the sort of answer I expected from you. Captain Scott will give you your instructions. Follow them to the letter and you’ll do all right.” With that, Alexander shook Sheppard’s hand and without saying another word, took his leave.
Barely had the admiral left the room when a squat man with neat blond hair and an ill-fitting grey suit carrying a black leather case entered the room and walked over beside Captain Scott. Talking in hushed tones, the short man opened the case, reached inside, and then handed Scott an envelope. Without saying another word, the man left.
“Commander Hensley, my personal secretary,” said Scott, seeing the inquisitive look in Sheppard’s eyes.
Scott stood, finished off his sherry, handed Sheppard the large envelope and then said, “Captain Sheppard, inside that envelope, are several hundred notes in French, Turkish and Soviet currency, along with a thousand pounds in gold sovereigns. Use it wisely. You will need to take the afternoon train to Southampton. Once there, you will be met at the station by one of my most trusted agents…do you have any questions?”
“None really, but how will I know who he is?” asked Sheppard.
“You won’t. He'll know you. That’s how it works in our business. Now, tell no one what you are doing, and don’t try to communicate with your uncle or myself until this business is taken care of. The man with whom you will rendezvous with in Southampton will seek you out and provide you with all the details necessary for you to get safely in and out of Mongolia, nothing more.”
“What happens if this all goes south? Will you be there to help me out?”
Scott fidgeted and then looked nervously away from Sheppard. “If you are caught, you are on your own Captain Sheppard. The Prime Minister’s people made it clear no one wants any of this coming back on them.”
“Wonderful, I’m disposable…how nice,” muttered Sheppard, imagining himself languishing in some fetid Mongolian prison for the rest of his miserable and no doubt short life.
Scott offered Sheppard his hand. After shaking it, Scott walked out of the room, leaving Sheppard to question what he had just gotten himself into.
A minute later, Sheppard stepped outside and headed into the park, taking a seat on a metal park bench. The fresh air and the warmth of the morning sun felt good on Sheppard’s face as he sat alone, watching people pass by while he thought about his brother Thomas, and how they had grown apart over the years. Sitting there, he found himself wishing that he had taken the time to get to know him better before he had been murdered. However, it was all too late now to change the past. Sheppard had given his word to his uncle and there was no turning back. For his brother’s sake, he would see this through to the end.
Harry Campbell sat idly in the lobby of the hotel, pick
ing the lint from his blue soft cap, when Sheppard finally walked in the front door. Seeing Sheppard, he respectfully stood and walked over to him. “Sir, I’ve been sitting here for over an hour, where on earth have you been?”
Sheppard’s eyes narrowed as he looked into Campbell’s face, wondering just what his relationship had been like with his late brother. Did he know his brother was an intelligence agent? Deciding to let it go for now, he said, “I was visiting my Uncle Alexander, I returned his letter and gave him that damned briefcase from last night,” explained Sheppard.
Campbell could see that Sheppard was agitated about something, so he changed the subject to see if he could find out what was going on. “Have you eaten yet, sir? The restaurant down the street that you like, I hear has some fresh sausages in today.”
Sheppard’s stomach rumbled at the thought. He realised that he hadn’t eaten a thing yet today, and Campbell was right, the food was always good there. “Sounds like a plan Harry,” said Sheppard. “After that I have to pack.”
“Going somewhere are we, sir?”
“No, Harry, nothing like that,” said Shepard, “I will be going away by myself for a few months. You can take the car and look after it until I get back if you like.”
“Sir, are you sure you won’t need me?” Campbell asked gloomily.
Sheppard felt awkward trying to brush off Campbell. He nervously ran his fingers through his hair and tried to think of a way out of this sticky situation. “Harry, it is just a little something I need to do for Uncle Alexander. I’m sure it’s all going to be fine in the long run.”
Campbell shrugged his shoulders in defeat. “Can I at least give you a lift to wherever you’re going?”
“Sounds like a brilliant suggestion. After breakfast, you can give me a lift to the train station.”
“Very well sir,” said Campbell, wondering if this sudden turn of events was tied to something that they had found in the sealed briefcase in the dead woman’s car last night. Before too long he would be given his answer, and it was one he wouldn’t like.
The Last Eagle (A Christopher Sheppard Adventure Book 1) Page 5