“Now, you traitorous bastard before you go to hell you will tell me the names of all your contacts and their bourgeois supporters in Moscow,” Grusian growled, inches away from Bagration’s deathly pale face.
Bagration was having trouble breathing. “Go screw yourself, you Red bastard. I wouldn’t tell you a thing, and you know it,” Bagration replied, through clenched teeth. Then, in one last act of defiance, he turned towards Grusian and spat blood on his face before collapsing.
Grusian swore as loud as he could, his voice echoing off the walls in the alley. In a fit of anger, he threw Bagration to the ground, brought his right foot back as far as he could, and then kicked the dying man hard in his stomach. Grusian had had enough of the White agent. He raised his pistol and took aim at his head. Knowing that he had gotten all that he ever would from the man, he fired his pistol repeatedly, the sound echoing off the walls of the buildings. Grusian fired until his magazine was empty, and the spent casings littered the pavement at his feet.
“Damn it all to hell. I can’t believe this. I wanted him alive,” he screamed loudly, at no one in particular.
A young soldier hesitantly walked over to the body. Laying his rifle down as he had been taught, he carefully looked through the dead man’s clothes, searching for hidden messages and information. He removed the dead man’s jacket and then tugged at its sleeves until they ripped apart. A small scrap of paper fell out into his hand.
Grusian saw what was going on and instantly snatched the paper out of the soldier’s hand and read it. Turta was all that was written on it. Staring at the word, Grusian wracked his brain to see if he could recall a person or place with that name. After a few seconds, nothing came to him, but to his enemy, it was worth dying for so it had to be important. Grusian complimented the soldier on his ingenuity. Then he pocketed the information, turned away, and left the soldiers to clean up the mess that he had made.
CHAPTER 7
CONSTANTINOPLE
Like a well-oiled Swiss clock, the train pulled into the main station in Constantinople at precisely one o’clock in the afternoon. Sheppard and Campbell had been holed up in their cabin since the attempt on their lives the night before and couldn’t wait to get off the train. Moving back into third class before the train stopped, they made sure that they were mixed in with the other passengers as they got off the train.
The rich smell of exotic spices filled the air. The station was packed with excited travelers looking forward to exploring the Near East. Local merchants enthusiastically mingled with the passengers loudly trying to sell them their wares, all of which made it easy for Sheppard and Campbell to blend in and quickly disappear from view.
Once away from the platform, Sheppard and Campbell were mobbed by several new merchants who rushed over to them, desperate to make a sale. Everything from gold to rugs to ornate hand-carved African ivory was thrust into their faces. Trying his best to ignore them, Sheppard called for a taxi. Almost right away from around a corner a dilapidated-looking yellow four-door car with the word taxi stencilled on the side pulled up. A smiling portly-looking man with yellow tobacco-stained teeth stopped and offered to take them wherever they wanted to go, for a reasonable rate. The driver wore a traditional red fez and spoke excellent French, so Sheppard sparked up a conversation, bombarding him with questions about Constantinople and the many historic sights they drove past. Campbell just sat there, quietly sightseeing while they navigated past people, cars, and animals all fighting for the right of way on the busy streets.
It did not take very long for them to arrive at their destination, the Hotel Imperial, a new four-story hotel that looked to Sheppard as though it catered exclusively to the richest clientele. Sheppard paid the driver well and thanked him for his colourful tales, even if he didn’t quite believe everything, he had been told. Getting out of the cab, a doorman dressed in a long blue jacket wearing a ubiquitous red fez hat came over and politely saluted, but was instantly disappointed to see that there was no luggage for him to carry inside. His tip would be less than he had hoped for.
Sheppard stood there in awe of the architectural splendour surrounding them. Standing outside their hotel, he could easily see the domed Topkapi Palace and the breathtaking Sultanahmet Mosque with its tall, pointed minarets surrounding it. It was all so impressive, but Sheppard could not help but wonder why they had been booked into such a prestigious hotel when what they craved, above all, was anonymity. His instincts kicked in while looking around at the faces of the people milling about. Sheppard couldn’t help feeling that they were being watched. He didn’t like it at all, but their instructions were clear—they had to wait in the hotel until contacted by Colonel Shipov.
Entering the hotel, Sheppard could see that he and Campbell in their dirty, rumpled clothes were going to stand out like sore thumbs in such lavish surroundings. They looked like a pair of refugees compared to the expensive tailor made suits worn by the men standing around the lobby chatting with one another, trying not to notice the two new interlopers in their midst. Trying his best to blend in, Sheppard casually walked over to the front desk, gave his name, and waited for his room key. The concierge, a snobby-looking British expatriate, looked less than impressed with Sheppard’s and Campbell’s appearance, but nonetheless went about his business while trying to hide his obvious disdain for the two men. He handed Sheppard his keys, along with a note, which Sheppard instantly pocketed away until they reached the privacy of their room.
“Luggage sir?” the concierge asked snootily.
Sheppard condescendingly smiled back. “No, we prefer to travel light.”
With a snap of the concierge’s fingers, a young boy rushed over and escorted them to an ornate and highly polished brass-plated elevator, which reflected their image as they walked towards it. They rode the elevator to the top floor in silence. Their room was just off the elevator. The young boy opened their door and waved for them to enter. The very size and the magnificence of the room stunned Sheppard. It must cost a bloody fortune for just one night’s stay here, Sheppard thought as he surveyed the lavish furnishings.
“The Sultan’s suite,” the bellboy announced proudly in passable English, his hand held out for a gratuity.
“I bet it broke his bank account, too,” replied Sheppard, as he gave the boy some loose change and then showed him the door.
“Good Lord, sir, I’ve never seen such a room in all my life,” Campbell said as he walked about the room. “It’s twice as big as my parent’s home in London.”
“We most certainly don’t have the money for this. Something stinks,” said Sheppard.
“Well, I do believe that smell could be us sir,” said Campbell, as he looked at the sunken bathtub. “Look sir, the bath, it’s made of solid brass.” Campbell laughed.
“I wonder who is going to end up paying for all this.”
“Not me I hope,” said Campbell, only half-joking.
Remembering the note in his pocket, Sheppard took it out and read it over several times:
Eight o’clock, hotel restaurant.
Shipov.
“Well, Harry, looks like we have a dinner date tonight. I think we should change into some fresh clothes for tonight’s activities,” Sheppard said as he looked down at the dried blood on his shirt and pants that he had accidentally missed when cleaning them off.
Campbell turned and looked Sheppard in the eye. “Sir, I don’t want to be a stick in the mud, but how do you intend to pay? As far as I can tell, we can’t afford an hour, less a full night in this hotel. Don’t we have to look after our money?”
“Oh Harry, you’ve never lived the high life before, have you?”
“Sir, please,” protested Campbell. “I once drank a glass of champagne at the Officers’ Mess during the war. That was the extent of the high life for me.”
“Harry, in this world everything comes to you. Trust me; it’s all too damn easy. All I have to do is pick up the phone and call the hotel tailor for a fitting. We then bill an
ything we have done to the room. It’s not like we’re ever going to end up paying for it,” Sheppard explained, with a devilish grin.
Later, both men stepped off the elevator and walked out onto the hotel lobby’s highly polished black-and-white checkerboard marble floor. They were both wearing white dinner jackets with matching black pants and bow ties. Sheppard was used to dressing up for formal affairs and dinners, but Campbell, by the uncomfortable look on his face, was not.
While Campbell fidgeted with his tight bow tie, Sheppard carefully looked around the lobby trying to identify their mystery host. There were far too many well-dressed people lounging about, chatting, drinking, and smoking for Sheppard to even hazard a guess.
“Come on Harry, let’s go have some dinner,” Sheppard suggested.
“No argument here sir; I’m so hungry I would eat some of that disgusting, expired canned food they used to feed us in the trenches,” Campbell replied cheerfully.
Together they strode over to the hotel restaurant where they were met at the front entrance by the headwaiter, a tall, slender Turkish gentleman with a pencil-thin moustache on his long, angular face. With a practiced smile, he led them inside to a table already reserved under Sheppard’s name and seated them in a semi-secluded corner of the restaurant.
Reaching inside his jacket, Sheppard felt the cold metal of the Luger…for safety, he thought to himself. He couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched. Sheppard knew that he was a rank amateur at this game, but he didn’t want nor need any more surprises. A young Turkish waiter came over. Sheppard and Campbell both ordered drinks while they waited for their mystery guest to arrive.
Time dragged. Sheppard glanced at his watch. It was already a quarter past eight. Wondering if they had walked into a trap, he started to grow nervous. He was about to tell Campbell to get up, when a man approached them. Dressed immaculately in a tailor-made black tuxedo, the man was carrying a silver serving tray with three drinks balanced on it. Without asking, he slid into the seat opposite Sheppard and then placed a glass in front of each of them. He looked about fifty years old, with thick wavy salt-and-pepper hair. He had a handsome but weathered face.
“Vodka, gentlemen?” asked the stranger in perfect English, holding up his glass.
Sheppard and Campbell sat there taken aback by the man’s bold behaviour.
Seeing the look on their faces, the man spoke. “Gentlemen, my apologies, where are my manners? My name is Colonel Yuri Shipov, and I am here to help guide you to and from Mongolia. Please don’t bother to introduce yourselves, as I already know who you are. Now, please join me in a toast to our newfound friendship, Mother Russia, and the long journey ahead of us.”
Sheppard reached inside his jacket, carefully withdrew his pistol, and aimed it at Shipov’s groin under the table. “Please don’t be offended Colonel, but to date things have not gone quite so…how shall I say, so smoothly. How do I know you are who you claim to be? Colonel, how do I know that you’re not another Red Agent?”
Shipov smiled, toasted Sheppard, and then in one gulp swallowed his entire glass of vodka. Placing the glass back down on the table, he very slowly reached into his jacket and produced a letter, which he handed to Campbell.
“Read it Harry,” Sheppard ordered, keeping his attention and his pistol on Shipov.
After a minute of uncomfortable silence, Harry spoke, “Sir, it appears to be a letter from your uncle to the Colonel, asking for his assistance. It looks genuine enough to me.”
Sheppard wasn’t convinced. “Harry, how do I know that this isn’t just a fake to lure us into another Red trap?”
“Sir, as far as I can tell, the handwriting on this letter is the same as that on the note I received in London from your uncle,” replied Campbell, the air still tense between Sheppard and Shipov.
“My God Sheppard, you are a paranoid man,” said Shipov, shaking his head.
“Nearly being killed twice in one week will do that to you,” replied Sheppard curtly.
“Captain Sheppard, I can assure you that the letter in Mister Campbell’s hand is the genuine article and that I am who I say I am. For the past five years I have been in the honourable service of your uncle,” explained Shipov. “Believe me when I say that I despise the Bolsheviks more than you can possibly imagine. I can also assure you, on my mother’s grave, that they, not you, are my sworn enemy. Now please put your pistol away, before you are seen with it.”
Sheppard glanced over at Campbell, who nodded in agreement. Looking around to make sure that he wasn’t being watched, Sheppard put the pistol away.
“Good, now drink up and follow me out of here,” said Shipov, smiling at Sheppard and Campbell.
“We’re not going to eat?” moaned Campbell.
“Sorry, Mister Campbell, but Constantinople is the bridge between Europe and Asia, so it is always swarming with spies from both sides, I can assure you both that your presence here is already known. We must leave now,” said Shipov, stressing his words.
Shipov stood, looked around, and found the entrance to the kitchen. He then said, “Follow me.”
Sheppard and Campbell followed Shipov. Walking quickly, they entered the hotel kitchen. The many cooks, waiters, and kitchen staff used to odd behaviour from the many foreigners who frequented the hotel simply ignored them as they went about their business. Shipov suddenly stopped and asked an elderly waiter for directions. Getting them, he thanked the waiter and then slipped the man a fistful of Turkish Lira.
Silence, it seemed to Sheppard, could be bought anywhere.
They continued through the labyrinth-like kitchen before emerging outside into a poorly lit alleyway directly behind the hotel. The smell of rotting garbage wafted in the air. A black cat suddenly darted from behind a pile of garbage chasing after a rat. Together they scampered over Campbell’s polished shoes. Cringing, Campbell looked over at Sheppard who shrugged his shoulders and continued to follow Shipov.
Waiting outside for them were three tough-looking men standing beside a beaten up two-ton delivery truck with a khaki-coloured canvas tarp draped over the rear. Shipov enthusiastically shook the men’s hands and then politely ordered Sheppard and Campbell into the back of the truck. Sheppard was still not sure how much he trusted Shipov, but since he didn’t seem to have any other choice, he and Campbell climbed into the darkened back of the truck, followed by two of Shipov’s men.
Sheppard made eye contact with Campbell, who looked back and raised his eyebrows, as if to say that he had no clue what was going on either.
The truck’s engine sputtered loudly and then came to life, and with a thick black sooty belch of the exhaust, it slowly crawled forward.
Sheppard was about to say something to Campbell, when there was an ear-splitting explosion that shook the truck from side to side. Scrambling to the back of the truck, Sheppard threw up the tarp. Looking up, he was stunned to see that the top floor of the hotel had vanished in flames. Burning debris from the explosion rained down on the street.
“My God sir, what just happened?” asked Campbell, staring up at the devastation.
Sheppard looked back. “The whole top floor…our floor has been blown right off the hotel,” replied Sheppard, as a flaming piece of furniture landed on the roof of a car beside them, noisily smashing through its windshield.
“Reds go boom,” said one of Shipov’s men, who smiled at Sheppard, exposing a mouth full of yellowish-brown tobacco-stained teeth.
“You sit now,” the other man ordered tersely in heavily accented English.
Sheppard and Campbell sat back down on the uncomfortable wooden bench in the back of the truck and stared at one another, wondering if they had just dodged another trap or had walked into another one.
The truck meandered through the narrow streets of the ancient capital for close to an hour before coming to a halt outside a large wooden warehouse in the harbour area, overlooking the Bosporus Straits.
They were quickly ushered out of the back of the veh
icle and escorted inside by some of Shipov’s men. Sheppard could see that the building was full of wooden crates waiting to be shipped out to various destinations throughout Asia and Europe. He also noted that they were not alone. At least fifty men and women were standing around, watching them as they moved along. Soon they came to a secluded office at the back of the warehouse. Shipov gave some orders to his men and then with a smile waved for Sheppard and Campbell to follow him inside.
“Please, gentlemen, have a seat,” said Shipov, motioning to chairs around the lone table in the centre of the room.
Campbell sat down and stretched out his aching left leg; a piece of shrapnel remained in there, a souvenir from the war, while Sheppard remained standing beside him. Shipov shrugged his shoulders at Sheppard, took a seat, and then ordered one of his men to bring some vodka and food for his guests.
“Colonel, would you mind telling me just what the hell happened back at the hotel?” Sheppard asked.
“Oh, that, well, Captain, it would seem that your mission to Constantinople is one of the worst kept secrets of all time. We had been tracking several Reds for a couple of days before your arrival. After a bit of friendly persuasion, one of them told us that they knew about you, but not your mission, and that they had been sent to kill you. So in order to fool the opposition, I followed through with their plan and blew your room to pieces,” said Shipov, as if he were talking about the weather. “I hope they fall for it as we need some breathing room and a lot of luck if we are going to beat them to Mongolia.”
Sheppard thought Captain Scott was just being overly cautious when he said that his organization had been infiltrated. Now he was left wondering whom he could trust.
“So Colonel, you killed innocent people just to convince our enemies that we are dead?” said Sheppard, slipping back into Russian as he was handed a plate with smoked meat and stale black bread on it.
The Last Eagle (A Christopher Sheppard Adventure Book 1) Page 8