The Last Eagle (A Christopher Sheppard Adventure Book 1)

by Richard Turner

  Shipov turned sharply and looked straight at Sheppard. “Captain, I don’t think you fully understand the gravity of the situation that you have gotten yourself into. We are engaged in a life-and-death struggle with the Communists. If we hesitate, even for an instant, they will kill us all without an ounce of remorse,” said Shipov, his voice full of anger and conviction. “Yes, I blew apart that hotel, and I’d do it again if I had to. We are at war with the very devil himself, and this is one war that I don’t intend to lose.”

  Sheppard didn’t approve, but knew he was an outsider and decided to keep his views to himself. “Colonel, I have just one question.”

  “Yes, Captain, what is it?” asked Shipov, composing himself once more.

  “We literally lost everything that we owned in that blast. I have no way to pay for anything from here on out. So who is paying for you and your services?”

  “I am,” said a voice in English from behind Sheppard.

  Turning around, Sheppard saw a small, bespectacled man in a well-tailored striped light-grey suit enter the room. He walked over and took a seat beside Shipov.

  “Captain Christopher Sheppard, let me introduce Mister Kirk O’Neal, Principal Secretary of the British Ambassador to Turkey, and one of your uncle’s many operatives in this part of the world,” explained Shipov.

  O’Neal shook Sheppard’s hand but ignored Campbell, who was too busy eating his meal to have even bothered with the obvious snub.

  “Mister Sheppard, you need not worry about funds for this expedition. I have more than ample discretion to pay for anything that you and Colonel Shipov may require,” said O’Neal, with a hint of an upper-crust English accent.

  “Well, that at least is some good news,” Sheppard replied.

  “I have fully paid Colonel Shipov and his men in advance. Additionally, I have secured passage by boat and train to and from Mongolia for you and your party. I will also be handing over to you ten thousand pounds in gold coins for you to use at your discretion, should you need them in an emergency.”

  With a snap of O’Neal’s fingers, several large wooden crates painted to look like ammunition boxes were hauled in by some of Shipov’s men and placed down beside Sheppard.

  “Your extra funds, captain,” explained O’Neal. “I don’t know why you are going to Mongolia, and frankly, neither do I care. I simply do as I am told, and now, having executed my part in this questionable endeavour, I must be off. Sorry Colonel, but I can’t be seen with White trouble makers,” O’Neal explained as he stood. Then, with a polite nod to Shipov and Sheppard, he abruptly left the room.

  “An officiously cold, but truly efficient man,” remarked Shipov, eyeing the crates of gold.

  Looking at Campbell, Sheppard realised that they could hardly blend in with Shipov’s men while wearing formal attire. “Colonel, I don’t think Harry and I can continue to Mongolia dressed in dinner jackets.”

  “Not to worry my friend, I have taken care of everything,” replied Shipov as he waved to some of his men standing by the door.

  A young black-haired woman, no older than eighteen, dressed in a loose-fitting khaki uniform entered the room. Shipov gave her instructions, with a sharp salute she quickly departed on her errand.

  “Do you have many women in you organization?” asked Sheppard, as he watched the girl leave.

  “A half-dozen or so, they are as loyal and as brave as any man, and you would be surprised how ruthless they can be Mister Sheppard.”

  “Please, let’s drop all the formalities. Just call me Christopher,” said Sheppard, offering his hand to Shipov.

  A big grin spread across Shipov’s weathered face as he firmly shook Sheppard’s hand. “You also can call me Yuri. What about you, Mister Campbell?” said Shipov as he offered his hand.

  “Oh sir, you can call me Harry if you want Colonel, but I’m still gonna call you sir,” replied Harry as he shook Shipov’s hand and then continued to wolf down his food.

  “So be it, Harry,” said Shipov, with a hearty laugh.

  Moments later the young female soldier returned carrying two sets of khaki uniforms. She handed one to Sheppard and the other to Campbell, who looked down at the worn and moth-eaten clothing in disgust.

  “What’s wrong Harry?” asked Sheppard.

  “Never thought I’d ever put on a uniform again, especially after making it through the last war,” Campbell replied, examining the uniform more closely.

  “Not to worry, it’s only for appearance’s sake. We’d stand out in our formal wear like a pair of real idiots if we didn’t get rid of them.”

  Shipov said, “Gentlemen, please excuse me as I must see to my men. We have much to do before we leave tomorrow, and there is so little time remaining to do everything that needs to be done.” Shipov rose from the table. “Please gentlemen, stay here, finish your meal. I will have some blankets brought to you. We rise at dawn to load the boat for our trip across the Black Sea and then on into Mother Russia.”

  Sheppard and Campbell soon found themselves alone in the room. Sheppard leaned back in his chair and locked his fingers behind his head. “Harry, still think you’ve done the right thing?”

  “Pardon, sir?”

  “You know, following me here,” said Sheppard, looking his companion in the eye. “With all this gold, I could easily pay for you to go home, no questions asked.”

  Campbell stopped eating and looked at the wooden crates. “No sir, I’m okay with staying here; besides, I said I would help and Mrs. Campbell didn’t raise a son who shied away from danger. If you’re going to see it through…so will I,” replied Campbell firmly.

  Sheppard smiled at his companion’s optimism, then reached down for his glass of vodka, and downed it in one gulp, silently praying that it wouldn’t be his last.

  Morning came all too early for Sheppard. He felt as if he had just dozed off when someone walked into the room and kicked him awake. Through half-opened eyes, Sheppard looked around and saw that Campbell was already up and changing into his khaki clothing. He heard giggling and looked over at the entrance to the office, seeing several young women engaged in a loud discussion at Harry’s expense.

  “What are they saying, sir? It’s not fair. Tell them to speak English,” griped Campbell.

  “Harry, they’ve never seen one of London’s finest before,” joked Sheppard

  “Really?”

  “No Harry, they were just wondering if it was true….what they say about black fellows.”

  “I don’t find that the slightest bit funny, please tell them to go away,” protested Campbell loudly, turning his back away from the door.

  A sharp voice called out from behind the women; in an instant, they scattered away from the door. Shipov entered the room dressed in a khaki uniform, similar to the one that Sheppard was busily changing into.

  “Gentlemen, I hope you slept well,” said Shipov enthusiastically. “Please finish getting dressed and then come join my men and me in the warehouse.”

  “Mister Sheppard, I must object?” said Campbell holding up his khaki tunic. “My uniform has two holes in it.”

  “Think of it as good luck,” said Sheppard threading his fingers through the bullet holes.

  “Why’s that sir?”

  “Bullets never strike the same place twice,” answered Sheppard with a smile.

  A few minutes later, Shipov had assembled his men at the far end of the warehouse and was giving them a rousing speech. Sheppard observed that Shipov’s soldiers were almost all under twenty years old, fit, and totally absorbed by what Shipov was saying.

  “What’s he saying, sir?” asked Campbell.

  “He’s giving one of those speeches. You must remember, the kind us officers used to give just before we all went over the top. You know, king and country and all that nonsense,” said Sheppard.

  “Bloody hell why did you have to tell me that sir, I hope this doesn’t turn out the same way as the last time,” said Campbell, absentmindedly rubbing the deep scar o
n his left leg.

  With a hearty cheer, Shipov’s men saluted their leader and then broke up into smaller groups under their NCOs to prepare for their imminent departure from Constantinople.

  Sheppard watched Shipov’s men, observing the same degree of eagerness on their faces that he had once displayed for fighting, but that eagerness had not lasted long, not once he had seen what a machine gun could do to men struggling through barbed wire or being torn apart under an artillery barrage. He had had his fill of it, and had thought those days were behind him. However, want it or not, he was now right back in the middle of another conflict, and as before, he intended to come out of this one alive.

  An hour passed; they boarded their ship, the Thalassa, a small rust bucket of a freighter belonging to a Greek merchant who regularly worked in and out of the Black Sea. Sheppard thought the ship should be sold for scrap. He doubted that it would make it out of the harbour and said so to Shipov, who laughed off Sheppard’s remarks. They stowed their kit below deck and made ready to leave Constantinople.

  A short while later Sheppard meandered back up on deck and took in a breath of warm salty air. Turning, he looked back towards the crowded city as they pulled away from the dock and headed north through the Bosporus Straits, separating Europe from Asia. Although never as interested in the sea as his older brother, Sheppard always enjoyed being out on the water as he found it a place where you could be alone with your thoughts. It was one of the few refuges left were you couldn’t constantly be bothered by people.

  “Enjoying the view are we Christopher?’ asked Shipov as he walked up and stood beside Sheppard.

  “Yes, it’s quite magnificent,” replied Sheppard.

  They stood in silence for a few minutes, until Shipov noticed Campbell was nowhere to be seen. “Where is your friend?”

  “Below decks,” answered Sheppard.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No, it would seem that he hates open water. In fact, he told me that he’s deathly afraid of it. I doubt Harry will come on deck until we make our next stop. By the way Yuri, where is that?”

  Shipov rubbed the stubble on his chin and then reached inside his jacket, producing a well-worn map. Opening it, he pointed to a city on the coast of Southern Russia. “We are heading for a place called Bat’umi, in Georgia. From there we will travel by train to Baku, cross the Caspian Sea into Kazakhstan, and then after that we have another long and hopefully boring train ride to Mongolia,” said Shipov, tracing the route with his finger.

  Sheppard stared at the map for a moment, taking in the names and landmarks along their lengthy path. “How long do you expect this will take, Yuri?”

  “If all goes well, a couple of weeks at most to get to Mongolia, after that it could get dicey.”

  “Why is that?” queried Sheppard, studying the map.

  “It’s a real mess in that part of the world right now. Reds, Whites, anarchists, Chinese warlords … you name it; they are all vying for control over a piece of Mongolia. That is why we are going to pretend that we are mercenaries looking for work, which isn’t stretching the truth too far,” Shipov said grinning. “That way hopefully, we won’t draw too much attention to ourselves before we get to Mongolia.”

  “Makes sense,” said Sheppard as he examined the map some more.

  “Leaving will be another story altogether.”

  “Why?” asked Sheppard, looking up into Shipov’s weathered face.

  “We cannot retrace our steps. To do so would invite being caught,” said Shipov. “We will have to push on through the remainder of Mongolia, into Northern China and then make our way to Harbin, a Chinese city full of White Russian refugees. From there we will head for the coast and hire a boat to take us to safety.”

  Sheppard shook his head. “Damned ambitious plan, if you ask me. Do you honestly think you can pull it off?”

  “Chris, I made an oath to protect Russia and I intend to keep my word. I know the world has turned its back on us, but if we can rescue an heir to the throne, things will have to change. The Governments of Europe and America will rally to our side. I know they will,” said Shipov, his voice full of resolve.

  Sheppard doubted that anyone would go to war to restore the Romanov Dynasty to power in Russia, not after the slaughter of the Great War. He and Shipov had the same goal, just different outcomes in mind. With that, Sheppard left Shipov where he was. Slowly, he walked over to the railing and watched the land give way to open sea as they slowly turned east towards Russia. He knew there was no turning back now and steeled himself to see this through, no matter what.

  CHAPTER 8

  MOSCOW

  Dmitri Grusian sat quietly on an uncomfortable wooden chair, staring down a nearly empty sterile-looking hallway, waiting for his appointment with Vyacheslav Menzhinsky, the head of the OGPU, the secret state police successor to the once dreaded Cheka. He was dressed in his customary black leather uniform. As usual, he never bothered to button his jacket all the way up so people could see that he still wore his blue and white striped sailor’s shirt underneath, as a reminder of where he had come from. Grusian was a tall man at just over six feet, with a solid build. He was forty-two years old and had grey on the temples of his black hair that he kept short and square on top in the same style as his hero, Comrade Stalin.

  Grusian thought it a great irony that the much-feared state secret security forces’ headquarters was located in the very offices that had once belonged to Lloyds of London, which he knew to be one of the renowned Western capitalist oppressors. Now its offices were used as a place to root out and destroy the very same cabal of bourgeoisie agents, traitors, and spies.

  A heavy wooden door opened and a stern voice called him inside. Grusian stood, checked his appearance and then ramrod straight walked towards the room. He was met at the door by two security agents who greeted him coldly, asking him to surrender his weapon before he would be allowed to step inside to talk with one of the most feared men in all of Russia. Reluctantly, he handed over his sidearm and then straightened himself up once more before entering the office.

  Vyacheslav Menzhinsky, the head of the OGPU, was seated behind his desk, hunched over and engrossed in the huge piles of paperwork that were spread out haphazardly across his desk. Grusian entered the largely empty office and approached Menzhinsky. Without saying a word or even looking up, with a dismissive wave of his right hand the head of the OGPU indicated for Grusian to take a seat in the chair directly in front of his desk. Grusian had never met Menzhinsky in person before. He knew that he was originally from Saint Petersburg, spoke ten languages, was a legendary workaholic, had not seen his family in years and that through his dedication and sacrifice to the revolution, he had earned the nickname of ‘The Iron Hammer’.

  “Comrade Colonel Grusian, do you know why I have summoned you here today?” Menzhinsky asked, without looking up from his mountain of papers.

  “No Comrade Director, I have none,” replied Grusian honestly.

  Menzhinsky stopped what he was doing, slowly placed his fountain pen down, removed his wire-framed glasses from his narrow nose, rubbed his sore eyes for a moment, and then looked straight at Grusian. “Comrade Colonel, I believe that the people’s great October Revolution is in grave danger. Enemies of the people and counter-revolutionary saboteurs are everywhere. They must be found and eliminated. Would you not agree, comrade?”

  “But of course comrade, they must all be eliminated for the good of the people and our glorious revolution,” Grusian answered, wondering why he had been summoned. Surely, he was not here to engage in revolutionary rhetoric.

  “The OGPU exists for two purposes, Colonel. First, to investigate and liquidate all attempts or actions connected with counter-revolution or sabotage, no matter from whom they may come, throughout Russia. And the second reason, Comrade Colonel?” asked Menzhinsky, as he fixed his cold dark eyes on Grusian.

  “Comrade, that would be trial by revolutionary tribunal of all saboteurs and counter-re
volutionaries, and the means by which to fight them.” Grusian proudly rattled off his response as easily and as smoothly as a cadet at an academy would have to his drill instructor.

  “Good answer, good answer. I am pleased to see my subordinates still pay attention to their duties and responsibilities. Do you know what keeps the people in line…really keeps them in line, Comrade Grusian?” Menzhinsky asked, his cold gaze boring into Grusian’s bitter, unfeeling soul.

  “Terror and fear, Comrade Director, terror and fear are the best weapons that we have in our struggle to preserve our revolutionary ideals.” Grusian did not just say it to please his superior. He truly believed every word of what he said and was more than skilled in its application.

  “Another good answer Comrade Grusian, now tell me, what did you do before the revolution?” Menzhinsky stood and walked over to a window overlooking a near deserted Moscow street while he awaited his answer.

  Grusian knew that Menzhinsky already knew the answer; he just wanted to hear it. “Comrade, I was a common sailor aboard the battleship Aurora, a Czarist instrument of war and oppression.”

  “And before that?”

  “Comrade, I was a policeman for almost five years before the war broke out and I was conscripted into the navy.”

  “Grusian, you truly are a blessed man. You were there at the birth of the revolution. People will envy you years from now,” waxed Menzhinsky philosophically. “Yet even now we still find ourselves engaged in a struggle to the death with the bankers, the Whites, the bourgeoisie internationalists, the anarchists, the counter-revolutionaries… I tell you, we are at war with anyone and everyone who is not on our side,” yelled Menzhinsky as he angrily banged his fist against the wall.

  “Yes, Comrade Menzhinsky, we are at war.”

  Menzhinsky turned and looked back at Grusian. “Comrade Colonel, your superiors speak very highly of you. You have a well-deserved reputation for being ruthless and extremely efficient in rooting out our enemies. Do you know what your nickname here at headquarters is, comrade?”