Find My Brother

by David Chilcott

  ***

  Nigel said, ‘This club used to be called the Saint Petersburg Royal Yacht Club, because it was patronised by the Tsar, in the days before the Revolution. Since then it has changed its name a time or two, but I always call it by its old name. The restaurant is leased out, but it is one of the best in Saint Petes. Before we go there, let me show you the boat, and we’ll take it over to the visitors’ berths, which will show you a bit about the handling, though we won’t have the sails up.”

  They walked down the path, and now McBride could see the width of the river, and the buildings on the other side. The pontoons were crowded with yachts, and looking back, McBride saw the yacht clubhouse, all the windows overlooking the boats, and alongside what must be the restaurant. Nigel led them onto a pontoon, and halfway along stopped and held his hand out, pointing.

  “This is my pride and joy, Belinda. Thirty footer, inboard diesel engine, Bermuda rig plus spinnaker, but I must ask you not to put that out. You’ll really motor just with the mainsail and jib. I can handle it by myself, it’s got auto reefing, auto-pilot come to that. But to do a long trip, even to Stockholm you need to be doing watches. It will take you about eighteen hours at least, to Stockholm. Come aboard, and I’ll show you round. We are in a hurry now, I have to tell you, because the SVR tagged me, and their car followed me into the carpark.”

  “So, already they will be searching the club?” McBride looked round instinctively.

  “No. Viktor thinks to himself: I will wait here and catch them when they come back to climb into the car. He thinks there is no other way off the island, but he doesn’t remember this is a yacht club, the stupid man. He thinks this way because he got into a lot of trouble with the club, and his superiors, when he had a gun battle in the restaurant. The Commodore was furious. He has banned Viktor ever coming back.”

  “Even so, we shouldn’t take too many risks,” said Ben.

  “Believe me, there is no risk. Just half an hour to show you the boat, and take it round to the visitors’ berths, and one hour to have a light meal in the restaurant. I want to ask you a few questions about the gulag while we are eating. When you have left I will stay in the bar, give you a couple of hours to get well away, into the Baltic. I don’t think they will undertake a search by plane or boat. There is a tightening of state expenditure, so I doubt they will risk incurring Mr Putin’s wrath. What they will do, however, is alert the SVR operatives in all the Baltic countries to watch for a yacht landing. So, be warned.”

  “I think that is something we can handle. Or maybe we will sail straight to Scotland. How long do you think that will take?”

  “Depends on the weather, it can be bad in the winter. If the weather stays good, maybe seven days, or even six. It must be over 1,000 miles.”

  Whilst they were talking, Nigel had been climbing onto the yacht, and they had followed him. They now all stood in the cockpit. In the manner of yachts, there was a large helmsman’s wheel to one side of the cabin hatchway, and a deck mounted stool if the helmsman wanted to sit. The deck was curved from side to side, so that all waves that came aboard would run off immediately. The rails became solid steel walls back from the cabin, giving some weather protection to the helmsman.

  “Okay. There’s the compass, there’s the switch for the autopilot. I don’t use it often, only if I want to take a slash over the side. Or if I need to fetch something out of the cabin, a cup of tea or something. That’s when I’m single-handed. Over here on the starboard side there’s a cupboard.” He opened it. “Oilskins, even a hood. And clipped up here at the top, a couple of distress rockets.”

  Nigel pulled some keys out of his pocket, opened the hatchway. “It’s a bit of a squeeze down here, all yachts are, I’m afraid. There’s a couple of bunks forward, and another two even further forward, but they’re for pigmies I think. Then there’s the rope locker way up in the bows. Galley is here, and on the other side a chart table. All the charts are in drawers below the table. All the Baltic, but none for Scotland, I’m afraid. The one clipped to the table here covers the river and the bay. Oh, access to the engine is a trap door in the cockpit floor. When you start it, look over the port side and check the cooling water is coming out. The filler cap is here, in the deck. There’s thirty gallons in the tank, about fifteen hours’ worth. There are two spare cans lashed to the rails in the bows. Come on, McBride, show us how to handle this girl.”

  McBride started the engine, looked over the side to check the cooling water, got Ben to cast off, and nudged the boat out into channel between the pontoons. When the boat was approaching the end, he said, “Which way to the visitor pontoons?”

  “Upstream.” Nigel went forward to the bows, checking for river traffic. When they had motored maybe fifty yards, he was pointing to the pontoon with the visitors’ berths. McBride made a smooth turn, and then inched in between two more boats, a space indicated by Nigel. McBride knocked the lever into neutral, and as Nigel stepped on to the pontoon, the boat was stationary, it’s fenders a whisker away from the wooden planks.

  Nigel tied up. “Excellent, McBride. You are a sailor.”

  They all walked back up the path to the restaurant. When they got through the door it was obvious that Nigel was a valued customer. The maître-de rushed across with his hand out.

  “Signore, so pleased to see you. And twice in one day, magnifico. You want a table for three, yes? Come, we have your table free at the moment. I will change people about, later on.”

  “It may not be necessary, Pietro. We have limited time, so we will only be having one course.”

  Seated, Pietro brought aperitifs for everyone, and menus.

  “I hope you don’t mind me debriefing you, starting now,” Nigel said.

  “No problems,” said McBride, sipping his drink. “Fire away.”

  “This camp contains only British prisoners?”

  McBride looked at Ben to answer. “That’s right.”

  They were interrupted with the waiter fetching the menus. Nigel ordered without looking at his, waited for the others, made suggestions as to what he had found good. The waiter went away.

  “How long do you think the camp has been running?”

  Ben said, “Well, I have only been there about six or eight months, but some had been there a long time even then. Someone told me he had been there six months then, when there were only about ten prisoners.”

  “So for about eighteen months, maybe.” Nigel pondered. “That fits in with the fracking protests getting under way.”

  Ben nodded. “I was investigating that, for a series of articles in The Daily Mail. They were very keen to reveal who was behind it. Apart from the Green Party, and the Friends of the Earth. When I was gathering information, I was asked to join the protesters. The Russians thought I was unemployed and offered me two hundred pounds a week, cash, to live in a tent there. They even bought me the tent. To be fair, the Greens weren’t getting paid, and I don’t think they knew about the Russians. They are nice people, except a bit naïve, you know.”

  “So how do you two land up in a prison camp?”

  McBride chipped in. “Caught investigating the set-up of course. They didn’t want it to be known. Still don’t, of course. It could cause a diplomatic incident. That is why they are trying to stop us getting back to tell our story.”

  “You can see that they want to keep control of the supply. Ninety percent of Russia’s income is in gas and oil. A lot of it fracked, of course. Once every country in Europe starts fracking, that’s the income draining away, and the pipelines that have cost billions to build, sitting unused.” Nigel swirled the pepper pot round on the tablecloth as he talked. “They have expended a lot of time and energy in getting most of the EU to ban fracking as a dangerous operation. But once the UK has a successful fracking industry, the other nations will look at us and see that the Devil hasn’t struck us down, and that we are getting rich.”

  The waiter returned carrying three plates, two plates on his arm, one on his
hand, leaving the other hand free to serve. Waiters learn these skills.

  “Okay,” said Nigel, “down to the nitty gritty. The camp is what, two hundred miles west of here, do you think?”

  “That’s my guess, walking some of it, and going by van, when the Russians took me by vehicle.” He looked at Nigel. “They brought me by container ship from Teesport straight to St Petersburg.”

  “Can you describe the terrain where the camp is?”

  Ben said, “Coniferous forest, it’s in cleared area about a square mile in area, the camp dead in the centre. Two double storey barracks, rough track into the camp, two watch towers, one guard building at the gate.

  “When we left, at night we marched through the forest, maybe about fifteen miles before we came to meadows. About five to ten miles further, and we came to a large pond, probably a small lake. There was a copse at the northern end where we hid the first day. Then about twenty miles further on three or four dachas, holiday ones, I suppose. We broke into one, got some food.”

  Nigel was scribbling in a notebook. “Carry on,” he said.

  McBride took up the story. “We went through a large marsh about five miles further on.” He explained that they had hidden in a barn.

  “The farmer found us the next morning” Ben carried on the story. “Christ, I thought he was going to shoot us. He had a double-barrelled shotgun. Anyway his wife spoke English, and they let us stay in their house, and the farmer brought us here in his pick-up. That took what four hours?”

  McBride nodded. “That puts it nearer two hundred and fifty miles?”

  Nigel put away his notebook. “I can look at a large scale map. And I’m sure I’ll spot it. If necessary, we can ask the RAF to have a drone survey the area. But that is expensive, and might not be approved. We’ll see.”

  Later Nigel accompanied them down to the visitor berths, ceremoniously handing the keys to McBride.

  “There you go. Look after my beautiful girl. You want to be left down the river. Keep the buoys to port, fairly close. The boat draws three metres. A big keel on it. If the wind blows it flat on the water, it will bounce back. Good luck. Phone me to tell me where you leave the boat. Here, my card. There’s a direct number on it.”

  They waved to him as they turned to go down to the Baltic.

  Nigel stood on the pontoon watching. He could see the mast, and McBride going forward to set the sails, though not raising them, here in the river. Ben was at the helm.

  He returned to the restaurant, settled down on a stool at the bar. He was soon in conversation with other members, talking weather, and the price of yacht equipment. The sort of conversation you will hear in yacht clubs round the world. And the ribald jokes, of course.

  It was nearly eleven o’clock when Nigel walked out to his car. The car park lighting was adequate but left large pools of darkness. The sky was clouded over, and tiny flakes of snow danced in the wind. He saw as he approached the Jaguar a man coming across the car park heading in his direction. It was Viktor.

  “What have you done with the prisoners? I saw you take them into the club. Are they still inside?”

  “Sorry to disappoint you Viktor. They will be well out in the Baltic by now. They must have set sail, what,” he looked at his wrist watch, “about three and a half hours ago.”

  Viktor had his hand in his pocket. When he took it out he had a pistol in it. Nigel’s heart raced. It had never come to gunfights before. It had been a game of words between two friendly rivals.

  Viktor’s face, brows heavy and his features features twisted in anger. Eyes tiny pinpoints staring at him. He looked down at the hand with the pistol, saw him tightening his finger on the trigger. Just before Nigel had prepared to fling himself sideways, Viktor fired. There were two explosions, one from the pistol, the other from the Jaguar’s rear tyre. Shreds of rubber flew in all directions, and the Jaguar settled down on its haunches.

  “You bastard,” screamed Nigel.