‘And just how do you intend to explain the disappearance of the Bullivants and the crew of the Milenion?’
‘We’ll simply tell them the truth: they’ve been interned under suspicion of espionage. His lordship’s signed confession will provide all the justification we need.’
‘Even if he were guilty – and please don’t insult my intelligence by pretending you believe that for a moment – Russia would gain more support amongst the neutral powers if Lord Bullivant were subsequently released rather than executed.’
‘To tell the world of the atrocities he and his wife and charming daughter were subjected to in order to extract that confession?’ Nekrasoff smiled. ‘I think not. Fortunately, once his confession is signed, a nasty bout of cholera is going to decimate the inhabitants of this castle.’
‘The sort of epidemic that strikes down only Britons, and leaves Russians miraculously unharmed, I suppose?’
‘Precisely.’
‘And naturally you’ll incinerate the bodies to prevent the epidemic from spreading, so no one will be able to prove that it wasn’t cholera that killed them.’
‘Very good! I can see you have an aptitude for this kind of work.’
‘No, but I’ve met enough psychopathic maniacs to have some understanding of how their twisted minds work.’
‘Oh, really, Mr Killigrew! Must you degenerate to childish name-calling? I had hoped to find you above such behaviour.’
‘Then how else do you justify the kind of needless slaughter you’re planning? What can you possibly gain from such wanton butchery?’
‘The embarrassment of the British government in the eyes of the other European powers. We are well aware that Britain and France are wooing the support of neutral countries like Prussia, Austria and Sweden. When it’s revealed that a personal friend of Lord Aberdeen has been engaged in something as underhand as espionage, well… I think even your French allies will be reluctant to be associated with such goings-on. But Lord Bullivant is merely the icing on the cake. No; for me the real prize of this sorry affair is yourself, Commander.’
Killigrew laughed out loud. ‘Me! Are you sure you’re not confusing me with someone else? Someone important?’
‘You do yourself an injustice.’ Nekrasoff produced a pair of wire-framed spectacles and put them on to refer to the notes on the table in front of him. ‘Commander Christopher Iguatios Killigrew. Born on board HMS Cambrian on the fifteenth day of October 1824, grandson of Rear Admiral Richard Killigrew, son of Captain John Killigrew and Medora Bouboulina. Joined the navy in 1837, aged twelve. Served as an aide-de-camp to Commodore Charles Napier in the Syria Campaign, 1840. Seven years later Napier – by then a rear admiral – recruited you as a spy for the Slave Trade Department in Whitehall.’
‘So you’ve got a copy of the New Navy List at Third Section headquarters. I find that less impressive than the fact you could find someone there who could read.’
‘Last winter you were identified in Helsingfors, posing as an ichthyologist as a cover for your attempts to recruit Finnish pilots like Herre Dahlstedt for Napier’s Baltic fleet.’
‘May I ask what the relevance of this is?’
‘Oh, come now, Commander. There’s no need to be so coy. Do you really think we haven’t guessed that you’re Napier’s chief of intelligence?’
‘Chief of intelligence?’ Killigrew exclaimed in astonishment, and laughed. ‘You think I’m Napier’s chief of intelligence?’
‘You deny it?’
‘I very much doubt Sir Charles even has such a thing as a chief of intelligence. If he does, it certainly isn’t me.’
‘Why else would he take you to his meeting with the King of Sweden in April this year?’ Nekrasoff smiled. ‘You see, we Russians have our agents too, just like you.’
‘The only reason I accompanied Sir Charles to King Oskar’s court is because I happen to have a smattering of Swedish, and he wanted an interpreter he could trust.’
Nekrasoff tugged off his kid gloves. ‘I dare say we could play this game for hours: me accusing you of being Napier’s chief of intelligence, you denying it. But why waste each other’s time? I don’t want a signed confession from you. With all due respect, I very much doubt that your death will cause the same international furore as Lord Bullivant’s. However, the Russian Admiralty would very much like to know where and when Napier plans to attack next.’
‘So would a lot of officers in the British fleet, myself included. I doubt he’s even made his own mind up as yet. Certainly he hadn’t when I saw him the day before yesterday; or, if he had, he didn’t see fit to confide in me.’
‘You honestly expect me to believe your Admiralty hasn’t already drawn up a detailed timetable for how Napier should conduct his campaign in the Baltic?’
‘Well! At least it’s reassuring to know you clearly don’t have any spies in the Admiralty, otherwise you’d know we simply aren’t that organised.’
‘But surely Napier must have said something to you?’
‘Sir Charles has said many things to me,’ said Killigrew. ‘Usually along the lines of, “Care for a whisky? Pour me one while you’re at it”, or, “’Pon ma word, Killigrew, can ye translate? Ah canna unnerstant a damned wurd this feller’s sayin’.”’ The commander did a fair impersonation of the admiral.
Nekrasoff laughed. ‘You know, you’re rather an amusing fellow, Killigrew. I shall be sorry to have to torture you.’
‘Ah, yes. I was wondering when we would get round to that.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t presume to insult your honour by suggesting that you reveal any military secrets without being subjected to at least a modicum of pain.’
‘I’m grateful for your consideration.’ Killigrew jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the bull-necked gentleman standing against the back wall of the chamber. ‘I suppose this is where Sweet William back there gets to work me over with his fists until I talk?’
‘Nothing so crude, I assure you. Please, come with me.’ Nekrasoff rose to his feet and led the way up the steps to the gallery. As Killigrew started to rise, the bull-necked man put a meaty hand on his shoulder, in case he got any foolish notions about trying to escape.
‘Oh, Sergeant Ustimovich can be most effective at extracting information from ordinary people,’ Nekrasoff continued as the brawny sergeant marched Killigrew up to the gallery. ‘But I very much doubt a man who marched eight hundred miles through the Arctic wilderness could be persuaded to betray his country over a few punches, no matter how powerful and well-placed. Indeed, I rather think he would beat his own knuckles raw before you were ready to confess even what you had for dinner last night.’
‘Pickled tripe, since you ask. I suppose it would be too much to hope that the dining arrangements in this hostelry are more satisfactory?’
Nekrasoff paused outside another door at the far end of the gallery, and turned to face Killigrew with a smile. ‘Well, perhaps I can start by offering you a drink.’
He pushed the door open to reveal a large, circular chamber. The middle of the room was dominated by a chair: the sort of thing the more progressive dentists had started to use, except that this one had straps for wrists and ankles, and a sort of vice-like band for the head. A small Oriental stood there. He had a straggly beard and wore his hair long as if to compensate for the way it had receded from the dome of his scalp. He smiled unctuously, like a barber inviting his next customer to take a seat. There were about two dozen pails of water arranged about the floor on the other side of the chair.
‘Please, be seated,’ said Nekrasoff.
Killigrew would rather have sat on a fakir’s bed of nails, but Ustimovich saw to it he did not have a lot of choice in the matter. He was forced into the chair, and Ustimovich and the Oriental strapped him in place.
‘I see from your file that you’ve spent a lot of time in China over the years,’ said Nekrasoff. ‘Perhaps you’re already familiar with the Chinese water torture?’
‘I understand the general
principle.’
‘Leong here is actually a Siberian, strictly speaking, but he’s had many years of working for the Third Section to perfect his art.’
‘You realise, of course, this is a complete waste of time?’ Killigrew asked Nekrasoff as Leong clamped his head in the vice.
‘Every man has his breaking point, Mr Killigrew. Even you.’
‘I don’t doubt it. But supposing I were to tell you now that Napier’s next target is Kronstadt, to save myself undergoing all that suffering? Would you believe me? Of course not. So you torture me, and at length I reveal that the target is Sveaborg. Now you’re not sure: was I lying the first time, and telling the truth the second? Or telling the truth the first time, and lying the second in the hope you’d find a lie more convincing than the truth? Or was I lying both times? Is Reval the real target?’
‘Give me the same answer three times in a row, Mr Killigrew, and then – perhaps – I shall believe you.’
Leong inserted a couple of cork plugs in Killigrew’s nostrils, and then forced a brace into his mouth to hold his jaws apart. It made him gag, and he spat it out at once. Ustimovich promptly slammed a fist down on his stomach. Killigrew gasped, the wind driven from his body, and tried to double up, but the restraints held him down.
‘Do try to co-operate, Mr Killigrew,’ said Nekrasoff. ‘You’ll find it a good deal less painful in the long run.’
‘Kronstadt,’ said Killigrew. ‘The next target is Kronstadt.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mr Killigrew. I should have explained. When I said I wanted the same answer from you three times in a row, answers given before the first application of the treatment don’t count.’
Leong forced the brace back into Killigrew’s mouth, and laid a large silk handkerchief over his face. He prodded the centre of the handkerchief to create a dip in Killigrew’s mouth, and started to pour water on it in a steady stream from one of the buckets.
The pressure of the water forced the handkerchief down past Killigrew’s tongue, sliding past his uvula and making him gag. Water seeped through the silk to trickle down his throat, but the worst of it was that sac of water blocking his mouth, sliding obscenely into his oesophagus to cut off his breathing. He wanted to retch and gasp for breath at the same time, but could not. He was suffocating, choking and drowning, all at the same time.
But you can’t drown, he told himself. You were born with a caul on your head. The ludicrousness of that thought – he was not remotely superstitious – made him want to laugh. He clung on to it, something to focus on to take his mind from the vile sensation of the water-bulging silk in his throat. He struggled to turn his head in the vice, to pull his arms free from the restraints, anything, anything to bring it to an end. Had he known which of Russia’s maritime fortresses Napier intended to attack next – and had he been in a position to speak – he would gladly have blurted it out there and then. The room spun around him. He felt himself blacking out. Caul or no caul, he knew he was drowning. For all Leong’s supposed expertise he was going to kill him before he even had a chance to tell Nekrasoff what he did not know…
The water stopped and the handkerchief was withdrawn from his mouth. With tears streaming from his eyes, he gasped the sweet, sweet air into his lungs, and presently Nekrasoff’s smug, smiling face swam into his hazy vision, his eyebrows raised quizzically. Killigrew tried to talk, but the brace in his mouth prevented him from articulating.
‘Remove the brace,’ ordered Nekrasoff.
Leong complied.
‘Kronstadt,’ sobbed Killigrew. ‘The next target is Kronstadt.’ God, he hoped he was wrong.
Nekrasoff nodded. ‘Do it again, Leong. Longer, this time.’
* * *
After supper, Captain Crichton made his way to the upper deck of the Ramillies. The sun sank slowly towards the horizon, lengthening the shadows cast by the pine trees crowding the islands to the north. Carrying a logboard, Lieutenant Masterson followed him on to the quarterdeck to replace Lieutenant Adare as officer of the watch.
‘Still no sign of Killigrew and the others?’ Crichton asked Adare.
‘No, sir.’
Crichton glanced at his fob watch, then took the telescope from the binnacle and levelled it in the direction of Ekenäs. He swapped the telescope for the speaking trumpet, and raised it to his mouth. ‘Aloft there! See any small boats to port?’
While keeping an eye out all around the ship, the lookout at the maintop had been keeping a particular watch for the cutter, but nevertheless he raised his telescope to one eye to take yet another look before responding. ‘No, sir!’
‘I don’t understand it,’ Crichton remarked to Adare. ‘It’s not like Killigrew to be late. You don’t suppose something can have happened to him, do you?’
The lieutenant shrugged. ‘Any number of things might have detained him, sir.’
Crichton shook his head. ‘Not Killigrew. He knows how concerned we’ll be for him and his men. If there’s no sign of him, it must be something deuced serious.’
The last grain of sand in the hourglass by the ship’s bell ran out, and the marine on duty at the belfry rang the bell four times to signify the end of the first dog watch. Adare took his leave of Crichton and carried the logboard below to write up the ship’s log.
‘Permission to take the second cutter to Ekenäs to investigate, sir,’ offered Masterson.
‘Not granted, Masterson. I can’t afford to have you disappear with a second cutter and crew!’
‘We have to do something, sir.’
‘I’m well aware of that,’ growled Crichton, and sighed. ‘We’ll give him another hour. I’ll be in my day-room. Pass the word immediately if any of the lookouts should spy a small boat.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Crichton returned to his day-room, where General Bodisco sat smoking a cigar, the debris of supper littered on the table before him.
‘Still no sign of Commander Killigrew?’ Bodisco asked in French.
‘None at all. I really cannot conceive what can have become of him.’
Bodisco smirked. ‘Perhaps he got lost?’
Crichton glowered. ‘Mr Killigrew does not get lost.’
‘Nevertheless, the delay does not speak well of British efficiency.’
‘If there is a delay, General, I’m sure it is on the Russian side,’ Crichton told him frostily.
‘And if he does not return?’
‘Then you, my dear General, will be taken back to captivity in England.’
‘Nothing could suit me better,’ said Bodisco, well aware that he would be billeted in comfort with a family of quality. ‘Since I lost Bomarsund to your Admiral Napier, I suspect a warmer welcome awaits me in England than the one I shall receive on my return to St Petersburg.’
* * *
Molineaux picked up one of the woollen threads he had coated with mortar dust: a cursory examination revealed it was dry now, or at least as dry as it was likely to get in the dank cell.
He rose and looked up at the barred window once more. ‘Give us a bunk up, Seth.’
Endicott nodded and stood with his back to the wall below the window. Molineaux stood on his shoulders. ‘Go to the door and play crow, Red. Sing out if you hear anyone coming.’
Hughes nodded and moved across to peer through the grille, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to see what Molineaux was doing.
The petty officer looped the mortar-coated thread around one of the bars, and began to saw it gently back and forth.
‘That’ll never work!’ scoffed Vowles.
Molineaux took away the thread to feel the surface of the bar with his fingertips: there was definitely an indentation there. ‘How much do you want to bet?’ he asked, and began sawing again. It made a slight rasping sound, and whenever he heard guards approaching outside he stopped what he was doing and ducked down out of sight below the window, but resumed his task as soon as the coast was clear. After ten minutes the mortar embedded in the thread had all been worn away,
but he had expected nothing less: that was why he had made a dozen such makeshift fret saws.
What was important was that he had made a considerable cut into the bar.
Progress slowed as he neared the centre of the bar. There he had a greater thickness of metal to cut through; for a while it seemed as though his third thread-saw was making no progress at all, even though it was relatively fresh. He sawed away, forcing himself to be patient rather than pull too tightly on the threads, snapping them. His wrists and fingers were soon sore and aching. Then he was past the halfway mark, and the going became easier, until there was only a sliver of metal joining the two ends of the bar; then, with a pop, that too was gone.
He jumped down from Endicott’s back. ‘Take a breather, Seth,’ he ordered, and as the Liverpudlian moved away he stood in his place.
‘Climb up on my shoulders, Ben. See if you can bend that bar.’
Iles stood on Molineaux’s shoulders, and the petty officer grunted with the effort of supporting his weight. ‘Sure, us can bend it,’ said Iles.
‘Plummy! Now bend it back into position, so it don’t look as though there’s anything amiss.’
Iles grunted again, and jumped down off Molineaux’s shoulders. ‘’Ow’s that?’
Molineaux stood up and examined the bar with a critical eye. There was a marked kink in it now; he told himself he should have waited until two bars were cut through before getting Iles to see if he could bend it. But if Iles could not, then sawing through the second bar would have been so much wasted effort. He told himself the kink was only so obvious because he was looking for it.
‘All right, Red, your turn: back to the wall. Andy, take his place at the door.’
While Vowles assumed the duties of lookout at the grille, Hughes stood beneath the window so Molineaux could climb on his shoulders and attack the next bar with another thread. He had used up seven to cut through the first bar; he would have to squeeze every grain of abrasion out of the remaining five if he was to cut through a second without needing to make more.
Killigrew’s Run Page 17