The Cotton Spies

by Simon Glyndwr John

CHAPTER 64

  To: General Harris, Headquarters Indian Army Simla

  From: General Barber – Meshed

  Captain Fernee on my orders went to liaise with General Muncerville so that I can tie in the latter’s role with mine. I did not second Captain Fernee to General Muncerville. On two occasions I have requested that Captain Fernee be returned to my command. On each occasion General Muncerville has refused to let Captain Fernee return.

  Captain Fernee has skills that I need to ensure that I meet the objectives that you set me. I believe that it is not in General Muncerforce remit to hijack staff on a whim and refuse to return them when requested to do so.

  Would General Harries send a telegram to Baku directly and order General Muncerville to return Captain Fernee to my command?

  ‘He is right, sir, General Muncerville cannot do this,’ Routledge waved the telegram, before handing it back to Harris who glanced at it then dropped it on his desk with a sigh.

  ‘I agree, Reg, send a telegram ordering that Fernee be returned to Barber’s command. We earmarked the good captain for Meshed and we will not be coerced by what appears to be a fait accompli. Do it as soon as possible there’s a good fellow. One wonders at times if people know there is a war on.

  Madam Volkov was a woman that Washbrook estimated, as she shyly entered his office, to be in her middle thirties. By the appearance of the woman’s clothes and the loose skin on her neck and face she had obviously lost weight recently - very recently. Washbrook thought her pretty with her fair hair and tired blue eyes. Washbrook moved to the woman and after he had briefly touched her hand he arranged a chair so that she sat beside him at his desk rather than facing him in a confrontational manner across it. Washbrook smiled as warmly as he could whilst her smile was wan.

  ‘Ambassador Bolotnikov has told me about the travails you suffered on your journey here. I gather that you were robbed of all your valuables?’

  ‘Yes. Some of them were presents from my husband, others were heirlooms,’ she hung her head and studied her lap.

  ‘They could have killed you,’ muttered Washbrook with all the sympathy that his aching loins could muster.

  ‘Yes, like my husband Leonid. I was not able to see him when he was in prison. I went every day for four days. Then on the fifth day I went and the guards just laughed and said he was no longer in prison. They had shot him that morning.’

  Volkov’s eyes began to turn red as she began to weep. Washbrook leaned across the table and clucked sympathetically as he handed her his handkerchief. Volkov wiped her eyes and then blew her nose on the handkerchief before handing it back to Washbrook. Washbrook held the handkerchief between thumb and forefinger as he gingerly returned it to his pocket.

  ‘Madam Volkov how do you know they shot him? From what I understand these Bolos or Bolsheviks are terrible people and have a particularly nasty sense of humour about such matters.’

  ‘No, I know he is dead. A reliable person, whose husband was also shot, saw Leonid’s body. People go into prison and they don’t come out.’

  ‘Why would they shoot him?’

  Volkov looked at Washbrook as if he did not have all his brains available. ‘These people do not have to have a reason. When the Bolsheviks seized power they opened the gaols and let murders not merely go but actually took them into their ranks as soldiers or policemen. These people actually enjoy murder Major Washbrook,’ she paused and added with resignation, ‘I have to say though that my husband’s job may have had something to do with it. He was one of the managers of the railway and many of the new members of the government were the lowly riff-raff working many levels beneath him – these new government Bolshevik people take pleasure in killing their old superiors. Revenge killings they call them – revenge for what? Superior breeding? Having more brains? Prepared to get an education and work hard?’ She snapped, ‘why are you writing things down?’

  ‘I like to make notes it aids my memory about anyone coming out of Russia. Do you have any children?’ He added looking down at his notes.

  ‘No, my, our, daughter died of typhus several years ago.’

  Good no encumbrances thought Washbrook. ‘I assume that Ambassador Bolotnikov told you that I am the British Consul here acting on behalf of the Government of India. I gather that you wish to go to the United States and that you would like to leave via India is that correct?’

  ‘Yes to both those questions.’

  ‘Was all your money and any other valuables stolen by those awful Bolos? In order to grant you permission to go through India I have to charge you a fee.’

  ‘I have no money.’

  ‘You have family in the United States could they send you money?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Theatrically Washbrook leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin. ‘Our government is very strict on what passports I grant and they insist that any passport issued by me must be paid for by the person to whom it applies.’

  ‘I have no money. The Bolotnikovs said I can stay with them temporarily but then I think they will go to China.’

  ‘Well I doubt these Bolsheviks will last long then there will be a new government and you can go home.’

  ‘But what will I do in the meantime?’

  ‘Well I am sure something will turn up here. If I may be so bold your presence here in Kashgar will lighten the town considerably for an old bachelor like me. Perhaps you will come to dinner one evening?’ Washbrook saw the look in the woman’s eye. ‘I would of course invite the Bolotnikovs if they were still here or any other Europeans available. As for the passport let me think of whether there are any ways round government regulations and that will take time. I have to be sure you are not a spy.’

  ‘I am not a spy, honestly!’

  ‘Of course not otherwise I would have to hand you over to the Chinese and they don’t like spies.’

  The woman smiled a thank you at Washbrook and when she left a few minutes later Washbrook spent half an hour trying to work out whether the woman either found him attractive or had guessed his ulterior motives about her.

  If Washbrook had treated Volkov warmly the same could not be said of his meeting with Lal. Washbrook took an instant dislike to the man’s face because the man’s nose was thick with hairs; hairs that curled out of the both nostrils like dark thin fishhooks yet despite that, he could not keep his eyes off them.

  ‘Major, I must return to Delhi and my family. I have been away so long and my father is dying.’

  ‘Mr Lal when did you and how did you, hear that he was dying?’

  ‘I had a letter in Tashkent six weeks ago.’

  ‘How did it get to you?’

  ‘A member of my family brought it with him from India.’

  ‘Who was he? I will check to see when he left Kashgar from our records. We keep records of all caravans that leave here - his name?’

  ‘I am most sorry to say, Major Washbrook, Gundappa Lal did not leave from here because he went via Persia where he had some business.’

  ‘Where exactly was Mr Lal in Persia.’

  ‘Meshed, I think.’

  ‘We have consuls in Meshed I can check with them. We do this to prevent German or Bolshevik agents sneaking across into India.’

  The Indian ran his tongue round his lips. That’s an obvious sign of the man’s nervousness thought Washbrook. ‘But he was going into Russia.’

  ‘Is he still in Turkestan?’

  ‘He was going onto Ashkhabad and then back to Persia unless these Bolsheviks killed him. They kill lots of people all the time and for no reason. The Indian government should stop them.’

  Washbrook decided to ignore the comment about the government. ‘You have seen people being killed, Mr Lal?’

  ‘Oh I have seen bodies in the street and my friends tell me that people disappear all the time and they are never seen again. These Bolsheviks freed criminals. Why will the British not do something?’

  Washbrook pondered a moment, ‘we look after ou
r subjects but in a foreign land where there is a revolution that is difficult Lal. Now, how long ago was the letter about your father written?’

  Washbrook could see the Indian thinking ‘I am not sure, major. Is it important?’

  ‘Yes, if your father was dying he could well have died by now as the letter was written weeks ago. I wondered why you are returning now.’

  The Indian seemed puzzled. ‘Yes he might,’ said the Indian sadly, ‘still I must return home to the family. I came as soon as I could. The Bolsheviks control travel you know from Tashkent – one just cannot just up and leave.’

  Washbrook nodded and changed tack. ‘What sort of business are you in Mr Lal and are you taking money back into India? If so I must know how much.’

  Lal looked at Washbrook intently. ‘What are you suggesting, Major Washbrook?’

  ‘I am not suggesting anything, Mr Lal. My purpose here is to look after the interests of His Majesty, King George V and his subjects - that includes people like you.’

  ‘Indian subjects you mean?’ interrupted Lal.

  ‘Naturally, but others also,’ Washbrook snapped. ‘I must know all that I can about you so that I can smooth the way for you with the Chinese authorities here, to ease your return to India The Chinese are very worried about people who cross the border and could be bringing such things as weapons or inflammatory books or newspapers.’

  Lal snorted in disbelief. ‘Major, those Bolsheviks went through our bags and removed as much as they could that took their fancy. I talked to them and said I was taking goods back to my ill father and my family.’ He paused and went on bitterly, ‘it made no difference they took everything including some of my money.’

  ‘Why only some when other people lost all?’

  Lal smiled wearily. ‘Did they, or have they claimed they lost all? There is a difference. To use an English expression, “You do not put all your eggs in one pocket”.

  Washbrook went to correct him and say the expression uses the word basket not pocket but then could not be bothered. ‘So how much money are we discussing?’

  ‘I have a few thousand rupees and some Russian money. You will change the latter?’ Lal’s eyes opened wide pleadingly.

  Washbrook sat back and thought for a moment. If the man was an agent would they have given him only Indian money? He decided that they would have done. He would send information ahead to India to see if the authorities knew the man. ‘I may be able to exchange some of your money but the rate now for roubles is very bad. I will only take certain roubles I won’t take those Tashkent printed notes only Imperial notes. There is a man in town called Chandarasaker he might help you change your money into Chinese currency.’

  The Indian looked at Washbrook with a passive face but his voice betrayed his sadness. ‘Thank you, major.’

  ‘Before I change any money for you, or issue you a travel document, I will need to have your address and your father’s address.’ Washbrook picked up a pen and put it on a sheet of paper and then slid the two objects across to Lal. Inwardly Washbrook smiled because he was going to make some money on the exchange directly or through Chandarasaker.