John Schettler - 9 Days Falling, Volume I

“You were imprisoned? What for?” asked the reporter, Thomas Byrne, his eyes bright with curiosity.

Mironov was a young man too, handsome, with a broad forehead, dark hair and thin moustache. He had an energy and vitality about him that was very compelling, and his eyes seemed like dark fire when he spoke.

“For saying things the government didn’t like. We were operating a small printing press—very secret of course. If that were found it would land me right back in prison again. I was only just released, you see. It was a long fourteen month sentence imposed on me for simply distributing leaflets. It is clear that I have long ago been labeled an enemy of the State, and so I have little doubt they will be looking for me again soon. I told them I was going south to Novosibirsk, and then traveled east instead to throw them off the scent. But they are everywhere. They will find out where I am again in due course.”

“Very disturbing,” said Byrne with a sigh. It seemed to him that his little adventure in Siberia was going to be dangerous after all, and he chided himself that he had ever thought otherwise. He clearly remembered that morning when he had been summoned to the publisher’s office by Mister Harmsworth himself, and handed the assignment of a lifetime.

“Now see here, Mister Byrne,” Harmsworth had said with a determined glint in his eye. “I understand that you are an enterprising man, with a good nose for a story. I also learned that you speak Russian. At least I've been told as much. Is that so?”

“Well, sir. Yes, I can manage a bit. My grandmother was Russian, and she taught me when I was very young.”

“Excellent! Then I have a job for you, my good man. If I'm to turn this mess of a newspaper around—and I will turn it round, mind you—then we'll need something gripping right out of the gate. This Great Race is going to be a big story this year, so I'm sending you ,” he pointed.

Harmsworth's eyes were seeing out to some distant horizon that no other man could glimpse, much less appreciate. When he spoke he would fix a man with a steady gaze, a projection of his will and the energy of his personality, all backed by his considerable girth. His short brown hair also caught the light, slicked back and neatly parted on the right side, as was his habit. The buttons on his suit coat glittered as well, along with the silken thread in his tie and the starched white collar of his shirt. All in all, the light seemed to treat him well, surrounding him with an aura, a presence, a glow of power and privilege to which he was all too well suited. And now his glimmering regard was turned on the naive young Byrne, who swallowed heavily before he answered, his voice a mere squeak compared to the deep baritone of Harmsworth.

“Me, sir?” said Byrne. “All the way to Siberia?”

“Where else? All the American papers will be in on the start of the race in New York, and the European papers will be huddled in Paris for the finish, but we're going to be right in the thick of things—in the heat of the action as it were. Can you imagine it, Byrne? You'll be right there in the greatest wilderness on earth watching them slog their way through all that tractless wasteland. You get the picture? Man versus the elements, right? The triumph of will and man's engineering over even the most formidable obstacles. Why, this Cook fellow is headed for one pole even as we speak, while Shackleton is heading for the other! The public will love this lot, but we don't have a man on either story, and that's one reason the Times of London has nearly gone the way of garbage wrappings these days. Well, now that I have acquired the paper all that is about to change. And you, my man, are going to help me change it.” Harmsworth poked the young reporter on his shoulder.

“We're going to be right in the middle of this race to report on the story when these men are at their wits end—at the last extreme—lost in Siberia.” He ran his hand along the headline he imagined, left to right in front of his face. “It will make wonderful reading, I'm sure of it. So you are just the man to take us all there with the story. You leave tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? But sir…The race has only just begun. They have to cross the whole of the American continent first, and then get over the Bering Strait before they come anywhere near Siberia.”

“Which gives you ample time to get there and find the best angles on this story. Talk to the locals, drum up some excitement. You'll know what to do.”

“But what if they never even make it that far, sir? I'll go all that way for naught.”

“Oh, they’ll make it, Byrne. Mark my words. These Americans have as much pluck as they have gall. They'll get to San Francisco, and find some way to make it into Asia, I'm sure of it. And if the Americans get that far, then the others will too—particularly the Germans. It's a pity that England won't have a car in the race. I’ve half a mind to have my own shipped over to New York so I could teach them all a thing or two about drive and perseverance. But I'll be too busy here getting the Times back on its feet. So I'm sending you , Mister Byrne.” Harmsworth tapped the younger man on the shoulder yet again, his point well made.

Thomas Byrne sighed heavily, realizing he had gotten himself in it up to his britches this time—up to his hatband! When he pushed his name forward on the list for story assignments, he could never have imagined this one. Siberia? How in the world would he get there? How would he find these racing cars in all that emptiness? Wasn't there a war on? Weren't the Russian and Japanese still stewing over things in that region? Wasn't a revolution brewing in Moscow and St. Petersburg? The suddenness of the proposition took him by surprise. One minute he was thinking of a nice Earl Grey tea and cakes, and the next he got word from Old Bingsley at the Editor’s desk to get up to Harmsworth's office on the double.

“Sir…” he began tentatively, his mind still wandering over the plethora of dangerous possibilities in the journey. “I wonder if the Russian authorities would even allow—”

“You just leave that to me, Byrne. I'll arrange everything. You'll have proper papers waiting for you at the front desk tomorrow morning—passport, visa—it's all been arranged. There'll be a hundred pounds in an envelope for you, and fifty more in gold coin should the need arise. That first lot is against your normal salary, I might add, so don't get extravagant. But the coinage is yours to do with as you see fit. Think of it as a bonus for hazardous duty.” Harmsworth squinted as he looked down at Byrne's shoes. “I'd say you would do yourself well to invest in a pair of sturdy boots, my man. There's likely to be a good bit of mud over there. Miserable roads, or so I hear. Now then…You'll take a ferry to Dunkirk, of course, then go by train to St. Petersburg. Stop wherever you like along the way, but make the money last.” He held up a finger on that last point.

“From St. Petersburg you can book passage on the new Siberian Railroad. It will take you all the way out to the hinterland—Tomsk is the place. Book yourself into a decent hotel somewhere and then have a good look around. If you can get further east before the racers reach that area, then all the better. I want you out in the middle of nowhere with a keen eye and a sharp witted pen, eh? Get familiar with the place. Find a good guide or porters if you need them. And I expect to get regular reports by wire. This isn't a pleasure trip, Byrne. You are in the employ of the Times of London the whole way through. Don't forget that. I have every confidence in you.”

Byrne fiddled with his hat, a hapless and forlorn look on his face. “Thank you, sir,” he managed. What else could he say? Harmsworth was already somewhat of a legend in the publishing business, and one of the most influential men of the day.