John Schettler - 9 Days Falling, Volume I

Now he was getting angry, and his position as a Captain in the Naval Intelligence Division gave him enough clout to throw his weight around and cause a good deal of trouble. He could easily intimidate the menial servants in the civilian infrastructure, particularly as war seemed imminent now and military authority would soon trump all else. He had left Irkutsk early in the morning and was now just east of Krasnoyarsk, checking an old railway inn before rejoining the train at Ilanskiy. It had been a long and frustrating journey—until now.

Volkov had interviewed the proprietor, surveyed the lower level, and was up on the second floor checking each room. The innkeeper was not happy about this, but Volkov told him that he was seeking a dangerous man and had the full authority of the military behind him, determined. Then he heard what seemed like a rumbling sound, which seemed to produce a very worrisome reaction from the innkeeper.

“What was that?” he asked sharply.

“What? You mean that old plumbing? This is a very old inn, Captain. It was built before the first revolution. It does that all the time.”

Volkov pursed his lips, still suspicious. He knew men well. He had ferreted out every sort of weasel and gopher imaginable, like a well trained guard dog unerringly following the scent. He knew liars too, having heard every excuse, obfuscation, and deception possible. And Volkov could tell, instinctively, when a man was afraid, when he was hiding something, when he was worried. The innkeeper was lying, and he pressed him on the matter at once.

“Old plumbing, eh? Where does that door lead?”

“Oh, that goes nowhere. It is not used. We keep it permanently locked now.”

Then they heard it—that plaintive knock on the door at the top of the stairs. The Captain flashed his teeth in a wry smile. “Not used, you say? Then who is knocking?” He turned to the innkeeper, clearly annoyed.

“Open that door!” The tall grey eyed Captain was adamant, pointing at the door, a suspicious look redoubled in his eye.

“But sir, that is just the upper landing for an old, unused stairway. It isn’t used any longer!”

“Someone is there, I tell you. I heard knocking on that door just a moment ago.”As if on cue there came another knock, soft and plaintive, and a muffled voice. The innkeeper’s eyes widened when he heard it, as though it was the ghostly hand of a specter knocking, and he was clearly distressed.

“Open it, I tell you! This is a matter of wartime security! I am giving you a direct order, and if you do not comply I will have military police commandeer this entire facility. Understand?”

“As you wish, as you wish…” the innkeeper, a gray haired old man, began fumbling with his keys, his hand trembling as he then unlocked the door.

Volkov reached to his side holster, removing his service pistol as the old man unlatched a safety bolt and slowly twisted the door knob, an anguished look on his face. The door opened with a dry squeak on its rusty hinges, and there came a dank, stuffy odor, as from an old closet that had not been opened for ages. The innkeeper gave a start, hand clutching his breast when he saw someone standing on the upper landing. “Dear God, not again,” he whispered, but Volkov quickly shoved him aside.

“You there, come out,” he commanded, brandishing his pistol.

A Young man, strangely dressed, emerged from the shadows of the landing with a bemused expression on his face. He looked at Volkov’s pistol; saw the steely eyes of the man, then the innkeeper’s obvious fear and discontent. He spoke in a halting fashion, his speech tentative, as though he were searching for the words. “I’m very sorry…I was just looking for my room.”

“Come out of there,” Volkov ordered, eying the darkened stairs suspiciously to make certain no one else was there. The old stairway was completely dark descending into velvety black shadows in just a few steps. “You are a guest here? What room number?”

“Excuse me?” The young man seemed flustered. “Oh yes…Room 214. Just down the hall.”

Volkov turned to the innkeeper. “You know this man?”

The old man’s eyes clearly revealed his uncertainty, and fear. Volkov’s suspicions ticked up a notch as he watched the man closely. “Well? Is he a guest here or not?”

“I am not certain. He could have been checked in by my daughter when I was in town getting food for the kitchen.”

The young man could see there was a problem, and the tall grey coated man with the pistol appeared to be a police officer or security man, so he began explaining, again with halting speech, uncertain of the words, and Volkov immediately knew he was not Russian.

“I was in the dining room with my guide for breakfast when that light flashed in the sky—some kind of explosion. Did you see it?”

“Explosion? What are you talking about? Step away from that stairway—yes, over here by the wall where I can get a good look at you. You say you were with a guide? Was anyone else with you just now? Answer truly. This is a matter of state security.”

“I met others in the dining room, but no, sir. I am traveling alone.”

Volkov gave him a knowing look. Another liar, he thought. The man was obviously flustered, very nervous. He was trying to hide something.

“You are a tourist? A foreigner?”

“Yes, from England.”

Volkov smiled. “Not a very good place to be from these days,” he said darkly. “At least not here. I will need to see your passport at once. What is your name?” Volkov lowered his pistol, seeing there was no real threat from this impish young man.

“My name? I am Thomas Byrne, sir, a reporter for the Times of London. I’m just here to cover the Great Race.” He made as if to drive a car, turning the wheel back and forth in a pantomime. “I was interviewing the German team just last night when they came in.” The young man forced a smile, but Volkov was not impressed.

“Race?” The Captain turned to the innkeeper. “What is this man talking about? Is there some event underway here?”

“Not that I know of, sir.” The innkeeper gave the young man a strange look, noting the watch fob on his tweed sports coat, the old style wool trousers and the mud caked on his boots. “You came up this stairway, young man?”

“Yes…but I was just trying to find my room…” He blinked, looking about him now as though he were lost.

It had been a very strange morning. He was up early that day, chancing upon that energetic fellow in the dining room for breakfast, Mironov. The man had warned him about this. He told him all foreigners were suspect and that he was surely being watched. One look at this tall, grey-eyed man in a military coat and hat convinced him Mironov was not joking. Then came the incredible light, the sudden wild wind, and the thrumming shock wave in the air that had broken all the windows. He and his guide had hurried outside with Mironov and found the townspeople, those that were awake at that hour, dumbly staring to the northeast. When he looked he saw a terrible fire in the sky, as though a massive forest fire were burning up all of Siberia. What could have happened?

They went back to the dining room with that other strange man, who also had a pistol. Byrne could only assume that this man before him now was an associate. In fact, the cut of his clothing was oddly familiar, much like that of the man he had seen in the dining room. They were obviously security men—what was it that Mironov called them? He could not remember the name, but there was no mistaking the pistols they were carrying. What if I get into trouble, he thought? What if I get deported? Old Mister Harmsworth would be most unhappy in that event. I could even lose my job!

“I think you and I will take a little walk,” said Volkov. “I wish to speak with this guide you mentioned. Then he turned to the innkeeper. “And you, sir, will be kind enough to go to the front desk and look up this man’s reservation. I wish to examine those records.”