Dennis Wheatley - The Forbidden Territory

“Well — I’ll tell you — it’s really your acting I want to see!” Simon smiled at her over the plate of excellent Bœuf Strognoff he was eating.

“Ah, that ees nothing,” she shrugged; “my art ees good, in that it gives pleasure to many, but it ees a thing which passes; these others, they will remain; they are the steps by which Russia will rise to dominate the world!”

“You really believe that?” he asked, curiously.

“But yes,” she answered, with wide-eyed fervour; “’ave you not seen in Moskawa alone the ’ouses ’ow they ’ave come down, and the factories ’ow they ’ave gone up? The Russian people no longer toil in slavery, it ees their turn to be the masters!”

For some time she talked on fervently and happily about the Five Year Plan — the tremendous difficulties with which Russia was faced through the bitter opposition of the capitalist countries, and the hopelessly inadequate supply of technical experts, but she assured him that they were making steady progress and would overcome every obstacle in time.

He was content to put in a word here and there, quietly enjoying the animation of his lovely guest, and gradually he found himself caught up by her faith and enthusiasm. It was true — all that she said. The capital, as a whole, presented an extraordinary spectacle of decrepitude and decay, rows of empty shops and houses that had not known paint and repair for almost a generation, yet, out of this apparent death fine buildings of steel and glass were everywhere springing up, and although the people in general seemed ill-clothed and underfed, the majority appeared busy and contented.

Was Russia really turning the corner, Simon wondered, after the terrible succession of upheavals that had rent the state from end to end during these last fifteen years? Was the iron rule of the Kommissars at last bearing amazing fruit? What would that mean to the world in, say, another ten years’ time? Simon’s busy brain began to translate goldmarks into sterling and sterling into pesos, and pesos into land, and land back again into millereis; but he did not allow Valeria Petrovna to imagine for one moment that his thoughts were not entirely concentrated upon her charming self!

“What ’ave you come to do in Russia?” she asked, suddenly; “do not say that you ’ave come all the way just to give me the luncheon — but you would not, I know you are not the liar — that, I think, is why I like you.”

It was a difficult question to answer. Simon had not forgotten the Duke’s warning — that the walls of the Hotel Metropole has as many ears as any Papal Palace in mediaeval Italy, so he said discreetly: “Well, it’s a long story, but as a matter of fact, I’ve been meaning to come to Russia for a long time now, wanted to see all these wonderful new factories. I’m interested in that sort of thing, you know!”

As he spoke he regarded her steadily with his sharp expressive eyes, and evidently she understood, for she smiled slightly.

“You must come and visit my apartment, it is quiet there. You can tell me all about yourself; I am interested in you, Mistaire Aron, you do not make stupid love, like all the other young men; yet you like me, do you not?” Her smile became bewitching.

“I’d love to come,” said Simon, simply, and the world of meaning in his voice was a sufficient answer to her question.

“Let us see, then,” her eyes sparkled; “it must be at a time when Leshkin ees not there. Oh, ’e ees so jealous, that one, you ’ave no idea! The scene ’e make me when I go off to lunch with you. I ’ad not thought for a little minute that you would be ’ere, and when your message come and I telephone ’im to say I cannot meet ’im — Ho! what a temper! It all comes, I think, because ’e ’as red ’air!” and she went off into peals of delighted laughter.

“What about the afternoon?” Simon suggested.

“Why not?” she smiled; “you shall come back with me, and we will make what you call Whoopee!”

She was as infectious in her child-like gaiety as in her fierce enthusiasms, and Simon felt the spirit of adventure stirring in him.

“I’d love to come,” he said, again.

“Let us go, then — now, this moment!” She set down her coffee cup and rose impulsively.

He followed her out of the restaurant, and they secured their furs. Madame Karkoff’s limousine was waiting at the hotel entrance; it was one of the few private cars that Simon had seen during his two days’ stay in Moscow. The fact that the traffic was almost entirely composed of tramcars and occasional carts, and that their car was not once blocked en route, made Simon revise his lunch-time reflections as to the true prosperity of Soviet Russia; the traffic of a city is a very good index to its wealth and commercial activities. Making a mental note to consider the business aspect of the position later, Simon devoted himself to the lovely creature at his side.

Madame Karkoff’s apartment was on the first floor of an old-fashioned block. She explained to him that all the new domestic buildings were composed of large numbers of small flats, modern in every way, with communal kitchens and wash-houses, and crèches for the workers’ children, but that none of these flats were of any size. If one wanted spacious rooms, there was nothing to be had other than the mansions and apartments of the old bourgeoisie.

The outside of the building was depressing, with its peeling paint and rain-streaked walls, but the inside was a revelation.

The great rooms were almost barbaric in their splendour, with no trace of modern decoration. Magnificent tapestries hung from the walls and beautiful lamps in Russian silver filigree from the ceiling; the polished floor was strewn with furs and Persian carpets in glowing reds and purples.

A maid in a neat dark dress put a tray with tea in glasses, and sugar and lemon, on a low stool beside her mistress, and Valeria Petrovna drew Simon down on to the divan beside her.

“Now tell me,” she commanded, “why, Mistaire Aron, you — come to Russia?”

“Simon,” he corrected, gently.

“Simon!” She went off into fits of laughter. “Simon — that ees good — you know why I laugh?”

“Ner —” he confessed, puzzled.

“It ees the childhood rhyme I learn when I have an English nurse: ‘Simple Simon met a pieman, going to a fair; said Simple Simon to the pieman, what ’ave you got there?’“ and once more she dissolved into tears of childish laughter.

“Now look here,” Simon protested, “that’s quite enough of that!” but he smiled his kind, indulgent smile at her teasing.

“What ees a pieman?” she inquired, seriously.

“Chap who makes pies,” Simon grinned from ear to ear; “you know — cakes, puddings, and all that.”

“All, well, I am glad I am not a pieman! Tell me, little Simon, what are you?”

“Well,” Simon hesitated, “I’m a banker, in a way — but I’ll tell you, I do all sorts of other things as well. I’m interested in chemicals and metals and phosphorus.”

“And what do you make ’ere in Moscow?”

“To tell you the truth, I’m not here on business exactly,” Simon continued, cautiously; “I’m looking for a friend of mine; he got into some trouble with the police, I believe.”

She looked suddenly grave. “That ees bad; they are powerful, the Ogpu — was it for politics that ’e got into trouble?”

Simon was in a quandary; he wanted to discover the whereabouts of Rex, but he could not tolerate the idea of lying to this beautiful and charming woman, who seemed to have taken such a liking to him, and in whom his own interest was growing deeper every minute. Honesty, with Simon, was not only policy, but a principle from which he never deviated — it had brought him the confidence and respect of business acquaintances and friends alike.