Dennis Wheatley - The Forbidden Territory

Simon felt his knees grow weak beneath him — he was almost overcome with nausea; he was not frightened for himself, only appalled at this sudden slaying of a fellow human without warning. “It’s — it’s awful,” he stammered.

“There, there, my son,” said De Richleau, soothingly. “Do not waste your great heart on this scum. Praise be to God, I have killed many such. You would not pity him if you had seen, as I have, all that his kind accomplished in 1919 and 1920. I fought with Denikin’s White Army, and we saw sights that froze one’s heart. Little children burned to death — men with their eyes gouged out — women of our own blood, who had been kept in brothels, filthy with disease — a thousand horrors committed at the instigation of your friend Leshkin and his kind. It is a nightmare that I would forget. Come now, help me to hide the body of this dog.”

Simon put down the suitcases and drew a breath. He was a natural philosopher, and once recovered from the shock, accepted the awful thing as part and parcel of this astounding adventure into which he had been drawn.

The door of the shed was fastened only by a piece of rope, and they found it to be filled with old farm implements.

Quickly, and as noiselessly as possible, they moved a stack of bent and broken shovels — carried in the body of the wall-eyed man, and piled the shovels over him until he was completely hidden; they secured the door more firmly, and, having obliterated the blood marks in the snow, hurried through the maze of wood stacks towards another group of sheds, the roofs of which were rapidly becoming plainer in the growing light.

The goods-yard seemed deserted, and they were fortunate in finding an empty shed. Once inside it De Richleau flung his suitcase on the ground, and, kneeling down, commenced to unpack. Simon followed his example. In a few minutes they had stuffed the rucksacks with the supplies of food and their most necessary belongings. Next they defaced the labels on their bags and stowed them in an opening between two sheds, heaping stones and rubble on top to hide them from view.

Wherever they moved they left large footprints in the snow, and Simon, greatly perturbed, pointed out there tracks to the Duke, but De Richleau did not seem unduly worried.

“Look at the snow,” he waved his hand about him. “They will be covered in an hour.” And, with the coming of day, the snow had begun to fall again, softly, silently, in great, white, drifting petals that settled as they fell, increasing the heavy band of white on every roof and ledge.

“Well, I never thought I should be glad to see snow,” said Simon, with his little nervous laugh. “What do we do now?”

De Richleau adjusted his rucksack on his shoulders; he frowned.

“We have a difficult task before us — while attracting as little attention as possible, we must find out how the trains run on the branch line to the Tavda River, and then secure seats.

“How far is it — I mean to Tobolsk?” Simon inquired.

“Two hundred miles to the dead end of the railway, and a further hundred across country — but we have at least one piece of good fortune.”

“What’s that?”

“That we should have arrived here early in the morning; if there is a train today we cannot have missed it!”

“Today?” echoed Simon, aghast “Aren’t there trains every day?”

De Richleau laughed. “My dear fellow, it is not Brighton that we are going to. In such a place as this, trains run only twice weekly, or at best every other day!”

Simon grunted. “Thank God we didn’t arrive in the middle of the night, then.”

“Yes, we should have been frozen before the morning.”

While they were talking they had left the goods-yard and turned down a road leading away from the station. There were no houses, only timber-yards and back lots.

After they had walked about half a mile De Richleau spoke again. “I think we might now turn back. Our train should have halted here for about twenty minutes, and it must be forty at least since our good friend the steward set us down.”

“Poor chap, I hope he doesn’t get it in the neck over this job.”

“Let us hope not. If he has any sense he will say that we left the train without his knowledge. They are certain to question him at Irkutsk, but if he says that he did not see us after dinner last night, they cannot put the blame on him.”

Simon began sawing his arms across his narrow chest. “My God, it’s cold,” he said suddenly. “I could do with some breakfast!”

De Richleau laughed. “About that we shall see. We are coming to a cluster of houses, and that building on the left looks like the station. I should think there is certain to be some sort of inn near it.”

He was right; they found a small third-rate hostelry, of which the only occupant was a solemn peasant seated near the great china stove, sipping his tea and staring into vacancy.

The Duke clapped his hands loudly, and the landlord appeared, a clean, honest-looking fellow in a starched white blouse. After some questioning he disappeared, presently to return with two plates of eggs; true, they were fried in lard, but the two travellers were so hungry and cold that almost any food would have been welcome, even the black rye bread and bitter tea which accompanied the eggs.

When they had finished De Richleau drew the landlord into conversation. They were Germans, the Duke said; fur buyers, seeking new sources of supply. How were the markets in Sverdlovsk for such commodities?

“Bad,” said the landlord. “Bad; the trappers will not go out any more. Why should they?” he shrugged; “the Government will not pay them for their skins, and there are no longer the rich who will buy. They go out for a few weeks every season that they may catch enough to keep their families from starving by exchanging the skins for corn and oil. For the rest — they sleep!”

The Duke nodded. “You speak truly. Why should a man work more than he need if there is no prospect of his becoming rich? What of the north? Think you our chances would be better there?”

“I do not think so. Not if what one hears is true. Things may be better in the towns that lie to the east, perhaps, but I do not know.”

“To the eastward?” said the Duke softly. “You mean in Omsk?”

The landlord shrugged. “There, and at other places in Siberia, there are not so many Tchinovinks as here, trading is more free.”

“What of Tobolsk?”

“That would perhaps be the best place of all if you could get there, but Tobolsk is in the forbidden territory.”

“The forbidden territory? What is that?” asked the Duke with a frown.

The man shrugged again. “It is some madness of the Tchinovinks; a great area, where, without special papers, no man may go — but they are the lords, and it is useless to protest.”

“If we could get within reasonable distance of Tobolsk we could send messengers,” the Duke suggested, “and the traders could bring their furs for us to see.”

“That should be possible. There is a train which goes to Turinsk; farther than that you may not go; the railway to Tobolsk is finished, but it is for the officials and the military only.”

“And how often do the trains run?”

“It used to be only once weekly, but since the line is finished it is every other day. Many military and Tchinovinks go through.”

“Is there a train today?”

“What is today?” the man asked vaguely.

“It is Saturday.”

“Yes, there is a train — it leaves at midday.”

“Do you know how long it takes?”

“To Tobolsk, about eight hours — to Turinsk, some five hours, perhaps.”

“And are permissions necessary?” De Richleau asked casually.