Dennis Wheatley - The Forbidden Territory

On Simon’s return the two retired to a quiet corner, and began to make their plans.

The sleigh seemed to be their only means of escape, and very glad they were that they had not abandoned it the previous night.

The man who owned it would have notified the police at Turinsk of the theft, but, fortunately, the story which the Duke had told of his dying wife in Sverdlovsk, had also been told to the innkeeper at Turinsk, therefore it was to be hoped that the main hunt would take that direction. In any case, even if the police in Tobolsk were on the look-out it seemed hardly likely that the people at the farm would have been questioned, for the farm was three miles from the centre of the town. With any luck they might secure possession of it again without difficulty.

The next question was — should they attempt to get hold of it before or after Rex had made his escape? If there was going to be trouble with the farm people, it would be a help to have him with them — on the other hand it meant delay. It was an hour’s trudge from the prison to the farm, and if Rex’s disappearance was discovered at the six o’clock inspection, the alarm would be raised before they could get a decent start, and mounted patrols scouring the country in all directions.

If the farm people were questioned afterwards, and Rex had been with them, the police would immediately connect the escaped prisoner with the stolen sleigh. It was far better that these events should remain unconnected in their minds. Simon and the Duke decided to attempt to retrieve the sleigh early that afternoon.

Then the problem arose — which road should they take? They would have liked to have gone to the west, back into Russia, but to do that was to run right into the centre of the hue and cry for the stolen sleigh at Turinsk. The route to the east led farther into unknown Siberia. They would be placing an even greater distance between themselves and the Embassies, which were their only hope of protection. The choice, then, lay between the north and the south. The former, with its vast impenetrable forests, was uninviting in the extreme; whereas to the south, some hundred and fifty miles away, was the Trans-Siberian Railway — their only link with civilization. But, they agreed, that was the direction in which the escaped American would be most keenly sought. The authorities would reason that he would try and reach the line and jump a goods train. Finally they agreed that they would make due north. In that direction, at least, there was good cover. If they could get a start it should not be difficult to evade their pursuers in the depths of those trackless woods. Later, if they were successful in throwing off the pursuit, they would veer west, and try to recross the Urals into Russia.

Having come to these important decisions, they discussed the question of boots with the friendly Rabbi. To procure these seemed a difficulty — boots had been scarce in Tobolsk for years — new ones were an impossibility. These could only be obtained from the State Cooperative, if in stock, but, in any case, a permit was necessary. Possibly a second-hand pair could be bought in the market — that seemed to be the only chance. The Rabbi agreed to go out for them, and see what he could do. Simon explained to him that the boots must be of the largest size if they were to be of any use at all.

After half an hour he returned. No boots were to be had, but he brought a pair of peasant’s sandals — great weighty things, with wooden soles an inch and a half thick, and strong leather thongs.

He explained that if plenty of bandages were wrapped round the feet and legs of the wearer, they would prove serviceable and not too uncomfortable, so with these they had to be content.

At a little after three they left the synagogue with many expressions of gratitude to the kind Rabbi who had proved such a friend in need. There could be no question of payment for food and shelter, but Simon pressed a liberal donation on him for his poor.

Following the Rabbi’s instructions, they avoided the centre of the town, and were soon in the suburbs. Fortunately their road lay within a quarter of a mile of the prison, and they could see its high walls in the distance, so they would have no difficulty in finding it on their return. The cold was intense, and a bitter wind blew across the open spaces. It seemed more like six miles than three, but they trudged on in silence, their heads well down.

At last they reached the farmhouse — it looked dreary and deserted under its mantle of snow — no other buildings or trees were near it so they had no reason to fear an ambush of red guards or police, unless they were concealed in the house or barns.

At the door the fat woman met them once more. She was wreathed in smiles — evidently the lavish payment for the stabling of the horses had won her heart. She was a true Kazak — ignorant and avaricious, close to the soil — a peasant yet a landowner; bourgeois in sympathy, yet hating the people of the towns except for what could be got out of them. The youth was summoned and De Richleau asked for the horses and troika as soon as they could be harnessed. The lad ran willingly to obey. His quick eyes travelled over Simon and the Duke, as he brought the horses from the stable.

“You are not of ‘The Party’?” he questioned, with a flash of his uneven teeth.

“No, we are not of the Party,” De Richleau answered, slowly.

“I knew that — else why should you pay?” the youth looked up quickly. “They never pay — those devils, they eat the lands.”

The Duke regarded him with interest. “Why should they pay? They are the lords now!”

The young peasant spat. As he lifted his face again there was a sudden fire in his eyes. “We killed three last winter, my friends and I — they are as a blight on the land. The land is mine,” he went on fiercely. “Why should I give them the Kelb, for which I work? What are their beastly cities to me? I am a Kulak — independent. My father was head man in the local council, till they killed him!”

“So they killed your father?” said the Duke softly. “What year was that?”

“The year of the great famine,” answered the lad “Little men, who could not have ploughed half a hectare, or they would have died — but they were many, and they hung him in the great barn — he who could plough a hundred furrows in the time that big Andrew could plough only eighty-nine.”

“And you have had blood for blood,” De Richleau nodded.

“Blood for blood — that is a good law,” said the youth with a twisted smile. “They worry us no more; except when they come in batches they are afraid. At first we had a half thought that you were of them when you came last night; the old one, who is the mother of my mother, was for fetching the neighbours to make an end of you, but I knew by the way you spoke that you were not of them, even if your companion is much as they!”

The Duke looked at Simon, and laughed suddenly. “It is well, my friend, that you did not come to this part of the world alone. These good people take you for a Communist, and would have thrown you head down in the manure pit!”

The boy was buckling the horses into the troika; he did not understand a word of what De Richleau said, but he grinned quickly. “You should have been here to see the one we cooked in the stove last winter — a silly man who wanted to teach his silliness to the children in the school. We put him feet first into the stove. How we laughed while we held him there, and the mother of my mother beat him; each time he howled she struck him in the mouth with her big stick, crying: ‘Shouting does not feed the children, oh, man who reads letters — give us back our corn’; and the more he howled the more she struck him, till all his teeth were gone.”