Dennis Wheatley - The Forbidden Territory

“I don’t know what you’re talking about” Simon shook his head.

“Listen.” The Kommissar leant forward and tapped the table with a fat white forefinger. “The American comes to Moskawa, two — three months ago, is it not. He disappears — all right, we find him again — on our train, attempting to enter the forbidden territory. Is he a fool — is he a spy? We do not know, all right — put him in prison — that is that. Then you come to Moskawa. All night — all day, you inquire for the American. One day our agent hears you talk with a man in the Zoo — the name ‘Shulimoff’ is spoken. All Russia knows of the buried treasure of the Shulimoffs. We know now that Romanovsk was the American’s destination. It was for these jewels he came to Russia. I have only to supply to you, through Valeria Petrovna, the information that he is in prison at Tobolsk; you will go there to procure his release — then you, or he, or all of you, will come on here to find the treasure. All I have to do is to make my plans to meet you here. Where are the jewels? Let us waste no more time!”

“Elementary, my dear Watson,” murmured the Duke into Simon’s ear.

Simon chuckled suddenly into his hand.

“What you say?” snapped Leshkin.

De Richleau bowed. “Merely a little joke we have in England about people with red hair!”

As Leshkin glowered at the Duke, Simon added: “sorry we can’t help you.”

An unpleasant light came into the Kommissar’s small, red-rimmed eyes. “You do not think so now, perhaps, but I shall find ways to persuade you.”

De Richleau intervened. “You will excuse me,” he said, politely. “Aron has already told you that we have parted from the American. Both of us have heard about the jewels, but neither of us know where they are.”

The Russian gave him a shrewd look. “There may be something in what you say. Fortunately the American cannot get away — we shall catch him by tomorrow night. However, if you know nothing, you are of no use to me — again, why should we waste time? I will have you shot!”

“And why should you do that?” asked De Richleau, quietly.

“You have helped a prisoner to escape — you are in the forbidden territory where, perhaps, you have seen too much. In any case, you are an hereditary oppressor of the workers, and therefore an enemy of the party — it is enough — be thankful that I have you shot! For Aron I have a very different programme.”

The Duke smiled. He appeared to be perfectly calm as he said, slowly: “You have asked Aron if he takes you for a fool! I most certainly do not, but you will be, if you have me shot.”

“Why so?” asked Leshkin, quickly.

“Because dead, I may be very dangerous to you — alive, I may be of some service.”

“So!” Leshkin shrugged. “This is but talk, you can serve me not at all.”

De Richleau leaned over the table and fixed his grey eyes with their strange, piercing brilliance on the Kommissar. “If you are so sure,” he said, softly, “tell me the name of the third man who sat with Aron and me in the ‘Tavern of the Howling Wolf’ on our second night in Moscow.”

“I do not know — also I do not care.”

The Duke nodded, then he smiled slowly and turned away.

“No,” he said, lightly. “Stalin does not tell everybody everything — why should he?”

At the name of Stalin — the Iron Man — Kommissar of Kommissars, who rules Russia more autocratically than any Tsar, Leshkin stiffened where he sat. There was a brief, pregnant silence in the little room, nothing stirred — save the faint flicker of shadows on the ceiling.

“Stalin?” echoed Leshkin very softly; there was a note of reverence in his voice — a shade too of fear.

De Richleau followed up his advantage. “Have me shot then. I am an old man. I have faced death many times. I am not afraid, but remember that you shall answer for it to... Stalin.”

“If this is true, you have papers.” Leshkin held out his hand. “Show me the passes of the Ogpu.”

“I have no papers.” De Richleau made a disdainful gesture. “There are forces outside the Ogpu — forces outside the Soviet Union; Stalin uses many strange weapons for the good of The Party.”

“I do not believe this,” Leshkin murmured, sullenly.

“Do you know anything of my history?” De Richleau went on. “If you do, you know that I am a political exile from my own country; driven out as a young man, nearly forty years ago, by a capitalist government Do you know why Aron was received by Madame Karkoff immediately on his arrival in Moscow? On instructions. Between them there was no thought but of the secret work that must be done for The Party. We made pretence of seeking information in order that even the Ogpu should not suspect our true intentions. Do you know who the American is? He is the son of Channock Van Ryn, one of the richest men in America. It was for us to gain his confidence — far greater issues hang upon this American than a simple attempt to recover these jewels — they are an old-wives’ tale. I doubt if they are here at all!” He paused impressively, holding the Russian with his eyes.

Leshkin sat silent for a little — again he clawed his sparse red beard. He knew that Stalin employed secret spies outside the Ogpu — was it possible that these were members of the inner circle? Then his eyes took on a cunning look, and he said, sullenly:

“Why, then, did you let the American go south alone? No —” he hit the table with his big, white fist. “I do not believe it — you are intriguing foreigners — I will have you shot.”

“So be it.” De Richleau gave the suggestion of a bow. “The choice is yours. I have only one regret — I shall be unable to be present when you are called upon to face our master. That will be a bad half-hour for you. Comrade.”

The Kommissar stood up. At his call the guards came back into the room. He gave short instructions and the Duke and Simon were led out. They were taken down the passage again, across the great, echoing hall, and through a second passage, into another wing. Here a door was opened and they were thrust into the darkness. The door slammed behind them and they heard a heavy bolt shot home.

“Phew!” Simon let out a short whistle as he drew his hand across his forehead. “I don’t like that man.”

De Richleau placed a steadying hand on his shoulder in the dark. “Neither do I, my friend, but you were magnificent, so calm — you showed a splendid courage.”

“Well, I’ll tell you,” Simon confessed, “I didn’t feel it. Do you think he’ll have us shot?” They both spoke in whispers.

“Not for the present — he half believes my little story about Stalin; none of these people trust each other. It is quite likely that we might be Stalin’s secret agents; he will do nothing till he has communicated with Moscow.”

“Um. I thought it was wonderful, the way you put that over. Of course he’ll send a wireless from the airpark. When the reply comes we shall be in a real muddle!” As Simon used his favourite expression for any sort of trouble, instinctively he laughed his nervous little laugh.

“That’s better,” said the Duke. ‘To hear you laugh so is good. Much may happen before they receive that reply. I’m angry with myself though, that I should have brought you into such danger. I wish now that I had never shown you the letter from Rex.”

Simon laughed again. “I’d never have forgiven you if you hadn’t — but, talking of Rex, I suppose there’s just a chance that he may get us out of this?”

In the dark De Richleau shook his head. “I fear he cannot help us — there must be at least a dozen secret police with Leshkin. Rex does not even know of our plight. I only trust he does not come to look for us and blunder into their clutches.”