Dennis Wheatley - The Forbidden Territory

“What of them?” she shrugged again. “They are saboteurs both — I ’ave no interest in what ’appens to them — it is for Simon only that I worry.”

“But you promised,” he protested, quickly.

“I promised nothing.” She gave him a sharp look. “Only for Simon — ’e is your frien’. Why should you trouble for these others?”

“Look here,” said Richard firmly, “they are all my friends. I don’t know what you meant when you spoke about it in your flat, but I understood that you were going to get them all out of this. If you’re not I won’t go — I’ll stay and do what I can myself.”

“So...” She raised her well-marked eyebrows. “Think again, my frien’ — I ’ave but to speak a word to the officer ’ere — to say I tell the untruth about my little cousin — ’e will ’ave ’er arrested quick — ’ow will that please you?”

Richard shot a sharp glance in the direction of Marie Lou. The girl was sitting in the ’plane, all unconscious of the subject of the conversation. He knew that he’d been tricked, and he was furious. Yet how could he stand by and see that poor girl hauled off to prison.

“It is time for you to go, Mistaire Eaton,” came the husky voice at his side, “the officer ’e waits that you should depart, or shall I confess to ’im that I ’ave told a lie?” She laughed softly.

There was no alternative, but as Richard stepped towards the ’plane he turned and looked Valeria Petrovna squarely in the eyes. “Perhaps you are right, Madame Karkoff,” he said, with a little smile, “but I wonder if you have ever heard of the old English proverb: ‘He who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day’.”

In a long graceful curve the ’plane left the Moscow airport. It was just before three o’clock, a lovely clear afternoon in early spring. The spires and domes of the ancient Muscovite city spread out below them, the winding river and the open spaces of the parks diminished in size; soon they were left far behind. For the time being Richard put anxiety for his friends out of his mind, and gave himself up to the joy of flight.

About half past seven they came down at Minsk to stretch their legs and eat a snack at the aerodrome buffet. Marie Lou had enjoyed the flight; it had been Rex’s antics to avoid the searchlights at Romanovsk which had made her airsick on her first aeroplane journey. She also had ceased for the time being to worry about the prisoners at Kiev; after the strain of the last few days it was an enormous relief for her to be in comparative safety — she was content to leave all decisions to Richard Eaton.

Richard had taken the precaution to secure a note from Valeria Petrovna’s effeminate friend for the airpark officials at Minsk, so no difficulty was made about their proceeding on their journey. From Minsk it was only some twenty odd miles to the Polish frontier. In the evening light they started on the long stretch over the plain of Grodno, arriving at Warsaw a little before midnight.

They were led at once to the passport office, and it was here that the trouble began. Richard’s passport was all in order, but what of Marie Lou? They were taken before an official in a resplendent uniform with a plethora of gold lace. It seemed that had they come from anywhere but Russia the matter might have been arranged. The Poles, however, live in perpetual terror of their Soviet neighbours, and the strictest precautions are in force to prevent spies and agitators from entering the country. Richard told the story of the dying mother in Berlin, and the stolen baggage, but in vain. In no circumstances could Marie Lou be allowed to remain in Poland.

Richard asked the decorative gentleman where he thought they were going to sleep?

The man shrugged. “You wish to go to Berlin? Very good, go to Berlin. It is three hundred miles only. You can rest here for an hour and then proceed.”

Richard did not in the least want to go to Berlin! “Perhaps they will make the same sort of trouble there?” he suggested.

The official thought that undoubtedly they would. People could not go entering countries like this, just as they chose, without proper papers.

“But we can’t just go on flying from place to place,” Richard protested. “We must stop somewhere!”

“Undoubtedly,” the man agreed, stroking his carefully curled beard. “One would get tired. The best plan is that you return to Minsk. They will give you there a proper passport for the lady. You can still be in Berlin by tomorrow. One thing is certain — the lady cannot remain here!” He began to gather his papers together.

Richard wished to return to Minsk even less than he wished to go on to Berlin.

“How far is it to Vienna?” he asked at length.

“Three hundred and fifty miles — about, but there, also, it is doubtful if they would let you enter.”

“I’ve got friends there,” Richard replied. “Can I send a telegram or wireless?”

“Certainly, if you wish. Here are forms.”

“Thanks.” Richard addressed a brief wire to: The Honourable G. B. Bruce, Secretary, British Embassy, Vienna, in which he requested that gentleman most urgently to leave his comfortable bed and meet him at the Vienna air-park between four and five in the morning.

The wire was sent, they had some hot drinks and sandwiches at the buffet, and an hour later set off once more.

“It is a misfortune, this,” said Marie Lou. “We shall not now be able to meet our friends when they arrive in Warsaw.”

“That’s true,” Richard agreed, but he said no more. He had not told Marie Lou that there was no prospect of their meeting their friends anywhere in the immediate future.

Richard was dog tired. It was by far the longest flight he had ever made in one day, but his new ’plane was going splendidly. He thanked the Lord that he had run her in before he left England, and settled down gamely to the last lap. Marie Lou slept most of the way, and had to be awakened when they arrived at last at Vienna.

“Hullo, Dickybird? You’re a fine fellow, keeping a lad from his hard-earned rest till this hour in the morning,” came a voice from the darkness as Richard was helping Marie Lou to alight.

“Hallo, Gerry.” Richard heaved a sigh of relief at finding that his friend was there to meet them. “I’m glad they didn’t pull you out of bed,” he added, as he noticed that Bruce was still in evening dress.

“No, I’ve been to a party, my ancient auk — didn’t get your wire till I got in. What’s the trouble?”

Richard explained as briefly as possible.

The tall, gaunt diplomat loomed over him in the darkness.

“My giddy aunt — you are a lad. Can’t you find enough trouble among the young women in London without picking up bits in Bolsheville?”

“Shut up,” said Richard, in a savage whisper. “She speaks English.”

“Sorry, Dicky,” the tall man apologized. “Hope she didn’t hear; introduce me to the lady, and I’ll see if I can’t work the oracle with Rupert of Hentzau, there.” Bruce nodded towards a slim-waited officer who stood some distance away.

The introduction was made, Bruce took Richard’s passport and held a short conversation with the so-called Rupert of Hentzau, there was much laughter between them, and the little officer gave an extra twist to his moustache as he looked at Marie Lou, then Bruce rejoined them.

“All serene,” he announced. “He says you’re a lucky fellow, Dickybird.”

“I — why?” Richard yawned, wearily.

“Well, I had to make up a bit of a story, so I said Madame was your wife. In fact, I implied in a sort of way, that you were on your honeymoon — doing the round trip — Berlin, Warsaw, Vienna. Little chappie got quite excited about it. I thought it best not to mention Russia.”