Dennis Wheatley - The Forbidden Territory

As Richard saw Shubin’s greedy eyes, fixed on his pocket-book he wondered just how much of the promised reward was likely to find its way to the unfortunate Yakovkin if he accepted.

Having peered into the foetid court to see that no one was about, Shubin thrust them out.

There was nothing they could do now but possess their souls in patience until the morning, so, as neither of them was tired, they secured seats for a cinema. The film, like all Russian films, had for its subject the eternal Five Year Plan. The photography was good, but the plot almost non-existent. Richard, however, did not care. “In England,” he told Marie Lou, “it is our custom to hold hands at the movies.” He took hers firmly in his own.

“Indeed,” she said, with a little smile; “I should like to see you holding Simon’s when you go together!” But she made no attempt to withdraw her own.

The following morning, having thrown off their guide, they were in good time at the café near the Gorka. It was with immense relief that Richard saw the fat figure of Shubin coming down the street. A tall bearded man was with him, who proved to be Yakovkin.

A hasty conference was held in low voices; it seemed that the matter could be arranged. Shubin raised certain difficulties, but Yakovkin, a shrewd, sensible man, quickly overcame them. Richard parted with half the sum agreed on as an earnest of good faith. It was a large amount, and he was loath to do so, but he had to take the risk. It was agreed that he should forward the balance from Vienna.

Immediately the details were settled Richard and Marie Lou hurried back to the hotel. “I never thought that chap Shubin would fix it,” he confessed, “but I believe he will, and I like the other fellow.”

“Yes,” Marie Lou agreed, “he looked an honest man.”

“Now, if only Simon can get the car,” Richard went on, “we’ll go in the ’plane, of course.”

At the hotel Simon was impatiently awaiting him.

“Well?” he asked eagerly, as Richard slipped into his room.

“I’ve managed it,” said Richard, excitedly. “Can you get the car tonight? That’s the important thing.”

“Umm — no trouble about that,” Simon assured him. “Tell me about it.”

“Splendid — now this is the drill. Shubin says that some prisoners escaped last year; they dug a tunnel down to the catacombs below. The flagstones were replaced, but the tunnel never filled in. Shubin’s not supposed to know that officially, because he wasn’t in Kiev at the time. He’s going to find an excuse to transfer Rex and the Duke to that cell this evening. Yakovkin will be the warder on duty. He will smuggle in an implement for them to raise the flags and provide them with directions for finding their way through the catacombs. They will come out at an exit in the southernmost fort of the old Lisia Gora. Do you think you can find that?”

“Yes, I know where that is; we passed it yesterday in the car.”

“Good; then you’ll be there with the car to meet them. The best place to try and cross the frontier is Mogilev, on the Roumanian border.”

“How far’s that?”

“About a hundred and eighty miles — ought to do that in under six hours.”

“What time did you fix?”

“Zero hour is ten o’clock. Take them a little time to get through the catacombs, though.”

Simon nodded quickly. “Good; Valeria Petrovna will be in the middle of her show. This is wonderful, Richard.”

“Yes, if only our luck holds. Now about the frontier. I’m going by ’plane. Look!” he produced a map from his pocket, “here is Mogilev. I propose to land as near this cross-road as I can; it’s about a mile and a half to the east of the town. Then I’ll taxi you over one at a time; we all ought to be out of the country by morning. That is, unless you’re staying behind?”

“Ner” — Simon shook his head — “it’s an awful wrench, but I’ve decided to cut it out — I’m going home.”

Richard smiled sympathetically. “I know just how you must feel, old chap, but you’d hate it here after a bit, and I suppose it’s mean to be glad about it, but I should miss you terribly.”

“I know, Simon smiled sadly. “What about Marie Lou, is she coming with us in the car?”

“Oh no, I can’t risk having her mixed up in this. She’s got a perfectly good English passport now, thank God, and she leaves the country in the proper way.”

“Look out,” whispered Simon, as the door handle rattled.

Like a flash Richard had crossed the room and opened the door leading into Valeria Petrovna’s bedroom. “Ten o’clock,” he whispered, as he disappeared. A minute later he stepped out into the passage through the other door of Madame Karkoff’s room.

Rex sat on the floor of the cell with his long legs stretched out in front of him, his back propped against the wall.

“What o’clock d’you reckon it’ud be?” he asked suddenly.

De Richleau was hunched on the bench, his elbows on his knees. He did not trouble to look at his watch, but answered listlessly: “About six, I think.”

“Cocktail time again,” Rex yawned, “and still no cocktails. Wouldn’t it be just marvellous now to be in Paris hearing the ice tinkle in the Ritz bar.”

“I would prefer London,” said the Duke, seriously, “and a decanter of the special sherry at the Mausoleum Club.”

“Aw, hell, what’s the use — when d’you think they’ll get busy with their rotten trial?”

“I have told you before, my friend, I do not think there will be any trial. One fine morning we shall be led out into the yard and put up against a brick wall — that is, unless Simon can arrange something. You may be sure he’s doing everything he can.”

“Well, if he doesn’t make it snappy I guess he’ll miss the bus. We’ve been in this joint ten days now, and it’s six since they handed him hiis cloakroom check.”

They lapsed into silence again. The strain had told on them heavily. The sound of footsteps in the corridor at any but the usual hours when they received their meagre ration might herald the approach of the end. Each night as they dropped into an uneasy sleep they marvelled that they had survived another day, and wondered miserably if, on the morrow, they would hear the sinister order “Get your things together”, which in a Bolshevik prison in the inevitable prelude to a firing-party.

During their first days of imprisonment they had investigated the possibilities of escape, but the prison at Kiev was run on very different lines to the one at Tobolsk. Here, the prisoners were visited at regular hours during the day. They never saw their fellow captives except during the short period when they were exercised each morning, and then a squad of Red Guards were always lounging near with loaded rifles.

Their cell was searched night and morning; instead of an ordinary door it had a strong iron grating, and as a warder was always stationed in the corridor he could see what they were doing as he walked up and down. They had soon decided that escape without outside help was impossible.

The presence of Yakovkin was the only thing that served to cheer their desperate situation. The man had been born on the Plakoff estates; as a youth he had been one of the old Prince’s huntsmen. Many a time had he ridden behind the Duke, and once by his quickness and courage he had saved De Richleau from the tusks of an infuriated boar. Surreptitiously he showed them every kindness that he could, and managed to smuggle extra food to their cell.

The tramp of feet sounded on the stone flags of the passage. A sharp command, and a file of soldiers halted outside, the warder unlocked the barred gate of their cell, and the officer beckoned them to come out.