Dennis Wheatley - The Forbidden Territory

“Good God! It’s Richard Eaton.”

Simon was walking slowly to and fro in the narrow space of his bedroom. He was too restless to sit still, and yet anxious not to tire his wounded leg.

It was past ten o’clock, but he knew that even if the prisoners had already left their cell the journey underground must take some little time, therefore he controlled his impatience to be off. He wished to be certain that they should reach the fort first; two waiting figures would be far less likely to attract attention than a stationary car, and in any case Richard would be there to meet them.

He had already been down to the garage and arranged for the car to be in immediate readiness. The man in charge, knowing him to be Valeria Petrovna’s friend, had made no difficulties.

He opened the connecting door to Valeria Petrovna’s room and looked about him sadly. Her silk garments were strewn on the bed, just as she had left them when she changed to go to the theatre, her favourite perfume hung in the air.

By his decision to leave with the others Simon was deliberately placing a unique experience in his life behind him. No other woman had ever meant so much to him — yet, when he had agreed to sacrifice his whole existence to her he had known in the bottom of his heart he could never be happy cut off from all other interests. Richard had been right in his surmise — Valeria Petrovna had asked a ransom for the return of Rex and the Duke, not in so many words, perhaps, but by definite implication.

Simon had been prepared to carry out his side of the bargain — she had not attempted to carry out hers. To him such failure was a breach of faith going to the very roots of life. He loved her, so if she had confessed her inability to help his friends, and given him the opportunity to do what he could on his own, things might have been different. As it was, she had tricked him, so he was determined to make the break.

He wondered how she would take his disappearance. After her deception he had not dared to confide in her again; there had been no good-byes. She had gone cheerfully to her gala performance full of vitality and happiness.

Simon gazed sadly at the little row of smart high-heeled shoes. “Never again,” he thought, “never again ... what a blank she will leave in my life!” With a sigh he turned away, and switched out the light. He glanced at the clock in his own room once more; it was ten past ten — they should be there by twenty past — if he left now there should be no waiting on either side. He picked up the small parcel containing his belongings and left the room, locking his door behind him.

The car had been run out of the garage all ready for him; he stood beside it for a moment while he lit a cigarette, anxious not to show any sign of haste in front of the mechanic. As he did so he realized that he had struck his last match, so he sent the man for another box. Hardly had he done so when the half-hour chimed from a neighbouring clock. It was a good bit later than he had thought, and the knowledge made him impatient to be off. At last — after what seemed an age — the mechanic returned. Simon stuffed the matches in his pocket, nodded cheerfully to the man, and drove quickly out of the yard.

The neighbourhood of the old fort was dark and deserted; he drew the car in under the shadow of the wall, and peered round anxiously for the others, but no one came forward to meet him. After a moment he shut off the engine, switched out the lights, and stepped down into the road.... Possibly they had thought it best to remain hidden round the corner... he whistled softly — there was no reply.

Simon began to feel worried; it must be nearly a quarter to eleven — he was terribly late — they should have been here for the last twenty minutes at least — and where was Richard? Had Shubin given them away? The escape been frustrated, and Richard arrested here a few minutes before his own arrival? He glanced apprehensively up and down the road. An occasional figure hastened by on the far side, only momentarily discernible in the dim pools of light cast by the infrequent street lamps. Nobody seemed interested in him or the car.

He limped round the corner and found the crumbling steps that led to the entrance of the fort. It showed — a pitch black rectangle in the faint glow that fell upon the pitted stonework of the walls; Simon climbed up to it, and stood for some minutes listening intently. An almost uncanny silence brooded over the close, musty darkness of the interior. “Richard!” he called softly, and although his voice was hardly above a whisper it seemed to echo back at him from the hollow darkness as though he had shouted aloud. He waited, but there was no reply, so he stumbled down the steps again and round the corner to the car, really frightened now that something had gone definitely wrong. A quarter of an hour should have been ample for them to get through the catacombs — perhaps the escape had been delayed — but even then what could possibly have become of Richard?

He climbed back into the car and sat there in the dark, thinking furiously of all the possible hitches which might have occurred. Should he drive back to the hotel or wait there in the hope that they would turn up? He feared that at any moment a policeman might come on the scene and want to know what he was doing there; or worse, if Shubin had actually given them away, that some of Leshkin’s people might arrive to arrest him!

By the time the sound of eleven striking was born faintly to him on the still night air, he was thoroughly jumpy, but he realized that if Rex and the Duke did make a belated appearance and he had already driven off, they would be stranded in a hopeless situation, so he determined to stick it out.

A moment later his quick ear caught the sound of footsteps near the corner of the wall, and a tall figure stepped up to the car, peering at him in the darkness.

Simon gave a sigh of relief. It could be no one but Rex, and that must be the Duke behind him.

“That you?” he whispered.

“Sure — Yakovkin told us there’d be a car to meet us — but we’re almighty late; and we’ve had an accident.”

“Never mind — hurry! — where’s Richard?”

“Hang on one moment.”

“For God’s sake be quick,” urged Simon, as they left him without further explanation, “the police may be on us at any moment!”

He waited impatiently... then shadows moved again in the darkness. Rex and the Duke were carrying what looked like a body between them — Simon’s heart almost stopped — was that Richard? In another moment he knew that it was.

The others were propping him up in the back of the car. His head lolled helplessly; there was blood on his face.

“What’s happened?” asked Simon anxiously, as he moved into the next seat. “Rex, you’d better drive; my leg is still pretty dicky.”

“I coshed him,” Rex admitted, as he took the wheel. “Didn’t know who it was in that hellish place.”

“He... he isn’t dead, is he?” Simon’s voice quivered slightly.

“We don’t know yet,” De Richleau answered from the back. “I’ll look after him — drive on now,” he added urgently, “we’ll talk later.”

Rex turned the car round away from the river, and soon they were out on the main highway heading for Birdichy and the frontier. It was a big, modern, powerful car, and the telegraph poles flashed past on either side as they roared through the darkness. They had over a hundred and eighty miles to go, so Rex was taking no chances, but settled down to a steady even pace.

As soon as they were free of the outskirts of Kiev the Duke pulled the flashlight from his pocket and began to examine Richard’s head. Never in his life had Rex felt so wretched — he could not possibly have known who the man with the light was — had not even the least idea that Richard was in Russia. Now, perhaps, he had killed one of his best friends!