Dennis Wheatley - The Forbidden Territory

Rex looked round to see if the enemy was following; he caught his breath — Simon was no longer there! He hit Richard on the back. “Simon,” he bawled. “We’ve dropped him.”

Richard banked steeply; they peered anxiously downwards, fearing to see a little crumpled heap in one of the fields below. The Soviet ’plane was circling slowly over the farmstead, apparently uncertain whether to land or give chase.

Leshkin scowled from his seat beside the pilot. In his anxiety that Richard should not see him before landing, he had misjudged the time it would take him to descend. His pilot obstinately refused to be hurried; the Kommissar cursed furiously as he saw Richard take off and glide, hesitatingly, towards the barn. Then he saw Simon fall.

“Descend!” he cried. “Make your landing at once.” But the pilot had already begun to follow the other ’plane, now he banked steeply away from the field.

“Descend!” yelled Leshkin again, his small eyes black with anger.

“Have patience, Comrade,” the man answered, sullenly. “I must circle now, to come again into the wind. I have no wish to break my neck.”

Valeria Petrovna had seen Simon slip off. In a second she was beside him, helping him to his feet. “Run, Simon — run,” she urged. “Your frien’ will come back and it will be less far for ’im to come.”

“Say, there he is!” cried Rex, suddenly, pointing from the other ’plane. “Good old Simon — run, boysie — run!” Almost at the same moment Richard and the Duke saw him too, a small dark figure running hard in their direction — a field away already from the meadow, with Valeria Petrovna urging him on some hundred yards behind.

“What bravery!” exclaimed the Duke. “He must have dropped off purposely when it seemed that we should crash into the barn.”

Richard wheeled again, and headed for the frontier, his mouth set tight. It was useless now to try and land again to pick Simon up. He must unload the others first.

A rifle cracked below them, then another. It was the frontier guards. They had realized that something must be amiss; they fired again, the flash of their rifles could be seen distinctly, but the bullets went wide.

Richard did not attempt to reach the field where he had left Marie Lou, he came down in the first he could find on the Rumanian side — that was a decent distance from the frontier guards. His landing was sheltered from their view by a small wood.

“Out you get,” he said, sharply. “Marie Lou’s in a field about half a mile away over there.” He pointed as he spoke. “I’ll join you, if I can.”

“Okay,” Rex sang out, “all the luck,” but Richard was already mounting into the air again.

The big troop-carrier bumped and bounded over the uneven ground of the meadow. The pilot brought it to rest with a jerk, only thirty feet from the barn that had so nearly proved the end of Richard. Leshkin sprang out — a sharp order and his men followed.

Valeria Petrovna turned her head and saw them coming round the corner of the barn as she ran through the farther field. She could see Simon, too; a field ahead of her. Her heart ached for him; how could little Simon, with his recent wound, hope to out-distance those hardbitten soldiers. They would hunt him like a hare, and remorselessly shoot him down in some ditch or coppice. Dashing the tears from her eyes, she stumbled on.

Simon jumped a ditch; he groaned from the pain as a sharp stab went through his leg like a red-hot needle. Panting and breathless he ran on, looking from time to time over his shoulder. He could no longer see the Soviet ’plane — they must have landed now. Richard had disappeared from view. If only he could get back in time after landing the others. Good job he had dropped off or they would never have cleared that barn. He must be half-way to the wood by now... if only he could stick it... but the frontier guards might open fire on him at any moment. God, how his leg hurt! His head was dizzy and his chest bursting.

Simon stumbled and fell; he picked himself up again, white and shaken. His hands were torn and bleeding from the hedges he had forced his way through. He cursed his folly in having taken the straight line across a ploughed field. His boots were heavy as lead with the soil that clung to them. If only he had gone round he would have reached the opposite side in half the time. A shot rang out. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that Valeria Petrovna was stumbling along about two hundred yards behind him. His pursuers had crossed the last hedge and were streaming across the field in open order with Leshkin waving them on. Another shot sounded sharply on the still morning air — the bullet sent up a little spurt of earth some way to his right. A sharp order came — there was no more firing; Leshkin did not want to kill Valeria Petrovna! Simon reached the farther hedge; he burst his way through it regardless of fresh tears and pain, and stumbled into a meadow on the far side... there — glorious sight — was Richard in his ’plane, waving encouragement, and steadily coming down.

Three frontier guards had come out of the wood and were blazing away at Richard, but they ceased firing as he landed, fearful of hitting Leshkin’s men. Simon thought his head would burst as he made a last desperate effort to reach the ’plane. The soldiers had crossed the plough now — they were shouting as they struggled through the hedge. Richard stood up in the ’plane and yelled wildly.

“Run, Simon... run!” He saw the soldiers were rapidly gaining ground, and climbed out of the ’plane to go to Simon’s assistance.

Leshkin was through the hedge and bellowing like a bull — his face purple with the unaccustomed exercise. The foremost soldier was running level with Valeria Petrovna. Suddenly she struck out with her crop — a fierce back-hander, that caught the man in the face; he stumbled and stopped with a yelp of pain. Simon had reached the ’plane, white, exhausted, almost fainting. Richard had him by the arm and leg, half-lifting him towards the passenger seat. He grabbed at the rim and hoisted himself over the edge. Valeria Petrovna had stopped and turned — facing the soldiers. With all her remaining force she was lashing at them with her whip, driving off the nearest with her fierce, cutting lash. Richard was in the cockpit again — the ’plane ran forward — one of the men made a futile grab at the wing, and was flung to the earth.

“Shoot!” roared Leshkin, “shoot!” But the soldiers were panting and breathless. By the time they had fumbled with their rifles and taken unsteady aim, the ’plane was sailing high into the air.

Simon looked down into the green field below. A bullet whizzed past his head — another hit the tail with a loud “phut”. The soldiers stood in a little group mopping their perspiring faces; Valeria Petrovna was standing a little apart with Leshkin — she waved her crop in farewell. Simon waved back, and then he saw a curious thing.

She turned suddenly and struck Leshkin with her whip; the lash took him full in the face. For a moment he was blinded by the pain; he sprang back, holding up his hand to protect his head; the swift lash came down again.

“You fool,” Valeria Petrovna was shrieking, “you fool. I ’ave trick you. I pay you now for what you make me suffer — that you ’ave been to Stalin and make me lose ’im I love.” She struck again and again with her swift, cutting lash, until Leshkin’s face was a mass of blood; at last she was hauled off by the soldiers.

The ’plane had vanished into the distance, when he was once more able to see her out of feverish, bloodshot eyes. “It is you who are a fool,” he said, harshly. “You have forgotten that these men have done murder — and that there is a law of extradition.”