The Russian White, page 15
“No laws apply when it comes to the diamond,” Dunyasha replied, curt and cruel in her dismissal of such a suggestion.
“You will not be a prisoner.” Konstantin stretched out his hand, but Isobel sat back, out of reach.
“In Russia you will be free. There is nothing you will not have. I give you my promise.” He rose, and ambled towards the door at the back of the shop. Had he guessed her plan? “You will be happy, an honoured guest.”
“That is true.” Dunyasha picked up her cloth bag. “And him we also take.” She flicked a finger at Terrington. “Though my heart is unsure.”
“It is a simple choice Madam,” Konstantin replied. “Kill him or work him. In Russia at least, the people will decide his fate.”
“You are right,” Dunyasha’s smile widened. “So-you will come with us too.” She rose, and opened her arms in welcome. “Your journey will be comfortable.”
Isobel’s stomach knotted and her grip on the tankard tightened. She bunched her other hand into a fist. “But James doesn’t want to go to Russia. You said you’d get him out of Bedlam. I’m not going anywhere without him. And Peter’s there too, one of your agents. You can’t just leave him behind to rot in that terrible place.”
“I did not promise you anything,” Dunyasha replied. “James’s fate is unimportant to me. I use his name to make you talk. The Brotherhood will keep him in Bedlam. They think he knows what has happened to the diamond, and because they will never find out that it is no longer on English soil, he will die there. He may already be dead. Like Peter.”
“Peter’s dead?”
Dunyasha’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “Really, you Europeans, you care too much about the peasants. They are there to serve, nothing more. There is no need to mourn.”
“How dare you!” Isobel slammed the tankard down, and the table shook. “Peter is not just a peasant. How can you treat people like that? You say he’s dead-murdered more like, and you think that’s normal?”
“Of course,” Dunyasha chuckled. “There are many of them. One dies, another takes their place. They are happy to serve. After all, what else is there for them? They work, they die, they are content. That is the Russian way.”
“It is an honour,” Konstantin agreed. “Do not think they are sad.”
Isobel leapt up and spat at Dunyasha. “Murderers!”
Dunyasha’s cool gaze remained unruffled. “Witness the perils of free speech, Konstantin. You see how a backward nation becomes impossible when everyone is allowed to have an opinion, especially the women.”
Isobel swung the tankard at her head, but Konstantin grabbed her shoulders and pulled her back.
“You can’t do this,” she screamed. “Let me go.” But she couldn’t escape from his grip.
Dunyasha dabbed her face with a lace handkerchief. “It is hard for you to understand. I am sorry about James, but there is nothing that we can do. We cannot draw attention to ourselves. The Russian White causes much bewilderment and bloodshed. Be happy that you have helped bring an end to all of that. Living in Russia is a small price to pay for that peace of mind.”
Isobel stamped on Konstantin’s foot, twisted, and broke free. She whirled round, and smashed the tankard into his face. He reeled, stunned by the blow.
Terrington leapt up and snatched the cloth bag out of Dunyasha’s hands. Dunyasha screamed, and Isobel dived round the table and pushed her into the wall, where she crumpled and fell.
Terrington reached the door first and flung it open, but Russian men blocked his way. Isobel flung her tankard at the nearest, but missed. She darted between them, but there were too many. They circled her, caught her. She bit and kicked, and they pulled her hands behind her back, and bound them.
Terrington dropped his tankard and the bag. And when they ordered him to sit, he obeyed.
Dunyasha staggered to her feet. “Take them to the Embassy.”
Winded by Isobel’s blow, she gulped for breath, and though in pain, she didn’t think she was seriously injured. Konstantin handed her back the cloth bag with the Russian White secure in its velvet pouch. He guided her to the chair and she sat down.
“Fetch Gregor,” she instructed. “And Marsha too.”
Chapter Twenty Seven
“Message from the Russian Ambassador.”
Lord Aberdeen’s secretary placed a sealed envelope on the Prime Minister’s desk and left the room.
The Chief finished reading the last paragraph of the Foreign Office report. Bad news, and his brow furrowed as he took in its contents.
Many men risked freezing to death if the campaign in the Holy Lands continued throughout the winter. Inappropriate clothing would reduce morale which would, in turn, lessen the effectiveness of the army, which might result in the capitulation of territories already secured. Extra funds were needed from the Treasury to better equip the men, who were standing firm in the name of Empire, and protecting the rights and freedoms of Queen and Country.
The Chief laid the report down. It needed discussing with the Chancellor at the next Cabinet Meeting.
He picked up the envelope his secretary had just delivered, and sliced it open with his silver letter opener. It contained a single piece of paper embossed with the monogram of the Imperial Russian Eagle. Its few lines were written in dark green ink, and a large flowing script.
Prime Minister
The Honourable Yakov Ilyinichna wishes to report an unexpected occurrence that will have important and possibly far reaching consequences relating to the recent crises in the Holy Lands. The Russian Ambassador will expect your Lordship at the Russian Embassy at nine o clock this evening, when this matter will be discussed.
Your obedient servant etc.. etc..
The Chief re-read the note. Then he read it again. He ground his teeth as the message’s meaning became clear. The Russians had the diamond. Blast and dam that Terrington! The wretched man had failed. Any bargaining the British Government implemented or demanded would come out in the Russians’ favour, because control of the Russian White bolstered their arguments towards a favourable outcome. He should never have trusted that nasty weasel-faced man.
He stared at the paper, until the green letters blurred one into another, and he could no longer read the words.
He laid it down on top of the report from the Foreign Office, and picked up his pen. He scribbled two notes, one to Hood and one to Buffrey and, once sealed, sent his secretary out to deliver them.
He folded the Russian Ambassador’s note in half, and threw it on the fire. The paper ignited and burned to grey ash; only the Eagle lingered, as the seal bubbled and steamed, until it too melted into the heat with a slow hiss.
Satisfied that it was destroyed, he pulled his armchair round to the window and gazed out over his gardens and the London rooftops.
A cold clear day, and smoke from hundreds of chimneys rose in the air in long slow columns that clouded the blue sky with a thin yellow fog. Across the City, the church clocks struck four, and the chiming bells drowned out the noise of passing crowds, and the rumble of carts as they banged across the cobbles.
From this window, he could see the Thames and its brown water flowing downstream towards the sea, and as he stared at its steady journey, his body relaxed into the soft contours of his armchair, and his mind switched off from the days’ events. He indulged in the pleasure that he always felt at these times, when he contemplated the extraordinary achievement of being Prime Minister of the greatest Empire on earth.
His position was absolute, second only to Queen Victoria. It made him invulnerable; perhaps even immortal.
The Country stood behind him, and supported his determination to stand firm in the face of Russia’s hostile actions in the Holy Lands. But-and doubt shaded his omnipotent pleasure, for how much longer?
Everyone remembered Wellington’s victory at Waterloo and the subsequent banishment of the Emperor Napoleon into exile. If the British could beat Napoleon, then the Russians didn’t stand a chance. But that was nearly forty years ago, and the army had grown flabby in the intervening years.
The Generals who fought at Waterloo were old men now, befuddled by advancing years and out of touch with the tactics of modern warfare. Their appearance, as they paraded through London on their way to the docks, and then onwards to Turkey, stirred up patriotic fervour; adoring crowds cheered them as all conquering heroes, but initial reports coming back to London suggested indecisive command and confusion.
The first mutterings of dissent were being heard in Westminster. He sensed the whispered conversations in dark corners, the finger pointing and the general feeling of disappointment. If this spread to the Country, the people might turn against him, and isolate him to a futile existence of position without power. He shuddered at the thought.
Perhaps he should step down, for who could foretell the outcome of hostilities? Especially now that the Russians had the diamond.
He feared failure too, and stepping down suggested cowardice in the face of approaching crises. He imagined the ignominy of nursing his wounded pride after a fall from grace, and worst of all, of conceding the possibility that his successor might eclipse his name and dam him to little more than a footnote in the history of the world.
Trapped, whichever way he turned, if the outcome was failure. The slow unravelling of time and uncertain circumstance would determine his place in the memory of future generations and events tonight would corroborate that outcome.
Day turned to night, and the lamps were lit. His secretary returned from delivering his letters, and added a bundle of new files to the heap on his desk.
He ordered a cold meal of ham and cheese. He had no appetite and ate little, and when wine was suggested, he refused.
At eight thirty he called for his carriage, and ten minutes later he left for his appointment at the Russian Embassy.
Chapter Twenty Eight
Doctor Hood and Judge Buffrey sat in the Doctor’s stationary carriage halfway down Grosvenor Crescent.
Hood raised the window blind and peered out. A gas lamp sputtered in the cold air at the corner of Belgrave Square. No one about. Drawn curtains in the surrounding houses, and the lamps inside outlined the window frames with a warm glow.
Then he heard the rumble of approaching wheels and the sharp clip-clop of a trotting horse. The Chief’s carriage swept past and turned into Belgrave Square. It slowed to a halt. A door slammed, and then there was silence.
Hood opened the carriage door, checked up and down the street, and then stepped onto the pavement. “Sergeant?”
A figure emerged from the narrow passage that ran behind St. George’s Hospital. “Sir?”
“It is time,” he ordered. “Bring your men forward.”
“Yes sir.” The Sergeant returned to the shadows, and Hood climbed back into the carriage.
“This isn’t a good idea.” Buffrey’s face glistened with sweat, and he dabbed it with a large white handkerchief. “I don’t like it.”
“It is a desperate act,” Hood agreed. “But, if it works, then nobody is going to be any the wiser. Mind you, if it fails, we shall all end up in prison.”
“But The Chief must know what he is doing, doesn’t he? I mean this is aggravated hostility and possible kidnap, serious crimes.”
“Are they? You tell me. You’re the Judge.”
Buffrey shook, the man was a nervous wreck; exasperating when they both needed clear heads to bring off The Chief’s plan. He didn’t have the time or the inclination to soothe his rattled fears. “Look if you want to go, then leave now.”
“No, no, it’s not that,” mumbled Buffrey.
“I won’t tell The Chief that you ran away.”
“I just don’t think that he knows what he’s doing.”
“Well we’ll soon find out won’t we? I suggest that you stop behaving like a baby and start co-operating. We are all in this together.”
The tread of heavy feet approached the carriage. He glanced out to see a dozen soldiers line up on the pavement and stand to attention, bayonets fixed and staring straight ahead. An odd assortment of men, some very young, and some very old. The left over dregs of the main force drafted overseas. He beckoned the Sergeant over. “Is this it?”
“The second company are on the other side of the square sir. They have orders to move in when they see us take up positions.”
“Good.”
“One thing sir?”
“What?”
“There’s a guard on duty outside the front door. Needs taking out, if you want us going in without drawing attention.”
Hood hadn’t prepared for this possibility, and indecision flustered his reply. “What, you mean shoot him? Won’t that..?”
“No sir,” interrupted the Sergeant. ‘I took the precaution of sending a young lad, a farmer’s boy, handy with a knife, if you get my meaning, to take him out. Knows how to creep up on his prey. Quietest way to despatch him.”
Hood’s anxiety flared into panic. “What happens if someone finds this guard missing?”
“Young lad’s taken his friend along with him sir. Going to put on the Russian’s uniform. No one will be any the wiser.” The Sergeant smirked at his own cleverness.
Hood exploded. “This isn’t a game!” He hated working with the ordinary man. They always thought they knew better. Give them an order and they took command. This situation brooked no room for error. He affected his most sarcastic snarl. “Can this “friend,” speak Russian?”
The Sergeant frowned, as if this question was the most ridiculous he had heard. “Not that I’m aware of sir.”
“You bloody idiot. Get them back.”
“With respect sir, it’s too late. They’ve been gone some time.”
The self-righteous congratulation in the Sergeant’s voice hardened Hood’s resolve to see him squirm. “If anything goes wrong tonight Sergeant, I shall hold you personally responsible. Is that understood?”
But before the Sergeant could reply, the sound of running footsteps, pounding towards them, came from the Square. A short thin youth, wearing a uniform a size too big for him, rounded the corner and came skidding to a halt. He straightened up and saluted.
“Here’s the young lad now sir,” beamed the Sergeant. “Well soldier?”
“Mission accomplished sir. Enemy out.” The boy’s panting words swooped between a rough gruffness and a piping treble. “Dropped him as that carriage came round. Bit close sir.” He grinned at the Sergeant.
“Good work soldier.” The Sergeant patted him on the shoulder.
“Look sir. My first Russian scalp.” The boy held up a tangled mass of bloodied hair.
Hood recoiled at the revolting sight, while the boy flashed an innocent smile of triumph. Behind those dancing eyes, the Doctor detected the gloating menace of a blossoming madman.
“That will be all soldier,” the Sergeant barked.
The boy saluted and stepped into line with his colleagues.
“Guard taken out sir,” the Sergeant confirmed. “Your orders sir?”
Hood felt sick. “Wait for my signal.” He slammed the carriage window shut, reached for his handkerchief, and retched. His stomach folded over in waves of nausea. It wasn’t the blood and the torn skin that crippled him, but the boy’s beauty mixed with the horror of his obvious enjoyment at what he had achieved. To reconcile such disparate elements clouded all hope for the salvation of mankind. The world was doomed if youth and beauty revelled in careless sadism. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve.
“You all right?” Buffrey frowned, his own handkerchief pressed against his cheek, and an open bottle of smelling salts penetrating one nostril. “Do you want a sniff?” he offered, but Hood pushed his hand back and grimaced at the building stench of ammonia.
“Put that filthy stuff away.”
Buffrey gulped. “I need it for my nerves. I’m in a terrible state. Why did he have to order up so many soldiers? If they’re seen, it’ll cause a terrible fuss. I wish I hadn’t come.”
Hood wrenched the smelling salts out of Buffrey’s hand. “Oh for crying out loud, shut up.” He pulled the window open, and threw the bottle out. It hit the pavement, and smashed with a tinkle.
Buffrey’s hands flapped in confused exasperation. “What did you do that for?” Sweat drops trickled down his forehead, and his double chin wobbled. “I need them. I’m not going to get through the evening-let me out-I’ve got to get them back.” His monstrous weight flopped against Hood, as he leant over and scrabbled for the door handle.
Hood lashed out and slapped the Judge’s face.
“Ow! That hurt.” Buffrey recoiled.
Hood gagged for breath. “Well stop climbing over me you great fat lump!”
“I need my smelling salts. I need them.” Buffrey’s sweaty handkerchief trailed over the Doctor’s face as the Judge made another lunge for the carriage door.
Hood’s fury erupted. “Right, I’ve had enough!” He flung the door open, grabbed Buffrey’s coat collar, and hauled him out of the carriage and onto the pavement. “Get out! Just get out!”
Buffrey stumbled down the steps. His handkerchief flapped like erratic semaphore as he attempted to keep his balance. “What are you doing?” he yelled. His eyes bulged, fit to pop. “Let me go.” His raised fist jabbed the air.
Hood let go, leapt back into the carriage, slammed the door, locked it, and pulled the window blind down. He flopped down with a relieved sigh. At last, the quivering lump was out of sight.
Buffrey’s fists pounded on the window. “Let me in.” The pounding ceased, followed by a muffled “ooh!”
Hood guessed he’d scraped his knuckles and made them bleed. He sat back and recovered his breath; hard work, pushing the Judge around.
Then the pounding began again, followed by a bellow. “Let me in!”
