Ravi came chasing after it, playing his part to perfection. ‘Oh, come back at once, you naughty snake!’ he cried, though Sophie could see his eyes twinkling. Shesha turned his head, quite as if he understood what he was supposed to do, hissing loudly and dramatically in Morozov’s direction.
‘You say this snake is dangerous?’ said Morozov to Sophie.
‘Oh yes, terribly dangerous. It is one of the most poisonous snakes in the world.’
‘It’s a Black Death Python,’ invented Lil readily, still speaking in English but making a fearsome face to illustrate this description.
Morozov looked alarmed. ‘Men, be careful!’ he yelled out. ‘There is a venomous snake loose in this house!’
Lil and Ravi continued after Shesha, who was performing magnificently – first blocking the policemen who were trying to surge up the stairs, then weaving himself through Morozov’s legs, making him yell out in horror, then slithering back down to the hall, where he tripped up several more of his men. Lil and Ravi capered after him, with shrieks and entreaties.
Amongst the chaos, Sophie darted down the narrow stairs that led to the cellar. Seeing that the key was in the door, she grabbed it and locked the door behind her. That should keep the police out for a little while at least, she thought grimly.
In Nakamura’s cellar room, she found the Count, Hanna and Nakamura himself, standing around a large wooden crate.
‘This is it,’ the Count was saying, still looking very perplexed by what was happening and how he had found himself in the cellar in his dressing gown and nightcap. ‘This is the box they delivered.’
‘Your friend was right,’ said Nakamura to Sophie, as he peered under the lid. ‘It’s full of guns – dozens of them. If the police find this here, Mitya will certainly be locked up for the rest of his life.’
‘Surely there must be something we can do?’ said Sophie, looking desperately around the room. But there was no way out except for the window, high up in the wall.
Nakamura followed her gaze. ‘It’s big enough to fit through, but the question is how we get it up there. It’s so heavy.’
But the Count’s eyes lit up suddenly. ‘Look – there’s a hook up there on the ceiling,’ he said, pointing upwards. Sure enough, high above her head, Sophie saw that a large metal hook had been screwed into a big wooden beam beside the window. ‘If we can find some rope, we could make a kind of pulley,’ he suggested.
‘There’s some rope over here!’ said Hanna, quickly unearthing a coil of it from a pile of old rubbish in the corner.
Nakamura seemed to know what to do straight away. ‘Tie this end to the box, as securely as you can,’ he told the Count. ‘We need to get the other end up and over the hook.’ He stared at the high ceiling speculatively. ‘Sophie – perhaps if you were to stand on my shoulders?’
At one time, Sophie might have hesitated. But she was quite a different person now to the girl who’d once been so frightened of heights she’d hung on to Joe for dear life as they’d escaped over East End rooftops. She’d travelled hundreds of miles across Europe in an aeroplane: this was nothing. She’d kicked off her shoes before Nakamura had even finished the sentence and had the end of the rope wrapped securely around her wrist.
‘Wait,’ said Hanna. ‘Stand on my shoulders. I’m taller – and besides I know how to do it. I do this every day in my act.’
Quickly, she bent her knees and held out her hands, palms upwards. ‘Now, you stand to face me,’ she told Sophie. ‘Put your right foot on to my right thigh – here – and then put your hands in mine.’
Sophie put out a foot tentatively. Hanna’s leg felt very strong and solid. ‘Now, swing your leg around and put your left foot on my left shoulder. Good.’ She sounded completely calm, as though there were not twenty policemen stampeding above them, ransacking Vera’s parlour. ‘I’m going to push you upwards . . . Put your other foot on my right shoulder, now get your balance . . . That’s it. Now I’m going to stand up.’
Sophie felt Hanna moving smoothly upright, tightly holding on to Sophie’s ankles. She felt herself rising upwards, wobbling precariously. For a moment she thought she was going to lose her balance but she managed to fling out a hand and grab on to the metal hook in the ceiling, steadying herself. Her feet slipped a little on Hanna’s shoulders but Hanna held her firm.
‘There you go,’ said Hanna. ‘Now the rope.’
As quickly as she could, her fingers shaking, Sophie unwrapped the end of the rope from her wrist and fed it through the hook. Somewhere above, she heard a policeman yell: ‘This way – down to the cellar!’
‘Is that right?’ she called down to Nakamura, who was busy helping the Count secure the other end of the long rope around the big box, looping it several times.
‘Yes – and now we have to open the window. There’s a pole around here somewhere, I know, but do you think you can reach it?’
‘I think so!’ The window catch was stiff, and it took her some effort to open it and fling the window open. Frosty air rushed into the room.
‘It’s done!’ she called out, wobbling even more precariously, as the police began to hammer on the cellar door:
‘Who’s down there? This is the police!’
‘Let go!’ said Hanna at once. ‘I’ll catch you!’
Against all her instincts, Sophie did as she was told; for a moment she fell, but to her astonishment, Hanna caught her neatly, and set her on her feet as though at the end of an acrobatic performance.
Nakamura and the Count were already heaving on the rope, trying to lift the box. But even with the pulley, they weren’t strong enough to raise it more than a few feet. Sophie and Hanna darted at once to join them, and hauled on the rope too – and with the help of Hanna’s enormous strength, the box began to move jerkily upwards towards the open window.
‘How are we going to get it out?’ asked Hanna.
‘We’ll have to swing it,’ said Nakamura breathlessly. ‘Pull the rope to the right – that’s it – now left. Let it swing – let it gather momentum.’
‘We must judge it just right!’ exclaimed the Count. ‘We must let go as soon as it is through the window – quickly before they see anything – and it will fall down into the canal!’
Above them, the box began to sway to and fro. The rope strained under the weight of the box and Sophie began to fear it would snap in two. But by some miracle it didn’t; instead, the box began to swing more strongly, and then it had swung right out of the open window, above the canal.
‘Let go!’ yelled Nakamura.
They released the end of the rope, and with a rattle and a crash, the box went spinning down, down, down into the canal with an enormous splash. Just at that moment, the police broke down the door and came swarming into the cellar.
‘What is going on down here? Arrest these people at once!’ yelled Morozov. To her horror, Sophie saw that two strong policemen had already seized Nakamura, who was struggling in their grasp; while another was making straight for the Count, who had backed towards the corner, whimpering in terror. Hanna threw Sophie a horrified glance, as two more policemen ran through the door in her direction.
But worse was to come. Creeping into the room behind the policemen, unnoticed by anyone, came Viktor, a determined look on his face. He looked straight at Sophie and then made a dash towards her.
Dodging a policeman, Sophie ran. There was nothing she could do to help Nakamura and the others at that moment – but she would not let Viktor take the notebook and spyglass for the Fraternitas. She raced quickly up the narrow stairs, dashing through the hall, where Vera now stood weeping as two policemen dragged Mitya out to their waiting motor car.
There were people on the stairs – she couldn’t go that way, so she spun swiftly in a different direction. Everything Ada Pickering had ever taught her was flashing into her mind. Viktor might be bigger and stronger than she was, but she was small and quick and she could use that to her advantage. She wove left and right around more policeme
n, and then darted into Vera’s kitchen, hoping to barricade the door behind her. But Viktor was still there, forcing his way in. He made a grab for her, but she was too fast – twisting out of his reach and running through into the little pantry beyond.
All right: she needed a weapon. The pantry might not be the most obvious place to find one but Miss Pickering had taught her that there was always something, if you knew how to look for it. She spotted a broom leaning against the wall and seized it, spinning the handle around and slamming it back against Viktor’s legs, making him cry out in pain.
Still holding the broom, she dashed forward, through the door that led out into the yard. Outside, her feet slipped on the frosty cobbles, but she kept going. She heard the tabby cat yowl, somewhere in the dark.
Somehow Viktor was beside her again: he was faster than she’d given him credit for. She hit out sharply with the broom handle, but he dodged her blow.
‘Give them to me. The notebook and the spyglass!’ he demanded wildly.
‘A notebook? A . . . spyglass? I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ she bluffed at once.
‘Yes – yes you do! And you will give them to me,’ he declared, pulling the revolver from his pocket and pointing it straight at her.
London and St Petersburg
The omnibus rattled onwards, carrying them through the old City, past the great dome of St Paul’s. Joe watched as trees and buildings flashed past, certain that the woman from The Daily Picture would soon get off the bus – but she kept on sitting quite still in her seat, looking straight ahead of her.
In spite of himself, Joe found his heartbeat quickening. They were on the edge of the City now, and the omnibus was carrying them closer and closer to the streets of the East End where he’d grown up. But the once-familiar landmarks now seemed haunted by the ghosts of the past. It was easy to imagine Jem, leering out of the dark, whispering ‘Hello, Joey Boy’ – or Red Hands Randall, reaching out a hand in a red leather glove. And then the Baron himself like a shadow – the phantom of childhood stories, the villain from his nightmares. He tried to shake them away. Jem and Randall were locked up in prison; and the Baron was dead and gone, he reminded himself. These streets did not belong to him anymore.
At long last the woman from The Daily Picture made ready to get off the bus. Perhaps she was catching a train from Liverpool Street station, Joe thought, as he slipped off the omnibus after her.
But instead of turning towards the station, the woman kept on walking at the same measured pace. Night was beginning to fall now, and Joe felt as twitchy as a nervous cat, as he followed her past dirty little shops and down-at-heel inns. She looked completely out of place here in her trim suit and neat hat, her handbag over her arm. Where on earth could she be going? Joe wondered.
She turned off the main street, down a narrow, disreputable-looking alley – past some barefoot kids playing with a grizzled old dog, past a couple of fellows sitting on a doorstep, swigging from a beer bottle. Joe followed at a careful distance, keeping his pace brisk. He didn’t like the way those two fellows were staring at him. He’d got too used to Piccadilly Circus and the West End: this side of town was different. In the distance, he could hear footsteps coming along the alley behind him, and he sped up again, catching a flashing glimpse of the bow on the back of the woman’s hat, as she turned left, and then right, and then left again, and then –
Joe was all alone, at the end of an alley. Nothing lay ahead of him but a blank brick wall. The woman had gone, as though she had vanished into the air. There was nothing left but a skinny cat, nosing around an old dustbin. It was a dead end.
Footsteps were coming towards him, faster and faster. His heart beating more rapidly now, he spun round, to see a figure coming towards him down the alley – blocking his way out.
He’d been a fool, he realised – a wave of horror breaking over him. The whole thing had been a trick: the woman must have known he was following her all along. She’d led him here deliberately, to these back streets of the East End – and now he was cornered and alone.
He took a step back. It was growing dark now, but even in the dim light, he could see the glint of something. He knew at once it was a revolver.
Sophie thought fast as Viktor waved the revolver closer towards her, in a shaking hand. ‘Give them to me – now,’ he said again, a sharp note of desperation sounding in his voice.
He didn’t really know what he was doing, she realised. ‘What are you playing at?’ she demanded sharply, trying to take control of the situation. ‘Who’s put you up to this? Don’t you see that they’ve tricked you?’
But Viktor only came closer, still waving the revolver. ‘I know what you’re trying to do – but you won’t succeed! Your underhand spy tricks won’t work on me!’
Spy tricks? Sophie stared at him in surprise as he went on: ‘I know who you are. I know you’re in St Petersburg undercover – and that Alice Grayson is not your real name. I know you’re a spy, working for the British government. I know that the British are in league with the Tsar and his men – and I know that Orlovs are helping you with your schemes! Gold has told me everything. I know you’re planning to seize the secret weapon and hand it over to the authorities, so they can use it against the masses. To crush the workers, and keep them down!’
So that was what the Fraternitas had told him to convince him to come after her. ‘Viktor, this is all wrong –’ she began, but his speech seemed to have given him new confidence, and he pointed the revolver at her more steadily now.
‘Be quiet!’ he hissed. ‘Not another word! Give them to me – or I will shoot you right this minute!’
But there was no way she would give the notebook and spyglass up to the Fraternitas. And there was nowhere else she could run. She would have to knock the revolver out of his hand, she decided, gripping the broom handle more tightly and making ready to spring.
But all at once, she heard footsteps on the cobbles, and a voice yelling out her name: Lil’s voice. Viktor glanced over his shoulder in surprise, and seizing her moment, Sophie struck out hard with the broom handle. He gave an agonised yelp, the revolver slipping from his fingers and skidding across the yard. Almost at the same moment, Lil was on him, kicking out at his knee, bringing him crashing down on to the cold, frosty ground.
Carruthers appeared in the pantry doorway, a dark silhouette, a gleam of light catching on his horn-rimmed spectacles. ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded sharply.
‘He was trying to shoot Sophie!’ Lil panted, still grappling with Viktor. ‘He’s the one working for the Fraternitas!’
Carruthers looked at her, and then at the revolver. Sophie had already started out towards it, but it was closer to Carruthers, and now she felt a sudden chill of fear. If Lil was right in her suspicions, would Carruthers side with Viktor and turn the revolver against them? She stared at him and for a moment, he stared back. Then, all at once, he dived forward – ignoring the gun, and instead helping Lil to wrestle Viktor to his feet.
Viktor was shouting angrily about traitors and spies as together, Lil and Carruthers pinned his arms behind his back, and frogmarched him towards the house. Sophie grabbed the revolver and followed them, her hand still clenched tightly around the notebook and spyglass in her pocket.
They found the hallway empty and the front door wide open. Morozov stood outside the house, supervising his men as they dragged Nakamura, Hanna and the Count outside after Mitya. Lights were coming on in nearby houses, and neighbours had gathered to whisper in shocked voices at their doors.
‘Let go of him, you brutes!’ Sophie heard Vera screaming, chasing after the two officers holding Mitya, as Boris tried to pull her back.
Carruthers surveyed the scene for a moment, and then took a deep breath. ‘Right then,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Time to make the old man proud.’
Puffing out his chest, he declared in a loud and extremely English voice. ‘Officer Morozov? Are you the fellow in charge here? I am Captain Samuel Carruthers of
the British Army – here in St Petersburg on government business.’
Morozov turned and stared at him in surprise. Carruthers might not be wearing a uniform, but at that moment, there was no mistaking him as anything but a British Army officer – especially when he reached into his pocket and presented Morozov with an identity badge. Carruthers repeated his remarks in crisp, efficient Russian, so that everyone present could understand them, before he went on: ‘I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding. These people you are arresting are innocent!’
‘But Captain,’ said Officer Morozov, looking very confused as to where this commanding British gentleman had suddenly appeared from. ‘They are anarchists – revolutionaries! They are the ones behind the plot to assassinate His Imperial Majesty, the Tsar. We have information that it was planned in this very house – and that they are storing illegally smuggled guns here.’
‘Guns?’ repeated Carruthers. ‘No, I’m afraid that cannot be possible. You have been misinformed. There are no guns in this house. Your men have not found any evidence of them, have they?’
Morozov looked embarrassed. ‘Well . . . er . . . no,’ he admitted. ‘But –’
Carruthers interrupted before he could say any more. ‘However I have found a gun,’ he said, taking Viktor’s pistol swiftly from Sophie. ‘Just now I removed this unpleasant weapon from this young man – who I’m sorry to say was using it to threaten this young lady. Now, I’m not sure how things are done here, but I must say that in England we would not stand by and let ruffians menace innocent, defenceless young ladies with a gun.’
Morozov gaped like a surprised fish. ‘I can assure you, sir, in Russia such a thing would never be permitted,’ he began – but Carruthers had not finished yet. ‘It is quite clear that this house is anything but a hotbed of revolutionary activity!’ he swept on. ‘I can see that you are a sensible man, Officer – surely it must be clear to you at any rate, that this is a perfectly ordinary lodging house, and nothing more. Look – up there on the wall behind you – a picture of the Tsar’s children! Now, tell me, is that what you would expect to find in the headquarters of a revolutionary cell?’
Spies in St. Petersburg Page 19
