The Golden Fleece Affair (From The Files Of Lady Dru Drummond Book 2)

by CW Hawes

  “Where to, Lady Hurley-Drummond?” Branson asked.

  “The market area. Maybe we can buy food and perhaps even information.”

  He nodded and we set off for the market area.

  “It’s a long walk,” Branson commented. “It’s on the other side of town.”

  Dunyasha muttered, “Of course it is.”

  I took her hand and gave it a squeeze.

  “The things I do for you, Little Kitten,” she said.

  I gave her hand another squeeze.

  We made our way across the city and by the time we reached the market area, the grey clouds were much lighter indicating the sun had risen. The vendors were setting up and shoppers were already beginning to arrive. Giving evidence the city wasn’t completely deserted after all. Being April, there wasn’t much in the way of green vegetables. Most vendors had an array of cellared root vegetables, meat, cheese, bread, yoghurt, and milk. The smell of the freshly baked bread was a blanket against the grey and cold city.

  The first stall we stopped at, Dunyasha picked up a block of cheese and a loaf of bread. When she asked the cost in Russian, the woman took the food out of her hands, yelled at her in Georgian, and with hand gestures indicated she should go away.

  “So much for getting a bite of breakfast,” Branson said.

  Dunyasha was steamed and glowered at him. She looked every bit the crocodile ready to lay into a water buffalo. I suppose she was actually angry at the vendor and just took it out on the safer party.

  We walked to the other end of the market and found a Russian speaking vendor. Dunyasha spoke to him. He nodded and his tone was both friendly and anguished. She gave him quite a few rubles. He protested. Dunyasha, however, was insistent. In the end, in addition to the bread and cheese, we got two very good-looking sausages.

  With food in hand, we walked around looking for anything else we might need. In the crowd, for there was a crowd now, I spotted Klara and Zholkov. Apparently they were getting some breakfast for their teams. They didn’t see me and that was just as well, since we didn’t want there to be any connection between us and any of the other “refugee” groups.

  At one stall, I stopped to look at the Georgian tea. Dunyasha and Branson continued on down the row and stopped a couple stalls away to look at something. The merchant started talking to me. I pointed to my ears and mouth and shook my head. I was playing deaf and dumb, as I had last year when escaping Russia with Dunyasha. He nodded and sat back down. The descriptions, in Russian and Georgian, were neatly printed on little white slips of paper. Which left me to look at the color and shape of the leaves, as my Russian is virtually non-existent. The merchant did point to a couple bags of tea and indicated he thought them of fine quality.

  A man standing next to me said, “It is a pity you don’t know the language. Such knowledge would make a decision much easier.”

  I froze. The one voice I did not want to hear ever again.

  “Cat got your tongue, Lady Hurley-Drummond?”

  I took a deep breath. No time for panic now, Dru, I told myself. I turned and faced him. Our eyes met. His disguise was very good. I would not have recognized him if he hadn’t spoken to me. “What a pleasure to see you again, Count Neratoff.” I even managed a smile.

  He smiled his thin little smile. “Obviously you did not heed my warning. ‘Tis a pity. In spite of what you think, I do not wish to kill you. However, since you did not heed my warning, I must tell you if you continue to meddle in affairs which are not yours I am not responsible for any ill health which should come your way. Whether the result of a piece of lead or some other cause.”

  “Thank you for the warning, my lord.”

  He nodded. “Your being here, though, does beg the question, have you had a change of heart?”

  “No. As long as you ruin a good man, the attitude of my heart cannot change.”

  Neratoff chuckled. “You live in a world of your own making, Lady Hurley-Drummond.” He said something in Russian to the merchant, who began putting tea into a bag. “Ah, the Baroness is coming. Give her my regards.” He paid for the tea and disappeared into the crowd.

  I turned just as Dunyasha and Branson arrived. She asked, “Do I want to know who you were talking to?”

  “He gives you his regards,” I said.

  “I figured as much,” she replied.

  Branson’s face showed his curiosity.

  “Count Neratoff,” I said. “I was talking to him.”

  Branson nodded. “Not surprised. We’ll probably be running into lots of people. Most of whom we don’t want to know.”

  “Let me buy you tea, Little Kitten,” Dunyasha said, “and then we’ll go to the Hall Media offices and report.”

  I nodded. Dunyasha bought two half kilos, after which we left the market area. We made our way across the city in yet another direction to Hall Media. Fierce fighting must’ve taken place in Kutaisi. Many areas were piles of rubble. Destroyed Soviet tanks were everywhere. We also saw several Italian planes that had been shot down and crashed in the city. The smell of burnt steel and cordite was still evident.

  Hall Media was located in a smallish two-storey building near the airport. When we announced who we were to the receptionist, we were taken to see the Director of Hall Media’s Kutaisi office, Curtis Malz. None of the other teams had checked in yet. We reported meeting Count Neratoff and Malz made a note of it. He provided us with breakfast and Dunyasha made tea.

  “I find it best if I and my staff eat at the office,” he said. “Makes for easier shopping and preparation and guarantees all the staff eat in these uncertain times.”

  “How many are here?” I asked.

  “Aside from myself and Elsa, my secretary, there is Olga, our receptionist, Boris, our maintenance man, and Dina, our nurse, who also looks after Olga’s two children. Olga’s husband was killed in a bombing. Boris’s wife, Katya, does our shopping and cooking. We have one reporter, Chester Vanderhagen, and one guard, Stanley Baum. Back when the Soviets had everything under control, we had a couple more reporters. Now, the situation here is quite dangerous and Mr Hall does not want to take too many risks. He is thinking of shutting the office down until the situation stabilizes. In the meantime, we form one big family.”

  After eating our soft boiled eggs and toast, and drinking our tea, we left Hall Media.

  “Any suggestions as to how we proceed?” I asked.

  “Perhaps we should check out the place where the president of the provisional government is staying,” Branson said.

  Dunyasha agreed, saying, “If we notice who else might be watching the place, we’ll get an indication if others think or know if the fleece is there. Or even in the city, for that matter.”

  The government was temporarily located in a couple large houses and a former church, near the center of the city. We made our way there and took in the situation. The two houses were next door to each other. The church was a block away. Outside the houses were guards. We sat across the street and a couple houses down, observing who went in and out and searching for others who might be doing what we were doing.

  We’d been sitting no more than a half-hour when a guard chased us away. We walked down to the next block. At the street corner, Branson said, “Okay, now we have to get creative.”

  “What do you propose?” Dunyasha asked.

  “That we climb up to the roof of one of those buildings across the street from the two buildings the president and his staff occupy and observe from there. However, before we do so, we should check out behind the buildings.”

  I looked up at the tops of the buildings. They weren’t overly tall, nevertheless I wasn’t crazy about the idea.

  We walked around the block and got behind the buildings the government had taken over. They were easy to spot, because there were guards. From the street to the back of the former mansions, there was open space that had perhaps once been some rich person’s yard. Now it was just neglected ground. On either side of the empty lots were more buil
dings. Houses or houses converted to shops. Some looked inhabited, others were obviously abandoned. We continued on around the block and were back on the street the government offices faced.

  Branson looked up at the roofs of the buildings opposite and said, “Our challenge will be finding a way onto the roof.”

  The houses were connected or appeared to be, so if we got onto the roof of one we should be able to walk to the others. We walked around to the other side of the block. There was no alley dividing the block and there were more houses on this side.

  I stated the obvious. “We’re going to have to trespass to get to where we need to go.”

  Dunyasha put her hands on her hips and said, “Dru Drummond, since when did you become concerned about snooping or trespassing? Journalists always snoop and trespass.”

  “I guess so,” I replied. “Ever since I saw Neratoff…”

  “Oh, Dru,” Dunyasha said and hugged me. “It’s okay. He’s not going to do anything to you.”

  Her holding me brought back my resolve, which is probably why I said, “Thanks, Dee.”

  She pushed me away from her and said, “You little imp!”

  Branson and I laughed and, finally, Dunyasha joined us.

  Twenty-Two

  Limits to Devotion

  Kutaisi, Georgia

  Tuesday, 20 April 1954

  Dunyasha, Branson, and I are at Hall Media. What an incredible day we’ve had. The horrible news Doctor Franzen told us, Dunyasha and I being kidnapped, and the certain knowledge of where the fleece is located made today momentous and horrible all at the same time.

  Allow me, though, to go back to yesterday and report what Dunyasha, Branson, and I discovered sitting up on the roof of the building across the street from the Georgian president’s home and offices.

  Whereas Luck was not a lady out there on the road into the city, she was quite the lady yesterday. I did not have to crawl up a drainpipe or some other equally impossible means of gaining access to the roof. We simply took the fire stairs.

  Hunkered down behind a couple foot high decorative crenellated wall, we began our observation of the government buildings. Branson had a pair of small yet powerful binoculars. We took turns using them to watch the comings and goings across the street. On one of my turns, I was panning the windows to see if there was anything remarkable or noteworthy visible. There was. I nudged Dunyasha and gave her the binoculars.

  “Top floor, two windows to the right of the main door,” I instructed.

  She focused the instrument. Then muttered something in Russian.

  “That’s SS-Sturmbannführer Leon Leiprecht, isn’t it?” I asked.

  “It is,” she replied. “I wonder whose side he’s on?”

  “He’s a Nazi, Dunyasha. He isn’t here helping the Czarists.”

  “You’re right, Little Kitten. His knowledge of Turbanev and Neratoff, will give him an advantage.”

  “Probably why he’s here. And notice, he’s on the inside of the government building.”

  “Yes. Probably making a deal with the Provisional Government. Der Führer is sticking it to Il Duce.”

  “Do you think the Georgians would give up the fleece?”

  “Not likely. Although, I’m sure Leiprecht will try to get it in exchange for massive amounts of aid and getting the Italians to withdraw.”

  Branson had been listening to our conversation. “So you know this Nazi officer?”

  Dunyasha said, “Yes. He was giving technical and strategic advice to the Czarists. He is very good at his job. A bit arrogant and too willing to withdraw when a situation doesn’t look favorable. He is ruthless and dedicated to Der Führer’s cause. Mikhail was willing to trust him more than Neratoff.”

  Branson nodded and I’m sure had the information filed away by the time Dunyasha had finished speaking.

  “You have a good eye and memory, Little Kitten,” Dunyasha said.

  “I’m a journalist. Remember?”

  “How can I forget when you are always reminding me?”

  Branson chuckled. “You two fight like you’re sisters.”

  “In a way, we are,” I said.

  Dunyasha leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Yes. We are sisters. Not by blood. But we are sisters.”

  The rest of the day didn’t give us any information as spectacular as spotting Leiprecht. We did spot Delta team being escorted away at gunpoint by guards. Otherwise, things looked to be fairly quiet.

  This morning we were back at our rooftop observation post when the Soviets launched an airstrike. I counted thirty aircraft. Branson said ten of the planes were fighters. We watched the dogfights as the Italian air force moved in to intercept. The battle see-sawed back and forth when suddenly we saw a beam of white light shoot out of the wooded hills to our north. It was Ernest. It had to be. A Soviet bomber exploded and took down two other bombers with it. A second beam struck a wing of another Soviet bomber and we watched it disintegrate. The plane banked sharply and fell out of the sky, disappearing from sight. Seconds later, an explosion.

  Several bombers began dropping bombs. The beam struck an Italian plane, which careened out of control into the mountains. A bomber was hit by the particle beam as it began dropping its payload and exploded. Another plane, apparently hit by debris, lost a wing and went down. A bomb landed behind us and rocked the building where we’d set up our lookout.

  “Probably a five hundred pounder,” Branson said.

  A Soviet fighter came in for a strafing run along the street in front of the government buildings. Its machine guns were blazing and rockets were launched. The plane pulled up and circled around. It was hit by an Italian missile and exploded. The Italian plane, in turn, taking machine gun fire from a Soviet fighter, crashed someplace in the city.

  The particle beam took out another Soviet bomber, which took out an Italian fighter when it exploded. The Russians, apparently having enough, broke off the attack, with the Italians in pursuit.

  “I wonder if the robot acted on its own, or if Shelsher put it up to the attack?” Branson asked.

  “Does it matter?” Dunyasha replied.

  “I suppose not,” Branson said. “I just wish the robot hadn’t attacked. Now everyone knows something is out there. I don’t think the knowledge bodes well for us.”

  Branson’s assessment didn’t sound very encouraging. Unfortunately, I found myself agreeing with him.

  We climbed down from the roof and made our way to Hall Media to check in. That’s where we found Doctor Franzen and heard his story. This is what he told us.

  “Mr Pond, Private Denham, and I were on the northside of the city and had discovered the hideout of a group of Soviet operatives. Mr Pond was able to make out some of their conversation. They apparently have an operative in the Georgian Provisional Government. The fleece is there. In the president’s office.”

  Dunyasha said, “Explains why we saw Leiprecht there.”

  Franzen asked, “Who’s Leiprecht?”

  “An SS officer who was working with the Czarists,” she replied.

  I was watching Franzen’s face and I thought I caught a very slight reaction; a twinkle in his eye, maybe, or a Mona Lisa smile touching his lips. There was definitely something. Dear Doctor Franzen was not sorry to hear an SS officer was working with the Georgians.

  He continued. “I see. Well, Mr Pond had gleaned an important piece of information and we were getting ready to come here to report when the air raid began. Suddenly we found ourselves surrounded by what I took to be Soviet soldiers dressed as civilians. Mr Pond started to talk to them, when a soldier knocked him down. I can only assume they thought we were spies. Three soldiers grabbed us so we couldn’t leave. The one holding Private Denham pushed him to the ground and he was shot. The one holding Mr Pond pushed him back to the ground. At that point an airplane crashed three houses away. In the turmoil after the impact, I escaped and made my way here.”

  “You’re lucky to be alive,” I said.

  “I am i
ndeed, Lady Hurley-Drummond. I am indeed.”

  “No sign of Pond?” Branson asked.

  Franzen shook his head.

  “I’m still confused how you got away, Doctor Franzen,” I said. Something didn’t seem right to me. Our whiny, fussy professor was able to break free from Soviet soldiers while an experienced soldier and secret agent weren’t? It didn’t add up.

  “I told you,” he said. “We were held by the Soviet soldiers. They were physically holding us. The one who was holding Private Denham pushed him to the ground and another soldier shot him. Mr Pond had been knocked down. He was picked up off the ground and held by a soldier. After the private was shot, Pond was pushed to the ground again. I can only assume he was going to be shot and after him, me. Then the plane crashed just a few houses away. The ground shook, several soldiers lost their balance. Mine let go of me to steady himself. Debris was falling around us. I ran and no one pursued me. I do not know if Mr Pond made his escape or not. It was a harrowing experience.”

  “Yes. I can imagine,” I said.

  The receptionist told us lunch was being served and we were invited to join the staff. We decided to do so. I in particular wanted to wait for the other groups to check in. Denham was dead and Pond most likely was as well. I didn’t know Private Denham, but I did know Elmer. Franzen’s news saddened me. However, since learning the good doctor was a secret Nazi, I have been wary of him. Consequently, I wasn’t ready to buy his story. That Pond and Denham were dead, yes, I believed that part. Did I buy how they died? No, I did not. I couldn’t pin my disbelief to any one thing in particular. Perhaps my journalist’s nose was simply sniffing out a fabrication, a rehearsed story, when it smelled one.

  Lunch was served in a large conference room on the first floor. Malz apologized for our having to take the stairs as the lift had broken down and he had not been able to get it repaired due to the war.

  At the table were Malz and his secretary, Elsa. She is a German from the Crimea and had responded to an advertisement to work in Hall Media’s Sevastopol office, then transferred to Berlin, and finally took the assignment in Kutaisi. Olga and her children were Russians living in Georgia, as were Boris and Katya. Dina was a Georgian. All seemed to get along quite well together. The reporter, Chester Vanderhagen, was from New York, went to school in Iowa, and then worked for Hall Media in New York City before taking the Kutaisi assignment. He was young and quite eager. The only staff person not present was Stanley Baum, the guard. He was on duty.