The Moscow Affair (From The Files Of Lady Dru Drummond Book 1)

by CW Hawes

  A light was glowing softly from the window. Most likely a kerosene lantern, which meant someone was probably in the office. We entered and sure enough there was a White soldier armed with a M-40 machine pistol. Before he could react, I had my pistol in his face and Klara was telling him to leave his weapon on the desk and put his hands up. He followed instructions.

  “Now, Klara, take the gun and tell him to strip.”

  She told him and after a moment’s hesitation, he complied.

  “Find some rope or something with which to tie him up.”

  The search took awhile, but she finally found some rope. She stuffed his underpants in his mouth and proceeded to tie him to the desk. We took his extra ammunition and the keys to all the vehicles. I held on to the one for Mikhail’s car, because it was our getaway vehicle.

  Our next task was extra fuel. We found two petrol cans which I guessed each held about five gallons. There was a tank by the other garage where we could fill them. Into the boot they went. I started Mikhail’s GAZ Pobeda.

  “My lady, why don’t we take the Mercedes. It is faster than these Russian cars. I think a peasant’s donkey is faster than a Russian motor.”

  We snickered because she wasn’t far from the truth.

  “Alright, Klara. Find the keys for it and we’ll take the Mercedes.”

  I shut off the engine to the GAZ and got out. We unloaded everything and transferred it to the Mercedes. That’s when we heard a shout.

  “Get the door open, Klara.”

  She opened the door for the stall and I got the Mercedes started. Klara jumped into the car just as the partisan fired a warning shot.

  “Here we go,” I said and put the car in gear, let out the clutch, and took off.

  I heard another shot. If he was aiming at us, he missed. By now everyone would be awake. So much for stealing away in the night. I drove for the main gate.

  “Klara, pull that lever back. That cocks the machine gun. Now when you press the trigger it will shoot. Just a slight press and then release. And hold on tightly.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  We approached the gate with the speedo needle at sixty-five. Klara stuck the submachine gun out the window and the guards took cover. Two tons of Mercedes hit the flimsy wooden gate and turned it into kindling. I jammed the accelerator to the floor and the big streamlined luxury saloon sped off down the road. I kept the needle at one hundred ten kilometers per hour as much as I could. Slowing only if the curves in the road demanded the reduction.

  I slowed down to sixty-five going into Savino, but three sharp turns in the main road forced me to slow to twenty-five. But after the third turn, I had the saloon back up to one hundred and almost collided with a milk wagon. What the hell a milk wagon was doing on the road at 3:30 in the morning was beyond me. Are cows even awake then?

  The Mercedes made short work of the little country road and we were very quickly in Lezhnevo. With Klara’s help, I negotiated the signs and found the route to connect with the M7 going north to Ivanovo. I hoped by going north and then west and finally south to Moscow, I’d throw off any pursuing partisans. What I hadn’t counted on were police officers.

  Ivanovo is a city of around a half million people. There is a military airbase there as well. We blew into the city at 4:37 in the morning. I slowed down to sixty-five kph on entering the city. The streets were deserted at that hour and the route was fairly straight, so I pushed the Mercedes to eighty. The closer we got to the center of Ivanovo, the more cars we saw. But nowhere near what one would encounter in London or New York. In the city center, the road makes an L turn to the west. There’s a semaphore at the intersection, but with very little traffic on the road I slowed down, looked both ways, and made my left turn; driving right through the stoplight. I punched the accelerator and the Autobahnkurier glided back up to eighty. And that’s when I saw the flashing lights and heard the siren.

  What make the police car was, I didn’t know. But if it was Soviet built, I knew the Mercedes would outrun it. If I stopped I had no idea what the police would do. Would they recognize me? I was persona non grata after all. And I have a price on my head. Was I wanted dead or alive? Probably alive. It’s difficult to question a dead person. Most likely I’d be turned over to the secret police and eventually I’d be deported. Which would meet my goal to get out of the country, but not in the manner by which I’d like to leave. After all, the secret police might ruin my manicure to secure information.

  I chuckled at the joke, already missing Dunyasha, and Klara asked what was so funny. I told her and she laughed as well.

  The police were gaining on us. I had to make a decision: stop or run.

  “Klara, are you alright with trying to outrun the police?”

  “If we stop, they will turn us over to the MGB and the MGB might let us go. We are foreign nationals. I’m not famous. It is easier for me to disappear. Especially if they learn we were with the revolution.

  “Yes. You are right.” I stepped on the accelerator and the big streamlined luxury limo glided up to one hundred five kph. Buildings flashed by and then there were a couple of cars I had to dodge, but thanks to the police siren most of the vehicles got out of the way, pulling to the kerb to let us pass.

  The police car was no longer gaining but it stuck to us like a fly on flypaper. We entered the motorway and there was no traffic whatsoever. I pushed the accelerator to the floor. Now we had to pray for the wildlife to stay put and not try to cross the road. I checked the rearview mirror and it looked as though we were very slowly pulling away from the squad car. Thank God for German engineering.

  Klara looked back. “My lady, I think they’ve given up trying to catch us. They’re falling behind quite rapidly now.”

  I looked in the rearview mirror and saw she was right. We were using up a lot of fuel and hadn’t been able to fill the petrol cans before we left. I eased off on the accelerator and kept the speedo needle at one hundred ten. I didn’t know the petrol tank capacity. I just hoped it had enough for us to get to Moscow.

  In the dawn light the countryside still looked dark. There were a few lights on in the small towns we passed. But even they were mostly dark. Once in awhile we passed a car going in the opposite direction or had to pass one in front of us. The air smelled clean and fresh as it only does in the country.

  “If we make it through this, Klara, and get back home, I want you to be my secretary. I don’t need a lady’s maid, but I could use a secretary. Is that alright with you?”

  “I would like very much to be your secretary, my lady.”

  “Good. Then that is settled.”

  The drive was peaceful but Sod’s Law is ever operative. If something can go wrong, it will – and at the worst possible moment. Fate mocks us. We succeeded in outrunning the Russian police car, but our troubles began two and a half kilometers south of the city of Kostroma. Just north of the turn off for the hamlet of Klyushnikovo, there was a blockade across the highway. To the east was a vast woods or forest. To the west, fields with patches of woods. Behind us, in the distance, were the flashing lights of the police car.

  The sun was about to rise any minute. The eastern sky was bright and perhaps the sun had risen and the trees prevented our seeing it. I could stop at the blockade and again take my chances or I could try the turnoff to the little hamlet and take my chances there.

  “Hang on, Klara!”

  I made a sharp left turn and sped down the dirt road to the hamlet of Klyushnikovo. In a little over a kilometer we were there. We crept through the hamlet with the speedo needle at twenty-five. People looked at us like they’d never seen a motorcar before and truth be told they had probably never seen one like the Mercedes I was driving.

  A wagon blocked the street and I had to stop. That was our undoing. In a matter of a minute we were surrounded. There was a tap on my window from a fellow holding a rifle. He spoke Russian.

  “My lady, he’s telling us to surrender. He has orders from Count Neratoff to take us back
to the compound.”

  “I guess the jig is up, Klara.”

  “So it seems, my lady.”

  “Tell him we surrender.” I rolled down my window and Klara told him.

  “He says, ‘Good.’ He wanted no trouble.”

  I sighed. “He won’t get any.” So much for well-laid plans. It was back to the compound. I wasn’t looking forward to seeing Neratoff. God, but I wish Mikhail would return. Even more, I wished Karl would find me and take me home.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Showdown

  Feofil drove the Mercedes back to the compound and his brother Georgy accompanied him to keep a watch on us. Klara was relieved of the submachine gun, but I was not searched for weapons. The two and a half hours passed in relative silence. We arrived at the compound a little after nine. And Neratoff was waiting. Feofil and Georgy opened the doors for us and we got out of the car. I walked around and joined Klara facing Neratoff and four partisans. Dunyasha was there, as well as the man code named “Vitya.”

  “I am very disappointed in you, Lady Hurley-Drummond. I had high hopes for you. I thought you would be an asset to our cause. Instead you have proven to be a liability. And you…” He pointed to Klara. “You are a traitor. You disobeyed my orders. We have no use for traitors.”

  He pulled out his pistol from the holster. And I had my revolver pointed at him before he could rack the slide. The guards had their rifles trained on me and Klara just as quickly.

  “Put the gun back in the holster, Neratoff, or you’re dead,” I said.

  “I die, You die. Klara dies. Such a waste.” He shrugged. “Very well.” He returned the pistol to the holster. “Because of Captain Turbanev, you live and your maid. And only because of him. When he returns, he will make the final decision.” He spoke in Russian and the guards came forward. “You are confined to your rooms. You will be locked in. You and your maid. You will have no visitors. You will surrender your weapons.”

  “Over my dead body. If this place is attacked, I want to be able to go down fighting.”

  He smiled a thin, cold smile. “Very well. We don’t want you dead yet.”

  The guards took us away and, as we entered the house, I heard Dunyasha and Neratoff having a furious argument in Russian. On entering my rooms, I noticed a new sliding bolt on the door to the bedroom and on the door to my work room. Once inside, I asked Klara what the Count and Dunyasha were arguing about.

  “The Baroness was saying the Count should let us go. You were kidnapped, basically, and to hold you isn’t right. I’m your servant and I should go with you. The Count was saying you know too much and can’t leave without jeopardizing the movement.”

  “And what about you?”

  “I betrayed him and should be shot.”

  “Nonsense. I told him I would pay you. His obligation to you was relieved.”

  “My lady, I lied. I was supposed to watch you and report to the Count. But I couldn’t do it. You are a very kind and generous person. I'm sorry. Forgive me, please.” She paused, then continued, “And now I’ve turned against him. He will not let this go. He is a cruel man.”

  I thought back on our first interview. Klara would make a good actress. She sure had me convinced she knew nothing. But now, I could see the fear in her eyes. Genuine fear. She was no longer working for Neratoff. And that was good, because I genuinely liked Klara and wanted her to work for me.

  “For now you are safe. Hopefully Captain Turbanev will be more clear sighted and let us go. And Klara, I do forgive you.”

  “Thank you, my lady. Yes, hopefully Captain Turbanev will let us go.”

  When the time came for lunch, our spartan fare was served by the guard. Borscht, bread, cheese, a sausage, and cabbage made our lunch. The portions were small, but we did have tea to drink. After an hour, the guard removed our trays. Klara and I spent the afternoon playing double solitaire. Supper was even more meager. Cabbage soup, which contained a potato and a couple pieces of meat, and bread. A pitcher of water was provided as well.

  The end of April and the night air was still chill. I built a fire in the fireplace and Klara and I sat before it. We didn’t say much we just took comfort in each other’s company. When the time came to retire for bed, Klara asked to get her bedclothes and was told she could not.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I may have something you can wear.”

  “Thank you, my lady. I'll sleep on the sofa here in my clothes.”

  “Nonsense. The bed is plenty large. We can share it.”

  “You are too generous, my lady.”

  “Pshaw. I married a baronet. I was born a commoner. You and I are no different.”

  “That is what makes you so wonderful, my lady. You remember your roots.”

  “Truth be told, Klara, aristocrats wear clothes as well as commoners. They just make someone else dress them. Put them in front of a mirror, naked, and they look as common as the rest of mankind.”

  Klara giggled. “It’s the truth, my lady.”

  The last day of April dawned with a clear sky. By mid-morning the clouds rolled in dark grey and soon after that the rain began falling. With our breakfast of buckwheat porridge, a samovar was provided. At least we’d have tea for the day. Water was provided for us to wash and the chamber pots were emptied. We had to build our own fire in the fireplace. The box of cigarettes was nearly empty. Klara asked the guard if we could get more. He said, no, and then said he’d ask.

  Just before lunch I heard Dunyasha’s voice, but Klara said the guard turned her away. We can have no visitors. With lunch came cigarettes. At least I wasn’t going to be denied tobacco. Klara doesn’t smoke. Lunch was the same as yesterday’s.

  After the guard took the lunch trays away, I stood at the window and smoked a cigarette. Somewhere out there was Karl. Looking for me. He is Hall Media’s best journalist. He has plenty of those little grey cells Hercule Poirot is always talking about. I would not be surprised if any day now he should be found knocking on the front door.

  Klara joined me at the window. “Funny, I was born in Russia. But I think of England as home.”

  “Yes. I mostly live in America, but England is always home.”

  “Do you think they will let us go?”

  “I think so. Eventually. At this point we are dead weight. Guards must be assigned to watch us. Which ties down fighters who could otherwise be engaging the Soviets. We eat food but produce nothing for them now. That is a waste of precious supplies. I think they’ll let us go. Sooner or later.”

  “I wished I shared your optimism. I think we will meet with accidents and end up in a pair of holes in the ground.”

  “You mustn’t think like that, Klara. We will get out of here alive.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  I could see, though, she wasn’t convinced.

  The afternoon passed with us sitting by the fire and reading. Towards evening, the door to my work room opened and in walked Mikhail and the Count.

  Mikhail bowed. “Good afternoon, Lady Hurley-Drummond.”

  I curtsied. “Good afternoon, Captain.”

  Mikhail turned to the Count. “Dimitri, leave us please.”

  The Count said nothing. Just flashed me that thin, cold smile of his.

  Klara quietly slipped out of the room.

  Mikhail looked at me. “So it has come to this between us.”

  “I don’t belong here, Mikhail. I want to go home and take Klara with me.”

  “I love you, Dru. I fell in love with you and want you for my wife.”

  I looked at the floor. The silence was a great weight.

  There was great sadness in his voice when he spoke. “Yes. It has come to this. The parting of two people who love each other but who can no longer be lovers.”

  I nodded. I looked at him and two tears rolled down my cheeks.

  “You are a very good journalist, Dru, but I don’t think you will make for a very good empress.” He chuckled. “For the first time, the Count has been proven wrong and he
does not like it.” Then he became sober. “Unfortunately, he is right this time. You must remain here. You may have visitors, but you are confined to your rooms. I’m sorry.”

  “Let me go, Mikhail.”

  “I cannot. The Count is right. You know too much. Goodbye Dru.” He bowed, turned, and left.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Reunion

  Dunyasha brought our supper and news of the day.

  “Today is May Day,” she began.

  I nodded.

  “There was the usual grand military parade in Moscow. There was going to be a parade in Ivanovo.”

  “But there wasn’t,” I said.

  “No. We blew up the police station and the grandstand. There is an uprising. Citizens stormed the city office buildings and took them over. The Commissar was hanged. Police and soldiers have joined the revolution.”

  “I suppose Mikhail is ecstatic.”

  “Very much so. But I know you aren’t overly interested in such news.”

  “No. Certainly not now.”

  “Then you may be interested in this. Seventy-five kilometers south of here, we engaged a Soviet unit. We overran their position and captured four Americans whom the Army had captured and were going to execute for spying. I believe you know two of them. Christopher Somers and Karl von Weidner.”

  My hand flew to my mouth. “Oh my God,” is all I managed to get out before I started crying.

  Dunyasha and Klara both hugged me. I calmed down and asked the all important question: “Where are they?”

  “The four are here. Neratoff and Mikhail are questioning them. We are trying to find out if the execution was ordered from higher up or if the unit commander was operating on his own. And that is all I know.”

  “What if the execution was ordered from higher up?” I asked.