Red Wheels Turning

by Ashton, Hugh

  “Colonel Petrov. He’s the one in charge of this whole place. You said that you saw us taking the Netopyr out today?” Kolinski nodded. “Well, he was the little fat one who came down and watched us while we went over the trenches.”

  A thought came to Kolinski. “Who was the other one, the tall one who was with Petrov?”

  “Some Englishman who’s come over with another English officer to look at the Netopyr and make suggestions to Petrov or something like that.”

  “Aha!” The parts of the puzzle fell into place. Now he knew why the face was familiar. It was the same English officer who had escorted him in the ambulance from the submarine to the hospital in Reval. What an extraordinary coincidence that he should be travelling in the very same submarine that picked him up out of the Baltic. Or was it coincidence? Kolinski couldn’t be sure, but he would take money on a bet that the submarine knew of his existence and had been following him across the ocean. But how could they know he was there on the ferry, or in the lifeboat, or in the water? “You’re going crazy!” he said to himself, but out loud.

  “What?” said the other.

  “Nothing, just talking to myself,” he replied. “You said there was another Englishman?”

  “Yes. He seems to be an engineer. My uncle let him control the Netopyr for a while, and he certainly knows his way around engines and motors. He came in on the Zaamurets yesterday.” Kolinski frowned in puzzlement. “The Zaamurets is another of Petrov’s toys. He calls it a rail cruiser. You say you came in on that armoured train yesterday?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Your train had a locomotive and carriages, right? Well, the Zaamurets is only one car with guns and armour, and it’s its own locomotive.”

  “Looks a bit like a tortoise?” asked Kolinski.

  “I suppose you could say that. It can go quite a lot faster than the usual type of armoured train, and it can fight better. Yesterday Petrov held a target shooting competition between an ordinary armoured train and the Zaamurets. The Zaamurets won hands-down, I heard.”

  “What sort of guns?” asked Kolinski.

  “Nordenfelts. Two of them. I know, because that’s the sort of thing we’re thinking of putting in the Netopyr. And a lot of machine-guns.”

  “Can you drive a train?” asked Kolinski. “Could you drive the Zaamurets?”

  “I’ve never driven a steam train, but the Zaamurets uses very similar engines to the Netopyr. Why?”

  “If we could get the Zaamurets close to this shed, I could probably manage to get the guns working, and we could blow up this shed and the Netopyr.”

  The engineer shook his head. “The railway doesn’t come close enough to this shed,” he said. “Uncle Kolya was pretty angry about it, because it means that all the parts for the Netopyr have to be carried about five hundred metres by the soldiers on handcarts, and they are always dropping things or damaging them. He’s asked for some other way of doing things, like a small railway, but because the Netopyr isn’t really an official project, there’s no money, they say.”

  “Then we have to make sure that the Netopyr comes close to the railway,” replied Kolinski. A smile spread over his face. “Maybe we can do the world a favour, and introduce the Netopyr and this Zaamurets thing to each other?”

  -oOo-

  Petrov, Brian and Harry were sitting round the table, drafting their almost identical reports on the Zaamurets to trap the suspected traitor in the British Embassy. Maria had been persuaded that it was not in her interests to be privy to this part of the operation, and though she protested, she had gone off reluctantly, leaving the three men hunched over a pile of papers.

  “We have to make the whole thing specific enough to be believed, and also to make sure that the Germans are responding to a threat of the Zaamurets, and not to anything else,” said Brian. “Otherwise there’s no point in doing this.”

  “I don’t think you need to worry about that too much,” answered Petrov. “Basically, the Germans are facing infantry most of the time, and they seem to have moved most of their artillery to the Western Front. Since the Zaamurets is tied to the rail lines, which the Germans typically avoid, any new concentration of German troops around the rail network, especially supported by machine-guns and artillery, is going to give the game away.”

  “All right,” Brian agreed. “How much time do we give the Germans to move their troops into position? I mean, when are these supposed Zaamurets attacks going to take place?”

  “I’d say about four weeks from now should do it,” said Petrov.

  “But you only have the one Zaamurets,” pointed out Harry.

  “I know that, and you know that. The Germans don’t know it, though, and I am sure that your people in the embassy have no idea either. Let’s say three Zaamurets cruisers in four weeks. It’s perfectly feasible, I think. Here is a list of the locations,” passing over a piece of paper. “And this is where they are on a map,” opening another folded sheet. “As you can see, all of these are places where it would seem reasonable to make a breakthrough spearheaded by a Zaamurets attack.”

  “Can’t argue with that reasoning,” said Brian. “Very good, we’d better get writing.”

  “If you don’t mind,” said Petrov, a few minutes later. “Can I leave you gentlemen?” He yawned. “I’m tired, and I will bid you goodnight.” They all rose to their feet as Petrov walked to the door.

  “Is this really going to work, do you think?” Brian asked Harry.

  “You’re asking me?” replied Harry. “It seems a bit unlikely, really. If the worst comes to the worst, I suppose it will narrow the field a bit.”

  “I don’t want it to work,” said Brian. “I don’t mean that I want the traitor to continue with what he’s doing – don’t get me wrong about that – but this seems to me to be the wrong way to go about things.”

  “Any better ideas?”

  “I’m damned sure that it’s Charles Featherington. If there’s a train back to Moscow from here tomorrow, I want to be on it, and then back to Petrograd to confront the man face to face.”

  “And if you’re wrong?”

  “Then I’ve wasted a few days and a railway ticket. But if I’m right, then at least he’s been caught fair and square and not by some trap. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

  “I suppose so. What do you think Petrov’s going to say about you just walking out on us here?”

  Brian put down the pen he had been writing with, and looked Harry in the eye. “Harry, you’re a lot more use than I am here. You know as much about trench fighting as me, and you know much more about the mechanical side of all of this than I do. I want you to take care of the Netopyr business here. And there’s another thing…” His voice tailed off, and Harry looked at him questioningly. “Damn it, Harry, what are you going to do about Maria?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Harry, she can’t take her eyes off you.”

  Harry laughed embarrassedly. “Brian, you’ve gone bloody daft.”

  “I’m serious, Harry. Have you really not noticed how she always arranges things so that it’s your arm she leans on as we go up steps and so on? You’re the one she always talks to at dinner.”

  “That’s ridiculous. She’s a well-brought up girl, being polite to her father’s visitors, that’s all,” protested Harry. Brian snorted. “And in any case,” Harry went on, “even if what you are saying is true, there’s no way a Grand Duchess or whatever she may be is going to have anything to do with someone like me. Look what she did to that poor nephew of Lebedenko’s when he tried to take her arm and guide her round the place.”

  Brian laughed. “Poor lad. I’ve never seen anyone look so embarrassed as when she turned her back on him and started talking to her father. I tell you, Harry, I have some bloody snobs in my family – the sort of person you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy – but she could give lessons in showing the cold shoulder to any of them. But she’s definitely showing a different kind of
shoulder to you. I can tell.”

  “I think you’re making this up as you go along. I haven’t heard you come up with such a load of cobblers since I don’t know when.”

  “Just saying, Harry, that’s all. Just saying.”

  Harry started to laugh. “I still don’t believe you. You’re pulling my leg.”

  “Then open your bloody eyes.”

  Harry hadn’t stopped laughing. “I do believe you’re jealous.”

  “I am not—!” Brian caught himself and continued in a quieter tone. “All right, I admit it, perhaps I am, just a little. But believe me, the gap between her and you isn’t that much bigger than between her and me. Face it, lad, she’s out of your class and she’s out of mine as well. As I said to you some time back, she’s probably been promised to some prince or duke or something since she was four years old.” He sighed. “Anyway, changing the subject… How are those letters getting on? I’ve done one, and I have two left on my list here.”

  “Same here. Finish them off, and then we’ll call it a night.”

  “No, don’t bother doing them. If I’m going to Petrograd, there’s no point in sending these letters, is there?”

  “If you’re going,” Harry reminded him.

  “I’m going,” said Brian, with a set jaw, and a determined look on his face. “Don’t worry about that.”

  -oOo-

  Once he’d reached Petrograd, Brian soon made his way from the station to the British Embassy, where he caused some consternation by loudly demanding to see Charles Featherington.

  “I regret to inform you that he hasn’t arrived here yet,” the porter at the front gate informed him, after Brian had given his name and Army rank.

  Brian made a show of pulling out his watch and looking at it. “I suppose quarter past ten is a bit early for old Charlie,” he admitted. “Maybe I can wait for him in his office?”

  “I’d have to check whether that would be possible,” replied the porter. “Sir,” he added, as Brian glared down at him from his full height. “I’ll be with you in a moment, sir,” as he scurried off.

  Brian wondered for a moment whether he should make his own way to Featherington’s office, but decided that this was not the ideal time for him to start making waves. He tapped his foot impatiently on the stone floor as he waited. After a few minutes, the porter returned, in the train of one of the Embassy diplomats.

  “Now then, Lieutenant Finch-Malloy, I don’t know who the devil you are to come in here and start demanding a private audience with one of our most respected diplomats—”

  Brian held his temper in check, but cut the man off in mid-flow. “Sir, if we could step aside a little?” He jerked his head towards the porter, to emphasise the need for privacy.

  The other took the hint. “You’re being most mysterious, Finch-Malloy. I hope you have a good reason for all of this.”

  Brian had come prepared. “Indeed, I do, sir.” He reached into an inner pocket, and withdrew a stiff official envelope, clearly marked with the Royal coat of arms. “If you would, sir.” Brian had his doubts as to whether the man actually rated so many “sirs”, but it seemed like a wise move.

  The bureaucrat took the envelope gingerly, and extracted the paper from within it. His eyebrows raised as he perused the letter from C. “‘To whom it may concern’,” he quoted. “Well, I suppose it concerns me. You hush-hush fellows seem to get everywhere. Name’s Crofts-Lavery, if it’s of any interest to you. I suppose there’s no point in my asking you why you want to see young Featherington?” Brian shook his head. “I supposed as much. In which case, I suppose there’s nothing for it but to ask you to wait in his room.” He turned to the porter. “Thank you, Smithers. I will show Lieutenant Finch-Malloy to Mr. Featherington’s room myself. Follow me,” to Brian. Brian followed the heels clacking down the hallway. “In here,” he was told. “Need anything, Lieutenant?” Brian shook his head again. “Fine,” replied the frustrated Crofts-Lavery. “I’ll leave you here, then.”

  The door closed, and Brian sat in the chair behind the desk. He resisted the temptation to look through the drawers, or shuffle through the papers on the desk, but rested his chin on his hands, rehearsing the forthcoming conversation in his mind.

  After about ten minutes, the door burst open, and Charles Featherington entered the room, looking somewhat the worse for wear.

  “They told me you’d pushed your way here,” he said, more quietly than the words and the expression on his face suggested. “What the hell are you back here for?”

  “Shut the door and sit down there,” Brian ordered in reply, pointing to a chair on the far side of the desk.

  “Why on earth are you sitting in my chair at my desk?” asked Featherington in reply, seemingly only just having taken in the fact.

  “Never mind. Please do as I say.”

  Featherington closed the door, and sat as directed, wincing a little. “Rough night last night.” He grinned feebly. Brian didn’t return the grin. “So what’s all this in aid of?” he asked, returning to seriousness.

  Brian avoided the other’s eyes. “I really don’t know how to tell you this,” he began, forgetting all the speeches he had been rehearsing in his head. “The long and short of it is, that someone’s passing on our information to Jerry, and the finger seems to point in your direction. Give me your word of honour that it’s not you, and I will go back to London and tell them, with the greatest pleasure in the world, that they were mistaken.” He watched the other’s face carefully as he made his speech, noting the shock that appeared in Featherington’s bloodshot eyes.

  “Just my word?” asked Featherington, biting his bottom lip. “You wouldn’t want any proof?”

  “How could you prove that you’re not a traitor?” shot back Brian. The word “traitor” had a further effect on Featherington, who squirmed in the chair, and looked down at his shoes.

  “Silly of me to imagine I could do that, I suppose.” He looked up, almost defiantly. There were now tears in his eyes, Brian noticed. “No, I can’t give you my word.” Brian remained silent, continuing to stare at him. “It’s a blasted relief to admit it, I have to say. Who are you, anyway? You’re not police. Are you? Are you going to be giving evidence against me or something?” He was almost crying by now, and the words came out disjointedly.

  “I’m not the police. I have no power to make an official arrest or anything like that. I was sent here to trap you by a rather underhand trick that I didn’t want anything to do with. I thought it was better if you admitted it all yourself – if there was anything to admit. And I’m sorry to see that there does seem to be something to be confessed. Want to talk about it?” he added, after a pause.

  “Not really. Well, maybe. You know I have damnable bad luck at picking winners? If they gave money for picking losers, I’d be a rich man, I tell you. And Pater’s been pretty generous with my allowance, I have to say, but even so...”

  “And so you found someone who would help you over the bad patch?” Featherington nodded silently in reply. “And they started charging a little more interest than you were expecting?” Another nod. “And then?”

  “It all came through the moneylender. He knew that I wouldn’t be able to pay off what I owed him without some help, and put me in touch with someone he said would be able to pay off my debts for me.”

  “German?”

  “No. One of those Confederates, but with a German sort of name.”

  “And you thought that it didn’t really matter too much, because we’re not at war with the Confederate States of America? And anyway, it was only Russian information, not British? Correct?” Featherington nodded silently. “Didn’t it ever occur to you that he might be passing your information along to the Huns?”

  “Maybe,” muttered Featherington.

  “You damned fool. And did he pay off your debts?”

  “Not all of them. There was always enough owing that I had to keep giving him what he asked for.”

  “I won’t ask you
who he was or what he was asking for. You can tell them all that in London.”

  “You might at least leave me here alone with a pistol or something. Let me do the honourable thing?”

  “Sorry, Charlie,” replied Brian, using the other’s Christian name for the first time. “They need to know in London just how much of the shop you’ve given away. And who knows, maybe it’s not enough to justify your killing yourself, after all? I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. Besides, if you kill yourself here in Petrograd, it’s going to look pretty messy for the Embassy here.”

  “And what’s it going to be like for my family if I go back and they shoot me or hang me or whatever?” He paused. “Look here, Finch-Malloy, I know it’s early and all that, but I think I need a drink. Do you mind?” Brian shook his head, and Featherington pulled a hip-flask out of his pocket and swigged from it. “Believe me, I need the stuff now. Another thing for me to be ashamed of, I suppose.” He repeated his question.

  “They’ll do it very quietly, I am sure. It will be better for you and for everyone if you cooperate this way.”

  “And how do I get back to London?”

  “The same way that I came here. Max Horton and his magic submarine. He’s still here in Russia, in Reval. It’s not a comfortable journey, but you’ll get back safe and sound. We can arrange things here so that no-one need know why you’ve left. And no-one at home need know what’s happened to you, either. Maybe you were just returning home on leave from here and you slipped overboard from the submarine. It could be arranged that way if you— if you don’t appear in public again, and you don’t want your family to know what’s been going on.”

  “How many other people know about all of this?”

  “The chap I’m working with, one of the Russians – I think it’s only him on the Russian side who knows anything – and my chief in London and some of his people. I’m afraid your cousin Henry Dowling knows – he works for the same people as me. It’s not going to go any further than it needs to. For one thing, you’re a bloody embarrassment to us all. We really don’t need to tell the world about it.”