Wallace of the Secret Service (Wallace of the Secret Service Series)

by Alexander Wilson

  ‘You are simply wasting time by behaving like this,’ he observed. ‘The sooner you realise that I mean what I say, the better. If you refuse to accompany us, I will shoot you dead where you are, and take Monsieur Vassiloff with me as hostage.’

  One long look of hatred Lenin gave him; then he and Vassiloff, the Commissary of Police, spoke eagerly together in whispers. Wallace ordered Shannon to go round and search everyone in the room to ascertain if they had weapons concealed on them. The young man met with a certain amount of opposition, but his methods were not too gentle, and those who resisted became like children in his hands. Not a weapon of any kind was found.

  ‘Now,’ commanded Sir Leonard, ‘we will depart, if you please. Stand up, Lenin, and you, too, Vassiloff!’

  From the looks exchanged between the two Russians, it became evident that they had been plotting a counter-move. An expression of dismay spread over Vassiloff’s face.

  ‘Why am I included in that order?’ he asked.

  ‘Because I have decided to take you with me in any case,’ was the reply. ‘You’re not an expert dissembler, Vassiloff, and it is evident that you and Lenin had hatched some plot or other. Get up, both of you; I am in a hurry!’

  ‘Never,’ ground out Lenin.

  Sir Leonard walked slowly towards him until the revolver was only a few inches from his head.

  ‘I’ll count to three,’ he threatened, ‘if, by the time I finish, you are still sitting there, I’ll fire. One – two—’

  The Russian’s face once again went livid, and he rose hastily to his feet.

  ‘Good,’ commented Wallace. ‘You, too, Vassiloff.’ He had no difficulty with the Commissary. ‘Now, gentlemen,’ he said, turning to the other Russians at the table, ‘the best thing you can do is to return to your homes. I give you my word that, if any attempt is made to arrest or in any way interfere with my companions and myself, Messieurs Lenin and Vassiloff will be shot. It would be easy enough, for instance, to telephone through to some town or village en route, and order us to be stopped by soldiers armed with rifles and so on, but directly such an attempt is made, you can prepare to go into mourning for these hostages. I hope I am quite understood.’ He turned his eyes on the foreign delegates. ‘If I may presume to advise you gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I suggest that you return to your own countries as soon as possible, and entirely forget why you came to Moscow. Believe me, it would be the wisest thing you could do.’

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Herr Paulus in a hoarse voice.

  ‘Does that matter?’ smiled Wallace.

  He told Shannon to unlock the service door and, as soon as that was done, ordered Lenin and Vassiloff to move. They made a last attempt at resistance, urging, among other things, the necessity for warm coats and hats, but the revolvers, held so firmly by Shannon and his chief, proved effective silencers to all objections, and complete answers to every argument. Led by Shannon, and with Sir Leonard in the rear, the quartet passed out of the room followed by the dismayed looks of the men remaining at the table. The door was locked behind them, and they descended the stairs, walked along several passages, and emerged into a side street. In their progress they had been fortunate enough to avoid meeting a soul, which was the reason why Sir Leonard had chosen the back way. It was a dark night, and there were very few people about. Sending Shannon round to the front entrance to fetch the car, he stood guard over his prisoners. It was chilly and a slight rain was falling, a fact which did not conduce to a better frame of mind in the Russians. Presently a huge car turned the corner, and pulled up close to them. Wallace sighed his relief when he saw that it was a limousine.

  ‘You won’t want coats after all,’ he observed cheerfully.

  Assisted by Shannon and Cousins, he shepherded the hostages in, and got in after them. The little man’s face was a mass of delighted wrinkles.

  ‘Shall we keep the driver, sir?’ he asked.

  Wallace pondered the question for a moment.

  ‘No,’ he decided at last; ‘it will be safer to leave him behind. Not knowing the country, we may be driven into a trap, if we trust to him. You and Shannon will have to take turns. Get us out of Moscow; then we’ll study the map in my case, and—’

  ‘I’ve already taken the liberty of doing that, sir,’ interrupted Cousins. ‘Where do you intend to make for?’

  ‘Smolensk, Minsk and the Polish border,’ promptly replied Sir Leonard. ‘I don’t want you to go through those towns, if it is possible to avoid them, but that’s the general direction. How about petrol?’

  ‘We’ve enough to take us a hundred and fifty miles. I daresay we can get some more long before that runs out.’ He turned to the chauffeur, who was sitting in his seat looking rather puzzled. ‘Come on, little brother,’ he said in Russian, ‘out you get.’

  The man commenced to protest, whereupon Wallace stuck the muzzle of his revolver into Vassiloff’s ribs.

  ‘Tell him it is your command,’ he said.

  Reluctantly he was obeyed, and the driver, looking more puzzled than ever, climbed out of the car. Cousins promptly took his place, Shannon jumped inside and sat next to Sir Leonard, and they were off. They were a long time getting out of Moscow, as Cousins chose a circuitous route in order to avoid the main streets, but eventually they were through the suburbs heading west. Vassiloff and Lenin sat like graven images, their faces eloquently expressive of baffled rage. Opposite them, revolvers handy, were Wallace and Shannon. Hour after hour went by, scarcely a word was uttered, but neither of the Russians made any attempt to sleep. It was long after midnight when the car stopped by a petrol pump in the outskirts of Viazena. Cousins’ face appeared at the window.

  ‘If I can wake up these people, sir,’ he remarked, ‘I think we’d better take in ten gallons, and a couple of tins of oil.’

  Wallace nodded. Assisted by Shannon, the little man succeeded in rousing the fellow in charge of the petrol station, and obtained the necessary supplies. Shannon drove, when the journey was resumed, and Cousins took his place inside. Sixty miles from Smolensk, a tyre burst. Luckily there were two spare wheels, and the exchange was quickly made. Sir Leonard decided to rest where they were, and he and his two companions took turns in guarding the Russians. At seven they continued on their way, stopping at a small village for breakfast. Lenin and Vassiloff were not permitted to leave the car for fear that the sight of the Russian Dictator would excite comment. At first he and the Commissary refused food, but apparently the sight of it was too much for their appetites, for after some time they fell to almost eagerly.

  All day long they travelled fast, stopping only for meals, petrol, and occasionally, in deserted places, to enable the Russians to stretch their legs. A way was found along the north bank of the Dnieper which enabled them to avoid going through Smolensk. At nightfall they were almost two hundred miles beyond that city and very close to Minsk. There had been no further punctures, and not a vestige of engine trouble.

  ‘We’ll be over the border by eight in the morning, if we start early,’ exulted Shannon, when they drew up for the night. ‘By Jove! It’ll be good to be in Poland.’

  In his enthusiasm he spoke in English. Sir Leonard’s warning look was too late to stop him, and Lenin and Vassiloff exchanged significant glances.

  ‘We are dealing with Englishmen, it seems,’ observed the latter.

  ‘You are,’ admitted Wallace. ‘You will realise, therefore, what is likely to be the result of your latest effort to break the peace of the world and force your system of government on other nations.’

  ‘I realise,’ growled Lenin, ‘that it is necessary you three should be prevented from leaving Russia. Your deaths will be more acceptable than ever now I know you are English.’

  Wallace laughed.

  ‘Considering the position in which you are placed at present,’ he remarked, ‘I must confess that I find your optimism most refreshing – and amusing.’

  The night passed off quietly, each of the Englishmen in turn keeping watch as
before. At daybreak the journey was resumed. Minsk was reached in half an hour, but, in endeavouring to make a wide circuit, Cousins, who was driving, lost his way, and it was over an hour before he struck the main road running to the frontier. After that, however, he went all out in an effort to make up for lost time. Then abruptly he drew up. Wondering what had happened, Wallace and Shannon looked out, and the sight that met their eyes caused them both to utter exclamations of astonishment and dismay. They were in the midst of a great military encampment. Ahead, and on both sides, as far as the eye could reach, were troops, guns, tanks and ammunition trains. There must have been thousands of men in the vicinity. Wallace looked hard at Lenin.

  ‘Of course you knew of this,’ he observed. ‘It explains a lot. I have been wondering all along why no attempt whatever has been made to capture us and rescue you.’

  A sneering smile appeared on Lenin’s dark face.

  ‘As you see,’ he said, ‘there was no need. Naturally, it was known that manoeuvres were being held here and, as soon as it was ascertained which direction you had taken, matters would be left in the capable hands of my colleague, Leon Trotsky, who would, of course, be informed by telegraph.’

  ‘So Trotsky is here?’ murmured Wallace. ‘This is very interesting.’ He studied the expression of smug satisfaction on the other’s face. ‘I suppose you expect the tables to be turned now?’

  Lenin shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Did you really think such a plan as yours would succeed?’ he jeered.

  ‘I certainly did – and do,’ was the sharp reply.

  Cousins opened the door and looked in.

  ‘There is a company of men marching towards us along the road, sir,’ he reported, ‘and others are closing in on both sides.’

  Sir Leonard sat deeply thoughtful for several seconds. Then he made up his mind.

  ‘We are at a disadvantage inside,’ he observed.

  Although he spoke in English, Lenin understood. ‘That is very true,’ he chuckled, ‘and so, my friend, I—’

  Wallace ignored him.

  ‘There’s only one thing for it,’ he said to Shannon. ‘Lenin and I will travel on the roof until we are safely through. Bundle him up, will you? There’s no time for ceremony.’

  Grinning all over his face, Shannon grabbed the Russian Dictator, and hauled him struggling from the car. Vassiloff made an attempt to go to his leader’s assistance, but the cold muzzle of Sir Leonard’s revolver at his temple caused him to change his mind, and sink back into his seat. Shannon lifted Lenin over his head at the full stretch of his arms, stepped on the running-board, and deposited his burden on the roof as though he had been a sack of potatoes. Shouting execrations the Russian attempted to jump down, but Cousins was covering him with a revolver, and he desisted.

  ‘Get inside, Shannon, and look after Vassiloff,’ ordered Sir Leonard. ‘Hold this for me, Cousins, while I climb on top.’

  He handed his revolver to the little man and, with amazing celerity, considering that he had only one hand, drew himself on to the roof of the car, and sat down beside Lenin. Cousins handed him the revolver, and was directed to drive slowly on.

  By this time the Russian troops had approached quite close and, seeing the car advancing, the officer in charge of those in front halted his men and entirely blocked the road. He held up his hand and, when within ten yards of him, Cousins, at a word from his chief, stopped the vehicle.

  ‘You are my prisoners,’ stated the officer in loud, ringing tones. ‘It will be to your advantage to surrender quietly.’

  ‘As you observe,’ replied Sir Leonard in French, a language which he spoke much better than Russian, ‘I have Monsieur Lenin up here with me. Any attempt to fire at me, or in any way interfere with us, will end in his death. I ask you, therefore, to draw your men aside, and let us pass.’

  The young man looked astounded.

  ‘You – you do not mean that it is your intention to – to murder Monsieur Lenin,’ he stammered.

  ‘Not murder,’ protested Wallace; ‘that is hardly a nice word, is it? It is my intention, however, to leave this country safely and, until we are across the border into Poland, Messieurs Lenin and Vassiloff remain with us as hostages. It would be easy enough for you to order us to be shot where we are, but before any of your bullets could reach me, mine will blow out Monsieur Lenin’s brains. I hope that is quite clear.’

  The officer stood indecisively swinging a revolver in his hand. He found the situation beyond him. His orders had been to take these men dead or alive, and rescue the Dictator and the Commissary. It was perfectly obvious, however, that a situation of stalemate prevailed. He dare not risk the life of the head of Soviet Russia; yet it was impossible either to kill or capture the man, who sat there defying him, without doing so. Impatiently he clicked his tongue.

  ‘This is a ridiculous situation, sir,’ he exclaimed. ‘I advise you, for your own good, to surrender Messieurs Lenin and Vassiloff to me.’

  Sir Leonard laughed.

  ‘Don’t be foolish,’ he remonstrated. ‘They will be returned to you undamaged and none the worse for their brief captivity directly we cross the frontier, not before. Of course it is in your power to kill us at once, if you are prepared to face Russia afterwards with the knowledge that you were also responsible for the deaths of my two prisoners. You may have an army behind you, but I hold the whip-hand. What do you propose to do?’

  Probably very much to his relief, the officer was saved from the necessity of making a decision. The deep and impatient note of a motor car horn could be heard from the rear of his company, a message was passed along to him, and promptly he drew his men on one side. It was done so smartly that Wallace nodded approval. A military car appeared, and drove up to within a few yards. Two men emerged from the interior, one in the uniform of a general, the other in plain clothes. It was upon the latter that Wallace fixed his gaze.

  ‘Have I the honour of addressing Monsieur Trotsky?’ he asked.

  ‘You have,’ came the reply in harsh, staccato tones. ‘How is it my orders have not been obeyed? Who are you, and why are you and my colleague Lenin sitting up there?’

  Sir Leonard explained, taking care to keep his revolver within an inch or two of Lenin’s head. When he had finished Trotsky’s eyes narrowed, he drew his companion aside, and they spoke excitedly together. At length apparently they had decided what course to pursue. Trotsky turned and looked up at Wallace.

  ‘Let Comrades Lenin and Vassiloff go,’ he said, ‘and you will receive safe-conduct to the border.’

  Sir Leonard smilingly shook his head.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he replied, ‘I cannot agree. I will not free either of my hostages until my companions and I are in Poland.’

  ‘You will not accept my word that you will be allowed to pass?’

  ‘I regret I cannot.’

  Trotsky flushed with anger. For some moments he paced the road biting his nether lip; at length he shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Very well,’ he snapped, ‘you will be allowed to proceed.’

  Lenin muttered something under his breath; then addressed Trotsky loudly:

  ‘You know what the result will be?’

  The War Minister of the Soviet Government once again shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Exactly, my friend Lenin,’ he returned, ‘but it cannot be helped, unless you are willing to give your life to prevent such vital information from reaching our enemies. If such a noble act is your intention,’ he added, ‘I will promise you that your assassins will be hanged immediately afterwards from the highest trees in the neighbourhood.’

  Lenin’s face went absolutely bloodless, and he shrank back. Trotsky smiled sarcastically, and gave orders to the officer in charge of the troops.

  ‘I shall be obliged if you will go ahead, Monsieur Trotsky,’ said Sir Leonard, ‘in order that there can be no danger of our being molested.’

  Trotsky and his companion entered their car, which was turned and driven back
the way it had come. Cousins slipped in his gears, and followed close behind. As they passed through the ranks, the men looked curiously up at the two figures on the roof, Lenin clinging to his undignified perch as though afraid of falling, Wallace holding his revolver close to the head of the man who ruled Russia’s millions. It was an unforgettable scene, and did irreparable damage to Lenin’s prestige. From that time his authority began to wane. The encampment extended for five miles, and Sir Leonard whistled under his breath as he made a rough calculation of the probable number of men there under arms.

  The car ahead stopped as soon as the boundary of the military lines was reached, and Cousins was waved on. Wallace saluted Trotsky as he passed, and received, in return, a perfunctory nod. Three miles farther on he and his prisoner descended from the roof of the car, and got inside. They had almost reached the frontier when an idea occurred to Sir Leonard, and he ordered Cousins to stop. Leaving Shannon to watch the Russians, he took the little man aside.

  ‘It is almost certain,’ he remarked, ‘that the Polish authorities will have been notified of our coming, and asked to detain us as escaped political prisoners. Such an eventuality may possibly lead to our being handed over, and we must not risk a misfortune of that nature. We’ll send Lenin and Vassiloff back in the car from here, hide until nightfall, then sneak over the frontier. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Cousins, ‘but supposing neither Lenin nor Vassiloff can drive?’

  ‘We’ll have to get rid of them some other way, that’s all.’

  ‘I hope we do get rid of them,’ murmured the little Secret Service man. ‘Personally I’d rather be hail fellow well met with a pack of hungry wolves than exist in the same country as these two. Why, the shape of Lenin’s head is enough to—’

  ‘What’s the matter with his head?’ demanded Wallace.

  Cousins smiled and quoted:

  ‘“For burglars, thieves and co., Indeed I’m no apologist, But I some years ago, Assisted a phrenologist”.’

  It turned out that both men could drive, and were only too relieved to get away. The Englishmen watched the car out of sight, after which they turned their steps southward for a few miles, until they found an ideal hiding place less than a hundred yards from the frontier. All the rest of the day they lay hidden, suffering the pangs of hunger and thirst rather than risk discovery. Wallace removed his disguise. The manoeuvres of two Russian aeroplanes interested them; it was obvious they had been sent to discover what had happened to the fugitives, possibly in response to a notification from the Polish authorities that they had not been seen. However, despite the fact that they flew very low and spent hours in the neighbourhood, Wallace and his companions escaped discovery. Late at night they crept across the border, and made their way to the railway line, where they were lucky enough to clamber onto a slowly moving goods train, and hide themselves under the tarpaulin of an empty wagon. The train reached Brest Litovsk early in the morning, and was shunted to a siding. Making certain that all was clear, the fugitives climbed out, and separately and cautiously walked to the station. Thence they travelled by different routes to Berlin where they again met and, without further precautions, continued their journey to England together.