Come into my Parlour

by Dennis Wheatley

  Having argued round the matter for an hour, Gregory suggested that they should put the cart before the horse, and, instead of trying to think up ways of explaining away the past and their new rôles to the Marshal, they should endeavour to assess to whom he would be likely to divulge the information they were seeking.

  “He would certainly not tell you anything at all if you appeared before him in your old rôle as a German,” remarked Kuporovitch.

  “No, and I think it most unlikely that he would tell me the truth if I approached him as an Englishman,” Gregory replied. “He must know that Russia is asking Britain for armaments, so naturally he would make Russia’s case out to be better than it is, and say that time is on her side and that she has practically unlimited numbers of trained men to use them. He’d be a fool if he didn’t.”

  Kuporovitch leant forward and his lazy blue eyes narrowed a little. “Listen,” he said. “We have to think of the circumstances in which he would speak freely, more than the sort of men to whom he would do so.”

  “That’s true,” agreed Gregory, thoughtfully, and after a moment, he added: “It might have something to do with the time-factor. He knows how far the Soviet armies can afford to retreat and must have a pretty shrewd idea how long it is likely to be before they are forced back to their final line. If someone was able to offer him really important assistance—some blow at the Germans which might shake them badly and temporarily throw them off their balance—”

  “Yes, yes. I get your idea. He would then have to show his own hand in order that the blow might be delivered at the most critical point in the campaign.”

  “It would have to be something that could be used only once.”

  “For instance, a British landing on the Continent.”

  “That’s the sort of thing.”

  “If it were put to him that the opening of a Second Front was in active preparation, but that the longer the British could be given the more powerful their blow would be, it would then be in Russia’s own best interests for him to disclose the absolute maximum for which he considered she could hold on unaided.”

  Gregory nodded. “Those are the sort of circumstances in which he would tell the real truth all right. I think we’re getting somewhere now. But I’m not certain that a Second Front is the right bait for our line.”

  “Perhaps not. You mean it would need a great deal of explaining as to how we had been sent as emissaries on such a matter, instead of its being handled through the Embassy and the British Military Mission? Then too, why should Clim, who is besieged in Leningrad, be consulted, instead of the question being referred direct to Stalin in Moscow. Those points would certainly be very difficult to get over.”

  “They would; and there’s another thing. Most of the officers that I met last night seem to have very little idea of the damage the collapse of France and the equipment we lost at Dunkirk did to Britain. They obviously believe that we could launch a Second Front at any time we chose. They don’t realise that we’re still only half armed and half trained, and that even when the job is completed Britain’s man-power is so comparatively limited, that with her huge commitments in the Mediterranean and the East she could never find an army large enough to tackle the Germans on the Continent. But Voroshilov is in a different category.

  “You mean that as he is a member of the Camorilla that runs Russia he has access to much secret information that the Generals would not see? In fact, that he probably has a pretty good idea of the true state of things in England and knows that any prospect of a Second Front is right out of the question—at least, for some years to come.”

  “Exactly! So however plausible our story might be in other respects he’d smell a rat, and hand us over to his gunmen.”

  “We must rule that out then,” Kuporovitch sighed. “But what other outside blow against the Germans could occur that would need careful timing?”

  For a little they sat in silence, drawing heavily on their cigarettes. At length Gregory looked up and said:

  “I believe I’ve got it, Stefan. What do you think of this?”

  For another half hour they talked, first one, then the other, adding a detail or rounding off a thought, to clothe the bare bones of the idea that Gregory had produced. By lunchtime they felt that they really had the groundwork of a reasonably plausible story, but they worked on it again all through the afternoon, until, when they went to the Mess for the single before-dinner whisky and soda that was all each member was allowed, they were satisfied that, although they would be taking their lives in their hands, they would at least be doing so on a brilliantly audacious and very carefully-worked-out plan.

  Now that they had settled matters, for better or for worse, they were anxious to be off; and when no message came for them during the second day after the reception Gregory began to fear that the Brigadier had forgotten his promise; but that night, Friday, 19th of September, just as they were thinking of going to bed, a box van called for them. In anticipation of possibly having to leave in a hurry, they had already said good-bye to their nominal master, the Press Attaché, and the other friends that they had made in the Embassy annexe during their eight-day stay in Moscow, so they had only to put on their furs and carry their bags out to the waiting car.

  It bore them through the dark, deserted streets to a big office block. The driver, beckoning them to follow him, took them up in the lift to a waiting-room on the third floor, where a girl messenger motioned them to sit down. During the twenty minutes that they waited there, three officers and a civilian, with the black eyes and high cheekbones of a Tartar, joined them, each giving his name to the girl on his arrival. Then Gregory’s friend, the young Brigadier, came hurrying in, and the three officers immediately sprang to attention.

  It was a critical moment as, although the great size of the Soviet Army made it unlikely, there was always the possibility that he might at one time have served under Kuporovitch. If so, recognition would be certain to result in a postponement of their departure until the Soviet authorities had made full enquiries as to how their ex-General came to be on the staff of the British Embassy. But the Brigadier gave Gregory a quick smile, nodded amiably to Kuporovitch when he was introduced as Mr. Cooper and handed each of them an envelope containing the necessary papers for their journey.

  He then called one of the officers over, and introducing him as Major Makhno, said that he would look after them on their trip and secure accommodation for them in Leningrad. Cutting Gregory’s thanks short he gave them a quick handshake, wished them a safe passage over the enemy lines, and hurried back to his own work. The Major said something to the others in Russian and the little party all went downstairs.

  In the street the box van was waiting for them. They climbed into it and an hour later it set them down in front of some hutments on one of the military airfields some way outside Moscow.

  In one of the huts an officer examined the papers of the party, then they were shepherded into another and left to wait there three quarters of an hour. At length, a little after one o’clock in the morning, they were led out onto the airfield and across to a big bomber. Having climbed in the passengers were directed down into the bomb bay. There was no room to stand upright there and no seats, only a double tier of temporary racks, across which wire netting had been nailed, on which they could lie down.

  It was both cold and stuffy down there, and extremely uncomfortable, as each individual had only just enough space to turn round, and could not even raise his head more than a few inches. They were told that smoking was forbidden and when the doors were closed the bay was lit only by one dim blue light.

  Gregory was far from happy, as, at times, he suffered from mild claustrophobia, and few things could have been better calculated to bring it on than being packed like a human sardine in a tin. Moreover, he knew that if the aircraft ran into trouble its passengers stood little chance of surviving. Down there in the belly of the ‘plane they would be more exposed to anti-aircraft fire than in any other part
of it, and if the machine caught fire the crew might bale out but there would be small hope of anyone in the bomb bay being able to extricate themselves from their narrow quarters in time to do so; in addition, if the aircraft had to make a forced landing there was more than an even chance that its passengers would be crushed, trapped and, if they survived the crash, burnt to death.

  The fact that the great majority of staff officers of all nations who made night journeys by air in wartime had to travel this way, and that most of them reached their destinations in safety, was small consolation. The ensuing hours were the most miserable that Gregory had spent for a long time, as he could neither divert his mind by watching the night landscape over which they were flying nor, owing to the roar of the engines, even hear the sound of the guns when they entered the war zone, so he could only lie there in a cold sweat visualising all the horrible things that might happen to him at any moment.

  After what seemed a dozen hours at least, the aircraft began to drop sharply and for a few moments Gregory wondered wildly if they were being forced down; then it banked and the engine stopped. He clenched his teeth and waited for the crash. There was a sharp jolt that threw him half out of his makeshift bunk, a lesser bump, another and another, then, with a sigh of relief, he realised that the machine was running smoothly along the ground.

  When they had climbed out of their grim prison Major Makhno led them across the airfield on which they had landed to the reception office. While their papers were being examined again Gregory saw that it was a quarter past four, so they had done their four-hundred-mile trip in just over three hours. He was now conscious, too, of the sounds of distant gunfire, and as the little party were taken out to a waiting charabanc he could see the flashes of a sporadic bombardment lighting up the night sky. A heavy shell trundled overhead with a roar like the passing of a train, to burst some miles away in the centre of the city. Suddenly a Russian battery quite near by opened up with a series of staccato cracks, and it was still firing when the charabanc drove off.

  Twenty minutes later they were set down outside a large building which the Major told them had been the old Hotel Astoria, but was now an officers’ club. In spite of the lateness of the hour a number of people were still sitting about the big lounge, and, having arranged about accommodation, their guide procured some very welcome sandwiches and vodka for them.

  Fuel was now being husbanded for the worst months of winter, so the hotel was unheated, but the vodka warmed them up a little and half an hour after their arrival they went up to bed. The place was very crowded so they had to share a room on the fourth floor with Major Makhno and two other officers, who were already installed and sleeping there. Undressing as quietly as they could, they lay down on the truckle beds under some blankets and piled their furs on top of them. Occasionally a shell whined over to explode with a loud bang, which was followed by the rumble of falling débris, but they were too tired to take much notice and soon dropped off to sleep.

  In the morning they went downstairs with the Major and partook of the meagre breakfast which was all that was now allowed, and, after it, he told them that they must come with him to report to the office of the garrison commander; upon which Gregory said that they first wished to write a letter for delivery to the Commander-in-Chief.

  He had already discussed with Kuporovitch the exact form that the letter was to take, but they had felt it best not to write it in Moscow in case, through some accident, it fell into wrong hands. Paper and pens were available in the lounge, so Kuporovitch sat down to a desk and wrote the letter, while Gregory remained near by talking to the Major.

  The letter to Voroshilov ran as follows:

  My dear Marshal,

  No doubt you will be surprised to hear from your old comrade after this long time, but from the letter I left behind for you when I departed so hurriedly from Kandalaksha in March 1940, you will have understood the reason for my silence.

  However, I am now happy to report that my self-imposed mission has been crowned with success and will, I trust, enable me to make a contribution of real value to the defeat of the Hitlerite bandits.

  After escaping many dangers, and a most hazardous journey, I have succeeded in bringing back with me to the Soviet Union an officer to whom you rendered a considerable service when you were commanding our army in Finland. He represents certain people who can be of incalculable help to us, and, upon receiving your instructions as to the most suitable time to strike, he will return to convey them to those who sent him.

  For reasons which I will explain when I have the honour to report to you in person, this officer and myself are at present billeted at the Astoria under the names of Mr. Sallust and Mr. Cooper respectively, and are carrying British passports.

  May I solicit the honour of an interview for my friend and myself at your very earliest convenience?

  Your old comrade and brother-in-arms of the Revolution,

  Stefan Kuporovitch.

  Having finished his letter, unobserved by the others, Kuporovitch swallowed hard, raised his eyes to heaven and crossed himself. He knew that this was but the beginning of the series of lies he would have to tell with absolute assurance and conviction if he and Gregory were to live out the week; but he also knew that only by practising the most shameful deception on his old friend Clim would Gregory get the information he wanted, and that unless that information was forthcoming there was little chance of Britain supplying the weapons which might prove the salvation of his beloved country.

  After addressing an envelope he added, “Most Secret and Personal” across its flap, then put it in another marked “Most Immediate, for the Marshal Personally”. Seeing that he had finished, the other two stood up and they left the hotel together.

  The light snow of early autumn had already made Leningrad’s streets slushy, but a bright sun was shining, and, as the siege was still in an early stage, the people in the streets looked well fed and cheerful.

  The Germans were being held at some distance from the eastern side of the city and to the north it was largely protected by the great inland sea of Lake Ladoga while to the west the naval base of Kronstadt and the upper bays of the Gulf of Finland were still in Russian hands, so the only perceptible signs of the fighting came from the south. Field-Marshal Ritter von Leeb was now making a great effort to penetrate the southern suburbs and force a surrender before winter closed in, so the dull rumble of his artillery was almost continuous; but the Germans were concentrating mainly on the Russian defence lines and only an occasional heavy burst with a resounding crump in the city’s built-up area.

  While they waited for a tram on the broad Nevski Prospekt they watched the white vapour trails of a dog-fight up in the sky almost directly above them. One of the aircraft suddenly flared like a struck match, hovered for a second, then came spiralling to earth with a great plume of black, oily smoke gushing from its tail. Confident that it must be a Nazi the people in the street cheered lustily, but just as the flaming machine disappeared behind a tall building a shell came hurtling over, causing them to break off and run for the nearest cover.

  Without further incident they reached the Garrison Commander’s office. The officer who examined their papers promised to have the letter to Marshal Voroshilov delivered without delay. He then told Gregory and Stefan that they were to return to the Astoria and were not to leave the hotel until the Chief Intelligence Officer sent someone to collect them, even if that meant their remaining indoors for two or three days, as it was not considered desirable for foreigners to go about the city unescorted.

  Major Makhno volunteered to see them safely back to the Astoria, and when he had done so left them to go about his own business; but as they thought it quite possible that instructions had been telephoned to the military staff of the club to keep an eye on them, they made no attempt to evade the order confining them to it.

  As they had nothing with which to occupy themselves they sat for some time staring out of a window at the passers-by, or the aircra
ft from which the sky was rarely free for long, but both of them were anxiously wondering what the results of the letter to Voroshilov would be. After a thin lunch in the canteen, having had very little sleep the night before, they went upstairs and spent the afternoon dozing on their beds. In the evening they endeavoured to keep their minds off the letter by playing six-pack bezique, both before and after a far from satisfactory dinner, but the lack of heating in the club rendered it cheerless and the cold increased as the night drew on, so at ten o’clock they decided to go to bed.

  They were both still sound asleep at half past two in the morning when they were suddenly aroused by a rough voice calling out their names. The other occupants of the room also awoke, and as the light was switched on everyone sat up to stare at an officer who stood in the doorway. Behind him were two armed soldiers.

  The officer advanced into the room, his hand resting casually on the automatic at his belt, and, having identified Gregory and Kuporovitch, he stood there while his two men searched their clothes for weapons. They were then told to dress. This, they knew, was the answer to their letter. It had come, not in the form of a friendly summons, as they had hoped, but with all the harsh abruptness of undisguised arrest. Their hands were steady, but their nerves were stretched as taut as piano-wire, as they accompanied their guards downstairs and out to a waiting car.

  Chapter XII

  Strange Interview

  The car took them only a short distance and pulled up before a large block of flats. Outside the entrance a fur-clad soldier was standing in a sentry-box, and on going inside it was clear that the whole building had been taken over by the military.