‘You are the right kind of man to have been sent to ask questions,’ smiled the princess. ‘The truth might have been squeezed out of the soldier, Tschaikovsky, but he was killed in a brawl in Bucharest. Anastasia will not speak in detail of Ekaterinburg. It still terrifies her, the mere mention of it. She was terrified, when she first arrived in Berlin, that the Bolsheviks would kill her if she disclosed her identity.’
‘You truly believe she’s Anastasia?’
‘Has not every word I’ve spoken convinced you I’m in no doubt she is? I’ve heard a rumour that there was an Austrian who has a story to tell about Ekaterinburg and the massacre, but whether he is real or imagined, I don’t know, and whether the story would favour or disfavour Anastasia, I also don’t know.’
‘If she is Anastasia, it could not disfavour her,’ said Mr Gibson.
‘There are people, Mr Gibson, whose names are so illustrious that if they threw mud into the fair face of truth, Berlin would allow the mud to stick. Have you heard of a man called Adolf Hitler?’
‘Vaguely,’ said Mr Gibson.
‘The Russian monarchists are courting Adolf Hitler. Mud is becoming very popular in German politics, and Hitler is Germany’s number one mudslinger. He has no time for Anastasia.’
‘Why?’
‘He dislikes women except for breeding purposes.’
‘Poor fellow,’ said Mr Gibson. ‘What does he want, a world without enchantment?’
‘What a delightful man you are,’ said Princess Malininsky.
Mr Gibson stood up. ‘I really must go now,’ he said. ‘Thank you for bearing with me and for being so interesting and informative. And thank you for a most intriguing hour.’
‘I hope you will call again. I shall always be happy to be at home to you, even in the mornings, when I am not at my most brilliant.’
‘You’ve been charming,’ said Mr Gibson.
‘I may have charming ways,’ said the princess, ‘but I am not a charming woman. I have been torn from my love, and it has made me not very nice.’
‘Who is your love?’
‘Old St Petersburg. I am a woman dying of a broken heart.’
‘The condition suits you, Princess. You are radiant.’
‘How delicious you are.’ Her smile was a richness. ‘I hardly know how to part with you. Auf Wiedersehen, however. Do remember my telephone number.’
Chapter Thirteen
When Mr Gibson arrived back at the apartments, Hans had information to impart. No, no one had come to look at the car, but a funeral hearse had been and gone.
‘A funeral hearse?’
‘Yes, Herr Gibson. With wreaths on the coffin. Has the young lady suffered a bereavement?’
‘Explain what you mean, Hans,’ said Mr Gibson, sensing trouble.
Hans explained. A few minutes after he had arrived to take up his watching brief, a man in a dark suit had come out of the block. He walked swiftly up the street and disappeared. The funeral hearse entered the street several minutes later. It stopped outside the block, in front of the car, and the same man got out, only this time he was wearing a long black coat and top hat, like an undertaker. He went into the block and came out again after a little while, with another man in a hat and black raincoat. They were escorting the young lady, who seemed very distressed, as if her mother or father had died, perhaps. Hans said he waved to her from across the street, but she did not see him, and he did not like to intrude, because it was a funeral. But he thought he ought to mention he had seen both men before, when the man in the raincoat had shown him a photograph of the young lady. She was only a girl in the photograph, but Hans felt sure it was her. The man had asked him if he knew her or had seen her. Hans had said no, for not until later had he connected the photograph with the young lady. Anyway, she had gone off in the hearse, sitting on the front seat between the two men.
‘How long ago was this?’ asked Mr Gibson, liking none of it.
‘Over half an hour, I should say.’
‘Stay there, Hans,’ said Mr Gibson, and ran up to his apartment. It was empty. Natasha was not there. He looked into every room. He found nothing. He checked her clothes in her bedroom wardrobe. Most of them seemed to be there, except those she was wearing. He ran down to speak to Hans again. Charging through the hall, he almost knocked over the porter, a dour-faced man whose job equalled that of a French concierge.
‘Sorry—’
The porter gave him an offended look, but said nothing.
Outside, Hans imparted more information, for a good businessman needed to be observant, and he had noted down the name of the undertaker. Thomas Schmidt. He had seen it in gold lettering on the side of the hearse.
‘Do you know the address, Hans?’
‘Yes, mein Herr. I can take you there, if you wish.
‘I’ll take you. In the car. You can direct me.’ Mr Gibson was grim-faced in his worry. Natasha could not have gone willingly. God help that unhappy girl if she could not be found. He unlocked the car. ‘Get in, Hans.’
The boy, having stowed his little pushcart inside the hall of the apartment block, climbed in beside Mr Gibson and began to give him directions. Mr Gibson drove through the streets. Berlin, which had an impressive quota of appealing features, was nevertheless only a depressing greyness to him at this particular moment. It seemed a city that held no hope for Natasha. Anglo-American loans were helping to stimulate Germany’s economy at last, but there was still a demoralizing amount of poverty and unemployment in the capital, and this was all too evident. Mr Gibson could have wished for an aspect bright and shining, and for an air of optimism. That might have made him feel less hopeless about finding Natasha. As it was, Berlin seemed a place that encouraged dark deeds rather than heroic deliverance. He had not been unaware of the undercurrents relating to the desperation of workless émigrés, and to the cheapness of life. The disappearance of Natasha brought the unpleasantness of those undercurrents nearer.
At the office of the undertaker, he was advised that both Herr Thomas Schmidt and his son Fredric were available to deal with enquiries. He asked if either of them spoke English. The soft-spoken clerk said that Herr Fredric did. Mr Gibson asked if he might be permitted to speak to Herr Fredric. Herr Fredric Schmidt proved courteous and gentle, as befitted his profession. He lifted an eyebrow, however, when Mr Gibson said he was not there to engage his firm’s services, but to enquire about one of their hearses, whether it had been hired out or not, and if it had, to whom?
Herr Fredric said it was not usual to give out information of a confidential nature. Mr Gibson said the matter in hand was so serious that it should be referred to the police. However, if his questions could be answered, a call on the police might not be necessary. Herr Fredric, impressed by Mr Gibson’s manner, consulted a large, leather-bound office book. He pursed his lips, talked to himself for a few moments, then made up his mind. He informed Mr Gibson that one of the firm’s hearses had indeed been hired out, at the request of the Soviet Embassy.
‘The Soviet Embassy?’ said Mr Gibson.
Herr Fredric assured him this was so, and that they had instructed him to place the hearse in the care of a Soviet citizen, one Igor Vorstadt. This had been done three days ago, and the necessary papers had been signed by Herr Vorstadt. The hearse was required for a maximum of two weeks, and a coffin was paid for and included.
Mr Gibson’s blood ran cold. It was not the Russian monarchists who had Natasha. It was the Bolsheviks. The man in the black raincoat, described by Hans, was the man Natasha hated, the commissar who had murdered her family and who she declared would have murdered her too.
God Almighty, was that coffin for Natasha?
He asked Herr Fredric if the Soviet Embassy had supplied the name of the deceased person.
Herr Fredric referred to a file. He nodded. The name, he said, was Vasily Borovitch Bukov.
That meant nothing to Mr Gibson, apart from the fact that it relieved him of the worst of his immediate worries.
&n
bsp; It had been three days since a member of the Soviet Embassy staff had taken over the hearse?
Yes, and he had been accompanied by another man.
Where was the hearse going? What was its destination? Did Herr Fredric know?
Herr Fredric did. ‘Ekaterinburg,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘It’s in the Russian Urals,’ said Herr Fredric gently.
‘Yes, I think we’ve all heard of Ekaterinburg,’ said Mr Gibson.
‘I imagine a Soviet citizen here, a member of their embassy staff, perhaps, has died and is being taken back to his birthplace for burial.’
‘To Ekaterinburg?’ Mr Gibson’s thoughts chased each other in a disorganized rush. ‘Are you sure? It must be all of two thousand miles away, a round trip of four thousand, and more likely to take three weeks, not two.’
‘The coffin is being transferred at Warsaw, from where our hearse will be driven back to us.’
And what, thought Mr Gibson, would be in the transferred coffin? The body of a man called Bukov, or the body of Natasha? Would she have been murdered by the time Warsaw was reached? But if she was to be murdered, why take her out of Berlin? Hans had said she was in the hearse when it drove off, and that there were wreaths on the coffin. The coffin contained the body of Bukov, whoever he was? But if there was official clearance from the Soviet Embassy, the coffin could be put on a train, the usual thing to do when such a long journey was involved. It seemed, however, that it was to be carried to Warsaw in the hearse, and then transferred to another. And for some extraordinary reason, Natasha was required to accompany it? She had said the Bolsheviks had been after her for years. But Ekaterinburg? That was the destination? What had that infamous town to do with Natasha? God in heaven, was it her birthplace? Had she been living there when the Russian Imperial family and her own family were murdered? She always refused to say where she came from. She said she could not talk about it without suffering pain.
The hearse had been in the hands of that Bolshevik commissar for three days. Clearly, he had been keeping an eye on Natasha, waiting for an opportunity to pick her up, an opportunity he had been afforded this morning. But what part would the hearse have played if there had been no opportunity at all? According to what Hans had said, Natasha showed no resistance, only a look of distress. But Mr Gibson could not believe she had gone willingly. What he did believe was that the hearse had begun its journey to Warsaw.
He thanked Herr Fredric Schmidt for being so helpful and forthcoming, and departed in a hurry. Hans was waiting for him in the car. He slid in, and Hans saw his worried expression.
‘It is bad news, Herr Gibson?’ he said.
‘I hope not, Hans. How far from Berlin is Warsaw?’
‘About five hundred kilometres,’ said Hans.
‘That’s about three hundred miles,’ said Mr Gibson, and knew that if he was to do something for Natasha he had not a moment to lose. ‘Hans, show me the way to the nearest motor garage. I must have the car filled with petrol.’
‘Yes, mein Herr.’ Hans, born to be a businessman of efficiency, did not take long to bring Mr Gibson to a garage.
While the tank was being filled, Mr Gibson asked Hans if there was a shop nearby where a map of Poland could be purchased. Hans was out of the car at once, his club foot swinging rapidly as he dodged in and out of traffic. He was back quite quickly, with a map of post-war Poland that included the border areas of Germany and Soviet Russia. Berlin was on the western side of the map.
‘Thank you, Hans, you will have a fine future,’ said Mr Gibson. Having paid for the petrol, he found a generous amount of money for the boy. Hans gasped.
‘Mein Herr, you have given me too much.’
‘I have only given you what you have earned, my young friend. I must say goodbye now. I shall see you again one day, I hope.’
Hans watched him drive away, seeking the road to Frankfurt-on-Oder and the Polish border. Whatever the cause of his worry, the boy wished him luck.
Someone had rung the apartment bell not long after Mr Gibson’s departure that morning. Natasha refused to answer it, to go anywhere near the door.
‘What is this?’ the dour-faced porter said a few minutes later.
‘Money,’ said a man with a scarred face and hard grey eyes. Another man, with pale eyes, stood unblinking at his elbow. The porter stared at the crisp new banknotes being offered to him.
‘What for?’ he asked.
‘For the loan of the key to apartment number twenty-nine.’
‘I can’t do that,’ said the porter.
‘Of course you can.’ The accented German of the man was thick but firm. ‘My niece is in that apartment, living in sin with the occupant after running away from home.’ The hard grey eyes regarded the porter impassively. ‘I need the key, for she’s there, but won’t open the door to me. But no one need know you helped me. One can always say that she did open the door.’
‘It’s against all the rules,’ said the porter.
‘There are always times when rules can be broken with a clear conscience. I wish to save my niece from ruining her life. Your rules are not more important than that. I would prefer you not to argue about it. Here is the money, more than you earn in a month, probably. Take it and let me have the key. It will be returned to you.’
The porter, unnerved by the cold eyes, crumbled. Silently, he produced a bunch of keys. He released one and handed it over. He took the money. After all, if he was asked questions, he could always say what he had been advised to say, that the young woman must have admitted her caller.
Natasha, busy in the living room, heard the sound of the apartment door being opened. That meant Mr Gibson was back sooner than she expected, much sooner. Much sooner? She ran out into the lobby. There were two men. One was just closing the door. The other, in a belted black raincoat and dark hat, was the man who had given her many nightmares. She turned white and stood rigid.
‘It has been a long time,’ said Commissar Vasily Bukov, ‘much longer than I anticipated. It would be better for you not to scream. Just put your hat and coat on, and come with us.’
The other man hustled her back into the living room, then stood watching her as she faced up to Bukov. With the unbearable memories reawakening, Natasha felt a surge of such fierce hatred that fire scorched her fear.
In a low, vibrating voice, she said, ‘I have known many people, and among them have been the evil and the cruel. But not one, not one, was as evil and cruel as you. Even a man who murders a widow for her purse would spit on you. Even Satan would stand apart from you. Even your own mother could not bear to have you in her house or acknowledge you as her son.’
The dispassionate expression of the swarthy commissar did not change, but a little redness entered his eyes.
‘It is over for you,’ he said. ‘It is also over for me. We both have an appointment to keep in Ekaterinburg. Put your hat and coat on.’ He nodded at his companion, who left the apartment.
‘I will not put my hat and coat on,’ said Natasha. ‘Nor will I go with you. You will have to kill me first.’
Commissar Bukov smiled mirthlessly. ‘I have not come to kill you,’ he said.
‘You have come to poison this place,’ said Natasha fiercely. ‘Wherever you go, you leave your poison. Murderer, torturer, assassin, slayer of children, how are you able to show yourself in the light of day when you belong to the pit of darkness? What is your latest count of innocent children? How many have you murdered today, how many yesterday? And why do you murder them? Is it to drink their blood?’
The commissar, hands in his coat pockets, looked disappointed in her.
‘You were a child yourself, an obstinate and stupid one, on a certain occasion,’ he said. ‘I did not expect to find you still a child. Obstinacy and stupidity, these are common to many of us, even in our maturity, but most of us put away childishness. I find your infantile remarks irritating. I expected better of you after all these years.’
‘What righ
t has an evil man to expect other people to improve on their faults?’ said Natasha, stiff, tense and pale.
‘You and I have an appointment to keep. I tell you again, put your hat and coat on. The weather is cold.’
‘Never, never. How did you get in? Who gave you a key?’
‘I have many keys. One fitted.’
‘Go – go, do you hear?’ Natasha hid her desperation under anger. ‘I would rather walk with the devil than with you. And my friend will be back soon.’
‘I shall be ready for him.’ The commissar’s mirthless smile appeared again. ‘He is your loving friend?’
‘He is a man.’ It was a proud, defiant statement. ‘He is a man as you are not.’
‘Very well. We’ll wait for him.’ Vasily Bukov extracted a German revolver from his raincoat pocket.
‘I am to be killed in front of his eyes?’ said Natasha, her blood running cold.
‘I repeat, I have not come for that,’ said Bukov. ‘But, as you know, I am quite capable of killing your friend. Quietly.’ He fitted a silencer to the revolver, turning it into a long and wicked-looking weapon of death.
Natasha’s face became white and stricken. ‘Yes, you are very capable,’ she said, ‘and at this moment you need to kill someone. It will give you pleasure. You Bolsheviks have wallowed in the blood of Russians. You have murdered millions, and are murdering still more. Nor do you care that you are despised by the free peoples of the world. If I were waiting here for an innocent child instead of my friend, you would slay it without even a single sigh.’
‘The workers’ revolution cannot afford sighs. Sit down, Natasha Petrovna, and we’ll wait, both of us, for your friend who you say is a man.’
Natasha darted for the kitchen, for a chance to reach it and slam the door on him, and then to break the window of the dining recess and scream to the street below. But Commissar Bukov caught her at the door. He caught her by the arm and swung her round. He threw her on to the sofa.
‘Animal!’ panted Natasha.
Natasha's Dream Page 14
