‘You are speaking of attempted abduction?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Mr Gibson.
‘Then why did you not report such a serious matter to us?’
Mr Gibson, whose terms of reference included an injunction to avoid any kind of unsavoury publicity, indulged in a shrug.
‘I wished to confront the gentleman first,’ he said. ‘In removing his car and keeping it locked, I hoped he would show himself to me in a demand for the keys.’
‘We are expected to believe that?’ said Inspector Moeller.
‘I am a truthful man, Herr Inspector, and do expect you to, naturally.’
‘You say this attempted abduction took place two days ago?’
‘That is correct,’ said Mr Gibson.
‘For what purpose, mein Herr?’
‘Yes, for what purpose – that’s a question I wanted an answer to myself. In taking the car over, I prevented the owner from driving Fräulein Alexeiev away in it, and offered myself the chance of putting the question to him when he came to reclaim the vehicle.’ Mr Gibson had reverted to English again, and Natasha translated.
‘He could not have reclaimed it yesterday,’ said Inspector Moeller. ‘It was not there. Not, at least, from midday onwards.’
‘True, I had occasion to use it yesterday.’
‘You made use of a vehicle illegally acquired?’
‘Justifiably confiscated,’ said Mr Gibson, and Natasha had to translate that too.
‘There is no such thing in German criminal law as justifiable confiscation,’ said the inspector. ‘Fräulein Alexeiev, why did you not dissuade Herr Gibson from taking a car that did not belong to him?’
‘No, no, it was my idea to take it, not his,’ said Natasha, trying to do what she could for a man who had miraculously delivered her from the hands of Commissar Bukov.
‘Not true, of course,’ said Mr Gibson. ‘Fräulein Alexeiev was hardly aware of what was going on at that stage. She was only just recovering from the chloroform.’
‘She was aware subsequently that you had suddenly acquired a car?’
‘Of course,’ said Mr Gibson, ‘and begged me to return it. I insisted, however, that I should look after it until its owner came to ask for the keys, when I should then have demanded answers to certain questions. I alone am responsible for being the temporary custodian of the car, Herr Inspector.’ His use of German for this statement was a little laborious and untidy, but it got through to the inspector.
‘Temporary custodian?’ he said, and for a moment Natasha thought he showed appreciation of Mr Gibson’s interpretation of his role. ‘German courts of justice don’t look kindly on people who take the law into their own hands, Herr Gibson. It is, in any case, quite unsatisfactory to claim an abduction was attempted and not to have reported this to us. I am satisfied Fräulein Alexeiev was a party to the illegal acquisition of the car.’ The inspector studied a document on his desk. ‘I must now tell you it has been decided to deport you as an undesirable alien.’
Natasha winced. Mr Gibson looked pained.
‘Deported?’ he said, and thought about how and why the decision had come to be made, and the advisability of whether or not to accept it. Sir Douglas, he knew, would insist he went quietly. ‘Without the privilege of being heard by a magistrate?’
‘Such a hearing is not necessary,’ said the inspector. ‘A statement will be taken from you, confirming your admission that you took the car in company with Fräulein Alexeiev. You will be required to sign it. Tomorrow morning you will be put aboard the train to Paris and escorted as far as the border. Fräulein Alexeiev is also to be deported. She will be given a ticket to Moscow, and travel by train tomorrow, with an escort as far as the Polish border. Until further notice, neither of you will be allowed to re-enter Germany.’
Natasha looked white-faced and stricken.
‘You are serious?’ asked Mr Gibson.
‘In such cases, the Ministry is always serious, Herr Gibson. If you will make your statement and surrender your passport, you’ll be free to go. But you are required to be ready to leave at ten in the morning, when officials will present themselves at your address. They will escort you and return your passport at the French border. Fräulein Alexeiev will remain in our custody overnight.’
‘No,’ gasped Natasha. ‘No! You have my papers and need not give them back to me until tomorrow if you will allow me, please, to go with Herr Gibson now.’
‘You are to be detained,’ said Inspector Moeller quietly.
‘That is a little harsh, surely,’ said Mr Gibson.
‘Not at all. It’s quite usual. In your own case, a concession is being made. If you’ll go with Sergeant Hertz now and make your statement – ah, your passport first, if you please.’
Mr Gibson handed it over. Natasha sat numbed and despairing. Mr Gibson saw the heartbreak on her face.
‘I have a call to make on the British Embassy, Herr Inspector,’ he said.
‘That is understood,’ said the inspector.
‘Don’t worry now.’ Mr Gibson lightly pressed Natasha’s shoulder. Her head was bent, her eyes full of tears. ‘We shall leave Berlin together, I promise.’
She lifted her face. The tears were running. ‘I am in need,’ she whispered, ‘I am in need of another miracle.’
* * *
Thirty minutes later, Mr Gibson entered a telephone booth in the Hotel Bristol. There was, he knew, no help to be expected from the British Embassy, and indeed he had strict instructions not to make himself known to the embassy in any way. But he had had to give Natasha some hope and the inspector some food for thought. In asking the telephone operator to connect him with Princess Malininsky’s number, he was giving himself hope. Encouragingly, she was in and came on the line. She was, she said, enchanted to hear from him again. Did this indicate an intention to interest himself in her or to ask more questions?
‘It indicates that because you’re such an agreeable woman, I’m going to ask a favour of you.’
‘You have telephoned me to tell me I’m agreeable, and that you want something?’
‘You are also delightful,’ said Mr Gibson, ‘and it’s help I want, a certain kind of help.’
‘How can I resist such frankness?’
‘The fact is, I’m having a little trouble with the police.’
‘And you think, perhaps, that the Chief of Police is my lover? Shame on you.’
‘I thought you might have some influence with the Minister of Justice. Allow me to explain.’ Mr Gibson did so, concisely and clearly.
‘So,’ said Princess Malininsky, ‘you and the young lady have made terrible nuisances of yourselves, and not, of course, in respect of the car. But the car is the big stick with which they are beating you. What is it you think I can do?’
Mr Gibson asked her if she knew the Minister of Justice, and if she did, was there a possibility she could get him to change Natasha’s deportation order in one particular way? Could Natasha be put aboard the Paris train instead of being headed in the direction of Moscow?
Princess Malininsky laughed softly. ‘It is the minister you think is my lover? He is the man, of course, who has produced the big stick for the police to use on you. But yes, I know the Minister.’
‘May I ask you, then, to try to intercede for Natasha?’
‘You have asked. Philip, you are a man of impudence and I am a woman with a soft heart. I will see what I can do. Where are you?’
‘In a telephone booth in the Hotel Bristol.’
‘What is the telephone number?’ she asked.
Mr Gibson gave it to her. ‘Shall I wait for you to call me back?’ he asked.
‘Yes. I’ll do that as soon as I can.’
‘I shall be very grateful.’
‘I shall expect a little more than gratitude, I shall expect you to ask me to dine out with you tonight.’
‘A pleasure,’ said Mr Gibson warmly, and she rang off.
He spent the next thirty minutes waiting for
the booth telephone to ring. When it did, the princess was back on the line.
‘It took a little time,’ she said, ‘he is an elusive man to reach by telephone. However, we spoke. I’m afraid the deportation orders must stand.’
‘I didn’t expect you would be able to get them revoked.’
‘Oh, one must ask for the whole moon, my dear man, in order to be given a small piece of it. When he conceded the small piece, he thought he had won a little victory. When you are put aboard the Paris train tomorrow, you will find the young lady there too.’
‘Princess, you are a woman of wonders. Natasha will think you’ve fashioned a miracle.’
‘Miracles are a little harder to fashion than favours, Philip, and cost more.’
‘So they should. Natasha is still to be detained overnight?’
‘Be reasonable, dear man. Was I expected to turn dinner for two into dinner for three? Where shall we dine?’
‘It shall be your choice’
‘The Stadtler, then. Please call for me at eight. I shall do my best to look chic but ravishing.’
Just at this time, Natasha was brought up from a detention cell to an interview room. There, Count Orlov awaited her, and the policewoman left her alone with him.
‘Be seated,’ said the count, as austere as ever. Natasha sat down at the bare table. The count seated himself opposite her.
‘What is it you want?’ asked Natasha, eyes dark.
‘You are leaving us tomorrow,’ said the count. ‘So is your lover.’
‘He is not my lover. I do not take lovers. Mr Gibson is my kind friend.’
‘Of course.’ The aloof countenance showed a faint, ironic smile. ‘I can arrange, if you are reasonable, to let you have papers permitting you to leave the train at Warsaw and to live in Poland. You would prefer Poland to Soviet Russia?’
‘What is it you want?’ asked Natasha again. She was still numb, still in grief at the prospect of being permanently separated from Mr Gibson. The count, studying her, found that a starveling had become a lovely young lady. No, no, she was still a peasant.
‘It’s possible that your kind friend may never reach Paris,’ he said.
‘Oh, you are wicked and unspeakable!’
‘He should not have entered a game in which the stakes were so high. There is, however, a chance that he may survive. Do you know what this is?’ The count, placing a hand on his hat, which lay on the table, lifted it and disclosed a thick book, with a dark-brown leather cover embossed in gold.
‘It is a Russian Bible,’ said Natasha.
‘If you will take an oath, if you will swear on the Bible of our Orthodox Church that you will never appear at any inquiry, private or public, to tell what you say was a true event at Ekaterinburg, or speak in support of anyone else telling a similar story, then I will promise you will not end up in the hands of Moscow’s Bolsheviks and that your English friend’s life will be spared. If you refuse, then I can promise nothing.’
‘Oh, but you will still be able to promise one thing,’ said Natasha fiercely, ‘and that is that my friend will meet with an accident on the train.’
‘I have been a little harsh, yes,’ said Count Orlov, ‘but I am less in favour of violence than you think, and regret moments when I’ve condoned it. But there are other people who consider any act justifiable if it advances the cause of Holy and Imperial Russia. Millions of Russians, having come to know the true face of Bolshevism, would support a restoration of the Romanov dynasty, but the successor to Nicholas must be seen to be a strong, determined and stabilizing Tsar. His stature as the potential leader of a reborn Empire must not be diminished by controversy, and least of all by any suggestion that he’s not the rightful heir. Despite their hatred of the Bolsheviks, those millions of Russians will not fight for or support a controversial figurehead. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, I understand. I understand the Grand Duchess Anastasia is to be discredited and rejected, and I know why.’ Natasha was tired and desolate. The flame of faith and hope was dying. It was almost out.
‘The Grand Duchess Anastasia is dead. She died at Ekaterinburg. The person you are talking about is a sick woman who is out of her mind. Even if she were remotely credible, who could possibly accept her as the leader of a resurrected cause?’ The count was stern, but almost in a fatherly way. ‘Natasha Petrovna, I know you’re intelligent enough to see that for the sake of Russia, the Russia I think you loved, for all its faults, sentiment must be set aside. So must pity. Pity has softened too many hearts. You have a choice, and by it your friend will either live or die. If you make the wrong choice, I could not save him, however much I disapproved his execution.’
‘But would you disapprove? I cannot believe you would.’
‘I should regard his death as pointless. I have managed to convince some people that the stability of the Romanov cause is more likely to be wrecked by your disclosures than by any report your Englishman might present in respect of the sick madwoman. But that would still not save him unless you do as I would like you to.’
‘Whatever I do,’ said Natasha, ‘I am just as likely to meet with a fatal accident as he is.’
The count frowned. ‘You are not,’ he said.
‘That is the easiest solution for you, to kill me. You have already tried to.’
‘I assure you, that is not going to happen.’ For once, Count Orlov spoke gently and with feeling. ‘I have called you a peasant, yes, and a few moments ago I told myself that despite what the Englishman has done for your looks and your pride, you are still a peasant. I was wrong. You have survived Bolsheviks and here you have endured hardship and dangers, and I should exist in self-contempt if I did not acknowledge your spirit and courage. During these last two days – since, in fact, the moment when you escaped me at the Mommsen Clinic – I have fought for you, Natasha Petrovna. I will tell you now that whatever choice you make, you shall have the papers permitting you to leave the train at Warsaw and to live there. I am against delivering you to the Bolsheviks. I have won some arguments, and shall win another. Yes, I have fought for you. But I can do nothing for your English friend – unless you do as I ask.’
‘It is a cruel thing, to make me responsible for whether he lives or dies,’ said Natasha bitterly.
‘There are millions suffering far worse cruelty at the hands of Stalin’s butchers,’ said the count.
Natasha, dark eyes desperate, said, ‘If I swear the oath, could you not put me on the same train as my friend?’
‘I could lie to you and say yes.’ The count was remarkably gentle. ‘But because of what you are, Natasha Petrovna, I can only give you truth. It is beyond my influence to have you put aboard your friend’s train. But once in Poland, what is to stop you applying for a permit to go to England?’
‘You swear I will be safe from you in Poland?’
Count Orlov placed his hand on the Bible. ‘The papers you receive at the station tomorrow will entitle you to reside in Poland in perfect safety, I swear,’ he said.
‘Then I will do what you ask,’ said Natasha, knowing her choice had to come from her heart, not her conscience.
She took the Bible from Count Orlov, and she spoke the words he required of her, although she was in grief and anguish for the tragic woman in the clinic. Count Orlov showed neither satisfaction nor triumph as she finalized her oath by kissing the Bible.
‘Thank you,’ he said quietly, and rose to his feet.
‘I am heartbroken,’ said Natasha, eyes wet.
‘Yes. I know. I’m sorry.’
‘There is still the Austrian,’ she said.
‘Yes, if he survived.’ The count was sombre. ‘Natasha Petrovna, you have suffered in Berlin. Russians would not employ you because they were told not to. It was thought you would starve and die. But you endured. In Warsaw, it will be better for you. Go to the headquarters of the Russian Émigrés Organization. They will find you well-paid work.’
‘I will only be one more émigré.’
‘You will not. Wherever you are, you will always be far more than just another émigré. In any event, I have not fought for you in order to have you starve in Warsaw. You will be given work and lodging. You have my word.’ Count Orlov took her hand and lifted it to his lips. ‘I salute you, Natasha Petrovna.’
Back in the detention cell a few minutes later, Natasha sat with her tears streaming.
Chapter Seventeen
The Stadtler was a restaurant of an expensive and exclusive kind, and considered very chic. The food was superb, the chef and his assistants all French. The place had nothing in common with the Russian-owned or Russian-run establishments. Its white and gilt decor, circa 1880, actually had a faded look, and for illumination it still used gaslight. Brightly glowing gas mantles were covered by pearly globes. It was accordingly labelled modishly chic.
Princess Malininsky had thought about a modish look that would be in keeping, but had elected in the end for a gown of deep crimson. With her handsome, full-bosomed figure and her dark, Slavonic colouring, she always looked her sultry best in red.
Mr Gibson had ordered champagne with the meal, in acknowledgement of her successful intervention on Natasha’s behalf. He thought, in any case, that champagne was what the princess would naturally expect from any man privileged to dine with her. It brought life and light to her eyes, and gave her the vivacious air of a courtesan whose forte was to be all things to a man. She was delightfully talkative, and considered Mr Gibson to be quite the perfect escort, for he not only contributed entertaining comments, but lent his ears willingly to the sound of her facile tongue. One did so appreciate a good listener.
There was no orchestra, no music, no dancing. One went to the Stadtler to dine in unequalled style and to make conversation. Afterwards, if desired, one could repair to a club to take in late-night cabaret. The Stadtler was for the connoisseur, or the rich, or the noble, of course. Prussian aristocrats, left high and dry by the sunken Hohenzollern monarchy, recaptured some of the atmosphere of the old days here. There was also an element of civilized culture.
Natasha's Dream Page 18
