Faked Passports gs-3

by Dennis Wheatley

  `Well,' he thought, 'I haven't had a particularly short life and I have had an extremely gay one; and, after all, death is the greatest adventure upon which any man can set out!' He had been near death on too many occasions for the thought of it to worry him; but he was worried about Erika and the others. Those hectic nights that he had spent with her in Munich and Berlin had been very marvellous; but recently, since he had got his memory back, he had grown to feel a far deeper and more profound love for her. In his life he had known many women and it seemed hard that now he had found the one whose presence gave him such utter satisfaction and contentment their ways should be parted after a few brief weeks of happiness and worse that he should have to leave her as a prisoner, menaced by the grim prospect of being handed over to the Gestapo, which he could do nothing to avert.

  The door opened again and the General came in alone. His gait was brisker and Gregory noticed that his hair was slightly damp. Evidently he had been to his room and poured a jug of cold water over his head to bring himself back to a complete state of sobriety before taking any decision. Such an act was typical of the man and Gregory did not yet allow himself to hope. It might be that the Russian wanted all his wits about him so as to trick his prisoner out of the money before he had him shot, in order that the execution squad should not see him take it from the body and report the fact to Oggie.

  With a steady hand Kuporovitch collected the three empty sleivowitz bottles from the small table, replaced them on the sideboard and said abruptly: "Say I give you a quarter of the value of your marks in roubles, what d'you wish me to do?"

  Gregory breathed again. Although he might have soiled his hands in all sorts of dirty business for nearly a quarter of a century, the Russian was, at the rock bottom, still the man of honour that he had been as a young officer in pre Revolution days.

  "Since your Political Commissar is bound to hear about us to morrow," Gregory replied, "fix it so that it looks as if we had escaped during the night."

  Kuporovitch shook his head. "Four of you including two women? No. Oggie would never believe that. Besides, only a strong and resolute man could leave the castle, even with my aid, in a way which would enable me to avoid all suspicion of complicity. The best I can do is to arrange matters so that it appears that you have escaped. My record is so good that no one will hold the escape of one prisoner against me; but your friends must remain and the report about them will have to go in to morrow morning through the usual channels. If you can reach Voroshilov within a week or ten days and get an order for your friend's release, with permission for all of you to leave the country, you'll have cheated the Gestapo. If not, your friends must take their chance."

  Gregory was thinking swiftly. Nothing would have induced him to desert his friends in ordinary circumstances but if he could get away himself it would at least offer him some chance to save them; and above all there was the typescript. That must be put before everything. He nodded slowly.

  "In that case it's imperative that I should get to Voroshilov's headquarters at the earliest possible moment. I can't speak Russian and I may have difficulty with the railway people. Are you willing to throw in a railway voucher for my journey, faked in any name you like?"

  "Yes, I'll do that." The General moved towards the door again.

  "All right. That's a deal, and I'm eternally grateful to you."

  Gregory removed his boots and took out all his bank notes except five hundred German Reichmarks. The General was away about a quarter of an hour and when he returned he was carrying Gregory's furs as well as the railway voucher.

  The money was changed and the voucher handed over. Kuporovitch said that he had made it out for a mythical Vassily Stetin and that it was signed by Imitroff, one of his clerks whose name he had forged; but as the man was in hospital even if the paper were ever traced the clerk could not be held responsible for its issue and it would be impossible to find out who had forged his signature.

  Gregory drew on his furs and said: "I'll just go along and tell the others what I propose to do; so that they'll know what's happened to me and at least have something on which to pin their hopes during the coming week."

  "Oh, no, you don't " The Russian shook his head. "Oggie will question them all to morrow and I'm not going to risk their giving anything away. They mustn't know that I've had any hand in this, or even that you've escaped until they learn it for themselves. That's why I collected your furs from your room on my way back from the office."

  It was a bitter blow to Gregory that he had to leave without even being able to say good bye to Erika and the others but he saw the soundness of Kuporovitch's dictum.

  "Very well," he said reluctantly. I'd better get off, then. But I shall want the Russian for 'railway station', in case I get lost in the town, and the name of the place at which I'm most likely to find Voroshilov."

  " 'Railway station' is Vogzal Borzair," replied the General, and went on: "The Supreme Command is at Nykyrka, in captured Finnish territory, on the south of the Isthmus. Would you like one for the road?"

  "Thanks." Gregory nodded, so they moved over to the sideboard to empty the remains of a bottle of vodka into glasses.

  "Good luck, mon cher Baron " The Soviet General winked.

  "Good luck and a thousand thanks, Comrade General." the impostor Nazi Colonel smiled back, and they emptied the glasses.

  Outside on the landing it seemed that the whole of the ancient castle was sunk in grim, foreboding silence. No sentries were about and although they trod as softly as they could their footfalls echoed on the stone steps of the grand staircase. Down on the ground floor the General turned along a narrow passage. At its end he produced a large bunch of keys, shone a torch and unlocked a door; then they tiptoed down two more long, chill corridors till they reached a heavy postern. The bolts creaked a little as they drew them back, but no other sound disturbed the stillness. Kuporovitch unlocked the door with another large key and swung it open as he put out his torch; the cold, night air struck their faces.

  As Gregory stepped out into the snow the Russian said "Keep along this wall as far as the corner then turn left for a hundred paces; that will take you past the sentry. Ahead of you, you will find a shed that is used as a wood store. If you get on to its roof you'll be able to climb to the top of the outer wall of the castle. It's a nasty drop about twenty feet but the snow will break your fall. Go straight ahead again and you'll reach the nearest buildings of the town."

  Gregory gripped his hand and slipped away into the darkness. He was free again; but he had only seven days or ten at the most to save his friends from being sent back into Nazi Germany to face a Gestapo execution squad.

  It was nearly five o'clock in the morning so the moon had set and he was almost invisible against the blackness of the castle. Gaining the corner he paused for a moment to peer ahead in case the sentry was patrolling there; but he could detect no trace of movement in the shadows so turned left and crossed the open space. The store of wood had overflowed and at one side of the shed was a great heap of logs which made an easy way up to its roof; but as he scrambled up the pile some of the loosely stacked logs rumbled down under his feet. Fearing that the noise, which sounded like hammer blows in the silence, might attract the attention of the sentry he crouched on the roof's edge for a moment holding his breath.

  Nothing stirred so he pulled himself up to the apex of the roof and, by balancing himself upon it, found that he was just able to grasp the edge of the castle wall. With a heave he wriggled up on to its broad surface and lay there, flat, so that even in the dim light his silhouette would not be conspicuous against the fainter darkness of the sky line. The next stage was a tricky one, as twenty feet is a nasty height from which to have to drop. Had there been no snow on the ground he would have had to risk injuring himself seriously and, even as it was, he feared that if he let himself drop feet first he might break a leg, which would put an inglorious finish to his enterprise. But Gregory was an old escaper and knew a trick or two. Wrap
ping his arms round his head to protect his face he just rolled off the wall. The act required much more courage than jumping but it distributed his weight over a greater surface. He struck the snow full length and suffered no ill effects apart from a hard jolt as his body buried itself in the soft cushion of whiteness.

  Picking himself up he went forward until some buildings loomed in his path and, skirting round the nearest, entered a narrow street, down which he proceeded at a rapid pace, to keep his circulation going. The houses were all shuttered and silent, the infrequent street lights dim and the road deserted.

  He had a vague idea that Kandalaksha was at the head of a gulf running westwards from the White Sea. From what he had seen the previous evening it was quite a small place and dreary in the extreme. There were a certain number of brick and stone buildings in the centre of the town but most of the houses were made of wood. There were no tramways or buses. But the important thing was that it lay on the Murmansk Leningrad railway. Five minutes' walk downhill brought him to the little square and, turning left out of it, he reached the railway station ten minutes later.

  In peace time it would certainly have been shut at this hour as it is doubtful if more than one train each way passed through it per day, but the war had caused a big increase in traffic. The line was Russia's only link with her northern forces operating round Petsamo and trains were coming through at all sorts of odd hours, so the station was open day and night. Marching into the booking hall he handed his railway warrant to an official who, after examining it, said something to him in Russian.

  Gregory tapped his lips and ears and shrugged his shoulders, conveying that he had the misfortune to be a deaf mute. He then pointed to himself, to the voucher and to the door on to the platform; upon which the official nodded kindly and indicated by signs that Gregory should go into the waiting room and that he would fetch him when the next train for Leningrad came in.

  The waiting room was incredibly stuffy and already full of people. Most of them were soldiers but there were a certain number of peasants and townsfolk who had evidently gathered them not knowing when the next train was likely to come in and, for fear of missing it, had parked themselves at the station for the night. All the benches were occupied, and a good portion of the floor, where dirty, smelly people lay sprawled, looking extremely repulsive in their sleep. Gregory found a corner and, as he had not slept for nearly twenty four hours, dropped off almost as soon as he had stretched himself out.

  When he awoke daylight was filtering through the grimy window, so picking himself up he left the waiting room to see if he could find some breakfast. There was a small buffet on the other side of the booking hall and after doing his deaf mute act again he secured a huge doorstep sandwich, which contained some sort of sausage between the thick layers of greyish bread, and a steaming cup of substitute coffee. As he had had a good dinner the night before he did not want the sandwich and forced himself to eat it only because he did not know when he would be able to feed again; but the boiling hot coffee substitute was extremely welcome, since the amount of vodka, Caucasian champagne and sleivowitz that he had had to drink the night before had given him a most frightful hangover and he felt like death. While paying for his snack he also bought some biscuits rather like stale sponge cakes which were the only kind available and a packet of chocolate that cost him about ten times as much as it would have done in England.

  He then showed himself to the official again so that the man should not forget about him and went back to the waiting room to nurse his splitting head. The fug and smell there were quite revolting but it was the only warm place available. A sharp wind was coming up the frozen gulf across the harbour, which lay on the far side of the station, and the cold outside was bitter.

  Two trains going north rolled in during the morning and both waited in the station for the best part of an hour before proceeding further, while the troops with which they were packed got out to stretch their legs and crowd the little buffet. Gregory's awful state, the pain behind his eyes and the evil taste in his mouth to some extent took his mind off his impatience to get started on his journey; which was just as well, since it was nearly midday when the official came to fetch him. Many of the other people in the waiting room went out on to the platform with them and a long train slowly chugged its way in.

  Only one coach was allocated to the civilian passengers so there was a free fight among them for seats and many had to stand in the corridor, although some of them were proceeding upon journeys which would occupy a day and a night or more. As Gregory had a military voucher he was able to get in with the soldiers. No sleepers were available but he considered himself lucky to secure a corner seat in one of the roomy carriages, which, owing to the broader gauge of the Russian railroads, were much larger than those on the railways in Western Europe. An hour passed before the train started and when it did it chugged out in such a hesitant manner that it seemed as though the driver had really not made up his mind if he intended to take it any further.

  Gregory's companions were a mixed lot. A few of them had pleasant, open faces but the majority were almost brutish types and obviously conscripted from among the totally uneducated land workers. They did not seem unhappy and apparently the simplest witticism could raise a laugh among them. It soon transpired that Gregory was deaf and dumb; a fact that provided matter for some crude fun, as he could judge from the way they looked at him. But it was not meant unkindly and after a few minutes they soon left him to himself, which was all that he desired.

  The early coming of night soon shut out the dreary, snow covered landscape. The train rumbled on, its top speed being not more than thirty miles an hour, and it halted from time to time for periods of from twenty minutes to an hour and a half without any apparent reason. Gregory made a snack meal with the soldiers, who exchanged some of their iron rations for a part of his biscuits and chocolate, then he dozed for a good portion of the night.

  Twice during the following day the train stopped at stations where they were able to get hot soup or the substitute coffee and other food from buffets in addition to the meagre rations issued to the troops; and as Gregory had enough money to stand treat he became extremely popular with his companions. Since he had now slept as much as he was able the second night proved much worse than the first, particularly as he was intolerably tired of sitting in one position hour after hour in the crowded, smelly carriage; but early next morning the train at last steamed into Leningrad. It had taken him forty two hours to accomplish the seven hundred and fifty mile journey which, including the many halts, worked out at an average speed of eighteen miles per hour. Although it had proved a dreary and wearisome experience he felt that that was not at all bad going for a Russian train and that the railway people, probably considered they were doing wonders to help on the Soviet war effort.

  Gregory could not read the signs on the platform but he had no doubt at all that it was Leningrad since the station was a great terminus with a dozen or more platforms, where everyone left the train. Having arrived there he felt considerably easier in his mind. Britain was not at war with the Soviet Union so for an hour or two he could reassume his own identity without fear of running into immediate trouble. It is true that he had no Soviet visa on the British passport which had been faked for him by the German Foreign Office, but he did not propose to try to cross any frontiers for the time being so there was no purpose for which he was likely to be called upon to produce it.

  He was just one inconspicuous person among two or three million who thronged the streets of the capital of the old Russian empire. Every other person that he could see was clad in some sort of fur lamb, goat, seal, pony or rabbit so there was nothing in his appearance to mark him as a foreigner and, as he was both extremely dirty and still wearing a beard, he did not look the least like an Englishman who normally wore clothes cut in Savile Row.

  His first job was to find the British Consulate but he was much too wary to make his inquiries at the Intourist Bureau in the statio
n, which was there for the convenience of foreign travellers. Instead he walked straight out of the station and along a broad boulevard.

  It was only just after six o'clock in the morning so the streets were still dark, but there were plenty of people moving in them. Gregory waited for a few moments under a big lamp standard, watching the passing crowd, until he saw a man who was better dressed than the rest coming along. He then tackled him in French, German and English. The man did not understand any of these languages, so this first attempt was a failure, but at his third trial a tall young man in a smart black leather jerkin responded with a cheerful smile and answered him in halting German. Gregory explained what he wanted. The young man did not know the whereabouts of the British Consulate but he led Gregory down the street to a rank which contained three ancient taxis and, after a voluble discussion in which all the drivers took part, he was put in the leading vehicle and driven away.

  He knew quite well that, as a British Secret Agent, he had no right whatever to involve the Consul in his affairs but, strictly speaking, he was no longer a British Secret Agent. His original mission had been given him through an unofficial channel and he had completed it early in November, so for the best part of three months he had been off the record. That was to some extent begging the question, but as he could not speak Russian and did not know a soul in Leningrad he felt that he had a very adequate excuse for going to the Consul.

  The taxi pulled up in front of an old, stone faced building in the Krasnaya Ulitza. Gregory got out and, displaying some loose change in the palm of his hand, trusted to the honesty of the cabman to take the fare due.

  A Russian dvornik who was standing at the door eyed Gregory suspiciously as he entered the building and went upstairs to the first floor flat in which the Consulate was situated. His ring at the door was answered by a Russian maid, who smiled brightly at him but informed him in hesitant English that the Consul did not live there and the Vice Consul, Mr. Hills, was not yet up.