Текст книги "The Blood Royal"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Chapter Thirty-Six

Bacchus and Fanshawe arrived at the ops room at eight thirty on Monday morning to find Sandilands already installed. The Commander’s face lit up at the sight of the large cardboard box Fanshawe was carrying. He didn’t try to hide his relief.

‘You’ve got it! I won’t embarrass you by asking how on earth you managed to get your hands on it, but well done!’

Bacchus grimaced. ‘Had to take a hostage for it, sir. The Home Secretary gets his granny back at noon today if she behaves herself.’

‘I expect you’ve already had a rummage around?’

‘Who could resist? Fascinating stuff. I think, with a touch of imagination, we can make something of it.’ Bacchus seemed unusually positive.

‘And my other request? Did you manage to get the tickets?’

He put an envelope down on the table. ‘No problem there. Except for the cost of course which made my eyes water. But then I thought you were most probably expecting it to be accounted for by your department. I’ve sent in the usual chit. And I have the news item you asked for.’ He took a sheet from his inside pocket and put it next to the envelope. ‘We have our forger standing by. Name of Sam Scrivener. All we need is the text of the letter and we’re off.’

‘And the postman,’ said Fanshawe. ‘Is everyone quite happy about this aspect of the scheme? I mean – couldn’t I or Bacchus or even the post office delivery man take care of that? I can’t see why we have to involve Wentworth again.’

‘I wonder whom you prefer for this duty, Fanshawe? We could send you but they’d just drag you in, subject you to heavy flirting and tell you nothing. The menace of Bacchus’s moustache would silence them. These are women who have narrowly escaped summary execution at the hands of the Bolshevik not-so-secret police. They know what it is to have a price on their heads. They know they are still, in a foreign land, pursued. They’re jittery. The princess – quite rightly – trusts no one. Especially the people’s police force – that’s you and your minions, Bacchus. I do believe she regards you as a sort of Cheka-on-a-leash. But she has declared herself ready to accept Wentworth as go-between … ambassador if you will. We’re not the only shadowy organization to keep this house under surveillance. A young girl paying a visit here is not in the least remarkable – there’s a constant stream of them passing through as you are aware. Miss Wentworth has established a relationship of sorts with them and she is, after all – and this cuts some ice with these people – the girl who danced with the Prince of Wales in such amity the other night. She would appear to be in his confidence.’

‘They’ll know by now that it was Wentworth’s interference that saved his life, sir. And thwarted them.’

‘Not them, Fanshawe. I don’t believe we’re dealing with a conspiracy. These are people who define themselves by their reverence for monarchy. The British strand may be in bad odour with one of them at the moment but they are and always will be impressed by royal favour. They accept Wentworth as a sort of chargée d’affaires, the effective and unthreatening mouthpiece of our establishment. And so, gentlemen, like it or not, she is!’

Bacchus produced the camera bag he’d slung from one shoulder. ‘Not sure what you want me to do with this?’

Joe walked over to the easel he’d installed by the window and flung back the covering sheet.

‘Lord!’ Fanshawe exclaimed, recognizing it. ‘Not that again! It’s the God-awful Russian painting. What are you doing with that daub, sir?’

‘It has its part to play in the little show I’m putting on. Hocus pocus, Fanshawe. Never disregard it. The picture belongs to Wentworth. A thoughtful gift from HRH for services rendered. I’ve examined it closely – more closely, I’d guess, than the Russian contingent have. It’s sending us a message. One that I think we can interpret in our own way and call to the attention of the princess and her coterie. Can you take a snap of it in this light with your equipment, Bacchus?’

The Branch man appeared delighted to be challenged and set about putting his camera pieces together, muttering happily of lenses and focal lengths and distances as he worked.

The preliminaries complete, the men looked at each other in satisfaction.

‘Do we have to wait for the constable or shall we set about it now and present her with a fait accompli? She is, after all, just delivering the package,’ Fanshawe wanted to know.

Joe appeared to be choosing his words. ‘The princess will interrogate her – in the most civilized way, of course. And our would-be assassin will most likely be listening in. One would hope so. I would like Wentworth to be familiar with the facts and sufficiently in command of the strategy to be able to improvise if necessary. She has to understand the importance of the offer she is about to extend to the Russians. I want her to be listening when we put it together. Wentworth is not to be regarded as cannon fodder – she’s a well-aimed bullet.’ He looked at the clock. ‘I asked her for nine … though her time-keeping seems to be a bit erratic. So …’

One minute later they heard the tap on the door.

*    *    *

‘It’s a confidence trick, sir!’

‘You have it, Wentworth. I put my hands up to it. A deceitful piece of chicanery! A dirty bit of business!’

‘The end justifies the means, then, you’d say?’

‘Don’t be tedious!’ Joe responded to her cross face with a flash of impatience. ‘This is not a debating society. This is a police force. And a national protection unit. It will take considerable nerve and a degree of low cunning to pull it off. You, I observe, are not short of either, so stay with the stroke I set, will you? We’re anticipating no less than the removal – the permanent removal, one hopes – of this menace to the lives of the prince and the rest of the royal family. When it’s removed, gone abroad, they’ll be able to go about their daily business once more without the constant fear of assassination.’

‘You say “it”, sir.’ Lily spoke hesitantly. ‘We’re talking about “she” – a strong-minded woman who will object to being manipulated. She may refuse to accept a suggestion that she simply leave the country.’

‘I would expect so. And that’s why we have to make her an offer that is irresistible to her. One that will give more satisfaction than sticking a knife in HRH or whatever she has planned for him next time. We have to thank some ancient Greek for an old military proverb: If you wish to get rid of your enemy, build him a golden bridge to flee across.

‘Aristides’ advice to Themistocles, I believe, sir,’ Bacchus chipped in. ‘Concerning the Persian retreat back across the Dardanelles.’

‘Thank you, Bacchus. I believe you’re right. And we’re going to take it again. It’s exactly what we’re going to do. With the utmost politesse we’re going to show our enemy to the border and offer a passage out. The golden bridge in question is a first-class berth on a luxury liner – the Hirondelle did you say, Bacchus?’

‘Yes, sir. The pride of the French fleet,’ he announced. ‘She starts on Friday from Cherbourg where she takes on board a few chefs de cuisine and a chanteuse or two. Then she nips across to Southampton where she picks up the English contingent and goes in one hop to New York. Dancing and dining and entertainment all the way. From there, first class again on the transcontinental railway … Chicago and the sunset route west to San Francisco.’

They all fell silent, imagining the luxury, the adventure, the wide horizons. Someone sighed.

‘May I ask what Anna Petrovna is supposed to do with herself once she gets to California, sir?’ Lily asked.

‘Ah, yes! The whole point of the exercise! Now – what would constitute an impulse strong enough to counter the urge to kill? I’ll tell you: friendship, a reunion, the promise of a fresh start and a wonderful climate, they tell me, in California. And a thriving Russian colony to welcome her. Got your cutting, Bacchus?’

The Branch man showed it around the table and began to read out salient details. ‘This appeared a week ago so it’s very fresh. There’s a good chance that she’s not seen it. It’s an eye-witness report. A woman recognized as the archduchess Tatiana has been sighted in the city of San Francisco. Several times. Climbing aboard a cable-car … dancing at Governor Stephens’s fund-raising event for Asiatic orphans … sipping champagne in a night club … You can imagine.’

‘Well, you know how it is,’ Joe said with a smile. ‘An odd thing, but anyone who disappears is reported to have been sighted in San Francisco.’

‘Your hero, Oscar, responsible for that little insight, I believe?’ Bacchus commented.

With an impatient sigh, Lily burst in: ‘San Francisco? But that’s halfway round the world! What would a Russian princess be doing in San Francisco? What would any Russians be doing there? It’s a nonsense!’ Her voice was amused and disbelieving.

Fanshawe, for once, concurred. ‘Another one. For dead girls, the Tsar’s daughters don’t half get about the globe. The last sighting was in Rome. Another one in Japan. And then there was that novice who turned up in a Greek nunnery last year … That was supposed to be the religious one – Olga. There’s an Anastasia or two doing the rounds in Germany … that one they fished out of a canal in Berlin last winter seems to be putting on a convincing act. They’re all over the show. Anywhere but in the Koptyaki forest buried under a ton of railway sleepers. They’re dead. The whole lot of them. And we don’t have to guess – the Bolshies have held up their bloodstained hands for this one.’

‘Many would think twice before accepting evidence or even a confession from those duplicitous thugs,’ Sandilands reprimanded. ‘This identification is not so easily dismissed, Fanshawe. And it’s one we really could wish had not surfaced. I have to tell you … it is supported by other evidence of survival.’ He pursed his lips and fidgeted with his tie.

Oblivious of the exchange of scathing glances and a snort of disbelief, Joe went to stare at the painting, absorbed by dark thoughts. ‘I agree – there are bodies buried under the taiga. That much I accept. Unfortunately, in spite of our best efforts, no one has been able to establish exactly whose bodies they are. Burned, rotted by acid, crushed by bulldozer and scattered, they could be remains filched from the refuse bins of the local hospital for all we know. Or corpses simply swept up from the streets – heaven knows there was no shortage at the time – starvation and disease were rife. Impossible ever to be sure. I’ll tell you now and the story is not to be mentioned outside this room.’

He caught a nervous glance from Bacchus and responded to it: ‘We can speak freely. No listening equipment, Bacchus. I haven’t authorized it in the ops room.’

Unusually serious, even hesitant, he caught and held everyone’s eye, each in turn.

‘There are indeed Romanovs buried in the forest near Ekaterinburg. But not all. The Tsar and his son, the heir, were shot and bayoneted to death along with their doctor who tried to intervene. Poor old Botkin. Loyal to the last. The Empress? It’s less clear at this point – we really don’t know – but it’s thought she succumbed and died of natural causes. She had been very ill for some months. Her body may lie there also. It’s possible.’ He was weighing his words, not wishing to say more than he could verify.

‘Uncouth and dangerous though they were, the guards appointed by the Ural Soviet could not bring themselves to shoot the girls, of whom they had got quite fond during their three-month incarceration. They’d appreciated the way they put on no airs and graces but rolled their sleeves up and cooked and cleaned for the household. And kept the peace. In a cramped space with a sick little brother, an increasingly deranged mother and an ineffectual father, the girls were up against it but they made the best of their imprisonment, remaining good natured and friendly with the young lads who were guarding them.

‘These were only too pleased to look the other way when a diesel truck turned up one night at the Ipatiev villa with papers granting permission to separate the women from the men and take them away. The family had travelled this way before, as a matter of convenience, and made nothing of it. But this time the Empress – with foresight perhaps? – refused to leave her husband and son. And that’s where we lose track of her. The four girls were bundled off. They were driven to the relative safety of the estate of an old marshal of the Tsar’s at Lysva which was by then in the hands of the advancing White Army. We have a touching confirmation of this from the villa itself. Our eagle-eyed man in Ekaterinburg during his inspection of the premises after the murders noticed a word scrawled backwards in haste across a mirror … the letters spelled out LYSVA.

‘It cannot have been until much later that the girls heard of the deaths of the Tsar and Tsarevich. By then, they had been split up. A quartet of pretty girls with aristocratic ways travelling about Russia would not have got far. They were moved about singly with escorts, dressed in nun’s clothes or as nurses. Now, from our geographical perspective we see Russia as Moscow and St Petersburg – a sort of exotic but civilized offshoot of Europe. We forget that thousands more miles of it run east, right over to Japan. And Ekaterinburg is in the middle of this land mass. With access to the Trans-Siberian railway … The Romanovs didn’t go west to the capital – they went east, further into the wilderness.

‘There was a British frigate – yes, we did not abandon the family’ – he flicked a quick glance at Lily – ‘patrolling on the China station – you will know the one, Bacchus – and it made a pick-up later that year at Vladivostok on the east coast. Thirty-nine packing cases of Romanov goods and a few passengers. It sailed away. To Hong Kong? Possibly. I’ve not been able to track it. Its log is mysteriously under wraps even to men with more clout than I have. But you can probably see that if you plot a straightish course across the Pacific ocean, you fetch up in California. San Francisco. The shipping port for the armaments that were being sent by the Americans to Russia in support of the Czech contingent and the White Army. Having unloaded their guns, the ships often returned to the home port with a human cargo – refugees. The Vladisvostok–California route has been a very busy one.’

‘Good Lord!’ Bacchus breathed. ‘So that accounts for … But how the devil …?’ Frowning, he turned a mutinous face on Sandilands, incredulity, resentment and deference doing battle for his tongue. Joe well understood his officer’s dilemma. Bacchus was aware that Sandilands, with his Military Intelligence background, had access to sources he would never reveal. The information he came by was as likely to be acquired over dinner at the Vineyard or lunch at Buck’s as garnered from official files.

Resentment won. ‘You can’t possibly know this!’ Bacchus spluttered. ‘That’s the log of HMS Kent you’re on about … How did you get access to it? Sir, you exceed your … Who’ve you been talking to?’

The challenge amounted to indiscipline and he fell silent, seething with indignation and awaiting the commander’s set-down.

Joe grinned and playfully poked a finger at his lieutenant. ‘Gotcha! You walked right into it, Bacchus. Well, what do the rest of you make of my story? Easy enough to get a pair of old romantics like Bacchus and Fanshawe worked up, but will the Russian ladies be deceived? What I’ve just handed you is a load of cobbled-together nonsense. A thumping great lie! Full of holes, I confess. But I find the best way of getting someone to swallow a lie is to season it well and stick it between two thick slices of truth. Worth a try?’

There followed a ruminative silence. Joe followed his audience’s reactions through from sharp anger at being deceived to disgruntlement, puzzlement and finally a cynical acceptance. He pressed on. ‘There you are then – I’ve given you the imaginary skeleton so to speak, now help me put some real flesh on it.’

‘Oh, no. Another corpse that’s going to get up and dance,’ Lily muttered.

‘Exactly that. We’re going to resurrect a princess of the blood royal. Tatiana lives! We’ve got to make them believe that. Get your box out, Bacchus, and let’s see what we can use. Unless I’ve been misinformed, there’s a very particular relic of the second daughter in there.’

Mumbling and mistrustful, Bacchus pulled the box into the centre of the table and opened it up.

Inside was a perfectly ordinary Gladstone bag, its leather stamped with the emblem of the United Kingdom. Bacchus took it out and opened it up. ‘Our man – one of our men – in Ekaterinburg owned this bag. He had it with him when he made a consular call on the villa in the aftermath of the shootings. In the chaos that reigned – there was a squad still mopping up the pools of blood, retrieving shell cases and looting – he quietly helped himself to some Romanov goods. Not the obvious valuables of which there were plenty lying about the place. He went for the more interesting stuff – letters and diaries. He found things hidden behind water cisterns and under the bath – places the guards hadn’t thought to ransack. The outside world had managed to keep in touch with the Romanovs for many a month. Better that such incriminating documents did not fall into the hands of the Bolsheviks, of course.’

He began to take objects from the bag, laying them out with care on the mahogany surface of the table. Lily noticed that he was beginning to sort them as he picked them out. Medals, rings, icons and lockets were put in one corner, small leather-bound diaries and notebooks in another, photographs and letters in the centre. Lily could not hold back a gasp of emotion as she saw a white lace-edged handkerchief embroidered by a child’s hand in red silk at the corner. The wobbly letter A – Anastasia? Lily reached for it and held it, breathing in the trace of a spicy cologne lurking in its folds. No, this A was for Alexandra – a gift from a child to its mother.

‘It’s Tatiana we’re hunting for, remember,’ Joe reminded them, seeing his small group distracted and sinking fast into fascinated absorption. ‘Anything of her in here? We have to reconstitute her from these bits and pieces. We have to breathe life into her … conjure up an image so real that her best friend will be convinced she’s alive and well and calling her to her side.’

Fanshawe found a sheet of paper. ‘Got something, sir! Here’s her writing. That’s a start. Letter to a friend. In English. Thank God they all seem to have used English, or German. It was never sent, apparently.’

‘There was a clamp-down on their correspondence once they were at the Ipatiev house,’ said Bacchus. ‘It must have been suppressed and kept. Here’s a notecase full of letters received.’ He handed it to Lily. ‘See what you can find.’

Lily was instantly absorbed by the task. After a few moments, her voice trembling slightly, she said: ‘I’ve found a letter from our girl – Anna Petrovna. And it’s addressed to Tatiana. 1917. Before all the nastiness burst over them. Oh, she’s put … there’s a hank of hair in here.’

‘Hair? Yuck!’ said Fanshawe. ‘Well, I suppose they were very young things in 1917.’

‘It’s dark hair,’ said Lily, holding it to the light. ‘Blueblack, you’d say. Your Morana, sir? I think we’ve found her.’ She skimmed the letter quickly. ‘Not much of note. Grumbles and complaints and – oh, talk of patients. A handsome officer she’s fallen for … they were all at it … leg amputations … disease … She was nursing, of course, following the imperial example of devotion to patriotic duty. The hair is mentioned at the end … “By my hair shall you know me!” Strange thing to say?’

‘From the Bible. Matthew’s gospel. “By their fruits shall ye know them …” something like that. Religious lot, the Romanovs. And their correspondence was probably even at that time being monitored by the Red factions,’ said Bacchus. ‘They found ways of getting round the surveillance. Cocking a childish snook at the enemy. They didn’t know then how serious it was all going to get.’

‘Prepare to yuck again, Fanshawe,’ Joe said with satisfaction. He’d been passing a hand around the bottom of the bag following its turn-out. ‘Here it is. Yes! This is what I’d heard mentioned.’

He brought out, wrapped in brown paper, a wild flower album. When he opened it, no collection of dusty stalks and petals fell crumbling from the stiff pages. On each was glued a specimen, but not a botanical specimen. One after another, thick hanks of hair appeared, five in all, ranging in colour from fair to dark brown. Sandilands looked at the date in the front of the book. ‘Gathered up and stuck in the day all the children had their hair cut off. They caught some disease or other – measles, I believe – which necessitated a shaven head. But – this is it. This is something we can use. Wentworth – pick out Tatiana’s hair, will you?’

Lily took the book from him and leafed through it. ‘Here’s a fine, brownish-blond that must have been the Tsarevich’s hair … and … Ah! Here it is, sir. It’s a wonderful rich red. Dark red. Titian, would you say?’

‘That’s the one.’ Joe reached for it and began to smooth a forefinger along the still-gleaming tress. ‘Celtic ancestry. This lady could trace her line back to Ivan the Terrible, let’s not forget. And a selected lock of this is about to make its way from California in a letter, written in Tatiana’s hand, and it will say at the end, what was it? – “By my hair shall you know me!” Can we arrange for an envelope from the States, Bacchus? Stamps and suchlike? Evidence of diplomatic clearance?’

‘Nothing easier,’ Bacchus told him. ‘I’ll get straight on to it. Not sure I can compose the text of the letter though, the phrasing. I mean, I’m a thirty-five-year-old bloke. This is a twenty-five-year-old woman who’s meant to be speaking. Hand me a written version of what you want said and I’ll get our forger to do it.’

The men glanced at each other in dismay. ‘Um … yes … ah …’

‘Don’t look at me!’ said Fanshawe.

‘I’ll do it,’ Lily said. ‘Just give me time to read through these letters of Tatiana’s and get the flavour and an ear for the phrasing. Can anyone tell me what sort of girl she was? I suppose I ought to know that if I’m going to pretend to be her.’

It was Bacchus who replied. ‘We hear plenty about the others but not a great deal about this one. Mother’s favourite … reserved … stand-offish and squashing. Her pekinese dog was shot dead in the bloodbath. Sorry, I’m not being very helpful. Now if you wanted Maria we could supply – people are only too pleased to talk about her and they smile when they speak. A true Russian beauty, open and friendly. It was the little one no one could stand – Anastasia. Even her mother called her a devil. Mischievous little troublemaker seems to be the general opinion. Sorry, Wentworth, this isn’t of much use, is it?’

‘Just tell me how long I’ve got.’

Bacchus smiled. ‘That’s what I like to hear. I’ve got Sam standing by, pen in hand, but a job of this complexity is going to take him a while … An hour? That long enough for you to turn yourself into Her Imperial Highness?’