Come into my Parlour (33 page)

“Oil is the most important of those war essentials of which you speak. But the Germans still have eight hundred miles to go before they reach the shores of the Caspian, and, personally, I believe that their effort will be spent long before they can menace our principal oilfields. Yet, if our armies were cut off from the main producing centres that would be almost as disastrous. Look now how the oil comes to us.”

His thick finger traced the line of the Volga from its mouth on the Caspian at Astrakhan in a great sweep north-westward to Stalingrad, then north and slightly east to Saratov; after which the great river turned north-eastwards to Kubishev but further up curved back again in a huge arc to the north of Moscow.

“You see! In peace the Volga is the greatest commercial highway in European Russia, and in war it forms the backbone for our lateral communications. All the oil comes up it in barges, and from it there radiate canals and railways to all parts of the front, by means of which the armies are supplied. Therefore the retention of the line of the Volga is vital to us. Now, observe the great bend that it makes westward towards the Ukraine. The arc of that brings the river much nearer to the Germans than it is at any other point, so, if they still have strength enough left when they get there, that is obviously where they will attempt to cut it. On the apex of the bend stands Stalingrad. Twenty-three years ago this autumn, the defeat or victory of the Russian working-man in his war against tyranny depended on the retention of this city. It was then called Tzaritsyn. Well, we held it, and the Revolution triumphed over the forces of reaction.

“We now fight a still greater war against a new tyranny. It may be that once again victory or defeat will hang upon the retention of Stalingrad. The loss of Moscow would be a great blow to us. Naturally
we shall hold it if we can, but even the loss of the capital would not prejudice the final outcome of the war. The loss of Stalingrad and all that it implies would definitely do so. Therefore, of one thing you may be certain. If the Germans get near enough to menace the city the flower of the Soviet Army will be thrown in without reserve. Even if half a million of our finest troops have to lay down their lives there, the German armies will break themselves upon that rock, the Volga will be kept open and the People's Republic will emerge victorious.”

As he finished speaking there was a brief silence, then Gregory said: “Thank you, Marshal. You have given me all that I require. If the German armies reach the approaches to Stalingrad that will be my cue. During the month or six weeks that it will take to make the final preparations for our
Putsch
they will be held there and, for the first time, the German people will begin to lose their faith in Nazi leadership. That will be the psychological moment for us to strike, and as soon as my friends are in power we shall propose a general armistice. We shall have saved Germany from the fate to which Hitler's crazy ambition is leading her, and you, I hope, will never be called upon to sacrifice the finest of your Russian youth.”

Voroshilov passed his hand over his eyes and swayed slightly. For some time Kuporovitch had been regarding him with puzzled anxiety. Now he said: “You're tired, Clim. You've been taking too much out of yourself.”

“No,” replied the Marshal, with a quick shake of his head. “I'm all right.” And he turned back to Gregory.

“You realise,
Herr Baron
, that your troops may never get within a hundred miles of Stalingrad. What happens then?”

“Once it becomes obvious—making due allowances for winter-that the general advance has begun to lose its momentum, we shall start our preparations, then a fortnight or so after the first major German defeat we shall act.”

“Good, I am glad of that, as you Germans are tenacious fighters and otherwise it might mean another year of war before we could drive your troops right out of Russia. You know I am only a soldier by accident. I am really a man of peace. I like to make things, not break them; and I want to see the young people of our new Russia happy and prosperous, not dying by the thousand, years before their time.”

There was a sharp knock on the door and Colonel Gudarniev came in.

“Hello, Ivan!” the Marshal greeted him with a vague smile. “Have you come to collect our friends? Well, I think we've settled everything, I've told them all that they want to know.”

A look of surprise came into the Colonel's dark eyes as they took in his Chief's perspiring face and the marked maps spread out on the table, and he asked: “What is it that you've been telling them, Clim?”

The question was put with the easy familiarity of a personal staff officer, and the Marshal answered at once:

“Oh, all sorts of things about the build-up of our forces, and how we mean to beat these Hitlerite bandits. It has been a very valuable talk and I hope great things will come of it.”

The Colonel's face showed some concern as he said quickly: “Are you feeling quite all right? You don't look too good. Is anything the matter with you?”

“No,” Voroshilov staggered back to his chair and flopped down into it. “I'm a bit tired now, that's all. I'll get to bed as soon as you've all gone.”

Gregory had known for the past half hour that something was radically wrong with the Marshal, and he could see that Gudarniev sensed it, but there was nothing he could do or say as they were talking in Russian again, so he could not understand what was being said.

In an attempt to set the Colonel's mind at rest Kuporovitch laughed and remarked: “We've all had quite a drop to drink, and after such a long day a last brandy often makes one a bit unsteady on the legs.”

“That's it,” agreed Voroshilov with tired cheerfulness, then he turned to Gudarniev. “Take our friends back to the club, Ivan, and give orders that they are to have everything they want. Tomorrow we will make arrangements to get the
Herr Baron
out of the city, but we must discuss first what route he is to take. It would be best if we dropped him from an aircraft somewhere in Esthonia, I think. He should be able to make his way back to Germany quite easily from there.”

“Back to Germany!” repeated Gudarniev, with a puzzled glance at Gregory. “The
Herr Baron?
”

“That's right That's where he wants to go. Well, I must get to bed.”

They said good night to him, then Gudarniev politely showed them out to the lift and down to the main hall of the building.

As they accompanied the Colonel their feelings were extraordinarily mixed. Both of them were filled with elation at the thought that they had got the information they had come to Russia to get. Every ounce of it and more. But they were conscious that some quite abnormal agency had helped them to obtain it. No words of theirs could normally ever have caused the Marshal to speak to two people, whom he had only an hour or so before regarded as most dubious characters, with such complete disregard for the dictates of security. They had hoped to
pick up just a hint or two out of which they might afterwards make something tangible; but to be given the whole picture had been beyond their wildest dreams. It had almost seemed as if Voroshilov had been temporarily out of his mind, or under the influence of a spell. But their feeling of triumph was undermined by a most disconcerting uneasiness, since they felt certain that Colonel Gudarniev was also aware that the Marshal had not been himself.

Their perturbation grew when, down in the hall, the Colonel summoned two soldiers to accompany them out to a waiting car It might be a regulation always to escort visitors to the besieged city in this way, but armed guards seemed redundant when the visitors had been referred to by the Marshal as his friends.

In the semi-darkness outside it was difficult to make out the route that the car was taking, but after a little it seemed to them that the journey had already lasted longer than it had on their coming from the Astoria. A few minutes later the car pulled up, but the block before which it had halted was not the Officers' Club.

As he stepped from the car Gregory had half a mind to bolt for it. He was now in the possession of secrets of inestimable value to his country. It had already occurred to him that Gudarniev might have decided to disobey the Marshal's order. That seemed unlikely, yet why had he brought them to the tall gloomy building that now loomed up across the pavement, instead of taking them back to the Astoria? If it was some form of trap and he once allowed himself to be caught in it, he might never get back to London with the invaluable information that he had obtained. On the other hand, if he took to his heels one of the armed guards might shoot him in the back. Then he would never get back to London anyway.

He was still hesitating when Gudarniev said to Kuporovitch: “I have brought you here because I felt that I could provide much more suitable quarters for you than you had at the Astoria.”

Kuporovitch, who had also been acutely apprehensive of what the next few moments might bring, translated to Gregory, and, with a sudden easing of the tension that both had been feeling, they turned and followed Gudarniev, while the two soldiers brought up the rear.

As they passed through the heavy doors of the building they saw that the hall had a bleak, official look. A man in the uniform of the
Ogpu
sat at a desk at its far end and two more stood near the doorway. The second Kuporovitch caught sight of the uniforms he took a quick step back, turned, and with a shout to Gregory, attempted to regain the street.

But the two guards barred the path. As Gregory swung round, they found themselves looking down the muzzles of sub-machine guns.

Gudarniev had turned too. While Gregory was aware only of the sudden hostility in his voice, his low fierce whisper hissed into Kuporovitch's ears with the venom of a rattlesnake.

“You filthy Nazi spies! How you did it, I don't know. But somehow, tonight, you managed to administer to our Marshal the Truth drug.”

The street, freedom, and all that freedom meant were still only a couple of yards away, yet a barrier as impassable as a steel wall now shut Gregory and Stefan off from it. Even if they had instantly flung themselves upon the two fur-clad troopers and borne them down, before they could have got the heavy doors open again Gudarniev and the armed men inside the hall would have shot them from behind. As it was, the two soldiers already had their fingers on the triggers of their weapons. At one word from Gudarniev they could have filled the prisoners full of lead. There was nothing they could do but obey their captor, as he snapped at them:

“Come along. I promised you more suitable accommodation, and, by heavens, you shall have it! Two cells in the basement are the place for you, for the rest of the night; tomorrow we'll find you two yards of earth and a bucket of quicklime apiece.”

“I protest!” declared Kuporovitch, turning swiftly back to him. “You heard the Marshal's orders. How dare you disobey them!”

The Colonel's dark eyes had gone black with anger. “That is my responsibility,” he flared.

“Damn you!” roared Kuporovitch. “You seem to forget that I am your superior officer. I demand to be released and taken back to the Astoria.”

But his bluff was useless. Gudarniev's only answer was to draw his pistol and jab it in the ex-General's ribs, as he yelled: “You're a lousy traitor. Get over to that desk now, or I'll shoot you where you stand.”

As they walked the length of the stone-floored hall, Kuporovitch muttered to Gregory in German. “Because the Marshal looked ill when we left him, and had apparently been telling us so much, we are suspected of having given him the Truth drug. It has sometimes been used at trials to make witnesses talk freely. Anyhow, that's what Gudarniev thinks.”

At this announcement a great fight dawned in Gregory's mind. Like most people, he had heard that the Russians possessed such a
drug, but he had always supposed that it was administered by means of a hypodermic. Evidently they had now found a way of giving it to people in liquid form. Voroshilov must have decided to give him a dose of the drug in his drink; and, by changing the glasses, he had caused the Marshal to take it himself.

Gregory did not blame his recent host in the least for his attempted breach of hospitality. After all, he had sought out the Marshal with the view of attempting to trick him into giving some indication of Russia's future plans, so he had no right to complain if the Marshal had tried to trick him, or at least to make quite certain that he was telling the truth. He had, too, presented himself as a German, and his own first principle was that “All is fair in love and war.” Since he had come ostensibly to disclose a project for the overthrow of Hitler, and had sought Voroshilov's co-operation in the timing of his plan, he felt that the Marshal had the right to investigate his visitor's integrity by every possible means at his disposal before he talked to him at all.

One thing was now clear beyond all doubt. If anything could have set the seal of unqualified success upon his mission, this was it. The Marshal's extraordinary talkativeness was not only fully explained but there was now the best possible reason to believe that all he had said was the truth, the complete truth, and nothing but the truth.

Yet, by the most damnable piece of misfortune, at the very moment of achieving this staggering success Colonel Gudarniev had tumbled to what had happened; and now it looked as if Gregory's exchanging those two glasses was about to cost him and his friend their lives.

When they reached the desk Gudarniev asked for the night-duty officer to be summoned. The man behind it rang through on a telephone. They waited for a few minutes in tense silence. A fat man with eyes in slits that seemed to turn up at the corners and the high cheekbones of a Mongolian appeared. Gudarniev gave his name, showed a headquarters pass, and then said to him:

“I am one of Marshal Voroshilov's staff officers. These two men are under suspicion of being spies and saboteurs. They have gained possession of important military secrets. They are to be confined in such a way that they can neither talk together nor to anyone else. By that I mean that they are not even to be allowed to exchange remarks with any member of the staff here. You will have triple guards placed on their cells to watch one another and see that this order is obeyed. They are carrying British passports in the names of Stephen Cooper and Gregory Sallust. You will enter them in your register under those names and give me a receipt for them, but they are not to be searched. In no circumstances are these men to be released, except on an order signed by the Marshal in person.”