was pretty sure that it was a Yank Ford made under license in a Soviet
factory. However, he didn't let his thoughts dwell on the car too long.
For one thing, the uniformed driver seemed to be attempting to smash
every existing speed record. And for another thing, the instant Freddy
and he had climbed down out of the Wellington things had happened like
exploding firecrackers.
Colonel General Vladimir had stepped forward, introduced himself, and
greeted them warmly. Then almost before they could return the greeting,
the Russian had steered them right by the other officials and into the
Russian-made Ford. At a word from the Colonel General, the uniformed
chauffeur had shifted gears, and away they had gone.
At first, Dawson hadn't minded these strange actions very much because
the car roared through the heart of Moscow and he was able to get his
first view of the Kremlin, and Red Square. But that had been half an
hour previously, and by now the car was approaching empty country that
held no interest or attraction for him. And so he began to wonder in
earnest why this sudden mysterious move, and also why the Colonel
General, seated between Freddy and him on the back seat, was content to
stare out through the windshield in stony silence.
Suddenly, though, as the car spun around the corner of some woods and
onto a long straight road, the Russian official seemed to let go a
little sigh of relief, and relaxed slightly. He barked an order in his
native tongue to the driver, and immediately the speed of the car was
reduced by a good third. The Colonel General looked at Dave and Freddy
each in turn, and smiled pleasantly.
"Your heads are crammed full of questions?" he said with a chuckle. "Is
it not so?"
"Well, I was wondering just where the fire was," Dawson replied. "I
mean, of course, why all the hurry?"
"Yes, quite," Freddy Farmer murmured. "Has something unexpected
happened, Colonel General?"
"That is the reason for the haste," the Russian replied with a little
gesture. "So that the unexpected would _not_ happen, you see? In the
Soviet we do not take unnecessary chances. It is stupid to do such
things. So when you arrive we do not give ears the chance to hear much,
or eyes the chance to see much. I would swear that there is not one
Gestapo secret agent in all of Moscow, but I am not content with just
_believing_ so. All men can be wrong. So I take no chances, in case I am
wrong. This mission you are on means much to Russia. There is no telling
how much it will mean. So it is only natural that we do all in our power
to give you the aid you need, and to protect you as long as we can. Your
pardon one moment, please."
The Colonel General leaned forward and rapped out some obvious orders to
the driver. The man at the wheel nodded his head to show that he had
heard and understood. Then the Russian sat back on the seat again, and
addressed himself to the two boys.
"Tomorrow, I am afraid," he said, with an odd little half-smile, "there
will be harsh things said about Russia by her allies. Your England and
your United States will not be pleased to learn that you two died while
under our care."
"Huh?" Dawson gulped out as the other paused, and seemed waiting. "I
mean, what did you say, Colonel General? Something about Farmer and me
getting killed?"
"Exactly," the other nodded with the odd little smile still on his lips.
"Burned alive in an automobile wreck. Fortunately, though, I will manage
to escape with my life. I will be most brokenhearted when I give out the
statement to the representatives of the Foreign Press in Moscow. And
there will be an expression of deep sorrow from Premier Joseph Stalin,
too. It will, indeed, be a sad affair, that meeting with the press
tomorrow."
The Russian lapsed into sudden silence again, and Dawson wasn't sure
whether he should take it just as a cockeyed dream, or jump out of the
car in case the world had actually gone upside down all of a sudden. He
did neither, of course. Instead he shot a quick hard side glance at the
Russian, and caught the faint grin that tugged at the corners of the
officer's mouth. Then he found himself looking straight into a pair of
twinkling black eyes.
"I am what you call in America a mad Russian, eh, Captain Dawson," the
Colonel General suddenly boomed out. "Forgive me, but it is like me to
say strange things and watch people's faces. However, it is a little
true. You and your gallant comrade are to die in a burning automobile
wreck. That is, as far as the rest of the world is concerned. It is like
this. Our enemies know more about this mission of yours than we would
like them to know. Twice they have done what they could to remove you
and your friend, Captain Farmer. Oh, yes. I know about that train affair
in Scotland. Since then Air Vice-Marshal Leman has communicated with
Soviet Intelligence. And your recent air battle was no accident,
either."
"And but for the very welcome arrival of your planes, it might have
ended the wrong way, too!" Dave spoke up quickly.
Colonel General Vladimir nodded, and beamed his thanks.
"A compliment twice over, coming from a war pilot of your record,
Captain Dawson," he said gravely. "Ah, yes! Once many people laughed at
the mention of Soviet planes, and Soviet pilots. But they are not
laughing any more. Particularly the Nazi Luftwaffe. But, as I was
saying, twice the Nazis have tried to remove you, and have failed. They
know that you have reached Moscow. Your next destination perhaps they
know, and perhaps they don't. However, we will attempt to cause them to
lose interest in you both. Lose interest because they believe you are
both dead. The results of crude Soviet bungling, they will no doubt
scream over their propaganda radios. But let them! It does not matter if
it all helps you to complete your delicate mission successfully."
The Russian paused, nodded for emphasis, and lapsed into silence again.
Freddy Farmer didn't like that, and did something about it.
"Just how are you to arrange for us to burn up in a car wreck, Colonel
General?" he asked bluntly.
The Russian shrugged, and gestured with both of his hands, palms upward.
"That will be very simple," he said. Then, nodding ahead, he continued,
"In a few moments, now. Just around that turn you see up ahead. There
will be a car waiting for us, just off the road. You will change to it,
and this one will be driven into a tree so that it will be suitably
wrecked, and then touched off with a match. This driver will then
continue on with you in the hidden car, and leave me to explain things
to the first car that passes by."
"I see," Dawson grunted after a moment's thought. "Three of us to burn
up, eh? But what about three fire-charred bodies in the wreckage, so
there'll be sure to be no questions asked?"
"Also simple," the Russian replied in a grim voice. "Three Nazis will
take your places. Three dead ones. They were shot yesterday. They served
their mad Fuehrer in life, so they will serve our cause in death. Well,
we approach the point where we part for a few hours. I will see you
again tomorrow, or the next day."
"Next day?" Dawson echoed sharply. "Where? What do you mean by that
remark, Colonel General?"
"For two days it is best for you to remain dead, and safely hidden," the
Russian officer explained. "The English Agent Jones has not yet
completed even a third of his long journey. It is best for you all to
arrive at Urbakh the same day. To arrive ahead of him, and be forced to
wait around for his arrival, might not be good. So you will rest for a
few days in our care. I do not think that you will find it too
unpleasant. Well, we are almost there."
There were a whole lot more questions that Dave wanted to ask, but the
Colonel General sort of gave the impression that the question period
was over. Besides, the car was cutting around the turn in the road and
slowing down toward a full stop. So Dave held his tongue, and left his
questions hanging in his brain. He looked ahead but did not see any
second car. That is, for a moment or two he didn't see one. But
suddenly, as the Russian Ford came abreast of a narrow dirt road leading
off through the woods, there he spotted the second car pulled well up
under the trees.
When their car came to a final halt, the Colonel General was out of it
in a flash and turning around to smile and motion for them to follow.
"Come with me," he said. "He will take care of everything. He used to
smash cars for a living before the war, like the dare-devils in your
Hollywood. It will be amusing to watch him."
It wasn't particularly amusing to Dawson and Farmer so much as it was
fascinatingly gruesome. The Russian chauffeur hauled three dead Nazis
out of the car hidden under the trees and placed two of them in the rear
seat of the Ford. The third he wedged in behind the wheel. Then,
squeezing in on top of the dead German, he got the Ford tearing along at
high speed down the road. The instant the car was going full out he
gave the wheel a sharp twist, and seemed virtually to shoot his body up
out from behind the wheel. He landed lightly on his feet on the road
like a highly trained acrobat, and the Russian Ford went tearing at
terrific speed straight into a couple of giant tree trunks.
Colonel General Vladimir said that they were to touch a match to the
wreck, but a single split second after the Ford struck the tree trunks
it became instantly evident that no match would be needed. A great glob
of smoke belched up from under the crumpled engine hood, and was
followed by a tongue of hissing orange-red flame. And by the time Dawson
could blink the car was completely enveloped in flame.
"And so that is finished," he suddenly heard the Colonel General break
through his thoughts. "Now, into this car, please. There is no time to
loiter here. You must be on your way. A pleasant journey, Captains. And
we will meet again tomorrow, or the next day. Do not be alarmed. I would
trust him as I would trust my own son--if I had but been blessed with
one."
Even as the Russian talked he guided Dawson and Freddy Farmer into the
rear seat of the half hidden car, and then stepped back to allow the
driver to get in behind the wheel. And no sooner had the driver settled
himself than he kicked the engine into life, shifted gears, and started
off. Both Dawson and Farmer glanced back at the Colonel General, but the
Russian seemed no longer aware of their existence. He was busy tearing
shreds of cloth from his uniform, and smearing rich Russian soil on his
face and hands. And then he faded from view around a bend in the wooded
road. Dawson turned to the side and looked into Freddy Farmer's
saucer-sized eyes.
"Sweet tripe!" he grunted. "In this neck of the woods they sure do
things fast, and let you find out later, don't they?"
"Not half, they don't!" Freddy exclaimed with a bewildered shake of his
head. "Well, love a duck! What a bloke that Colonel General is! Why, I
hadn't half begun to ask questions. Where in the world is he going to
hide us out, I'd like to know?"
"Me, too!" Dawson said with a grim nod, and leaned toward the driver's
seat. "Where are we headed, driver?" he called out.
The Russian chauffeur slowed up a little and turned to give them a blank
smile and a blanker look. Then he seemed to guess the meaning of
Dawson's question, and opened and shut the fingers of one upraised hand
three times. Then he smiled and nodded and returned his attention to
driving. Dawson made sounds in his throat and sank back on the seat.
"And that helps a lot, I don't think!" he growled. "No speak our lingo.
But I guess he guessed the question, and was telling us we'll get there
in fifteen minutes, or fifteen hours, or maybe fifteen years. But
there's nothing we can do about it, anyway. And how do you like being a
dead man, pal?"
The English youth glanced up at the sky that seemed to hold the hint of
coming winter, and shuddered slightly.
"In this country I don't fancy it a bit," he said. "Not even a little
bit. But it is a clever trick by the Russians. And I wish I could hear
the Nazi propaganda chaps scream about it over the radio. It'll almost
make us famous, you know."
"I'll take vanilla, thank you!" Dawson grunted, and stared at the
winding road ahead. "After, and if, we finish this job, I hope I can get
a few days off to really see Moscow, and these parts around here. But
right now I want to keep going, and get the darn thing cleaned up. Two
days, he said? Not so good. A lot of things can happen in two days."
"Well, as you said, there's nothing we can do about it," Freddy Farmer
said with a shrug. "So that's that. Just the same, I'd like to know what
that chauffeur chap meant by his crazy hand signals."
Dawson didn't bother trying to answer that question, and Freddy Farmer
didn't bother to repeat it. Both youths simply lapsed into brooding
silence, and absently stared at the winding road that seemed to go on
winding forever through endless woods. However, at the end of ten
minutes they came out of the woods and onto a road leading to a small
peasant village. And at the end of exactly fifteen minutes from the time
of the chauffeur's finger signals, the car was halted in front of a
rough two-story wooden house. The chauffeur got out, bowed to them, and
motioned for them to get out too. They did, and followed him up the
three steps to the front door of the house.
The chauffeur knocked on the door, and he had no more than taken his
knuckles away than it was opened and they saw a uniformed figure just
inside the doorway. The chauffeur saluted smartly, rattled something
off in his native tongue, and then hurried past Dawson and Farmer, and
down the steps to the car. In less than nothing flat he had the car
rolling at a fast clip off up the village street. Dave and Freddy
glanced at each other and mutually wondered, what next?
They didn't have to wait long. The dimly outlined uniformed figure just
inside the doorway spoke to them in a low, rich voice.
"Come in, please, Captains Dawson and Farmer. I am happy that you have
arrived safely in Russia. And I am honored to be able to share with you
the adventures that lie ahead. Come in, please."
A crazy conglomeration of mixed thoughts and emotions raced through
Dawson as he stepped through the door and into a very shadowy hallway.
Freddy Farmer followed right at his heels, and the sudden change of
light threw the eyes of both out of focus for a few seconds. But when
they were able to see clearly again, they found themselves looking at a
very young and very good-looking Russian Senior Lieutenant of
Intelligence.
Yet very good-looking was not quite correct. Very pretty would have been
a little better, because, like bombs exploding in their heads, they
both realized in the same instant that the Senior Lieutenant was a
_girl_ of just about their own age! That bit of truth just about topped
off all of the high speed action they'd witnessed since arriving in
Russia, and for a long minute both were too stunned to do anything but
salute smartly and just stand there practically gaping at the girl. She
glanced from one to the other, then gave a little low laugh.
"So you are surprised, eh?" she echoed. "Well, there are a lot of women
like me fighting for Russia. But let me introduce myself. I am Senior
Lieutenant Nasha Petrovski, of Soviet Intelligence. Until Colonel
General Vladimir says it is time to leave for Urbakh, you are honored
guests of my mother and myself. And later we will be comrades in arms
for a great and worthy cause. But I keep you standing here while I
chatter. Come and meet my mother. And then I will show you to the room
that has been made ready for you. This way, please, Captains."
And like a couple of dumbfounded wooden Indians, Dave Dawson and Freddy
Farmer followed her into the ground floor parlor.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
_High Stakes_
The sound was akin to that of an invisible giant of the sky tearing off
a section of a tin roof with his bare hands. It began high up in the
black night sky, and grew louder and louder until it seemed that their
eardrums had been driven clear back into their brains. And then suddenly
it turned into a gigantic explosion that made the very earth lurch and
shudder, and seemed to stop spinning for a moment and go staggering
across limitless space.
"If there was only a night fighter handy! Boy! What I wouldn't give for
a night fighter right now!"
Dave Dawson muttered out the words aloud, hardly conscious that he had
spoken them. With Freddy Farmer, and Senior Lieutenant Nasha Petrovski,
he was standing out in the back yard of the Russian girl's home, and
staring up at a sneak night raid by Nazi bombers on Moscow a dozen or so
miles away. It was only a nuisance raid, and Soviet anti-aircraft guns
and Soviet night fighters were making the Luftwaffe pay a heavy price
for the few Moscow buildings they hit with their bombs.
However, though the Nazis were unable to hit anything, that fact did not
curb Dawson's desire to be up there in the searchlight-laced sky,
dealing out his share of trouble and doom to the raiding vultures. And,
incidentally, complete inactivity for three days and nights added
greatly to his desire to be aloft in all the fuss. And so it was only
natural that such an expression should slip off his lips automatically.
"That is the way all good soldiers should feel, Captain Dawson," he
suddenly heard the Russian girl's voice at his side. "To do nothing,
when there is so much to be done, hurts more than the wounds of battle.
I know just how you feel, yes. And I sympathize with you. Time never
waits."
"You've got something there, Senior Lieutenant," Dave said, taking his
eyes off the sky battle to look at her. "And I've been wondering. Do you
think Colonel General Vladimir has forgotten about us? Or maybe that
something has happened to him? It's been _three_ days now."
"Quite," Freddy Farmer joined in the conversation. "He said he expected
to join us the very next day. But we haven't even heard a word. Or have
you, Senior Lieutenant?"
The Russian Intelligence agent shook her head, and made a faint gesture.
"To me there has come no word," she said slowly, as though selecting
each English spoken word. "But I do not worry. The Colonel General never
forgets anything. And nothing will ever happen to the Colonel General
but good things. If it were to be different, the bad things would have
happened long before this time. Like you I wait, and I am restless to be
in action again. But I do not worry. When it is the right time, the
Colonel General will arrive."
Dave considered that in silence for a couple of minutes and watched the
sky battle move across the heavens farther and farther to the southwest.
The Nazis had dumped their eggs hastily and were trying to scurry back
home, but the Red Air Force was chopping down not a few of them en
route. Over toward Moscow there were the crimson glows of half a dozen
fires. But even as Dave stared at them the glows grew fainter and
fainter, indicating that the city's fire fighters were quickly getting
the flames under control. The "flak" fire had died out almost entirely,
and the only sounds to be heard were the muffled roar of distant
aircraft engines, punctuated now and then by the short, stabbing chatter
of Red night fighter machine guns.
"Well, that's that," Dave finally spoke again. "The Berlin newspapers
will probably scream tomorrow that there isn't anything left of Moscow.
But Uncle Goering will know different when he gets the raiding reports.
And maybe he'll worry another ten pounds off his bay window."
"But he'll no doubt put it right back on as soon as he has breakfast,"
Freddy Farmer grunted. "And speaking of food--Oh, so sorry, Senior
Lieutenant. I beg your pardon."
"For what?" the Russian girl asked with a flashing smile, and a teasing
lilt to her voice. "Because you speak the truth?"
"But I say, really!" the English youth stammered, and his face went beet
red in the darkness. "I didn't think, you know. And it was most
impolite. I--"
"Stop making pretty speeches!" Dawson ribbed him. "Be yourself, and
truthful. I'll try to apologize to the Senior Lieutenant for you. You
see, Senior Lieutenant, my friend has a hollow leg, so no matter how
much he eats he never can seem to get enough. Confidentially, the
British Air Ministry seriously considered dumping him off in Occupied
France for a spell so that he could get used to going without food. But
I put in a plea for him, and--"
"And why should not one of England's heroes eat, if he likes?" Senior
Lieutenant Nasha Petrovski demanded quietly. "But of course! Come,
Captain Farmer. Let us return inside the house. My mother will find us a
good meal, have no fear."
"Your slave, Senior Lieutenant," Freddy said, and bowed low. Then
turning to Dave, he said, "You may remain here on guard, Captain Dawson.
And you might hunt around for a bit of anti-aircraft shrapnel that I
could keep as a souvenir. After you, Senior Lieutenant."
"But no, no!" the Russian girl exclaimed with a laugh. "No doubt Captain
Dawson is hungry, too. And is he not also one of England's heroes?"
"A debatable question, Senior Lieutenant," Freddy Farmer said quickly
with a shrug. "But, if you insist. And to tell the truth, he is afraid
of the dark, you know. Very well, Captain Dawson, you may join us."
"And I'll--!" Dave growled, but instantly checked his words, and the
quick step he took toward his pal.
All three of them laughed as though there were no such thing as a war
existing, and went trooping back into the house. Madam Petrovski had
turned on the lights, and had also anticipated their wishes, for the
table was set, and three bowls of energy-building hot soup were waiting
for them. As Dave looked at her aged, wrinkled face, and the black eyes
that glowed with the undying faith and determination of Russia, herself,
a warm glow closed about his heart, and a polite and sincere compliment
rose to his lips.
But he never spoke that compliment, for at that moment a car braked to a
stop outside, and almost instantly there came the sound of feet on the
front steps, and that of knuckles rapping sharply on the front door. And
before Dawson could so much as blink, Senior Lieutenant Nasha Petrovski
had glided out of the room, and opened the door. Split seconds later
Colonel General Vladimir came striding into the room. Dave and Freddy
sprang to attention and saluted. The Colonel General first bowed and
saluted Madam Petrovski, and then he returned their salute.
"Good evening, Captains," he said with his odd smile. "You have perhaps
been wondering, eh? Well, there have been things to wonder about. Be
seated, please, all of you."
As the Colonel General spoke, the old familiar lumps of cold lead began
to bounce around in Dawson's stomach. And it wasn't from hunger, either.
The Colonel General's eyes were still flashing with inner fire, but in
their depths Dawson could catch just the faintest tint of worry and
concern. He turned to hold a chair for Madam Petrovski, only to realize
that she had left the room, and closed the door. He must have blinked at
that, for Senior Lieutenant Petrovski suddenly caught his eye, and
smiled.
"It is always like that," she said softly. "My mother prefers to pray,
and listen to the story when all has been accomplished."
"But there is no soldier who loves Russia more," the Colonel General
spoke up gravely. "Nor one who would sacrifice more for his homeland."
The silence that followed the Russian officer's words seemed to say,
"Amen," to that. Then a moment later the Colonel General motioned for
them all to sit down, and took a chair for himself.
"There is a decision for us to make," he said bluntly. "A decision
forced by bad news. But no! That is not correct. A decision because
there has been no news at all."
"Agent Jones!" Dawson breathed softly, as he leaned forward on the edge
of his seat. "I've had a feeling!"
Colonel General Vladimir shot him a sharp piercing look, and then
nodded.
"You are correct, Captain Dawson," he said, tight-lipped. "No news of
Agent Jones since he left Baghdad, in Syria, twenty-four hours ago. His
plane was to land at Baku, in the south Caucasus, but it has not
arrived."
A profound silence settled over the room as the Colonel General's words
died away to the echo. Then Freddy Farmer broke it with a single word
question.
"Weather?"
The Russian officer shrugged, and sighed heavily.