Flashman Papers 3-Book Collection 3: Flashman at the Charge, Flashman in the Great Game, Flashman and the Angel of the Lord. George Fraser MacDonald
Читать онлайн книгу.
“All is approved, then – and the other items, with the exception of – yes, Item Ten. It can be referred to Omsk for further study. You have our leave, gentlemen.”
At this there was a scrape of chairs, and East was kicking at me, and jabbing a fìnger at the door behind us. I’d been so spellbound by our enormous discovery, I’d almost forgotten where we were – but, by gad, it was time we were no longer here. I edged back to the door, East crowding behind me, and then we heard Ignatieff’s voice again.
“Majesty, with permission. In connection with Item Seven – the Indian expedition – mention was made of possible diversionary schemes, to prevent by all means any premature discovery of our intentions. I mentioned, but did not elaborate, a plan for possibly deluding the enemy with a false scent.”
At this we stopped, crouched by the door. He went on:
“Plans have been prepared, but in no considerable detail, for a spurious expedition through your Alaskan province, aimed at the British North American possessions. It was thought that if these could be brought to the attention of the British Government, in a suitably accidental manner, they would divert the enemy’s attention from the eastern theatre entirely.”
“I don’t like it,” says Khruleff’s voice. “I have seen the plan, majesty; it is over-elaborate and unnecessary.”
“There are,” says Ignatieff, quite unabashed, “two British officers, at present confined in this house – prisoners from the Crimea whom I had brought here expressly for the purpose. It should not be beyond our wits to ensure that they discovered the false North American plan; thereafter they would obviously attempt to escape, to warn their government of it.”
“And then?” says Duhamel.
“They would succeed, of course. It is no distance to the Crimea – it would be arranged without their suspecting they were mere tools of our purpose. And their government would at least be distracted.”
“Too clever,” says Khruleff. “Playing at spies.”
“With submission, majesty,” says Ignatieff, “there would be no difficulty. I have selected these two men with care – they are ideal for our purpose. One is an agent of intelligence, taken at Silistria – a clever, dangerous fellow. Show him the hint of a design against his country, and he would fasten on it like a hawk. The other is a very different sort – a great, coarse bully of a man, all brawn and little brain; he has spent his time here lechering after every female he could find.” I felt East stiffen beside me, as we listened to this infernal impudence. “But he would be necessary – for even if we permitted, and assisted their escape here, and saw that they reached the Crimea in safety, they would still have to rejoin their army at Sevastopol, and we could hardly issue orders to our forces in Crimea to let them pass through. This second fellow is the kind of resourceful villain who would find a way.”
There was a silence, and then Duhamel says: “I must agree with Khruleff, majesty. It is not necessary, and might even be dangerous. The British are not fools; they smell a rat as soon as anyone. These false plans, these clever stratagems – they can excite suspicion and recoil on the plotter. Our Indus scheme is soundly based; it needs no pretty folly of this kind.”
“So.” The Tsar’s voice was a hoarse murmur. “The opinion is against you, Count. Let your British officers sleep undisturbed. But we thank you for your zeal in the matter, even so. And now, gentlemen, we have worked long enough –”
East was bundling me on to the dark landing before the voice had finished speaking. We closed the door gently, and tip-toed across towards our passage even as we heard the library doors opening down in the hall. I peeped round the corner; the Cossack was snoring away again, and we scuttled silently past him and into East’s room. I sank down, shaking, on to his bed, while he fumbled at the candle, muttering furiously till he got it lit. His face was as white as a sheet – but he remembered to muffle the mouth of the hidden speaking-tube with his pillow.
“My God, Flashman,” says he, when he had got his wind back. We were staring helplessly at each other. “What are we to do?”
“What can we do?” says I.
“We did hear aright – didn’t we?” says he. “They’re going for India – while our back’s turned? A Russian army over the Khyber – a rebellion! Good God – is the thing possible?”
I thought of ’42, and the Afghans – and what they could do with a Russian army to help them. “Aye,” says I. “It’s possible all right.”
“I knew we were right to watch and listen!” cries he. “I knew it! But I never dreamed – this is the most appalling thing!” He slapped his hands and paced about. “Look – we’ve got to do something! We’ve got to get away – somehow! They must have news of this at Sevastopol. Raglan’s there; he’s the commander – if we could get this to him, and London, there’d be time – to try to prepare, at least. Send troops out – increase the north-west garrisons – perhaps even an expedition into Persia, or Afghanistan –”
“There isn’t time,” says I. “You heard them – seven months from tonight they’ll be on the edge of the Punjab with thirty thousand men, and God knows how many Afghans ready to join in for a slap at us and the loot of India. It would take a month to get word to England, twice as long again to assemble an army – if that’s possible, which I doubt – and then it’s four months to India –”
“But that’s in time – just in time!” cries he. “If only we can get away – at once!”
“Well, we can’t,” says I. “The thing’s not possible.”
“We’ve got to make it possible!” says he, feverishly. “Look – look at this, will you?” And he snatched a book from his bureau: it was some kind of geography or guide, in Russian script – that hideous lettering that always made me think of black magic recipes for conjuring the Devil. “See here; this map. Now, I’ve pieced this together over the past few months, just by listening and using my wits, and I’ve a fair notion where we are, although Starotorsk ain’t shown on this map; too small. But I reckon we’re about here, in this empty space – perhaps fifty miles from Ekaterinoslav, and thirty from Alexandrovsk, see? It startled me, I tell you; I’d thought we were miles farther inland.”
“So did I,” says I. “You’re sure you’re right? – they must have brought me a hell of a long way round, then.”
“Of course – that’s their way! They’ll never do anything straight, I tell you. Confuse, disturb, upset – that’s their book of common prayer! But don’t you see – we’re not much above a hundred miles from the north end of the Crimea – maybe only a couple of hundred from Raglan at Sevastopol!”
“With a couple of Russian armies in between,” I pointed out. “Anyway, how could we get away from here?”
“Steal a sled at night – horses. If we went fast enough, we could get changes at the post stations on the way, as long as we kept ahead of pursuit. Don’t you see, man – it must be possible!” His eyes were shining fiercely. “Ignatieff was planning for us to do this very thing! My God, why did they turn him down! Think of it – if he had had his way, they’d be helping us to escape with their bogus information, never dreaming we had the real plans! Of all the cursed luck!”
“Well, they did turn him down,” says I. “And it’s no go. You talk of stealing a sled – how far d’you think we’d get, with Pencherjevsky’s Cossacks on our tail? You can’t hide sleigh-tracks, you know – not on land as flat as your hat. Even if you could, they know exactly where we’d go – there’s only one route” – and I pointed at his map – “through the neck of the Crimean peninsula at – what’s it called? Armyansk. They’d overhaul us long before we got there.”
“No, they wouldn’t,” says he, grinning – the same sly, fag grin of fifteen years ago. “Because we won’t go that way. There’s another road to the Crimea – I got it from this book, but