The Golden Sabre. Jon Cleary
had been killed in a drunken brawl when the cruelly named Peregrine had been only five years old. For the next twenty-five years Yuri Bronevich had cared for his unfortunate young cousin, treating him as a nephew. He had laughed at him, abused him, belted him, but he had protected Pemenov against what the rest of the world would have done to him.
Pemenov threw the rug back over the body. He took Bronevich’s pistol from where it had fallen, went out on to the terrace and fired two shots.
In less than a minute the horsemen came galloping up the avenue, followed by the General’s car with its driver and, beside him, the soldier whose horse Pemenov had borrowed. Pemenov, who had now slung Bronevich’s gunbelt across his chest like a bandolier, shouted orders for someone to look after the General’s body; then he clambered up into the car and snapped at the driver to follow the tyre-tracks that led out of the yard. The driver let in the gears and the car, an ancient Mercedes that had never been properly serviced, wheezed out of the yard and down the narrow road that led through the wheat-fields.
It had gone no more than half a mile when its engine coughed, spluttered and died. The driver, a hulking youth who had never ridden in a car till a year ago, looked helplessly at the little man beside him. ‘No petrol, Major. I forgot to fill the tank when the General rushed us out here—’
Pemenov’s first reaction was to hit the driver with Bronevich’s pistol. But some inner caution, always on the alert from past experience, held him back; his only protector was dead back there in the house. He sat there in the car, in the midst of the blinding yellow glare of the wheat-fields, and wanted to weep tears of rage and frustration. Then, looking back, he saw the horseman galloping at full pelt along the road after them. He stood up on the front seat and waited.
The soldier reined in his horse in a cloud of dust. ‘We found a motor truck in the barn – it is the American’s! The Englishwoman lied to us!’
Pemenov almost fell off his perch in a swoon of rage. First the American who had knocked him unconscious, then the Englishwoman who had tried to protect the American. The foreigners had to be driven out of Russia. Or killed … ‘Give me your horse!’
The soldier reared back with his horse. ‘Why should I? Who are you now–?’
Pemenov levelled the General’s pistol at the man: Bronevich, though dead, still lent him some protection. ‘Bring your horse here by the car! Give me the reins. Now get down!’
The soldier glared, but swung down from his horse and backed away. Pemenov stepped up on to the side of the car and vaulted into the saddle. He gestured to the driver. ‘Give me the General’s rifle and the bandolier and his binoculars!’
The driver, careful of the gun pointed at him, did as he was told. The rifle was a Mosin-Nagent, better than the ancient Krenk in the saddle scabbard. Pemenov took the Krenk from the scabbard, unloaded it and flung it into the wheat. He adjusted the stirrup leathers, then he was ready to leave.
‘Don’t follow me or I shall kill you. Give the General a decent burial.’
He dug in his heels and turned the horse south. He had no idea where he was heading, except to follow the tyre-tracks in the dust for as far as they might go. If he lost them, he would just keep riding south anyway, into the steppes and oblivion if that was the way it had to be. He could not stay here: his life would be hell. Better to head south, ride after the American, kill him. He owed it to the General who could no longer protect him.
‘Tiflis is over a thousand miles from here, you know that?’ They had left the estate wheat-fields and were on a narrow country road, bowling along under the immense blue glare of the late-afternoon sky, a long trail of dust whirling out behind the Rolls-Royce and its bouncing trailer. ‘Where does this road lead?’
‘It goes round south of Verkburg, then up towards the mountains. No one will be looking for us south of Verkburg. That’s why I suggested we should head for Tiflis.’
‘Why not Cairo or Capetown? Goddam women! You put ’em in an automobile and they lose all sense of distance, they think they’re on some goddam magic carpet!’
‘Watch it!’
‘Put down your handbag! I’m not going to apologize – you’re enough to make Jesus Christ Himself swear!’
‘I wish you wouldn’t keep bringing the Holy Family into your conversation. The children are good Orthodox Christians. So am I. Well, not Orthodox – Church of England.’
‘I’m an orthodox lapsed Catholic. I’m not driving this thing all the way to Tiflis – tomorrow I’ll take the Holy Family and myself and head north and take my chances. We’ll talk about it when we stop to have a meal – where’s the food basket and the water?’
‘Oh my goodness!’ Eden slapped a hand to the top of her head, as if her hat were about to blow off. ‘I left the basket and the water-skin on the table in the kitchen!’
Cabell looked at her with wry disgust. ‘What do you want me to say now? Oh my goodness?’
They had gone fifty miles, were south of Verkburg and heading up into the hills when a rear tyre blew out with a blast like that of a small cannon. The car skidded, but Cabell kept it under control and ran it gently off the road and in amongst a stand of fir trees.
‘There’ll be twenty or thirty more of those before you get to Tiflis,’ Cabell said as he got out to fit the spare.
‘We could fit the tyres with the rubber balls in them,’ said Frederick, who had now got over his pique at being relegated to the rear seat.
‘You can save those for the really rough roads.’
‘You talk as if you’ve already made up your mind you’re not coming with us.’ Eden was careful not to sound aggressive. She had had time to think about what lay ahead of them and her early confidence had drained out of her as if a plug had been pulled.
‘Let’s say I’m looking for an alternative.’ Cabell stripped off his shirt and hung it on the tonneau of the car. He saw Eden frowning at him as he pulled his overalls straps back over his shoulders. ‘Okay, don’t start lecturing me about my dress, Miss Penfold. I’m not going to get my shirt all sweaty and dirty just to shield your maidenly susceptibilities.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of mine. I was afraid for Olga’s.’
‘Does my bare chest worry you, honey ?’
‘Princess,’ corrected Olga. ‘Not at all, Mr Cabell. Naked men are beautiful.’
Eden gasped. ‘You haven’t seen any!’
‘In books. With fig-leaves on.’
‘There,’ said Cabell to Eden. ‘I could even get by in front of the Princess with just a fig-leaf … Relax, Miss Penfold. Take your corset off.’
‘Not in your company, Mr Cabell.’ Eden, aware that she now had to court Cabell into staying with them, tried to smile. But it was like a strip of lemon pith.
‘Oh, you and I are going to be like an old married couple by the time we say goodbye.’
‘How romantic,’ sighed Olga. ‘Love at first sight.’
Cabell grinned, patted her shoulder. ‘That’s one of the dangers of myopia, honey. Get Miss Penfold to explain that to you in one of her lessons.’
He was taking the spare tyre out of the trailer when he stopped and gazed down through the trees. Almost a mile away, perched on the side of a steep hill above a narrow pass, was a village, a collection of log huts strung along a single street and behind them the log stockades surrounding their gardens.
‘Nick—’ He took some roubles from the purse in his overalls pocket. ‘Get along to that village and buy what food you can. Meat, bread, potatoes, whatever you can get. And see if they’ll sell you a couple