“How much more is there?”
“About fifteen miles.”
They walked back to the guardroom, thanked the officer, collected the general, and went and sat in the car.
“Staggering, isn’t it?” Henry said.
“Stupefying. And it all belongs to Denikin?”
“It does now. It was the Tsar’s private wine cellar for generations. I’m told there are a million bottles of champagne in there.”
“So, when Denikin needs some money…”
“He sells off a few thousand bottles and makes a million roubles, maybe two million. And the war goes on.”
The accordion-player had his own sense of time. Usually he played three beats to the bar, sometimes four, occasionally five. He was playing a waltz, and his changes of tempo annoyed the violin and the piano. Often they stopped playing and swore at him until he rediscovered three-quarter time.
Dextry was dancing with his girl and he didn’t complain. “The accordion has some Irish blood in him,” he told her. She smiled and hugged him and the accordion went doolally again.
They were in a big, noisy restaurant-bar dance hall. All the squadron were there, because all the droshky drivers had recommended it. “It’s a racket,” Oliphant said. Wragge agreed. “Still, they seem to want us,” he said. “The grub’s hot, the drinks are big, the waiters are friendly, and my girl likes it. Your Number Nines are enjoying themselves.”
“They’re bloody idiots,” Oliphant said.
The bomber crews were competing to see who could get a visible set of footprints on the ceiling. They dragged tables together to make a base for two men to stand on and support a third, whose boot-soles had been blackened with soot. The trick was to turn him upside-down and hoist him. The problem was that they were all drunk, and others were fighting to rock the tables. Those too tired to fight threw things. Fruit, bread rolls, bottles. Two attempts to reach the ceiling failed. The owner looked on as men fell and tables splintered, and he doubled the price of the drinks. The sport lost its novelty. Waiters swept the dance floor clear of debris. The accordion began an eccentric version of “Alexander’s Ragtime Band”. Dancing began again.
Dextry’s girl held him tight and they jigged and jogged. He called her Cynthia and told her she was stunning, it meant nothing to her, she had no English, but it made him happy, until an angry Russian got in the way and laid a hand on her. “Go away,” Dextry told him. “Private property. Find your own girl.”
That produced a stream of furious Russian. “You’re spitting on her,” Dextry said. “Have you no manners?” He danced Cynthia away but the man followed. Now he was shouting. His face was twisted and he grabbed the girl’s shoulder. Dextry knocked his hand away and the man aimed a fist at his face, missed, and clipped his ear. That stung. Dextry punched him, hard, in the ribs. The Russian kicked him on the shins and was swamped by four fighter pilots. He went down fighting but they dragged him to the door and threw him out.
“What was all that about?” Jessop asked.
“I haven’t the faintest,” Dextry said. “He smelt very strongly of fish. Most unpleasant.”
Twenty minutes later, when a fresh attempt was being made to get footprints on the ceiling, a dozen Russians burst in and the whole squadron was in a brawl. The trio standing on the tables soon crashed, and by luck they knocked down two Russians. The others were young and strong and angry and might have won if the owner and the waiters had not waded in with clubs. Then the police came, with more clubs, and arrested everyone.
They talked to the owner. He estimated the damage and wrote the figure in chalk on the bar.
“We could have bought the whole damn place for that,” Wragge said. The squadron began searching its pockets and filling a bucket. The violin played a wistful Russian tune. Oliphant gave the band twenty roubles. By the time the owner was satisfied, the Russians had gone. They took the girls with them.
The members of the squadron were escorted to police headquarters. Count Borodin was waiting there. “I was playing billiards at the Literary Club,” he said, “and doing rather well, until now. You look an unholy shambles.”
“We didn’t start it,” Wragge said. “A gang of local thugs went mad for no reason.”
“Fishermen. You stole their girls. That puts you in the wrong. You’re charged with robbery, bodily harm and insulting Russian manhood.”
“I suppose they want money.”
“All you have. Otherwise — jail.”
Lacey and Brazier were outside the train when the squadron straggled back, bloodied, torn, untidy and in many cases still half-drunk. The airmen looked glum. “I’ve seen this before,” Brazier said. “In France. Men came out of the Trenches, got deloused, got paid, got into a big fight with anyone they met, for no reason.”
“We promised them a war,” Lacey said. “That’s a reason.”
“I suppose so. Hullo, Mr Wragge,” Brazier said. “The chaps are looking very impeccable. Or do I mean exemplary?”
“Bloody town’s full of Bolsheviks,” Wragge said.
“I have orders from Mission H.Q. You are promoted to acting squadron leader and commanded to be C.O. of the squadron. The general sends his compliments and wishes you not to die in the near future.”
“It’s all a stinking swindle.” Wragge tramped off.
“I think you made his day,” Lacey said.
Lacey’s day had not finished. Before he took down the radio aerials, he made a final check in case any incoming messages had arrived. There was one, a signal from Military Mission H.Q.:
Correction stop Your records re boxed item stencilled lightning conductors stop Contents are quantity three trench mortars infantry for the use of stop Delete all reference to elephant guns stop Return mortars to armament stores Taganrog urgently stop Captain Butcher Royal Artillery stop.
Brazier came in and read the signal over Lacey’s shoulder.
“Now you’re in the soup,” he said.
“I think not.”
Lacey consulted his options, and then sent his reply:
Elephant guns donated to Cossack warlord Reizarb as mark of gratitude stop Reizarb’s Cossacks helped repel raid on squadron by Anarchist guerrillas stop Trench mortars invaluable in same action but urgently need barrel locking nuts quantity three stop Commend gallantry Flying Officer Jossip stop J. Hackett Sqdn Ldr OC Merlin Squadron RAF stop
Brazier read the file copy. “Hackett’s gone,” he said. “And we have nobody called Jossip.”
“We have a Jessop, which is close enough to give Butcher something to ponder.”
“He won’t ponder over barrel locking nuts. They’re for rifles. Butcher’s a gunner, he’ll know that.”
“Our mortars are special. They need special barrel locking nuts.”
“And no Cossack ever helped us fight off the bandits. Who is this Reizarb? I’ve never heard of him.”
“It’s a small tribute to yourself,” Lacey said. The adjutant stared down at him. “I hoped you would decode it,” Lacey said. “It’s Brazier spelt backwards.”
The adjutant snorted. “You’re playing with fire, Lacey. H.Q. has no sense of humour.”
“Then they’ll never guess,” Lacey said. “It’ll be our little secret.”