Chapter 27

 

We were back at the harbour at first light where our new boat was waiting for us, along with a freshening breeze. The sail was soon up and once more we were on our way. Our helmsman clearly knew the route well, for we were soon weaving between the islands and then across a stretch of open sea before the coast of Sweden appeared before us. Stockholm was not on the coast directly, but behind another archipelago of islands. We must have sailed for thirty miles between them. It was dark by then but there were lights on the coast for navigation. Finally, at ten o’clock that night, we were tying up in the harbour.

It was only then that we began to seriously consider how we would waylay the courier. Hutchinson had warned us that we could not kill or seriously harm him. He did not want to create a diplomatic incident when we still hoped that Russia would break with France at some point in the future. First, though, we had to find him. We only had one night to do that, as he would probably leave again in the morning, if he had not already. It was not a big city. I reasoned that he would not be far from the docks if he wanted to travel on the next day. Our captain had pointed out the best hotel near the harbour, which he had assumed would suit our needs, and so we headed there first.

“Perhaps we can try to befriend him,” suggested Wilson. “Get him drunk and leave him gagged and tied up in his room, while we get a fast ship in the morning.” As he was saying this, we were momentarily distracted by an enormous blonde tart plying her trade along the harbourfront.

“Or we could pay her to sit on him until noon tomorrow,” I chuckled.

We both expected that finding the courier would be our biggest challenge. He was just one man in a city. We had no idea what he looked like. He may even have been keeping a low profile, wary of being followed. All we had to go on was that he was probably Russian and had arrived earlier that day. I thought it would take all night, especially as neither of us spoke Swedish and few locals understood English, although we had more luck with Wilson’s German. In the event, it took us less than five minutes. Five thalers in silver got us into the best hotel, rooms for the night and the intelligence that six other single guests had sought rooms that day. For an extra coin the clerk was most informative. Two of the guests were known to him and having affairs out of sight of their wives. Three of the other four were at that moment in the hotel dining room. We made our way there and stood just outside the door studying those inside. Almost at once I spotted a familiar face and swore softly under my breath.

“What is it?” asked Wilson, peering in the direction I was looking.

“Over there, the chap in the brown suit, that is one of Constantine’s officers. He has to be the courier.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, and he knows me. In fact, he would dearly like to kill me given the chance.”

As we watched, the man turned away the approach of one of the ‘hostesses’ in the hotel, who would keep a single customer company for a consideration. I also noticed that on his table there was a carafe of water to go with the one of wine. It did not look like we would be able to exploit any vices to waylay him. Colonel Metchnikoff must have sensed our inspection, for he suddenly turned in our direction. I ducked out of sight just in time, while Wilson concentrated his attention on a notice detailing the evening’s menu.

“Let’s get out of here,” I whispered. “We don’t want him to recognise us before we have a plan.” We made our way to a tavern a few doors down the street. A rougher establishment where the ‘hostesses’ were far more explicit about the transactions involved.

“We are not allowed to kill him, he is not getting drunk and he is turning away women. The man is clearly on his guard, perhaps expecting someone to stop him, and to cap everything he both knows and hates you. How the hell are we supposed to stop him?” Wilson poured us both a drink from the bottle just placed on the table and gave a heavy sigh. “I suppose we could try to bribe the master of the next boat he takes, but we have no way of knowing which one that will be.”

We sat drinking in silence for a while as we pondered our dilemma. I found myself watching a pretty young girl who was sharing a table with a huge fellow the size of a bear. She was matching him drink for drink and while his eyes were becoming glassy from the liquor, the girl seemed unaffected. A man with a fiddle had started a tune and the hostess stood up and held out her arms as though she wanted to dance. Her companion stared at her, frowning in confusion, and then struggled up onto his feet. He swayed like a tree in a gale for a moment before crashing down to measure his length on the planking. It was clearly a common occurrence as two barmen dragged the fellow into the back of the establishment, where doubtless he would be stripped of his valuables and then left somewhere else to recover. Wilson looked around at the disturbance and then exclaimed, “Damn, we have come so far but there are so many obstacles.”

Suddenly I grinned. “To misquote an old friend,” I told him, “we have to turn those obstacles into advantages. I think I know how to nobble our friend, but first I need to have a word with that girl over there.”

A few minutes later I was strolling back into the hotel, a bottle in my hand and a little unsteady on my feet. I winked at the porter to show all was well and staggered off into the dining room. “Colonel Metchnikoff, is that you?” I called loudly from the door. “What on earth are you doing here?”

The colonel looked up in surprise and then his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “More to the point, what are you doing here? I thought I caught a glimpse of you earlier, and a man looking very much like Major Wilson.”

“Oh yes he is here too,” I waved a hand airily over my shoulder and continued to walk to his table. “Between you and me,” I confided, as I pulled out a chair to sit uninvited at his table, “things aren’t going well for the British now in St Petersburg. We thought we would leave before we were kicked out anyway.”

“I did not ask you to join me, Captain, and I have no wish for your company. I have sworn to seek satisfaction after our earlier encounter. It is only the fact that I am currently on duty that prevents me from shooting you now.”

“Oh, you mean when I left you bare-arsed,” I laughed, deliberately goading him. “And what duty are you on, checking out the best knocking shops in Sweden?”

His lips tightened in fury. “One day, sir, we will meet when I am not under the obligations of duty and then I will make you pay for that remark.”

I chuckled again. “You know full well we are unlikely to cross paths again. You are probably counting on it with this ‘duty’ excuse.”

“What are you suggesting, sir?” Metchnikoff’s face had flushed red with fury now as he understood I was questioning his courage.

“We can settle this now if you want, and with no great jeopardy to your precious duty.” I pointed to the half full carafes on the table, “You have been drinking vodka and wine this evening and I have a fair bit on board too.” I held up my bottle. “The tavern down the road sold me this local firewater. They say it is the strongest brew you can buy. I say we share it and whoever is standing at the end is the victor. You can carry on with your duty – if you have one then – albeit with a sore head.”

“I am not drinking with the likes of you,” Metchnikoff spat. He gave me a look of utter scorn and I just grinned back.

“I thought so. You are either a coward or scared of being out drunk by an Englishman.” I got up then and deliberately contrived to hook my leg between those of the chair, knocking it over.

“Wait,” I heard him hiss in suppressed rage. I knew I had him then and half turned, unsteadily, pulling the chair back upright as he signalled for two clean glasses. “Know this,” he whispered as they were put before us. “When I win, I will have you dragged out into the street and I will shoot a ball through your head myself.”

“That don’t seem very sporting,” I told him, “but each to their own. In that case, when I win, I am going to set fire to your trousers again, perhaps this time with you in them.” I carefully filled the glasses and raised my own to my lips. “Cheers, old chap,” I called before taking a swig.

I messed up slightly pouring that first glass, for the bottle was full. The spirit burned my throat and I gasped with surprise, but I knew it was nothing to the shock coming for Metchnikoff. It was the bottle I had seen being used at the inn. There are several names for it but the one I know is the Portsmouth pottle. Essentially, it is two glass bottles blown into the one mould, usually with the label hiding the join. Hundreds of landsmen have shared a companionable drink from a Portsmouth Pottle only to find themselves at sea the next morning with a sore head. My half was filled with water but some of the spirit from the other half had splashed into my glass. Even diluted it was enough to make you shudder. I shook my head as though I could not believe what it was doing to me. Then I took a deep breath and downed the rest of my goblet. “Your turn,” I croaked.

Metchnikoff smiled with contempt. He picked up his glass and downed it in one. I watched him in astonishment. For a second I thought I had been gulled and the innkeeper had filled both sides with a dilution. Then I noticed that his knuckles around the glass were turning white and his eyes were watering. He hurriedly put down the goblet and wiped away a tear that was starting to form.

“It is strong stuff, isn’t it,” I muttered as I carefully filled both of our glasses again, this time making sure that I only got the water. “Now watch how an Englishman drinks.” I pretended to try and down mine in one too but deliberately failed and spat some back. I paused, breathing heavily for a moment, and then gulped the rest down. I remembered to clench my own knuckles as I looked expectantly at the Russian.

Metchnikoff looked down at his glass with the same anticipation that Socrates must have felt for his hemlock. But he was committed now and could not back down. Even though he knew what was coming, to my surprise he once more emptied his glass in one attempt. This time, though, he swayed in his chair and gulped slightly as though some of the spirit was trying to come back up. His hand was shaking as he put his glass back down on the table. Beads of sweat broke out on his brow as he watched me refill both of our goblets again. As far as he was concerned this was a fight to the death and his confidence of an easy victory had now evaporated. I picked up my glass and looked him squarely in the eye before giving a nod and then gulping all of it back. “It is getting easier now,” I gasped, “Or perhaps I am more used to it.”

Now Metchnikoff had to hold the glass in both hands and I wondered if he would be able to drink at all. Several people on the next table were now watching us. I saw some coins get passed across the table as they wagered on the outcome. The colonel, however, was oblivious, his attention fixed only on the liquid before him. He took two swallows this time in quick succession and then let out a small wail as though his insides were being burned.

I wanted to bring things to a conclusion and so this time after I had poured again, I staggered up to my feet. I deliberately swayed a little and held on to the table as I reached forward for the glass. “We do this one standing up,” I announced, adding, “if you can.” Then I swallowed my water down, to a round of applause from the table next door. All eyes were on the colonel now, and the whole dining room had gone quiet. Wilson and the hotel clerk stood in the doorway as Metchnikoff stared at that glass before him. His chair scraped the floor as he pushed it back. He leaned on the table to pull himself up, forcing me to push down on my side to stop it toppling. He was upright, frowning in concentration as he reached forward for his drink. There were titters of amusement from the diners as he missed at his first attempt – God knows how many glasses he saw swimming before his eyes. Then he grabbed it and in one smooth movement, tipped the contents down his throat. There was the briefest of pauses and then his eyes rolled up in his head. Like a falling tree, he toppled backwards, making no effort to break his fall.

“Quickly,” I called to Wilson, “get him up to his room.” My companion and the clerk rushed forward and hauled Metchnikoff up between them. I was going to help before I remembered I was supposed to be intoxicated too. I picked up the bottle – it would not do for that to fall into the wrong hands – and staggered after them. There was more applause as I left, pretending to grip the stair banister like a long-lost friend.

We gave the clerk another thaler of silver and told him not to wake Metchnikoff until late the following afternoon. As soon as we were alone, I told Wilson to remove the colonel’s trousers while I searched his luggage for his uniform trousers and another pair he carried.

“Why are we taking his clothes?” asked Wilson.

“Come with me and you will see,” I told him, leading the way down the back stairs and into the street. I still had my bottle with me and holding my thumb over the half with the water I tipped the spirit over the garments now piled on the snow. A moment with my tinderbox and some burning wadding was added to the mound. We both stepped back as a blue flame leapt up into the air. It danced over the clothes like a ghost, giving off a fierce heat. “I doubt friend Metchnikoff will be in a fit state to travel tomorrow,” I crowed, “but if he is, he will need to buy some new kit first.” I could not help grinning at the thought of the colonel waking the next day. I could not imagine the scale of the hangover, but on top of that was the thought of being outdrunk by an Englishman and then the indignities done again to his wardrobe. I was still laughing as I hurled my Portsmouth pottle far out into the darkness, hearing it splash into the harbour.