But while the Laskar’s silhouette loomed larger and larger amid the darkness, they were still too far away.
Just then, another blast reverberated in the air, with a blinding flash of light. Jagged waves struck their boat, rocking them violently left to right.
Sherlock peered in the direction of the blast. A plume of smoke billowed from the side of the ship anchored to the Laskar’s rear starboard. The ship slowly began to tilt to the side.
“The Walery is sinking!” Ito shouted. “The Laskar’s evacuations have to begin!”
“How much longer?” Sherlock asked Kanevsky.
“Five minutes.”
“Hurry. If we are not on time, all our efforts will have been wasted.”
The captain would be last to evacuate. The Tsarevich, however, would likely demand he go first. His lifeboat may have even been prepared before the Walery was sunk. If so, the boat would be rapidly lowered into the water. But perhaps Nicholas would wait until the boats containing his guards had also been set on the water. No. It was obvious they had to make for land. Nicholas’ lifeboat would launch without waiting for the others. Unfortunately, his closest advisors were sure to be aboard as well.
Sherlock clenched his jaw. Watson had once written, of the hour and quarter they spent waiting in an underground bank vault to set an ambush, that it felt the night must have almost gone, and the dawn be breaking above us. Sherlock had called this mere exaggeration, but he felt he now understood the expression. Time passed quickly while he was active. Being forced to wait, however, constrained by the physical limitations of the boat’s speed, was infuriating. The steamboat represented the collective knowledge of all mankind—surely it could go faster! Even a marlin was faster than this!
The Laskar’s silhouette was now so large they had to crane their necks upward to see it. At last their steamboat passed the ship’s bow and they circled around to the starboard side. They slowed their speed. Their vicinity was lit up by the boat’s incandescent lights. Sherlock looked over the side, shocked.
The water was entirely blanketed with lifeboats. The vessels were manned with a disorderly mix of sailors and men in plain clothes. It was impossible to tell who was aboard which boat. The lifeboat crane, meanwhile, continued to lower yet more boats into the water.
Their steamboat pulled alongside one of the lifeboats. Kanevsky yelled out in Russian. The young sailor who answered them seemed bewildered. The sailors peered about and pointed in various directions. They called out in loud voices to the other boats. The voices from those other boats, however, responded with equal confusion.
Kanevsky cursed. He turned back to Sherlock and explained, “The Laskar is only a cruiser, not a flagship. None of these sailors have any experience. Their ranks are totally broken.”
“The Tsarevich had run away from home. Likely they were the only men available.”
“Can no one tell us where Tsarevich Nicholas has gone?” Ito asked.
“He definitely boarded the first boat and set off immediately, but nobody can say in which direction.”
The lights of their steamboat swept over the water like a lighthouse beam, casting the assembled lifeboats into relief. The men aboard the ships worked their oars furiously, heading toward the shore. They seemed mostly terrified. There was no telling when the Laskar might also explode.
Sherlock thought carefully. Which direction would the villains have chosen, to best achieve their objectives?
Of course. “Lt. Colonel,” he told Kanevsky, “chart a course for ten o’clock. We must travel southeast at full speed.”
Kanevsky looked at him uncertainly. “That will take us away from shore. The Walery only just sank.”
“Hence why we must travel southeast. Chekhov and his men will take Nicholas in the direction in which they expect least interference. Enough time has passed since the ships in the other directions sank, and the Japanese police and fishermen will already have arrived to rescue who they can. The crew of the Walery, however, has barely even evacuated.”
“So be it.” Kanevsky turned toward the sailors and shouted in Russian.
The steamboat began to move once more, gaining speed. The smoke in the air grew denser. The way ahead was thickly shrouded. The light from their boat was meaninglessly diffused mid-air. They could see no more than a few yards ahead.
But there was something visible in the water. The steamboat altered direction slightly.
Sherlock looked at the object as they passed it. It was a sailor’s corpse. He was floating face down in the water, his body motionless and limp. Blood oozed from a gunshot wound in his back.
The steamboat slowed abruptly. There was something else in the water. Unsurprisingly, it was yet another sailor, this one floating face up. His chest was stained red.
“Poor devil,” Ito groaned.
The two must have been the guards on Nicholas’ lifeboat. They were headed in the right direction. “Lieutenant Colonel, don’t slow down. They came this way, there is no doubt about it.”
Kanevsky gave the order and their speed increased. The steamboat swiftly hurtled through the dense fog.
“I see them,” Ito cried.
Sherlock peered into the murk. A small shadow bobbed into view. It was a boat. Its oars were still. Someone stood inside of it—a young Caucasian man, dressed in a frock coat. His clothes made him appear thin, but judging from his stance he was robust and physically well-conditioned. It had to be Denikin. He was waving a Japanese katana in the air. He gripped the hilt in both hands, staring down, ready to strike.
A man-shaped shadow sprawled at the base of the boat. One arm was thrust forward, and he was clearly begging the other man to stop. He wore a red army coat. He’d probably thrown the coat on in a rush during the evacuation, so that he would be easily recognizable as the crown prince. Nicholas’ terrified face came into focus with the light from their ship.
It was obvious why Denikin had chosen a katana. Clearly, he meant to stage the attack to make it seem as if Nicholas had been assassinated by the Japanese.
A third man, sitting in the bow, turned to face Kanevsky’s boat. He was fat, with red hair. He stood up in a panic, pointing in their direction.
No, not pointing. He held a pistol.
There was the crack of a gunshot. The sailors crouched low, taking cover. Several more shots followed before their surroundings suddenly went dark. He’d shot their lights out.
Blast it! A chill ran down Sherlock’s spine. How could they return fire with no light? They might hit Nicholas by accident.
Just then he felt something shift behind his back. Then there was a splash in the water. Ito was gone! He had just dived into the water. Inches below the surface, a darker shadow sped, porpoise-like, toward the other boat.
Such recklessness! Sherlock barely had time to register shock before a glaring light flared into existence. He could see again. One of the sailors had lit a torch. The light was bleached and white—made from a mixture of sulfur, saltpeter, and ash, to ensure it would not be extinguished when it touched the sea. The sailor threw the torch onto the waves, between the two boats.
Now they could see their enemy clearly. The sailors began shooting. They aimed their rifles high. With Nicholas held hostage, they could provide cover fire at best.
But Chekhov had no such restraints. He fired, and hit one of the sailors. Kanevsky crouched low behind the balustrade. The other sailors took cover as well. Sherlock, too, was forced to crouch low.