“If that’s a map of the tunnels, then that is our way out of here,” said Jones.
“It’s a map. But there’s no way of knowing where we are on it.”
“Listen, Evgenia, I hate the dark, I hate being trapped underground, more than anything I hate being in the same chamber as a man I have just killed. So let’s go. Let’s trust to our luck. Ariadne, she gave Theseus a ball of twine when he went down into the labyrinth to defeat the Minotaur. We do the same trick. Let’s go.”
Tying one end of the string to the tramp’s leg – there was nothing else to fix it to – they walked out of the exit they had come in by, Evgenia leading the way with the first of the candles, Jones stumbling on behind her, loosening the ball of string as they walked. Every time they came to a fork they turned left until they came to an enormous hall, so big that the candle couldn’t light it. In the distance came the unmistakeable sound of waves breaking against a beach, then the long withdrawing roar as the wave withdrew. Excited, Jones hurried forward, plunging into the darkness outside the pool of light made by the candle.
“Idiot!” Evgenia cried.
Jones stumbled and almost fell. Following the noise he was making, she too raced out across the cavern – and there she found Jones, holding a broken thread. In his haste to get away, the string had snapped. They tried to find the other end but gave up, taunted by the sound of the breaking sea, taunted by the possibility of seeing the sky at last.
Chapter Twenty-Six
They hurried through the subterranean dark towards the smell of the sea, the blackness edging dark grey. Somewhere near here was a source of light.
Fortune had favoured them at last. Jones and Evgenia stood on the shores of an underworld lagoon, on its pebble beach an ancient rowing boat.
“Shall we?” Jones said
Evgenia didn’t need asking twice.
They set off, Jones at the oars, the lagoon narrowing into a tunnel where they had to use their hands to push against the low ceiling to propel the boat forward. Then, before they truly understood where they were and how far they had come, they were out among the breakers, the open vault of the sky overhead. Jones pulled them steadily towards a secluded, sandy cove and the rowing boat came to a rest in the gathering dusk.
Stripping off their filthy clothes and holding hands, they half-ran, half-danced into the frigid sea, and tried to wash away the coal dust that had infiltrated every pore.
Once out of the water, Evgenia said, “Perhaps it would be best to row back. The catacombs are the safest place for us.”
“No more holes in the ground, ever again,” Jones replied.
There was a place underneath an uprooted tree at the back of the beach. It wasn’t much but it afforded some protection from the weather. Evgenia told him that it was best if she went into the city on her own, to try to buy new clothes for him and her, to see if she could find a ship that would take them away. Jones tried to argue with her but knew that she was right and watched her disappear off into the night.
After she had gone, it started to rain and, with that, he felt a growing sense of desolation.
After an agony of time, Evgenia returned a different woman. Gone was the filthy deckhand, in her stead young Soviet woman, hair washed, dressed in the very latest fashion: jacket, red blouse and skirt, and in her hand a suitcase.
“How did you do that?”
“Winnie, I met her quite by accident. She’s been singing for some bigwigs in Odessa. Without her it would have been impossible. Here, she gave me some cheese, a bottle of Ukrainian wine, fresh clothes for you too. She’s been a godsend.”
The suitcase held a man’s three piece worsted suit, shirt, red tie, vest, underpants and a pair of shoes. The shirt fitted perfectly, the suit too big – but Jones was no man of fashion. Only the shoes were a failure and Jones had to contend with going out on the town in a deckhand’s boots.
“Winnie introduced me to a ship’s officer from Copenhagen,” said Evgenia. “Their ship has been held for a week but they’re hoping it will finally be leaving for Constantinople on the early morning tide.”
“And?”
“The officer said he couldn’t promise anything. It was, it must be, the captain’s decision. The officer and the captain, they’re going to be at restaurant where Winnie sings tonight. If we past muster, they’ll hide us until we’re safely out to sea, then drop us in Turkey with no questions asked.”
“Will it work?”
A silvering of the sea: moonrise. She smiled, as much to herself as at him. “We’ve got this far. Who knows?”
Under the light of the moon, they devoured the cheese and drank the wine, listening to the soft roar of the shingle as it rolled in and out. For the first time since Haywood made his dying wish, Jones believed that they might just have a chance of a life together.
The restaurant was a riot of plush velvet, everything in red. At the back of the main dining area was a little stage, spotlit, and beneath that a gypsy band sawed its way through popular hits.
The Danish ship’s officer, Jens, arrived, a burly blond giant. Kissing Evgenia on both cheeks, he smiled formally at Jones in a way that suggested irritation, civilly masked. Shortly afterwards, the captain turned up, a thick-set older blond man. He was polite, punctiliously so, but guarded.
“You’re planning to leave port on the early morning tide, Captain?” asked Evgenia.
“We cannot leave without the express permission of the harbourmaster and that permission has been withheld for a week now. Never any answers. Only delay. This will be my last voyage to the Soviet Union.”
As he toyed with a glass of beer, a telegram arrived, delivered by a young deckhand. Flipping out some reading glasses, he began to peruse it.
“May I ask, what is your news captain?” asked Evgenia.
He shrugged and said, “I’m delighted to say that our ship is very honoured.” He seemed neither delighted nor honoured. “We’ve finally been given permission to leave on the four o’clock morning tide. The only proviso is that we have been asked to take three special guests dear to the Soviet Foreign Ministry.”
Jones beamed. “Who might they be, may I ask?”
“Ah,” said the captain, “here they are now.”
Professor Aubyn and Dr Limner walked into the restaurant, closely followed by Duranty.
“Jones, old cock, Evgenia!” exclaimed Duranty. “What a coincidence! May we join you? Make it all a bit of a party, eh? Heh, Jonesy, you’ll never guess who I got to see back in Moscow.”
“Stalin.”
“In one. He talked up a storm, about how it was necessary to forge good relations with the United States, blah blah blah. The New York Times are over the moon. Let’s get some champagne. The office has put me in for the Pulitzer and are paying for me to go on the razzle in Constantinople.”
“Congratulations old man,” said Jones, a smile frozen on his lips.
“As I was saying, Mr Duranty…” Aubyn had a sour expression on his face as if he had been sucking on a wasp. “I take a very dim view of how the Soviet authorities have been treating us. We have been wanting to take our leave for two weeks now and only today are we finally in Odessa. Please use your good offices with the Kremlin to ask for an explanation.”
“It’s always tricky, getting a response. New Soviet Man loves to play it close to the chest, Professor Aubyn.”
“You’ve met Stalin, Mr Duranty.”
“That doesn’t make me a travel agent, Professor.”
“Well, it’s not good enough. Our plans have been thrown awry and we should have been on our way back to Washington DC more than a week ago. I really didn’t expect this treatment…”
The professor became dimly aware that introductions were in order. He stopped in mid-sentence. “Erm…”