Free The Forbidden Territory by Dennis Wheatley Page A

her.
    “You won’t forget?” Simon asked, anxiously.
    “No,” she shook her dark head; “eet may take a little time, but an occasion will come when I can ask Leshkin—’e may not know ’imself, but ’e will tell me if ’e does.”
    “I—er—suppose Kommissar Leshkin is a great friend of yours?” hazarded Simon.
    She made a little grimace. “What would you—’ow old are you? Twenty-eight; thirty, perhaps; three, four years older than myself—it does not matter. You are a man of the world; you know it, then. All artistes must have a protector; eef I’ad lived twenty years ago it would ’ave been a Grand Duke; now eet is a Kommissar. What does eet matter; eet is life!”
    Simon nodded with much understanding, but he went on quietly probing. “Of course, I realise that, but—er—I mean, is it just a political alliance, or are you really friendly?”
    “I ’ate ’im,” she said, suddenly, with a flash of her magnificent eyes; “ ’e is stupid, a bore, ’e ’as no delicacy of feeling, no finesse. In the revolution ’e did terriblethings. Sometimes it makes me shudder to think ’ow ’is ’ands they are cover with blood—’e was what you call ‘Terrorist’ then. It was ’im they send to crush the revolt in the Ukraine; eet was ’orrible that, the people that ’e kill, ’ole batches at a time. Most of those terrorist they are finish now, but not ’im; ’e is cunning, you understand, and strong, that is ’ow ’e keeps ’is place among the others; if ’e ’as any attraction for me, it is ’is strength, I think—but let us not talk of ’im.”
    Unfortunately they were not destined to talk of anything else, for raised voices sounded at that moment in the hall outside, the door was thrust violently open, and the big, red-headed Kommissar strode in with a scowl on his face.
    Simon got slowly to his feet, and Valeria Petrovna introduced them, recalling to Leshkin their former brief meeting in London.
    “How do you do?” said Simon, in his most polite manner.
    “Thank you—and yourself?” said Leshkin, without any trace of cordiality in his manner; “do you stay long in Moskawa?”
    “Don’t know,” Simon replied, airily. “I rather like Moscow, I may stay for a month.” He was well aware that he had done nothing so far to which the authorities could object, and behind his passport lay all the power and prestige that gives every British subject such a sense of security in any part of the world. Moreover, passport or no passport, Mr. Simon Aron was not accustomed to being browbeaten. Between his rather narrow shoulders there lay a quiet but very determined courage, so, ignoring Leshkin, he turned with a smile to Valeria Petrovna and asked her to dine with him that night.
    “But ’ow can I? You forget the theatre; but you shall call for me, and we will ’ave supper after. Leshkin,” she turned imperiously to the Kommissar, “do not be a bear; Mistaire Aron is the guest of Russia—’elp ’im with ’is furs, and show ’im out.”
    Leshkin’s small eyes narrowed beneath his beetlingbrows, his great jaw came forward with an ugly curve—for the fraction of a second it looked as though he were going to seize the frail Simon in his big powerful hands.
    Valeria Petrovna stood between them, her eyes never left Leshkin’s face. With a sharp movement she flicked the butt of her cigarette from the long slender holder. Suddenly the Kommissar relaxed, and with a little shrug of his giant shoulders, obeyed.

Chapter VIII
The Price of Information
    When Simon got back to the Metropole he asked his guide to get seats for that evening’s performance at the Moscow Arts Theatre, and on this occasion he and the Duke really made use of the tickets.
    Both were lovers of the theatre, and enjoyed the finish and technique of the production; De Richleau was enraptured with Valeria Petrovna and her performance. In the first interval he turned to Simon with a sigh.
    “Ah, my friend, why am I not