Дэвид Даунинг - The Dark Clouds Shining

“I know that,” Kollontai said. “Of course I do. And yes, my support for the Workers’ Opposition will hurt the Zhenotdel, at least in the short run. But would the Zhenotdel be better off if I resigned? If Klavia took over as director, for example? It might—I don’t think Vladimir Ilych would be so petty as to punish an organization because I once led it. Not once he’d calmed down. But—and I may be fooling myself—I don’t think my remaining leader is the biggest threat to the Zhenotdel.”

“So what is?” Caitlin prompted when Kollontai fell silent.

Her friend let a few more moments pass before responding. “Ever since the civil war ended, we’ve been in retreat. Oh, I know we’ve had victories—the abortion law, the apprenticeships, the unveilings the other week—but they’re all things that don’t cost money and don’t inconvenience men. In the factories and on the farms—in the real economy—the old patterns are reasserting themselves. Returning soldiers are pushing women out of jobs and wanting them back in the kitchen and bedroom. The Orgbureau is less willing to accommodate us now than it was a year ago, and it was damn near impossible to get them to do it then. Things I thought we’d settled for good, we’re having to fight for all over again. We’re regressing, in more ways than one.”

Caitlin was slightly shocked. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you sound so… pessimistic.”

“I don’t mean to. What I’m saying is—if the system isn’t working for us, then that’s what we have to change. If the party doesn’t respond to the current disillusion, if it doesn’t turn to the sort of ideas and policies that the Workers’ Opposition is espousing, then the Zhenotdel will inevitably be among the casualties. A government that needs closed doors to survive will never look kindly on an organization that delights in flinging them open.”

Caitlin was silent for several moments, torn between Kollontai’s vision and the unwelcome sense that it wasn’t achievable.

“I know it’s not easy,” Kollontai said, anticipating objections. “In order to survive, we Bolsheviks have done some terrible things. We have let ourselves down more often than we would have liked. Everyone knows that. But most people—and most of our leaders—realize that now we must do better, must hold ourselves to a higher standard, if we want to save our revolution. If we don’t, then heaven help Russia.”

“We fight each battle as it comes,” Caitlin said, more to herself than her friend.

“Every last one. Which is why I’m so reluctant to resign. And which reminds me: I haven’t forgotten Anna Nemtseva. A friend of a friend who knows Orel—I think his mother still lives there—has more or less confirmed what Anna told you. I know there wasn’t much doubt, but I don’t want any surprises when I eventually take the matter up with the Orgbureau. And I’ve also spoken to a couple of comrades who knew Agranov before the war. He was a bureaucrat for the old regime back then, and he only joined the party in 1918, so his rise has been quite spectacular. Suspiciously so, I’d say. A little more digging, and I think we’ll find a way to bring him down.”

Kollontai sounded so much like her old self that Caitlin couldn’t help but smile. “Do you know a Chekist named Komarov?” she asked.

“Not well,” Kollontai said. “The M-Cheka, yes? In his early forties, stern looking, old-school.”

“Fanya and I worked with him in March on rehousing a group of orphan girls. He seemed quietly outraged by what had been done to them, and he might feel the same about Anna and the others. If so, and if he has any influence with Dzerzhinsky…”

“The Cheka usually look after their own,” Kollontai said, “but who knows? There are exceptions, and he might be one of them. I’ll bear him in mind.”

They parted with hugs at the National entrance, and Caitlin walked slowly home, pondering Kollontai’s words and hoping that just this once her friend had read the situation wrongly. She was almost home when she passed an open window and saw two people dancing in what seemed an empty room. They were probably in their fifties, and the only music was in their heads. As if to hear it better, both had closed their eyes, and the expressions on their faces were ones of utter bliss.

There was a dingy caféalmost directly opposite the house where Arkady Ruzhkov was supposed to have a room. This was fortunate, because McColl had been nursing his glass of tea for over an hour, and lingering that long out in the street would have been asking for trouble. As it was, the crone behind the counter was eyeing him with what looked like increasing suspicion.

“You are sure my friend didn’t come by earlier?” he asked.

“No one asked for anyone.”

“Well, I’ll give him another half an hour.”

“Suit yourself.”

McColl went back to his vigil. He’d always had good visual recall, if not a true photographic memory, and Ruzhkov’s picture was clear in his mind. So was the man’s story, which had been part of the briefing.

The Russian had come to England as an exile after the 1905 upheaval and had married another exile, a young Polish girl. They’d had three children and were, as far as Ruzhkov was concerned, a happy and contented couple. Then, one day late in 1917, he’d returned to his Shoreditch tailor’s shop and found his young wife enjoying herself on the cutting table with another Russian. In a frenzy of anger, he’d picked up his tailor’s shears and stabbed them both to death.

The French would have called it a crime of passion and probably been sympathetic; in England he was promised a hanging, until some bright spark in Special Branch mentioned him to the Secret Service. Cumming’s people had offered him a choice: the rope or a five-year stint in His Majesty’s Service back home in Russia while England looked after his children. He had, not surprisingly, plumped for the second option. Since his return three years earlier in the company of genuine political exiles, Ruzhkov had risen through the ranks of clerks who served the Moscow Cheka.

Cumming had protected Ruzhkov well. He had returned late in 1918, and had thus been spared the carnage of agents that had followed the Cheka’s unmasking of the famous Lockhart Plot. Since then, Cumming had kept his “steadiest man” well away from gung ho colleagues like Sidney Reilly. Indeed, so precious was Ruzhkov considered that he’d been contacted on only a handful of occasions, in situations of minimum risk.

Until now, McColl thought, anxiously watching the time. The half hour was nearly up when his contact finally appeared, a small, wiry man with the face from the photograph. The blonde on his arm was taller than he was, with sunken eyes and prominent cheekbones. The two of them walked through the open door of the three-story building, and half a minute later a light came on in the middle floor.

McColl crossed the street, climbed the stairs, and knocked on the appropriate door.

The woman answered. Up close, her face seemed terribly gaunt.

“Comrade Ruzhkov?” he asked.

Ruzhkov appeared behind her shoulder, his round-lensed spectacles glinting beneath the shock of black hair. “What is it?” he asked sharply.

“I’ve come with a message from Brother Ivan,” McColl said. “It’s private,” he added, offering the woman an apologetic look.

“Yes, Tamara, go for a walk,” Ruzhkov said brusquely. She glared at him, and seemed about to object, but then brushed past McColl and headed down the stairs.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” Ruzhkov said reproachfully the moment McColl was inside.

“I had no choice.” He told the Russian what he needed.

Ruzhkov shook his head slowly to and fro, as if he were trying to nudge his brain back into its cranial slot. “Perhaps,” he said. “I will see. You must go. Two days from now at the Sukharevka Market—the music section. At noon.”