Дэвид Даунинг - The Dark Clouds Shining

A flock of ravens wheeledacross the corridor of pale blue sky above the Rozhdestvenky Convent, graceful, black, and silent. McColl wondered if they were the same birds he’d seen arrowing down the river the previous afternoon, the same flock that had drawn wide circles in the air above the Kremlin cathedrals that morning. If so, they seemed to be following him around.

He smiled at the thought. Considering the inherent dangers of his situation, McColl was feeling pretty good. He’d found Ruzhkov, and was, he hoped, on his way to collect a new set of papers from the Russian. He had slept surprisingly well in the visitor’s dormitory on Kuznetsky Most.

He heard the Sukharevka Market before he saw it, a swelling babble of chatter and shouts that evoked memories of his times in India. Turning a corner, he saw the ragged lines of stalls occupying the wide center of the boulevard on both sides of the Sukharev Tower.

He walked down the first lane, which mostly featured peasant women sitting on rickety chairs, holding on their laps makeshift trays bearing large pats of butter, irregular scraps of sugar, or berries of various hues. One woman was carefully counting out wild strawberries to exchange for a chartreuse silk handkerchief; another was examining a coral necklace through a pince-nez with all the concentration of a Hatton Garden jeweler.

The next lane was mostly eggs and books. McColl stopped to look at the latter, which were almost exclusively romantic novels, and opened one at random. Would she feel the same pang in her breast every time the count came to visit her husband?

Probably, McColl thought.

“A complete set of Verbitskaya’s stories—only one ruble,” the woman behind the table called after him. “For next winter—they burn beautifully.”

He could see the gramophone section at the end of the fourth lane, table upon table holding dozens of machines and hundreds of records. There was no sign of Ruzhkov, no sign either of more genuine Chekists.

He looked through the records, a bewildering mixture of classics, comic opera, and popular airs. There was even some of the new American jazz music. The showstopper was a recording of “Over the Sea to Skye” by the Massed Pipes of the Glasgow Cooperative. Noting his interest, the stall holder insisted on playing it, offering McColl a seat while he wound up the gramophone and lowered the needle. Then, through a dense crackle, the sound of pipes swirled up into the Moscow air, causing heads to turn from all directions.

“What is it?” the stall holder asked. “Indian music?”

McColl shrugged. “Sounds like rats being strangled,” he said.

The Russian thought this hugely amusing, and decided to play the record again. There was still no sign of Ruzhkov. McColl walked over to where a samovar was steaming, paid a few kopeks for two glasses of tea, and settled down to wait on a convenient pile of wrought-iron gates. The bagpipes droned on.

“Why don’t you stand up and shout that you’re a British spy?” Ruzhkov hissed in his ear.

McColl grinned, which only infuriated the Russian more. He almost slapped the folded copy of Pravda onto the gates between them.

“They’re searching the city for you,” Ruzhkov whispered angrily. “They know what name you’re using. They’re checking the dormitories at this very moment.”

McColl’s heart missed half a beat. “Then I won’t go back to mine,” he replied, a lot more calmly than he felt. “Have you managed things?”

“Yes.” The Russian sounded almost sorry that he had. “You’ve been very lucky. The Indians actually asked for an Urdu translator last week. They all speak English—some of them don’t even speak Urdu—but they decided they didn’t want translation in the language of their oppressors.” Ruzhkov snorted in merriment, then remembered he was supposed to be angry. “You weren’t exaggerating when you said you could speak Urdu?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s something. Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

“London needs to know if the Bolsheviks are keeping to the terms of the trade treaty, the ones to do with India. Whether they’ve actually abandoned their attempts at subversion.”

“They have,” Ruzhkov said indignantly. “All the Indians were brought back from Tashkent months ago. And London knows that,” he added suspiciously. “There’s something more, isn’t there?”

McColl shook his head. “Not as far as I know,” he lied.

Ruzhkov shrugged his disbelief. “Your new papers are inside the Pravda ,” he said coldly. “Now, tell me about my children. My son will be ten this August.”

McColl repeated what the briefers had told him, that the children were all doing splendidly and happy as one could expect, given their father’s absence. He could see the doubt in Ruzhkov’s eyes, along with the faintest of hopes that it might be true.

McColl wanted to be moving. “Where are the Indians staying?”

“The Hotel Lux, of course. All the foreign delegates are staying there. You may have to shout a bit to get yourself a room, but they know who you are: the papers were sent over this morning.” He drank the last of his tea and wistfully examined the bottom of the glass. “Ten years old,” he muttered to himself.

After they’d discussed future meetings and contingencies, McColl walked back to the city center by a different route. It was the hottest part of the day, and a group of Red Army soldiers shouldering a coffin draped in a huge red flag were sweating copiously as they passed him in the opposite direction.

The number of visible Chekists seemed higher than it had been a few hours before, but was that only because he now knew that some at least were looking for him? He felt like a fly who’d mistaken a windowpane for the sky. Sitting there listening to the Massed Pipes had been unbelievably stupid.

A workers’ canteen just off Petrovsky Boulevard offered a temporary haven. Behind the cover of the newspaper, he examined his new papers, and discovered that he was now Nikolai Matveyevich Davydov of Gogol Street, Tashkent. The accompanying permit authorized him to travel from Tashkent to Moscow on the given date; it was stamped for an arrival the previous day. Enclosed within the permit was a party card, which stated that he had been a member since March 1918.

Ruzhkov had excelled himself. All McColl needed was a shave, and he’d noticed a couple of barbers on Kuznetsky Most. He left the canteen, trying to appear neither casual nor hurried. No one gave him so much as a glance.

It was midafternoon when Komarovreturned from a meeting at Vecheka headquarters. Yezhov was waiting in the outer office, feet up and half-asleep.

“Well?” Komarov barked.

Yezhov sat up rapidly. “We’ve found where he’s staying. The dormitory on Kuznetsky Most. His suitcase is there. Borin and Trepakov are waiting for him to come back.”

Komarov sat down. “What’s in the suitcase?”

“Some old leather trousers and a shirt.”

“He’s wearing the suit. Get back over there. I don’t want any slipups.”

McColl walked up Tverskaya tothe Hotel Lux. The long, four-story stone building had recently been painted, presumably to impress the foreign delegates. The main effect, however, was to make the surrounding buildings look twice as dilapidated. One of two militiamen guarding the main entrance gave McColl’s papers a cursory examination and waved him through.

The lobby was empty of people, empty of furniture, lined with posters and blown-up photographs celebrating the Third Congress of the Communist International. A solitary clerk sat behind a reception counter long enough to accommodate twenty. McColl waited in vain for his presence to be acknowledged.