Дэвид Даунинг - The Dark Clouds Shining

“I shall try to read these stories, comrade,” McColl said tactfully. He was trying to square this Komarov with the one that Ruzhkov had described.

“This will be a long journey. I am Yuri Vladimirovich.”

“Nikolai Matveyevich,” McColl responded.

“Well, Nikolai Matveyevich, it’s your move.”

On the second morning, sherealized she would have to meet him. The train, as her man from the kitchen informed her, had still not reached Ryazan and, at its current rate of progress, was unlikely to reach Tashkent in less than a month. If she stayed that long in her compartment, she’d probably go mad.

And, she had to admit, she wanted to hear what he had to say. Whatever he was doing in Russia, it obviously had something to do with Brady, and therefore also with Sergei. Not to mention her own forced exile from Moscow and work. She wanted to know what it was all about.

The first opportunity arose about half an hour later, but Komarov and Maslov were both standing close to their carriage, so she decided to wait for another. The moment the train stopped again, she was out on the platform and putting distance between herself and the three red cars. After joining the queue at the samovar, she looked back to see if Jack was there, and was pleased to see him striding toward her. There was no sign of Komarov or Maslov.

He insisted on shaking hands, as if they were just introducing themselves. “Let’s walk,” he suggested in Russian, gesturing toward the distant rear of the train. “How are you?” he asked, as if they were friends who’d been out of touch for a while.

“I’m ready for the promised explanation,” she said coldly. Seeing him again up close was arousing all sorts of thoughts and emotions.

“Okay,” he agreed. “But it would be better if you didn’t look so angry with me. Komarov might wonder how his humble interpreter has managed to annoy you so much after such a brief acquaintance.”

“Is that what you are, his interpreter?”

“I was interpreting for the Indian delegation at the Comintern conference when it all blew up.”

“All what?”

“The robbery at the tram depot in which three of the Indians were involved. Along with Aidan Brady.”

“He’s the leader in all this, isn’t he?” she asked, wondering why McColl hadn’t mentioned Sergei. He had to know that they were married.

“I think so.”

“And what are they planning?” she asked, glancing down the platform to make sure there was no one in earshot.

“The murder of Mohandas Gandhi.”

“What?” What madness had Sergei gotten himself into?

“They think he’s a Menshevik, holding back the real revolution.”

“Oh, give me strength.” But the idea had a ghastly plausibility. Given how Sergei and his friends saw the world these days, it probably seemed like perfect sense to them. Another thought crossed her mind. “But then what brought you here? Why would your boss give a fig about Gandhi? Wouldn’t the British government be glad to see him gone?”

“I’m sure they would, but I don’t think they’d condone his assassination. It’s a small group of men in one section of British intelligence that’s behind all this. Not my section, and not my boss. He wants to know exactly who’s involved. Who hired Brady to put the team together in the first place and who’ll be helping them once they reach India.”

“Helping them how?” she asked, finding it all a bit hard to believe. Reaching the end of the train, they stood there for a moment, staring down the receding track. The way back to Moscow, she thought, wishing she could take it.

“With money,” Jack was saying. “And probably guns when the time comes. A suitable hideout, information. Whatever they need.”

“All right. But why in heaven’s name would Brady get involved with the British in the first place?”

“He was caught in Ireland, and that was their price for letting him go.”

“He’s using you.”

“I quit the Service three years ago.”

She wanted to trust him. “Okay, he’s using your former colleagues.”

“And they him. And as far as I’m concerned, they deserve each other. If it wasn’t for Gandhi…”

“You always did admire him,” she said, reducing McColl to silence. Referencing their mutual past was obviously not a good idea. “So why did you let yourself be press-ganged?” she asked.

He shrugged. “What better way to stay on their trail? If Komarov catches up with them, I can leave them to Soviet justice. If they get across the border, I’ll find a way to follow.”

“You know that one of the men is my husband?” she asked, aware she was trying to provoke a reaction but not knowing which sort she wanted.

“I do,” he said calmly.

They walked several yards in silence.

“So why did Komarov bring you along?” McColl asked.

“Because they have no photographs, and he knows I can identify Sergei, Brady and Aram Shahumian. Because I might be able to persuade Sergei to give himself up. Or just because he can.” Looking up, she saw that the man in question was walking toward them.

“I’m glad that you two have met,” Komarov said in greeting, an almost genial smile on his face.

After his talk with Caitlin,McColl went back to his compartment and tried to lose himself in a Turgenev novel he had borrowed from the saloon. But he found it impossible to concentrate—his unconscious mind was much more interested in endlessly replaying the conversation he’d just had out on the platform.

There was a lot she hadn’t told him. She’d implied that her presence on the train was far from voluntary, and the questions she’d asked him suggested a lack of knowledge when it came to her husband’s intentions. Indeed, when McColl had told her that Gandhi was the likely target, she had seemed surprised. Not to mention disapproving. She hadn’t actually criticized her husband, but then why would she? It occurred to him that she and Sergei might have agreed to let each other follow their own paths and consciences for a while, just as McColl and she had done in 1916.

And then there was Brady. She must have introduced the American to her husband, which presumably meant that she was still in touch with the bastard after his killing of Fedya. Then again, she might not know that Brady had shot him.

Too many questions, he thought. Not to mention too many memories.

The train continued on its stop-start way. He got off whenever he could, to give his body exercise and his mind something different to ponder. Most of the soldiers he talked to were young and seemed strangely sullen considering they’d just won a war—there was none of the enthusiasm that he’d witnessed among Bolshevik supporters three years earlier. The cotton experts he met in one samovar queue were a very different matter. These two stocky Russians heading south on government business oozed good cheer and optimism—after fifteen minutes in their company, McColl felt positively exhausted.

There was no further sign of Caitlin, though, either on the sun-baked platforms or later in the dining car, where Komarov again brought out his chess set.

As before, McColl found it easier to accept than refuse the invitation to play, but merely being in Komarov’s company demanded as much concentration as playing the game. The Russian was easy to talk to, too easy, and McColl felt the need to measure each thought before allowing it into the open.

They had just finished the first game when another man appeared, the one with the neat beard that McColl had seen by the train in Kazan Station. The newcomer shook hands with Komarov and took a seat at the adjoining table. “One of your praetorians?” he asked, indicating McColl.