Дэвид Даунинг - The Dark Clouds Shining

The old man passed the envelope on to McColl and scooped up the note with his other hand.

“And where do you come from?” McColl asked.

The man cackled. “I was born in Serbia, but that was a long time ago.” He was slowly backing away, as if concerned that the fortune foretold in the envelope might not be to his customer’s taste.

McColl watched him sidle off as he opened the envelope. On a small piece of rice paper, the words “She loves you” had been neatly printed in several languages. He smiled to himself and placed it in his pocket. “Maybe she does,” he murmured. In the distance the parrot squawked, probably in derision.

The Chekist—if that was what the man was—was still calmly sipping his tea. McColl would have to lose him, without giving the appearance of doing so. Which shouldn’t be too hard in the alleys of the old town, McColl thought. Without another glance in the man’s direction, McColl left the chaikhana and headed up Takhtapul Street, steadily increasing his walking pace as he did so. One abrupt turn led into another, and a half-demolished cart offered something to hide behind. If the Chekist saw him, he could say that he’d taken the man for a footpad; if he didn’t…

After a minute had passed, he reached the conclusion that he wasn’t being followed after all.

Watching out for the man just in case, McColl retraced his steps to Takhtapul Street and continued up it until he reached the covered bazaar he remembered from 1916. After passing booths containing silk workers, coppersmiths, and carpet makers, he recognized the narrow alley alongside the large rug emporium and, after one last glance around, ducked into it. Counting off the doorways, he let himself into the fifth.

The Indian was sitting in the small courtyard, watching one of his wives energetically beating the dust out of a Bokhara rug. He leapt up in alarm when McColl abruptly appeared, but once he realized who it was, his smile was almost too effusive. “Welcome to my home once again,” he said formally, offering space on the carpet. He shooed his wife into the house with a few sharp words, then quickly recalled her to order tea. “I trust you are fighting fit, Mr. Voronovsky,” he said in English.

“Yes, thank you,” McColl said. “But I am now Mr. Davydov. I hope you and your family are all in the best of health.”

A second wife, clothed in a jade-green sari, appeared with a silver dish of sweetmeats and was swiftly followed by a third with a plate of fresh figs. The two men nibbled in silence until the tea arrived, and all the women were back inside. McColl wondered, not for the first time, why sitting cross-legged was so uncomfortable.

“It is very hot, is it not?” the Indian said politely.

“Yes, it is. This meeting must be a short one, I’m sorry to say. I need to make contact with the head office.”

The Indian poured the tea unhurriedly. “I most regret,” he finally said, sounding not in the least regretful, “that our wireless set has not been received. They promise machine for several months, but…” He shrugged. “Do you wish sugar?”

McColl found it hard to conceal his annoyance.

“However,” the Indian continued, “not all is despairing. I can get a message to Delhi in three weeks.”

“Thank you, but I’m afraid my need is more urgent than that.” He got to his feet. “I will remind London that you’re waiting for a wireless.”

“That will be most exciting of you,” the Indian said solemnly.

McColl let himself out and walked slowly back through the old town. What should his next move be? The wireless in Samarkand was still operational—or had been when he left England—but that was a full day’s journey away. And once he’d abandoned Komarov, there’d be no coming back. He would lose touch with the Russian’s pursuit and, of course, with her. Again.

As it turned out, he was given no choice in the matter. Two Chekists were waiting outside the hotel; they bundled him into the back of their car, where his suitcase was already resting. Which was probably a good sign—if this was an arrest, they wouldn’t have bothered to collect his belongings.

He also recognized the street the car drove down—they’d come down it on their way from the train station.

The train was waiting in a bay platform: one locomotive and two crimson coaches. Komarov and Maslov beside it, obviously waiting for him. The fact that they’d delayed their pursuit for a mere interpreter was gratifying but also seemed slightly mysterious.

“Where now?” he asked them cheerfully.

“Samarkand,” Komarov said shortly. “Get the train moving,” he told Maslov.

It seemed that fate was conspiring to help him. “Have they been caught?” he asked Komarov.

“No. But one of them’s been killed—we don’t know which. Not an Indian.”

“So it might be Piatakova’s husband.”

“Yes, she’s distressed. As you would expect.”

McColl boarded the train, wondering why Komarov hadn’t asked where he’d been that morning. Then again, his fictional self was supposed to come from Tashkent, so maybe the Cheka boss had assumed he was visiting family or friends.

He rapped softly on Caitlin’s compartment door and, when he got no answer, gently pushed it open. She was sitting with hands clasped between her knees, a glimmer of tears on her face.

“Can I help?” he asked.

She looked up, managed a quarter smile, and shook her head. “No. Thank you, but no. I need to be alone.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

He retreated into the corridor, taken aback by how upset she was and disappointed with himself for feeling that way.

In the saloon he found Komarov and Maslov. “If one man was killed, what happened to the others?” McColl asked the senior man.

“They escaped,” the Russian said wryly. “And at this rate we’re never going to catch them. Why the hell aren’t we moving?” he asked, sticking his head through a convenient open window in search of the answer.

As if in response, the wheels jerked forward, causing Komarov to draw in his head, and spread his hands wide like a magician completing a trick. McColl couldn’t help laughing; Maslov’s expression suggested they’d both taken leave of their senses.

The magic soon wore off. The train kept stopping and starting at what seemed increasingly frequent intervals. McColl took up residence in the saloon, which by now felt almost like a home away from home—the smell of leather and the rattling wheels, the familiar books and companions. It took him most of the afternoon to notice what had changed; Maslov was no longer able to look him straight in the eye.

McColl got up and walked through onto the rear veranda, feeling butterflies looping the loop in his stomach. He lit a cigarette and watched the rails recede across the empty desert. What had he done to cause such a change in the way the Ukrainian looked at him? He couldn’t believe that his sleeping with Caitlin would affect the young man so.

No, they knew. Perhaps there’d been more than one shadow that morning; perhaps the Indian had already been under surveillance or was himself a Cheka informer. It hardly mattered. They knew.

McColl’s admiration for Komarov went up another notch. A lesser man would simply have arrested him. He also realized with a sinking heart that now he’d have to keep his distance from Caitlin. If he didn’t, she might wind up in front of the same firing squad.

Piatakov crouched down beside thetracks, supporting himself with one hand on a coach buffer, calculating distances and angles. The two Chekists were leaning against the wall of the Kagan station building, talking idly to each other and smoking cigarettes. They had checked all the alighting passengers’ papers when the train arrived but had shown no inclination to investigate those still on board. Presumably the search was still unfocussed: there would have been no time to get a message through before they’d cut the wires. Though that in itself, once discovered, would be suggestive enough.