Дэвид Даунинг - The Dark Clouds Shining

A one-coach train was sitting in a bay platform some hundred yards away. Beyond it, across a wide expanse of yellow-ochre desert, Piatakov could make out Bokhara’s mud walls and a line of trees that presumably followed a river. Which probably meant that the small train was headed that way. In which case, where was the one to Kerki? The only other wheeled vehicles in sight, aside from the train he’d been on, were the rusted wagons standing in the sand-blown siding.

The two Chekists were looking away, talking to someone inside the station building. Piatakov took his chance, moving out from behind the train in a crouching run. After reaching the end of the building without raising any alarm, he took a cautious look around its farther corner, and found himself eye to eye with a middle-aged Russian woman. She was sitting in a droshky, shading herself with a red parasol. An Uzbek was busily tying her luggage onto the back, stressing the efforts he was making on her behalf with a series of groans and mumbled asides.

Piatakov walked across and offered a respectful bow. “Good afternoon, madam,” he said. “Would you happen to know if there’s a train to Kerki?”

She stared at him for several seconds, probably wondering how a wretch in native clothes could act and talk like a civilized Russian, then decided to be generous. “I’m afraid not,” she said with a gracious smile. “I have only just arrived here myself. My husband is the new consul in Bukhara,” she proudly added in explanation.

“Kerki,” the Uzbek said, emerging from behind the droshky, “nyet.” He made a throat-cutting motion to emphasize the point. “Basmachi trouble,” he added with a grin, and swung himself up into the driving seat. He flicked the whip casually across the back of the pony, which turned to look at him as if expecting confirmation of these travel arrangements. The driver provided it with another flick, and the pony, apparently satisfied, set the droshky in motion. As it turned a tight circle and clattered off, the new consul’s wife gave Piatakov a suitably regal wave.

There was no one else in sight. A whistle announced the departure of one of the trains. “Nyet” seemed clear enough, the Basmachi rebels a reasonable explanation. Piatakov walked back along the end of the station building and again put his head around the corner.

The two Chekists had disappeared, and the one-coach train was in motion, chuffing its way down the single track toward the ancient city walls. He walked swiftly across to the stationary train, stepped up onto the rear veranda, and made his way forward to the carriage they were sharing with a horde of Uzbeks. There were no empty seats and barely room to sit on the floor, but they’d managed to colonize a corner.

“No,” Piatakov told the others in response to their questioning looks. “It’ll have to be the boat.”

As the train continued itsfitful journey, Caitlin braced herself for the news that Sergei was dead. It felt such a waste, seemed so stupid, and the sorrow she half expected was already riddled with anger. In truth, she didn’t know what she was feeling, only that something was tearing at her heart.

Waking in the night, she was suddenly convinced that her sleeping with Jack had rebounded on Sergei, that by betraying her husband, she’d somehow abandoned him to the ultimate fate. Which was, of course, absurd. Sergei had left her. He had chosen to follow Brady and Shahumian, and whatever he was, he wasn’t a fool—he must have known what the likely end would be.

Which was no consolation at all. Had she tried hard enough to stop him? Had she been too impatient, too involved in her work? Had she loved him enough? Had she ever loved anyone enough to put them first? A brave heart was good, but maybe a kind one was better.

When the sun eventually rose on another day, she sat and watched the desert go by, thinking that she’d never felt less sure of who she was and what she wanted.

The train reached Samarkand early that afternoon. In the stone station building, a Cheka chauffeur was waiting to lead them to the shiny car parked in the forecourt. It had obviously just been washed in their honor: the ground underneath it was damp; a pile of empty kerosene cans lay scattered on the verge.

They crammed into the car, which should have been parked in the shade. The metal was too hot to touch, the interior like an oven. Caitlin shared the back seat with Maslov and Jack, feeling like she hadn’t slept for days.

The drive through the Russian town took five minutes, ending outside a small house where several Uzbek militiamen were reluctantly standing to a semblance of attention. A thin, bald, and rather cadaverous Russian emerged through a doorway to greet them.

“Welcome, comrades,” he said. “Chechevichkin, chairman of the Samarkand Cheka,” he introduced himself, before leading them through a detention room full of anxious faces, across a shaded inner courtyard, and into his personal office. A map and several exhortatory posters lined one white wall; on another a single framed photograph held pride of place. It showed a mass meeting in a square surrounded by mosques; the caption underneath read, the proclamation of the revolution, 28th november 1917, in the registan.

“Where is the body?” Caitlin wanted to know.

“In the next room—”

She strode past Chechevichkin and through the open doorway. A wooden coffin lay in the center of the floor, and for a moment she hesitated, fearful of whom she would find inside it. Then, with what felt like enormous effort, she moved herself forward a couple of paces.

It was Aram Shahumian, or rather his corpse, stripped to the waist, laid out on a bed of half-melted ice. Dried-brown blood caked his chest and folded arms. A handful of flies hovered hopefully over the open box, drawn by the flesh but repelled by the cold.

Caitlin let out an explosive breath. She had met the Armenian on several occasions, and while she’d considered him one of Sergei’s more likable friends, she’d been wary of his chronic restlessness, the trouble he had in simply sitting still. Now his face looked almost serene, as if aware that his struggles were over. For a moment she wished it were Sergei lying there, anger and heartache gone, finally at peace.

“Have you nothing to cover him with?” she heard herself ask.

Chechevichkin looked at Komarov, who nodded. “Aram Shahumian, I presume?” he asked her quietly.

“Yes,” she said softly. Next time it would be Sergei.

Chechevichkin came back with a sheet and draped it across the coffin.

“Did he ever regain consciousness?” Komarov asked him.

“Only for a short time in the car. He only said one thing.” The Chekist hesitated.

“Yes?”

“Long live the revolution.”

Caitlin didn’t know whether to laugh or weep.

After Komarov had sent themboth off in a droshky, McColl wasted no time in telling Caitlin his news. “He knows I’m a spy. God knows how, but I’m sure he does. I doubt he knows that you know—I don’t see how he could—but then I didn’t think he knew about me. We need to keep our distance from each other, in case we give him ideas.”

She looked at him. “You must run.”

“I will. As soon as I get the chance.”

“Where will you go?” Caitlin asked.

“I’ll have to head south to the border, and if Komarov doesn’t catch Brady on this side, I’ll do my best on the other.”

She placed a hand in his. “Jack.”

“Yes?”

“If you can, spare Sergei. He’s not a bad man, and he’s doing what he thinks is right.”

And killing people who get in his way, McColl thought. As he had himself, for masters no better than Brady. “I will,” he promised as their droshky drew up outside the Kommercheskaya Hotel.