Дэвид Даунинг - The Dark Clouds Shining

After stuffing the Indian clothes into a carpetbag, he emerged from the bush, lingering in its shadow until he was sure that the dark road was empty. Once convinced, he started walking. Ahead and to the left, the Delhi ridge was silhouetted against the stars; on either side of the rutted road, large, sprawling bungalows nestled beneath the trees.

He walked on, following the road around the base of a low, forested hill until he saw the familiar shape of the visitors’ bungalow. McColl had lodged there himself in 1916 and, during his reconnaissance that afternoon, had not been wholly surprised to find someone he knew in residence. The fact that it was Alex Cunningham, whom McColl had worked and often sparred with in 1915, had been something of a bonus. The other man was bright enough, but he was also one of Five’s less industrious agents.

There were no lights shining. Cunningham, McColl knew, was rather partial to a social drink, and would probably still be at the club. And, like any prudent intelligence agent, he had always insisted on the servants living out.

As McColl walked up the path, the breeze rose, stirring the branches of the tamarind trees and scenting the air with jasmine. Above the bungalow roof, a crescent moon was hanging in the eastern sky.

The front door opened to McColl’s push. He went in, down the short hall, and into a large but sparsely furnished room. In the reflected moonlight, he could make out a gramophone with a huge silver trumpet perched on a tea chest. A low table bearing a brass tray with whiskey decanter and glasses stood next to a familiar armchair. Beside it, on a chest of drawers, sat a large, ornate paraffin lamp and a box of safety matches. A writing table stood against the opposite wall, flanked by two upright chairs.

McColl poured himself a whiskey and sat down to wait, the Webley within easy reach on the writing table. As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, the room began to look more familiar, like a photograph in a developing tray. He had spent several weeks living in this bungalow, but it felt like aeons ago.

An hour or so had passed when he heard a tonga coming up the road. The rattle of hooves slowed and stopped; a barely audible spoken exchange gave way to the sound of footsteps on the front path. McColl put down his glass and picked up the gun.

Cunningham stumbled slightly as he came through the door, and his efforts to light the paraffin lamp—burning his finger on the first match—made it clear that he’d been drinking. His success with the second augured rather better for the conversation McColl hoped was at hand.

“Evening, Alex,” he said softly.

The Five man spun around, almost too fast for his impaired sense of balance. There was nothing wrong with his brain, though: recognition of both man and gun was instant. An ironic smile flitted briefly across his face.

“Sit down,” McColl said, indicating the armchair by the low table. He stayed where he was, in the upright chair with his back to the wall, out of sight from either window.

“Bonnie Prince Charlie in the flesh,” Cunningham said distinctly. “You made it. I suppose congratulations are in order.”

“Probably,” McColl said dryly.

“Want another drink?” Cunningham asked.

“No thanks.”

“Mind if I do?”

“Not so long as you keep a clear head. I have some questions for you.”

“What makes you think I’ll give you any answers?” Cunningham asked as he poured himself a generous measure.

“I may shoot you if you don’t. I’ve got nothing to lose, as I’m sure you know.”

“True.” Cunningham took a sip of whiskey. “But since you’ve managed to get this far in one piece, why not just keep going?”

“I intend to. But first—and just between us—whose bright idea was Good Indian?”

Cunningham considered. “The idea came from here, originally. Given the Russian involvement, they thought about asking your lot for help, but came to the conclusion that Cumming wouldn’t approve. Much too old-school for this sort of caper. So they came to us instead.”

“And Cumming still doesn’t know?” McColl asked.

“Oh, I’m afraid he does, old boy. He was still in ignorance when you set off for Moscow, but he knows all about it now. The PM insisted he be told. I hear he kicked up a bit of a fuss at first, but, well…”

It was McColl’s turn to consider.

Cunningham put the thoughts into words for him. “Yes, even Lloyd George. So there’s no last court of appeal, no one you can go to. Look,” he said, easing some fake sympathy into his voice, “I can understand how you feel, but it was just bad luck that you ended up in the firing line. You know how it is. Just disappear; that’s my advice. Start again somewhere. If there’s one thing you learn in this job, it’s how to be someone you’re not, and you must know a dozen places in India where you can pick up a set of false papers.” He grunted. “And you won’t have any problems with the lingo, will you?”

McColl sighed. Not too dramatically, he hoped. “You may be right. But whose idea was it to use Brady, for God’s sake?”

“Brady’s, of course. He suggested it to us.”

“What makes anyone think he can be trusted?”

“No one does, old man.”

“Then why?”

“Let’s just say there were no other viable candidates. The theory was—is—that they’ll do it for their own ends and because they think they can fix it on us. We let them do it, then fix it on them. And we’ll have the easier job. This is our country—so to speak—and there are more of us. They’re under twenty-four-hour surveillance.”

“I still don’t like it,” McColl said, realizing how easy it was to slip back into this kind of detached risk appraisal.

“Look,” Cunningham said, with a gesture that suggested his last glass of whiskey was taking effect. “Aidan Brady may be a bastard of the first order, but he’s brought us a bona fide Bolshevik to kill Gandhi with. What more could we ask?”

So they were in Delhi, McColl thought. “I can’t believe the political situation is that bad,” he said.

“Isn’t. But it soon will be if we let the old scarecrow keep at us in the way he’s been doing. The stakes are just too high. Can you imagine where we’d be without the empire? Just a small island on the edge of Europe. Another Ireland, for Chrissake!”

McColl sighed again, more genuinely this time. “Maybe,” he said, standing and gesturing with the gun. “Come over here, will you?”

Cunningham emptied his glass and obeyed. “Turn around,” McColl said when they were both invisible from outside.

“At least I won’t feel…” Cunningham was saying as the gun butt came down on his head. He crumpled onto the carpet, and McColl left him there, faceup.

“God save the King,” he murmured, as he blew out the paraffin lamp.

Outside, the moon was high in the sky. He was walking down the road, still wondering where it would be best to change his clothes, when an empty tonga materialized out of a side road.

“Where to, sahib?” the driver asked. “The club?”

“The railway station,” McColl said, climbing aboard. If the IPI traced the driver, it would look like he’d followed Cunningham’s advice and taken off for points unknown.

The tonga rattled along the mostly empty roads of the British quarter. A dead city, McColl thought, an alien city. He hadn’t enjoyed his time here in 1916, and then he’d felt a lot less alienated from his fellow countrymen.

Komarov had been right, at least in that. There was no going back. And, despite what Cunningham had said, no running away either. One way or another, McColl was going to see this through.

They entered the Indian city by the Mori Gate, and McColl paid off the tonga driver at the northern entrance to the station. Relying on five-year-old memories, McColl bought tea in an empty room of a first-class restaurant, retired to the toilet to change back into the Pathan clothes, and walked brazenly out through the kitchen. He left the station via the southern entrance and walked through the Queen’s Gardens to the still-throbbing Chandni Chowk.