Дэвид Даунинг - The Dark Clouds Shining

It matters because I cared about her, Piatakov thought. And still do. You could leave a lover behind, but not the heart that loved her.

“You didn’t see her,” Brady continued remorselessly. “You don’t even know she’s here.”

“It was her handwriting!”

“Christ! Maybe someone had a copy from somewhere…”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. I don’t care. She’s history! Forget her. Forget about whoever it was sent that note. You spend your life wondering why other people are doing what they’re doing. Who cares? Now listen. Whoever was behind that camera—they’ve actually done us a favor. Because now the English have lost any chance of pinning it all on the Bolsheviks—not when there’s a picture showing one of them hand in glove with…” His voice trailed off. “Fuck!” he exclaimed. “What’s the time?”

Chatterji told him.

“Pack up all our stuff,” Brady told them. “We’re moving out now, as soon as the sun goes in.”

“Why?” Piatakov asked.

“The English will know that we know. And there’s only one way that they can be sure of calling the whole thing off.”

The American was right, Piatakov realized.

“Durga,” Brady said, “why don’t you bring the servants together?”

Piatakov thought about protesting but decided against it. There was no time to find out whether one of the servants was genuine and, if so, which. The struggle was a lottery, claiming innocent and guilty alike. He remembered the woman in Samarkand, the shock on her face as she sank to her knees, blood coursing out through her fingers.

During the war Piatakov had heard several soldiers say that the more they saw of death the more careful they were with their lives. Not me, he thought. He was becoming more careless, with his own and everyone else’s.

Caitlin leaned against the balconyrail, watching the street life below. She preferred their old room at the caravansary to the one in Sinha’s house—it might be dirtier, smaller, devoid of extras, but it had this window on the world. She could still feel like part of the human race.

Jack had gone off to see about the photographs, his mood a lot lighter than it had been for days. She wanted to share his confidence, to believe they had found a solution that scuppered the plot without costing Sergei his life, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to believe it. Something kept nagging at the back of her mind, but she didn’t know what it was.

Maybe it was nothing. She watched two girls walk by in identical chrysanthemum-colored saris, their hair oiled, their eyes surrounded by pools of dark makeup. At what age, she wondered, was freedom curtailed and purdah imposed? Were there big differences between the religious groups? She would have liked to find people to ask, but even if she hadn’t been stuck there in her own peculiar purdah, her lack of the relevant linguistic skills would probably have proved a significant obstacle. She had no idea how many of the people walking by on the street below spoke English. Indeed, until the last couple of weeks, India itself had hardly featured in her consciousness.

She noticed Jack coming up the street, his turbaned head bobbing above the shorter locals. He was cradling a bag with one arm, and idly swinging a rolled-up newspaper with the other. Seeing her there on the balcony, he waved the paper and disappeared through the doorway below. A few moments later he was wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing the side of her neck.

“I bring food,” he said.

She followed him into the room, where uncorked pots of rice and sauce were gently steaming on the floor. They ate with their fingers, something both had grown increasingly proficient at in the last couple of months, while McColl told her all about Mirza’s friend with the darkroom and their picture taking form in his developing tray.

“It’s perfect,” he said. “They didn’t say a word to each other, but they look like they’re deep in conversation.”

“That’s good,” she agreed.

“Mirza’s sending one to Fitzwilliam, and there are a dozen copies going out to all and sundry—foreign correspondents, the nationalist groups—”

“It won’t work,” she said abruptly. Reaching out for the jug of water, her eyes had caught the photograph and story on the front page of the Eastern Mail , and suddenly it all made sense.

He looked surprised. “Why not?”

“You sent the warning to Sergei and the others?”

“Yes, we agreed—”

“I know. But it won’t work.” She leaned across, grabbed the newspaper, and placed it in front of him. “Look, Jack,” she said, jabbing a finger at the picture.

“It’s the Prince of Wales.”

“I know. When does he arrive?”

“In a few days.” He shook his head. “No…”

“When was the visit arranged?”

“Months ago, I expect.”

“It has to be. He’s the one they plan to kill, not Gandhi. They think your government will overreact and turn the whole country against it.”

“They’re probably right.” He shifted his gaze from the picture to her. “Why did you ask whether I’d sent the warning?”

It was almost seven whenCunningham, Morley, and three carloads of infantry roared up Sayid Hassan’s drive, bounced across his lawn and flower beds, and drew up in front of the house. No lights sprang on; no shouts of alarm rang out.

Cunningham elected himself to check out the house and found the four servants. Each had been strangled with a silken cord—thuggee-style. Either Chatterji had traditionalist leanings, or one of the others had gone native.

He went back outside. “Get the shovels,” he told the platoon commander.

It had been dark forover an hour when Ahmed Mirza announced his arrival with a knock on their door. McColl introduced him to Caitlin.

The detective grinned. “The woman who drives! All of Delhi is talking about you.”

She smiled back. It had been a memorable few minutes.

They got down to business. “All the copies have been delivered by hand,” Mirza told them. “Including the one to Kudsia Road.”

“And the warning was delivered?” Caitlin asked.

“To the three men we have been watching? Yes, but not at that house. They left there… but I am losing the logical progression of events. When the Russian arrived back from his appointment with my camera, he told the American something, and the American just laughed. Then the Indian came out, and they all had an argument. After that they went back in and stayed in the house until it got dark. Then they all left together.”

“How? Did they walk?”

“To the Delhi Gate, where they hired a tonga.”

“And you know where they went?”

“Of course. To the room overlooking Chandni Chowk that the Indian rented yesterday morning. That is where the warning was delivered—one of the boys slipped it under their door.” Mirza hesitated. “But there is something else I must tell you. The servants at the first house—they are all dead. Once the three men were gone, the boy in charge took a look through the windows, and he saw the bodies. I have to say, it does not feel acceptable, letting them lie there.”

McColl was less surprised than Caitlin was. “Can you inform the police?” he asked Mirza. “An anonymous tip-off, perhaps.”

The detective looked grateful. “I will do so. And now I await your instructions.”

“You’ve done a wonderful job,” McColl told him, “but I must take it from here.” He reached for the purse he’d bought in the market. “You must tell me how much I owe you.”

Mirza looked disappointed. “I am not to be present at the final conclusion?”

“I’m afraid not. It is a family matter,” he added, which was true enough. “But I promise I will come and see you once everything is settled and tell you the story from beginning to end.”