Дэвид Даунинг - The Dark Clouds Shining

Out on the roof, crouchedin the shadow of a large tin chimney, McColl could see Chatterji in the open doorway, his gun gleaming blue in the somber light. Behind the open window off to the Indian’s right, there were three people conversing in Russian: Caitlin, Brady, and a second man, who had to be her husband, Sergei.

On his reconnaissance earlier that evening, McColl had been tempted to go it alone and simply kill or disable all three men—he hadn’t got around to deciding which. With surprise on his side, his chances of survival would have been much better, and there would have been no need to put her at risk. She would have been furious with him for presuming to know what was best for them both, but that he could have coped with—his problem was, he knew why she wanted to give Sergei a chance. Her husband had been responsible for several innocent deaths over the last few months, but McColl was willing to believe that Sergei was following his conscience. Just as Caitlin’s brother Colm had done; Colm, whose death would always haunt McColl’s relationship with her. Just as he himself had done while working for the Service. You did what you thought was right, and people died. Because you made a simple mistake, or didn’t think things through, or were simply wrong to begin with. It was hard playing God without the omniscience.

He could see Fedya’s face as the boy told him good-bye.

The latch clicked as Chatterji pulled the door shut. It was time to get closer.

She knew she was wastingher breath from the look of amazement on his face.

“This is insane,” Sergei said. “That you should come all this way… it’s… Go home, Caitlin. Go back to your work. There is nothing for you here.”

She met his eyes, knew it was true.

“You and the party disapprove of our plan,” Brady said, “but you don’t even know what it is.”

She glanced at the American, now sitting on the edge of his chair, but still outwardly unruffled. “You’re going to shoot the English prince,” she told him. She turned back to Sergei. “I remember when you had nothing but contempt for this sort of terrorism,” she said. “All that killing this prince will do is give the English the excuse they need to cancel the trade treaty. And we cannot afford to be alone in the world. Russia will starve.”

Sergei stared her straight in the eye, and she could feel the sadness and rage washing around inside him. “It was the party leadership that betrayed the revolution,” he said, grinding out each word. “It wasn’t me.”

Chatterji reappeared. “Nothing,” he told Brady before taking a seat at the table and placing the gun within easy reach. As far as she could see, neither Brady nor Sergei was armed.

“Women always say they have more imagination than men,” Brady was saying, a self-satisfied smile on his face, “but I’m afraid you haven’t bothered to apply yours. I’m sure it will be satisfying to assassinate a prince, but as you say, that on its own is hardly likely to set India ablaze.”

Caitlin just looked at him.

“We are going to assassinate him, but not only him. While Durga does the honors from the roof outside, Sergei and I will be half a mile away, executing the sainted Gandhi. An Indian killing an English prince, white men killing India’s favorite son. It’s called a double play in baseball, as I’m sure you know.” He grinned at her, relishing the moment. “And India truly will explode.”

“And Russia will no longer be alone,” Sergei pointed out. “A revolution here will keep ours alive. The party will no longer need to make compromises.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “What use would India be to us? It’s ten times more backward than we are!”

“All the more reason,” Brady drawled. “But I think we’ve talked for long enough. The only thing left to decide is what we do with you.”

McColl was a short stepaway from the barely open door, trying to pinpoint each man’s position from the sounds of their voices. He still had no idea where Chatterji was, but he might wait forever for the Indian to speak.

He pushed the door wide, took in the frozen tableau, and let the aim of his revolver come to rest on the Indian, whose hand was inches away from the gun on the table.

“Push it away from you,” McColl told him in English.

Chatterji did so.

“You,” McColl said to Piatakov in Russian, “back against the wall.”

“Jack McColl,” Brady said, a grin spreading across his face like a mask. “I should have guessed. Are you working for the Cheka, too, or has Caitlin here joined British intelligence?”

“Neither,” McColl told him, stepping into the room.

“We’re here together because we want the same thing,” Caitlin told the stunned Piatakov. “An end to this madness.”

Brady laughed at her. “When the Cheka starts working with the British Crown, there’s no revolution worth saving. But perhaps you’ve been too busy sleeping with the past to notice. Why not go home, as Sergei tells you? Back to your women’s business.”

“Nothing would make me happier. As long as he comes with me.”

“At the end of a gun?” Piatakov asked bitterly.

“If there was another way to save you from this idiocy, I would have used it.”

He shook his head sadly. “I can’t go back.”

“So that’s that,” Brady said. “I guess you’ll have to kill us all.”

She ignored him. “Sergei?”

“Remember Vedenskoye,” Brady said matter-of-factly.

“No!” Piatakov cried as Chatterji tipped himself backward.

Distracted by the Indian’s movement, McColl took his eye off Brady just long enough for the latter to raise his Colt revolver and would probably have paid the intended price if Piatakov, intent on shielding Caitlin, hadn’t thrown himself at the American.

McColl had braced himself for the bullet, but when the Colt boomed, it was the Russian who took it, staggering forward and then collapsing in front of his shocked-looking partner.

As Piatakov toppled, McColl fired over him, slamming Brady into the wall.

McColl fired again, blowing a hole through the side of Chatterji’s head as the Indian lunged for his gun.

Caitlin was on all fours, leaning over the now-prone Piatakov. “Oh, Sergei,” she whispered, but there was no answer, only a dark patch spreading on the white linen shirt.

Brady was slumped behind them, clutching his upper side, the fallen Colt beyond his reach.

McColl kept him covered, ears cocked for the sound of feet on the stairs. The other people in the house would have heard the shots, but would they do anything more than lock their doors and remind one another that white people’s business was better left to them?

So far, apparently not.

Chatterji and Caitlin’s husband were dead, so the obvious thing to do was finish Brady off and leave the building as fast as they could.

He looked at the wounded American and wished the man would give him the excuse he needed. It was doubtless to humanity’s credit that most people found it hard to kill in cold blood, but sometimes it was most inconvenient.

He didn’t think he could do it, not even when the man in question was Aidan Brady.

Caitlin stared at her fellowAmerican. He had led her brother and Sergei to their deaths, and it made no difference to her that both had been willing disciples. He had murdered Yuri Komarov, whom she’d come to respect and almost cherish. Three times now, he had tried and narrowly failed to kill Jack.

What sort of monster was he? The five words that came to mind were hackneyed as hell but seemed bizarrely appropriate: an enemy of the revolution.

The gun that Chatterji had knocked off the table was lying a foot from her hand.