Robin Paige: Death in Hyde Park

Tropov pursed his lips, considering the matter. When he had heard the verdict and the report of what happened at the trial, he had known that Ashcraft was finished at the Yard. Did the notebook, and this meeting, constitute a request for employment? Did this fool think he had something of value to offer the Ochrana, something that might be of some conceivable use to them? Or might this be a trap, laid by someone with more brains than Ashcraft?

For a moment, Tropov studied the man’s hopeless eyes, his defeated expression, the dejection in his shoulders. Deciding that it was neither a trap nor a request for employment, he picked up the notebook and slipped it carelessly into his pocket. Ashcraft was a buffoon and this, whatever else it might be, was his final blunder. One must never give an enemy a weapon that might be used to destroy oneself-and that was what Ashcraft had just done.

Tropov smiled to himself. How could Ashcraft possibly explain the possession of his personal notes by a foreign agent? The man was obviously past ruination, and this was just another piece of evidence of his unforgivable errors of judgment. Tropov was quite certain that it was for similar errors of judgment and not a violation of some high-minded principle that Ashcraft’s superiors had turned him out. The man could count himself lucky. Had he been a Russian agent and brought so public a disgrace on the State, he would have lost not only his job but certainly his liberty and probably his life.

“So what will you do now?” he asked. Another idle question, since it hardly mattered to Tropov whether the man lived or died.

“My family and I will be leaving England,” the other replied dully. He shrugged his defeated shoulders. “Canada, New Zealand, Australia-who knows? Somewhere, anywhere.” He glanced at the pocket into which Tropov had dropped the notebook, his eyes as hungry as if he were searching for emeralds. “I trust you will put my information to good use. Some of those listed there-especially a man named Nicholas Petrovich, a very useful man, by the way-might know where the escaped Anarchists are hiding.” A light flickered briefly in his eyes and then went out. “Perhaps you will be better at catching and keeping them than the Yard.”

“Yes, of course,” Tropov said reassuringly, although he wasn’t sure why he bothered. He thought of the multiple ironies here. Much of the information in Ashcraft’s notebook was pure rubbish, and Nicholas Petrovich was the double agent who had fed it to him. The real truth about what had transpired in Hyde Park, and how and why, of course, Petrovich had not supplied.

Tropov slid out of the booth and stood, looking down at the man. “I wish you well,” he said, the phrase a meaningless formality. He touched his cap and turned to leave. Behind him, the balalaika player began to sing. The mournful notes followed him out the door.

Ivan Kopinski sat cross-legged on the dirty floor of the tiny room at the back of the cigar shop in Church Lane, staring into the musty darkness. He could smell the familiar odor of strong Russian tobacco and hear the murmur of male Russian voices from the meeting room at the back of the Russian Free Library, on the floor above. The booming Slavic voice of the cigar shop proprietor, a ham-fisted brute of a man called Boris, could be heard occasionally, punctuating the murmur with bursts of raucous laughter, along with Petrovich’s nervous, high-pitched giggle. He and Pierre were among friends here, and safer from discovery than they would be anywhere in London.

But they had been hiding in this cramped space since the hansom driver had delivered them here the night before, with little opportunity to stretch their legs or move about. Petrovich had brought them packets of fish and chips from a nearby shop, and Boris had brought them a couple of bottles of beer and some tea. While Ivan had been able to tolerate the slow monotony of the passing hours by reviewing in his mind all of the things he would do once he was entirely free, Pierre had early on shown the strain, rolling his eyes, slapping his hands against his legs, and muttering incoherent French curses under his breath.

But while Ivan might be physically uncomfortable and Pierre fidgety, at least they were no longer handcuffed or shackled. They had rid themselves of the cuffs with the keys that had turned up in Pierre’s pocket after the fracas in the Old Bailey yard. Unfortunately, there were no keys to the shackles, so they had literally flung themselves out of the swift-moving van onto the pavement, hoping they wouldn’t break their necks. Fortunately, the hansom cab that Lottie had promised was close behind and the driver, a hulk of a man, had hauled them on board and driven them swiftly into the East End. The hacksaw Petrovich had provided had made short work of their leg irons, and they were free. Free! Ivan exulted, and in the next dazed breath wondered, Free to do what? Go where? How? But no matter. The answers to these practical questions would emerge when Lottie came, as the hansom driver said, to give them their instructions. For now, it was enough to know that they were free, and responsible to themselves.

It was night again now, Friday night, and the darkness pressed ominously against the pane of the single window high up in the wall. Even Ivan was beginning to find the long wait trying. That Special Branch inspector, Ashcraft, he would be turning over every rock trying to find them, of course, and there were betrayers everywhere-even upstairs, in the Russian Free Library, where information about those unfortunate enough to be fugitives from the Ochrana was passed quietly and sympathetically from mouth to mouth. One could not know who among the comrades could be trusted with one’s life, and who was ready to sell valuable information for the price of a family member’s freedom, or even for a hot meal and a bed.

There was a soft tap at the door, then two more in quick succession-the signal. In a fluid motion, Pierre rose from his crouch against the opposite wall and went to the door, opening it a crack. “It’s me,” came a whisper, and Pierre opened the door and stood back.

Ivan scrambled to his feet, blinking stupidly at the candle Lottie was holding shoulder-high. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder and slipped into the room. Pierre closed the door behind her.

Ivan watched as Lottie set the candle on the shelf beside the door and glanced around. Her hair had tumbled loose onto her shoulders and her eyes glinted like stars, he thought, in the oppressive darkness of the room. He stepped forward, suddenly aware of how hungry he had been for the sight of her.

She turned to him, smiling, a smile that seemed to banish the shadows. “Hello, Ivan,” she said, stepping toward him. “I’m sorry that this has taken so long. I came as soon as I could, but there were so many details to manage-”

“Never mind that,” Pierre growled savagely. “Is it arranged?”

Lottie turned to look at him, a furrow appearing between her eyes. “Yes,” she said.

Ivan found his voice. “When? How?”

“Tonight,” Lottie replied. “Very soon. A comrade who drives a freight wagon will take you to Dover, to a place where you will be safe. On Sunday morning, you will take passage to Ostende on a fishing boat. It is all taken care of. That’s what took so long, you see. We had to wait on a telegram confirming the details.”

“And after that?” Pierre demanded, his voice rising. “What after that?”

“Once in Belgium,” Lottie said, “you are to contact a man named Friedrich Witthaus. He will help you find lodging in Brussels, or see you on your way to Switzerland.” She looked from Pierre to Ivan, managing a small smile. “You are ready to leave?”