David Oldman - Dusk at Dawn

Browning crossed to the door and held it open. Cumming told Paul to wait where he was then picked up the scooter that lay against the table and lifted his gammy leg onto it. Aiming himself at the open door, he propelled himself through, scooting along with his good leg. Browning followed, closing the door behind him.

Paul watched them go beginning to wonder if he wasn’t having some sort of hallucination. He might yet wake up to find himself on the shell-shock ward. Or even back in the trenches, lying stunned in the mud. But would that be any better? Cumming’s office might be a madhouse but it wasn’t a patch on the nightmare of the front line, waiting for that damned whistle to blow. Or worse, having the responsibility of blowing it oneself.

He opened the door and poked his head into the corridor. It was empty. Walking to the window, he looked out across the city. Angling his head, he could just see down into the road although saw no sign of the man in the cap. Of Hart, if that’s who he was. Turning from the window, Paul’s eyes fell on Cumming’s desk and his mother’s file. He crossed quickly back to the door, checked the corridor again, then to Cumming’s desk. He picked up the file.

The attached picture of his mother had the appearance of a police photograph, the kind one might find on a criminal record. It was rather stark and not very flattering. She looked much younger than she did now, around thirty, perhaps, and he supposed it had been taken when she was living in St Petersburg. He wondered where Cumming — or the mysterious Kell since it was his file — could have got it. There was nothing to indicate its origin although, looking closer, he noticed one corner of the photograph bore a small arc of an indelible stamp, one which was not present on the paper to which it was attached. That suggested the photograph had been lifted out of another document. Examining it more carefully, he made out two small Cyrillic letters on the stamp. A Russian document, then. Identity papers? Or — it suddenly occurred to him — an Okhrana file. Was it possible the Russian secret police had had a file on his mother?

He quickly began looking through it. There were smudged reports detailing her political affiliations and her movements… a list of her visitors… There were accounts of conversations she had had with various people and statements from others as to her alleged views on particular subjects. The file also contained a report on her financial position which was worse than he had imagined.

Towards the back were details of her employment record whilst working as a governess in Russia. There was an account of her marriage to his father (although, tellingly, no copies of documentation) and a brief account of his father’s death at Tsushima outlining how he had gone down with the rest of the fleet under the Japanese guns.

He had just finished this when he heard the scooter’s wheels squeaking along the corridor. He replaced the file on the desk and skipped back to the window. He was staring out nonchalantly at the view when Cumming and Browning came back into the room.

‘Sit down, Rostov,’ Cumming said, leaning the scooter against the table again. He hooked his cane onto the back of the chair and sank down heavily. He looked across the desk at Paul.

‘Did you find anything that surprised you in your mother’s file?’

Paul stiffened. He began to deny looking at it, stopped and, after a moment, said:

‘You left it on the desk. I might have glanced at it.’

Cumming roared with laughter. ‘Don’t worry, Rostov. You’d be no good to us if you weren’t prepared to stick your nose in where it’s not wanted.’ He picked up the file again and opened it. ‘It looks as though Kell’s done a pretty thorough job on your mother, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Who is this Kell you keep talking about?’

‘Vernon Kell,’ Cumming said. ‘No harm in telling you now.’ He runs the Home Intelligence Service.’

‘If he runs the Intelligence Service,’ Paul said, ‘then perhaps you’ll tell me who are you, sir?’

A smile creased the Chow’s face. ‘We’re concerned with overseas operations. Here.’ He pushed some papers across the desk towards Paul. ‘This is your new identity. You’ll also find your steamer ticket and a rail warrant for the five-ten to Yarmouth.’

Paul picked up the documents. It was then he noticed the rail warrant was for a second-class compartment. Cumming must have noted his expression.

‘You might as well get used to it because you’ll find it’s all one class on the steamer as well.’

It was then Cumming had rubbed salt into the wound by warning Paul that Kell thought they might try to slip an agent aboard.

‘Best keep your head down for the first day or two and let Hart sniff him out,’ he suggested, immediately inhaling deeply himself as if there were a chance he too might pick up the scent. ‘And this is Masaryk’s letter.’ He handed an envelope to Paul. ‘Whatever you do you mustn’t let it fall into the wrong hands. As a last resort you destroy it. If the Bolsheviks get hold of it, the letter will not only compromise Masaryk but the Legion as well.’

It occurred to Paul that firing on Trotsky had pretty well compromised the Legion already. But then the Bolsheviks might have been in power long enough by now to become as adept at diplomacy as everyone else, and had learned to ignore the glaringly obvious when in their interest to do so.

Cumming gestured to Browning who placed several sheets of typed paper in front of Paul.

‘This states the terms of your recruitment,’ Browning intoned. It covers secondment from your regiment, rates of pay and an oath of secrecy.’

‘Secrecy?’

‘Naturally,’ Cumming said. ‘Since you will be privy to secret information, we need your assurance that you will not disclose it to anyone outside this organisation.’

Paul would have thought that his word as a gentleman might have sufficed, but Browning was tapping impatiently on the paper.

‘Sign here,’ he said.

Paul took the pen. He had always been told never to sign any document before reading the small print closely. Yet, whenever he came to it, it had always seemed rude to keep people waiting while one trawled through each sub-clause and codicil. He glanced hesitantly at Browning then signed his name.

‘Excellent,’ Cumming beamed. Browning folded the paper and handed it to him. Cumming leaned forward. ‘Now, two more considerations.’

Paul looked at Cumming stony-faced, the fact not lost upon him that Cumming had waited until Paul had signed before breaching news of more considerations.

‘Gold,’ Cumming said.

‘What gold?

‘The Imperial reserves. Someone had the bright idea last year to move it out of Petrograd in case it fell into German hands.’

‘Where to?’

‘Kazan.’

‘How much is there?’

Cumming blew out his cheeks. ‘Between seventy-five and a hundred million.’

‘Roubles?’

‘Pounds.’

Browning, standing next to the desk, swallowed hard as if the amount had given him a sudden case of indigestion.

‘Access to that amount of money,’ Cumming said, ‘could make all the difference in any military campaign, of course.’

‘Who holds Kazan?’ Paul asked.

‘The Bolsheviks.’

‘Well, if the Bolsheviks have it there’s not a lot can be done, is there?’ Meaning there wasn’t a lot he could do about it. ‘It’s not as though one could carry that amount around in one’s luggage.’

‘Indeed not,’ agreed Cumming. ‘In fact the only way of transporting the bullion is by rail or river barge. It’s too heavy to be shipped by other means. The Legion controls the railway and any advance westward would mean they could control the Volga river as well. We need to ensure that securing the bullion becomes the Legion’s prime objective. Once that has been achieved, it has to be delivered safely into the keeping of Admiral Kolchak.’