David Oldman - Dusk at Dawn

A moment later Browning disappeared through a door into one of the other sheds on the roof, the smell of cooking wafting out as he passed inside. Paul was alone.

Make your own way back .

From here. From Russia …

It was easy to say. Make your own way back .

He struggled out of the greatcoat. Why a greatcoat in summer? Why not a trenchcoat? The gold roubles weighed heavily on his arm, like the expectations that had been placed upon him.

Still, there was no point in dwelling on that, he told himself. There would be plenty of time for that later. First he had to see about settling his debts and packing a bag. And getting some lunch.

Thinking about lunch, though, made him realise that he had quite lost his appetite.

It was a Saturday and the banks were closed. Back in his rooms he set aside enough money to pay his club bill and immediate expenses then went downstairs and settled his rent with his landlady, leaving sufficient with her to cover a lengthy absence. He wrote out a bank slip for the remainder and instructed her to pay it into his mother’s account on Monday.

As there was no time to visit before leaving, he supposed he ought to telephone her but opted instead for writing her a letter. A letter precluded any opportunity for his mother to interrupt and ask awkward questions.

He wasn’t able to say he was going back to Russia; Cumming — C — wouldn’t have liked that at all, so he wrote that he was rejoining his regiment unexpectedly and that she shouldn’t worry if she didn’t hear from him for a while. There were operational considerations, he explained vaguely.

That done he changed out of his uniform into civilian clothes. After so long in uniform they looked strange on him and, staring at himself in the mirror, he wondered if he’d pass muster as an agent for a mining company. He had chosen one of his old suits, not one particularly well-cut and now a little shabby. His mother had once complained that he looked like a door-to-door salesman in it so he supposed it would do. His name was sewn into the collar — a habit his mother had got into when he had first gone away to school and one he had never been able to break her of since. He would have to remove it as he was travelling under an assumed name although didn’t have time just then. He cast around, unsure of what else to pack. Russia had the reputation of being cold yet St Petersburg — Petrograd — could be muggy in summer, built as it was on a swamp. Cumming had warned him to travel light and he certainly didn’t want to have to lug heavy bags around with him — the damn greatcoat and the Imperials were quite bad enough by themselves. He settled for his Gladstone bag, a couple of shirts, an extra pair of trousers and some fresh underwear. Beneath it all he tucked his service revolver, mindful of Kell’s warning.

He took a cab to his club and, for the first time since leaving Whitehall Court, remembered the man in the cap — Hart, presumably. He looked around and — typically — couldn’t see him anywhere.

In the lobby Burkett approached. Paul put down his bag and hung up the greatcoat.

‘Captain Ross, sir,’ the steward intoned. ‘Your bill has been prepared if you are now in a position to settle the matter.’

Wondering how Burkett knew he was back in funds and supposing that was what made a good steward good, Paul followed him to the desk where the clerk slid a sheaf of papers towards him. He leafed though them, startled by just how much food and drink he had signed his name to and wondering if any of it had been consumed by his namesake. He had more than enough to cover the sum, however, and counted it out, receipted the bill and left a generous tip for both men.

‘The club secretary will be delighted, sir,’ Burkett said, slipping his gratuity into his pocket. ‘A drink in the bar, perhaps?’

Looking at his watch, Paul hesitated. He was tempted then decided that the chances of running into some chum or other to delay him too great.

‘No, Burkett, I’ve got to run,’ he said. ‘And I won’t be around for the foreseeable future, either. If anyone asks for me, best tell them I’ve been recalled to the battalion.’

‘Very well sir,’ the steward declared solemnly. He peered at Paul, his long face seeming to lose some of its severity. ‘May I wish you the best of luck.’

‘Thank you, Burkett.’

Paul turned towards the door, picked up his bag and was standing at the top of the steps when he heard Burkett call his name. He turned and saw the steward holding out the greatcoat.

‘Best not forget this, sir.’ Burkett winked theatrically and tapped the side of his nose with a finger. Then, bowing slightly, turned back inside in his measured, funereal way.

At the foot of the club steps Paul hailed another cab to take him to Liverpool Street Station. There was still time to get that drink in the refreshment room. Then, on the spur of the moment instructed the cabby to drop him at the Waldorf Hotel in Aldwych. It was on the way and, although he’d always found the hotel a little rich for his taste (his mother often ate there and enjoyed the luxury while excoriating its ostentation) they did do a very good afternoon tea. His appetite had still not returned but decided he would need something in his stomach before getting on the boat. Cumming’s description of the Finnish steamer being of one class hadn’t inspired him with much confidence as far as dining arrangements might go.

At the Waldorf, after a little hesitation, he checked his bag and coat at the cloakroom and went into the dining room. A scattering of people sat at the tables and, choosing an empty one at the far end of the room, ordered a pot of tea and asked for scones. It was while admiring the ornate decor and waiting to be served that, with a start, he noticed the man in the cap sitting at a table by the door.

He wasn’t wearing the cap, of course, but still managed to look incongruous with his umbrella and cheaply-cut clothes. Without the cap Paul saw that he was quite bald. He was now sure they had never met and, assuming this was Hart, thought it odd how rather than merge into his surroundings as one might have expected of an agent of Cumming’s, the man looked completely out of place.

A master of disguise, Browning had said, so perhaps the moustache was false. Or he might be wearing a skull-cap to give the appearance of baldness…

Paul made eye contact but Hart promptly looked away. Paul would have preferred to walk over and join the man at his table — there were still a lot of things to sort out, after all — but thought it likely that Cumming’s procedures dictated that agents shouldn’t be seen together in public. He decided to be circumspect and so looked no further than the menu card until his tea and scones arrived.

Having enjoyed a slice of Madeira cake to supplement the scones, he was considering how best to make contact with Hart when his eyes fell on the door to the kitchens through which the waiters passed to and fro. Having an idea, he finished up, signalled to settle his bill and, giving the waiter his cloakroom ticket said he’d be obliged if the man fetched his bag and his greatcoat. When they arrived, Paul made a show of putting the coat over his arm before sauntering out through the kitchen door.

Ignoring the curious glances of waiters and kitchen staff, he weaved his way through ranks of ovens and sinks until he found a door leading onto a rear alley. A brick wall lined with dustbins and stacked wooden crates blocked one end, next to a door giving into the neighbouring building. But at the other end he could see traffic moving along the street.

He walked a few yards deeper into the alley then stopped. From the kitchen behind him came a clatter of dishes and Hart emerged, wearing the cap again and casting quickly up and down the alley. Paul backed further towards the bins and crates and waved Hart towards him.