David Oldman - Dusk at Dawn

The Cross Keys Hotel in the market offered a secluded snug and while Pinker went off in search of a telephone Paul slid onto a settle by a vacant table. The smell of fish had followed him in, mixed now with tobacco smoke and the hoppy tang of beer. He had left his greatcoat stashed behind Pinker’s boxes under his berth while Pinker was relieving himself in the bathroom and, wearing his shabby jacket and trousers, Paul felt he blended in quite anonymously with the other drinkers.

He asked a fat barmaid what they had to eat and was given the choice of herrings and cheese. Not fancying cheese again, he plumped for the herrings and a glass of beer, ordering the same for Pinker.

‘What ho, old chap,’ Pinker said, his return coinciding with the herrings, ‘this looks good.’ He stabbed at the inert fish with his fork and began prising bones off its carcass. Then he leaned conspiratorially across the table. ‘Didn’t like to say anything on the boat, Filbert. About the delay, that is. But I was wondering if there wasn’t more to it. Like you said.’

‘Like I said?’ Paul began a tentative autopsy of his herring, wondering just how much he might have told Pinker the night before.

‘It’s that other passenger who hasn’t turned up yet.’

‘What about him?’

‘Well, the chap in our office who made the booking arrangements for me said how odd it was that a passage came up like it did. Given how difficult it had been getting any sort of information before, if you follow.’

‘No, not really,’ Paul said.

‘What about your company?’

‘My company? Oh, my passage, you mean. I left all that to head office.’

Pinker pulled a herring bone from between his teeth.

‘You don’t think there’s something funny about it?’

‘Funny?’

‘Those two Russians for instance?’

Paul’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth.

‘What about them?’

Pinker raised a suggestive eyebrow. ‘Why are they on board?’

‘You said this morning that they were going back to join the Revolution.’

‘Exactly!’ said Pinker. ‘Why would our chaps let a couple of revolutionaries go back? Hardly in our interest, is it?’

In his view, being offered a berth on the Hesperus was highly suspicious. He said his company had been trying to get him to Copenhagen for months and had been repeatedly fobbed off with the excuse that it was too dangerous for civilians to travel. So what had changed? he wanted to know.

‘The situation in Russia,’ Pinker said, answering his own question. ‘Now the Bolsheviks have made peace with the Hun, our chaps are all in a sweat about it. So what do they do?’

This time the question wasn’t rhetorical and Pinker was waiting for an answer.

‘I don’t know,’ Paul said at length. ‘What do they do?’

‘Send some politico or other.’

‘A politico?’

‘And allow civilians to travel as well, to cover his mission.’

Paul’s dropped his fork, scattering herring across the table. He stared at Pinker. Either the commercial traveller was possessed of an unsuspected degree of perspicacity, or he really was Hart. Was it possible? Was he testing Paul out in some way?

‘What kind of mission do you mean exactly?’ he asked cautiously.

Pinker seemed irritated by Paul’s inability to keep up. ‘The two Russians ,’ he hissed forcibly. ‘They’re go-betweens.’ When Paul made no obvious sign of comprehension, Pinker spelled it out. ‘Talks with the Bolsheviks, old chap. About them doing a deal with the Hun!’

‘You mean they’re going to talk to the Bolsheviks on our behalf?’

‘No, no. That’s why we’ve been delayed. Our chap, whoever he is, will be travelling with them. Only he hasn’t turned up yet. He’s incognito, you see. Otherwise they’d had sent them on a warship.’ Pinker inclined his head towards the quay. ‘Bit of an old tub, the Hesperus. But so much the better if it’s all undercover. Don’t want to alert the Beastly Hun — look what had happened to Kitchener. So mum’s the word,’ he winked.

‘Mum,’ Paul echoed.

‘Of course, the politico might turn out to be the parson, but my guess is that it’s the fellow we’re waiting for.’

‘Not you or me, then?’ Paul said, watching closely for a reaction.

‘Us?’ Pinker laughed. He looked up from his herrings. ‘You’re a card, Filbert, and no mistake. Us ! That’s a good ‘un.’ He drained his glass and looked at Paul’s. ‘Well, my round, I think. Now I’ve got the nod from my office I can put it on expenses. We’ve got all day while we wait at His Majesty’s Pleasure, so we might as well enjoy ourselves. Same again?’

The day dragged interminably. Paul had another glass of beer with Pinker then made an excuse about having to telephone his company. He wandered around the market for a while, riding up and down on the electric tramway, then crossed the river and walked through the docks. It was a Sunday and everything beyond the riverfront was shut. He hadn’t even been able to buy a newspaper. At the quayside there were still ships moving in and out and, thinking he might be less conspicuous in a crowd, he’d hung around there where he could keep an eye on the Hesperus in case she slipped her moorings unexpectedly. Late in the evening, having eaten again at a stall on one of the piers, he’d finally gone back aboard, dropping by the deserted saloon for a night-cap before turning in. Turner was still on duty but, despite being asked, couldn’t give any better explanation for the delay in sailing than had Pinker.

It made Paul suspect Pinker had been right and they were waiting for someone in particular. The man had been right in much else of his supposition, even if he had got the details wrong. The steamer had been laid on for political reasons — for Paul and Hart to be precise, because the War Office had refused to stump up for a warship. And since Paul was there the delay could only be because they were waiting for Hart. The damn man must have missed the boat in Yarmouth! That meant, of course, that Pinker wasn’t Hart. Not that he’d really considered the possibility seriously. But it was still all very confusing. Nothing quite as it seemed and yet, on the other hand, transparent enough for a man like Pinker to see right through it. He speculated as to what Cumming would make of that. If nothing else it would put Browning’s back up. And, amusing as that might have been to see, looking at it dispassionately Paul was beginning to think that this line of work was not going to suit him. At bottom, he was the kind of man who preferred to know exactly where he stood. Even if that meant in the mud of Flanders.

Pinker was snoring on the top bunk giving off a beery aroma when Paul went down to his cabin. He undressed and folded his clothes away and climbed into bed. Some faint light from the dock filtered through the porthole and he could hear a faint grinding of machinery, almost drowned by the guttural purr issuing from the bunk above. He closed his eyes and waited for sleep but it didn’t come. He shifted one side and then the other and finally lay on his back and listened to Pinker. The hours crept by. It wasn’t the snoring keeping him awake; he heard that as an underlying leitmotif, the theme accompanying the helter-skelter of thoughts running through his head: Cumming, Mikhail, Hart, the man with a stiletto protruding from his chest… They turned, twisted and fused in different combinations and he didn’t realise he had fallen asleep and was dreaming the same thoughts as he had had awake. Until he woke. With a start.

No trace of light showed at the porthole. He felt a vibration and realised the ship’s engines had started. They were underweigh and the last chance he had of not going on the mission had disappeared. It felt like a loss. The ties that joined him to all he had known had been severed. He lay in the dark, eyes open. Above him Pinker had fallen silent. The leitmotif had faded. All that was left in its place was a void.