David Oldman - Dusk at Dawn

He took his revolver from under his pillow and checked the mechanism. Then he looked through the rest of his things for any indication of their having been searched. The greatcoat was untouched, his gold imperials still in the hem, and he carried the letter for the Legion from Masaryk on his person. Everything else looked in order. And why not? After all, if they came in the night and did the job properly this time they’d have hours to search the cabin. He leafed through Pinker’s Baedeker for half an hour or so, then took off his brogues for the sake of stealth and placed the chair facing the door. He turned out the light.

Sitting with the Webley revolver in his hand he would have any intruder silhouetted against the corridor lights as soon as they opened the door. It might take several hours, but Paul was now sure that before the night was out he was going to find out who the agent was that Kell had warned against.

His revolver hitting the floor woke him.

Paul started violently, heart pounding in his chest. He scrambled in the dark to retrieve the gun and fell off the chair. He found the weapon, picked it up and jumped to his feet, holding it towards the door. But everything was silent except for the rumble of the ship’s engines.

Cautiously he opened the door and looked into the corridor. It was empty. He went back inside and turned on his light. He had just fallen asleep, that’s all. He looked at his watch and saw that only three-quarters of an hour had passed since he had turned out the light. How was he going to last all night if he had fallen asleep so soon?

He thought about waking Valentine so that they might keep watch in turns, but began to wonder again if he really could trust him. He decided he would have to do this on his own. If he could get through the night he could get the door repaired in the morning.

Not trusting himself to stay awake in the cabin, he decided he needed to find somewhere else. He laced his shoes on again, slipped into the greatcoat and made his way onto the deck.

The night was moonlit. Scudding cloud ran before the wind. The sea had steadied and the steamer hove gently first one way and then the other with an almost metronomic oscillation. He crept aft, the Webley in hand. Cloud shrouded the moon and he picked his way by the faint illumination of the steamer’s running lights. The deck was black with rain and slippery.

Stopping where the lifeboats hung by their davits, he pushed the tarpaulin aside and tested the feasibility of clambering into one. He was looking for a foothold when he head a cry.

His hand froze on the combing of the lifeboat, foot raised on a stanchion. He peered in the direction from which the noise had come. As cloud drifted clear of the moon, he saw by its sliver light a huddle of clothing lying on the deck. He crept towards it.

The clothing moaned.

Paul knelt down, laying his revolver on the deck. It was Ragna Andresen. Her skirts were rucked up exposing her laced boots and a pair of shapely little ankles. She stirred and he took hold of her by her shoulders and lifted her gently, sliding an arm beneath her neck.

‘Miss Andresen,’ he said. ‘Are you all right?’

Ragna Andresen’s eyelids fluttered then her eyes opened wide in alarm.

‘Steady,’ Paul said. ‘You must have fainted. Breathe deeply now. Shall I fetch your aunt? What are you doing on deck at this time of night?’

Ragna Andresen sat up, drawing her legs beneath her.

‘Do you want to try to stand? Easy now…’

She got slowly to her feet and, stepping away from him, kicked Paul’s revolver aside. It clattered along the deck.

Paul stared at her. In her hand she held a small automatic pistol. It was levelled at him.

‘You are Rostov.’

She spoke in English but her voice was flat, each word clipped by a heavy Russian accent. She waved the pistol at him.

‘Go to rail,’ she ordered.

The moonlight lit her pale face. Her jaw was set firm, her eyes as black as night.

‘Rail!’ she said again, waving the gun.

Paul scanned the deck for his Webley. He couldn’t see it.

‘What do you want? The letter?’

She jabbed the pistol at him. ‘Move!’

He edged back to the rail.

‘Climb.’

‘What?’ Paul said. ‘Are you mad? Do you think I’m going to jump overboard?’

She stepped towards him. ‘I will shoot.’

Paul laughed, the wind snatching the sound away.

‘I’ll be dead either way,’ he cried. ‘Why should I jump?’

‘Dead,’ she agreed.

‘I won’t do it,’ Paul said adamantly. ‘You’ll have to shoot me. If you can.’

Ragna Andresen raised the pistol.

‘What will you do with my body?’ Paul said desperately as he saw she meant to do it.

‘You go over side. Dead or alive.’

She extended her arm, aiming.

‘Heavy things, dead bodies,’ said a voice from the shadows.

She whirled around but the man was behind her. He looped his arms around her, pinning her arms and the gun to her sides.

‘Valentine!’

‘You’d never pick him up,’ Valentine said into Ragna Andresen’s ear. ‘A little thing like you.’

She struggled, trying to raise the gun. Valentine hugged her closer, squeezing the air from her lungs.

‘Valentine…?’ she gasped.

‘It seems none of us are who we’re supposed to be,’ he said to her. Then glancing at Paul: ‘We didn’t expect a woman, did we?’

Ragna Andresen wriggled, trying to twist the snout of the gun towards Valentine’s legs.

‘Take it from her will you, old man, before she does one of us some mischief?’

Paul wrenched the automatic out of her hand. She squealed as her finger caught in the trigger guard.

‘What about her aunt?’

‘I doubt they’re related, old man,’ Valentine said. ‘I took a look through their cabin earlier but they must carry their papers on them. I did find her gun, though. That’s why I was late for dinner.’

‘Bourgeois pig!’ the girl croaked.

‘I had to leave it loaded, I’m afraid,’ he said to Paul, ignoring the insult. ‘I knew she’d check it before trying for you again and couldn’t risk her tumbling me.’ He loosened his grip slightly and she drew a breath.

All very well, Paul thought. Valentine wasn’t the one at the pointed end.

‘Where is she anyway?’ Valentine asked the girl. ‘This so-called aunt of yours? Waiting in your cabin until you’ve finished the dirty work? What are you, a Chekist? I suppose she’s your handler. You’re the assassin, aren’t you, my pretty little thing?’ He raised a hand and put it around her throat, spanning her delicate neck between thumb and forefingers. She tried to turn her head.

‘What’s your name?’

‘ Ya nye paneemayoo ,’ Ragna Andresen said in Russian.

‘She says she doesn’t understand,’ Paul translated without thinking. Valentine threw him a look of forbearance.

‘ Kak vas zavoot ?’ Valentine hissed in her ear.

The girl pressed her lips together. Valentine tightened his grip on her throat.

‘ Vy gavaryoo pa - roosky ?’ she finally gasped.

‘Oh yes, we both speak Russian, my little dyevushka . Tipped your hand, killing Pinker like that.’

‘He was in wrong bunk,’ she said.

‘Ah,’ Valentine grinned, ‘so our little assassin speaks English.’

‘When she has a gun in her hand,’ Paul added.

‘Pig,’ she said.

Valentine laughed. ‘So poor old Pinker was just an unfortunate casualty of the class war,’ he said. ‘Is that it?’

‘He was not important.’

‘No, I suppose not. Lucky for Rostov, though. But to you and your kind we’re all just pawns in the game, aren’t we?