Through all the confusion, the mix-ups and the aggravation, it had never crossed Paul’s mind that the other Ross had been anything but an officer and a gentleman. The fact that out of their mutual muddles Paul was always the one who had come out worst had been, he always assumed, no more than a matter of chance. If the other Ross had got the girl, acquired the theatre tickets, signed for the meal at the club that Paul had eventually paid for, well that was the way the tossed coin had come down. He always supposed it would even itself out in the long run. Now he was beginning to suspect that it never would have. First Valentine and now the other Ross — or, to be more exact, the other way around. He supposed he was going to have to spend some time combing through his bank statements and club bills to see just how much this cardsharp had cost him.
Cumming, to his credit, seemed sincere in his apologies once the error was recognised. Browning less so. It was as if he, too, would have preferred to examine the accounts before committing himself.
‘We were misinformed,’ Cumming acknowledged. ‘Assumed you were a rascal which is why we thought we could use you.’
‘You can’t then?’ Paul asked, brightening as he sensed the possibility of a reprieve.
‘But you’re the one with the Russian connections, which suits the matter at hand.’
‘At least Kell got that right,’ added Browning.
‘But no Czech, unfortunately, and no knowledge of these Nazdar companies,’ Paul reminded him. ‘I have to admit your offer is very generous, and timely, although to be frank I can’t see that I could accomplish much that this fellow Hart of yours can’t. After all, he obviously knows the ropes. As Colonel Browning says, all you really need is a go-between, someone to contact my cousin and Admiral Kolchak. I understand why the other Ross would have been a good man for the job, knowing Czech and all that sort of thing, but he’s dead. Won’t anyone else do? A trained man obviously, but what does it matter who approaches my cousin or contacts the Legion? As far as I can see I don’t have any of the qualifications you want. Why doesn’t this Hart do it himself? If it’ll help I can always write him a letter of introduction to my cousin…’
Browning sighed volubly. ‘He still doesn’t get it, Cumming. You can take a horse to water…’
Paul looked from one to the other. ‘Excuse my obtuseness, but why not?’
‘A perfectly reasonable question, Rostov,’ Cumming responded with surprising reasonableness. His Chou face had softened, as if the mis-accusation of cardsharping had pricked his conscience. ‘You’re a straightforward fellow, I’m sure,’ he said. ‘You take things as you find them, and no doubt assume anything you’re told by a gentleman is on the up and up. Well done you.’ He smiled tautly. ‘Unfortunately that isn’t the world we operate in. In our world, nothing is as it seems. And a man’s word isn’t worth the paper it’s written on.’
Paul opened his mouth to point out the oxymoron then closed it again. He’d taken Valentine’s word on trust and where had that got him? He’d seemed like a gentleman at first blush, insisting that they’d been at school together even though Paul was never quite able to remember him.
‘How,’ Cumming said, ‘will your cousin know that the man approaching him with this proposal isn’t in reality a Bolshevik agent? How will our agent know that the man who claims to be Mikhail Rostov is Mikhail Rostov? Not a Bolshevik agent posing as a Rostov? You see the difficulty. The people we deal with aren’t like us, members of a London club, all our class… Having people who already know one another takes out the risk.’
Not all of it, Paul almost muttered to himself.
‘But I haven’t seen my cousin for thirteen years. I’m not sure I’d know him if I passed him on the street. And how do you know he’ll still recognise me?’
Cumming looked surprised. ‘You’re family, man! Of course you’ll recognise one another.’
Cumming seemed to take a lot at face value. Set more store by family than Paul ever had. And, faced with this overweening confidence, he was at a loss as to how to answer. What was it, arrogance… hubris, Cumming possessed? Whatever it was, it was in danger of it getting Paul killed. But then the alternative was two or three more weeks of scratching around for meals and the price of a drink and then back over to France. And how long could his luck hold out over there?
‘Right!’ Cumming said, rubbing his hands together and obviously taking Paul’s silence for assent. ‘Everything clear? Good man. Plenty of time on the steamer for Hart to brief you on the situation in Russia. He’s been there since before the Revolution and knows our people there.’
‘You have other people there?’ Paul asked.
‘Lockhart in Moscow. Bruce Lockhart. Foreign Office, unofficial capacity. He went out under the auspices of Lord Milner on the cruiser that brought our ambassador and Hart back. He was there before the war and knows the country.’
‘Came home under a cloud,’ Browning added matter-of-factly. ‘A woman, apparently.’
‘Despite those in the Foreign Office still of the opinion that Lenin and Trotsky are German agents,’ Cumming went on, not without a trace of sarcasm in his voice, ‘Lockhart was sent to persuade them not to treat with the Germans. No go, obviously, so now he’s looking into alternatives.
‘What sort of alternatives?’
‘The sort we don’t ask questions about,’ Cumming replied succinctly. ‘And you’re not to contact him under any circumstances. Hart’s your only contact. He knows the Russians and he knows Petrograd, but then so do you.’
Paul opened his mouth to protest. He couldn’t claim to know Petrograd at all. He’d been ten when he’d left and hardly a street urchin, the kind who’d know the city’s back-alleys. He’d come from a good family. Even if the family in question hadn’t exactly cared to acknowledge the fact.
Cumming, though, was ploughing on regardless.
‘And there’s Steveni. He escorted the ambassador and his people to the Finnish border but stayed behind to assess the situation. He could be of help.’
‘Steveni,’ Paul repeated.
‘Best liaise with Hart.’
Paul wondered why this fellow Steveni had to escort the diplomatic corps to the Finnish border with a paragon like Hart on hand. He knew better than to ask, though.
‘Since Trotsky signed Brest-Litovsk the situation has deteriorated significantly,’ Cumming admitted. ‘And now with this Legion business the Bolshevik secret police have started cracking down on the foreigners in the country. Most have been obliged to leave.’ He turned to Browning. ‘There is that journalist we’ve just recruited. In the country for one of the papers. Browning?’
‘S76,’ Browning said. ‘Working for the Daily News. Something of a leftie so he seems above suspicion. He’s even managed to get close to some of the top Bolsheviks. Radek, for one.’
‘Hasn’t he got a name?’ Paul asked.
‘Who?’ asked Cumming.
‘S… whatever.’
‘You don’t need to know names. Not just yet. Leave that to Hart.’
‘And he knows Trotsky as well,’ Browning went on. ‘According to Lockhart he’s having a fling with his secretary.’
‘Lockhart’s secretary?’
‘Trotsky’s.’
‘We haven’t quite made up our minds if that’s good or bad, have we Browning?’ Cumming looked back at Paul. ‘But that’s Moscow, anyway. ‘Petrograd’s another matter. There’s a useful Armenian Jew who goes under an Irish name you’ll probably come across, although we’re never entirely sure where he’s likely to be at any given time. Hart will fill you in on all this, as I said.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Any questions?’