There would have been a lot if Paul had been given the chance to sit in a quiet room for half an hour to formulate them. At that moment, though, only one came to mind.
‘You say you want me to contact my cousin because of his standing within the monarchist faction. But what about his father, my uncle, Ivan Nikolayevich? He worked for the tsar’s interior ministry. Surely he’s likely to have far more contacts than Mikhail.’
‘He’s dead. Haven’t you heard?’
‘No,’ Paul said, shocked ‘I haven’t.’ Nor, presumably, had his mother or else she would have told him.
‘He was killed in the street disturbances. Thought you might have heard. We’ve no details, but since he held a position of some importance in the interior ministry his death might not have been entirely accidental.’
‘What about my aunt and her daughter Sofya?’
‘Can’t help you there, Rostov. Hart might know. I should ask him if I were you.’ He rummaged through the papers on his desk. ‘You’ll be carrying a letter of introduction from Tomáš Masaryk to the officers of the Legion. He’s the leader of the Czechoslovak National Council. As we said earlier, they weren’t keen on getting involved with Russia’s internal politics but Trotsky’s actions have made that inevitable.’ He pushed himself out of his chair and with the help of his stick joined Browning on Paul’s side of the desk.
‘What do you think, Browning, a forty-two?’
Side by side, they seemed to be sizing him up like a pair of undertakers who hadn’t far to go for their next client.
‘Best make it a forty-four,’ Browning said. ‘Nothing worse than being too tight.’
‘There’s a steamer leaving from Yarmouth this evening,’ Cumming told him.
‘This evening?’
‘Ostensibly, she’s carrying cargo for Copenhagen and Helsingfors. Loading in Hull early Monday morning. There will be other passengers. We thought of just putting you and Hart aboard but Kell decided that that might look a bit obvious. This way she’s an innocent Finnish steamer going about its business.’
‘The train for Yarmouth leaves Liverpool Street Station this afternoon. You’ll need to be on it.’
Paul realised he wouldn’t even have time to visit his mother.
‘Hart will be travelling under the name of Darling. You’ll be on the passenger manifest as Harold Filbert, an agent for a mining company looking to buy Scandinavian pit-props. Good cover, we thought.
‘Harold Filbert and pit-props…’
‘We’ve got papers for you in that name. Once in Helsingfors, Darling — Hart, that is — will contact the people who’ll get you across the border. From there you will make your way to Petrograd where you’ll contact your cousin. Anything you don’t understand?’
There was plenty he didn’t understand but just at that moment he was more preoccupied with the thought of leaving that evening. It was much sooner than he had expected. He would have liked more time to get used to the idea and wondered if there wasn’t still some way of backing out. He could use the money they were offering, it was true, but what was the point of being in funds if one couldn’t spend a few days enjoying the newfound solvency? He’d have liked to go to the theatre, or the music hall…
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.