Another girl came through the door carrying a heavy coat, biting a thread off its hem with her teeth. Elsie was blonde and petite and rather to Paul’s liking. He smiled at her and she smiled back and held the coat up for him to put on.
‘Try it for size,’ Miss Henslowe said.
There was no insignia to denote it was an army greatcoat although that was undoubtedly what it was. Paul slipped his arms through the sleeves and shrugged it on. It felt heavier than it should.
‘They’re in the lining,’ Browning said from the safe. ‘Gold Imperials. Roubles. So try not to lose the coat, will you?’
Elsie brushed the shoulders of the coat down with her hands once or twice until Miss Henslowe said, ‘Thank you, Elsie, that will do,’ and dismissed her.
Browning returned to the desk carrying an envelope and a bundle of banknotes. He handed both to Miss Henslowe who counted the notes out, a mix of British, Russian and Finnish, Paul saw.
Browning explained that the notes were to pay Paul’s expenses while travelling in Finland and Russia; the gold roubles were a hedge against the inflation of paper money.
‘The Treasury believes Lenin is following a deliberately inflationary policy to undermine the value of Russian money by printing billions of rouble notes. He thinks it the quickest way of pauperising the aristocratic and land-owning classes. The bourgeoisie will be ruined as well, but I suppose that serves his purposes, too. Apart from the pre-war banknotes, there are also notes known as Kerenki in circulation — printed by the Provisional Government. And now Bolshevik accounting talons as well. Imperial gold roubles used to be worth no more than face value, the higher denominations quite rare. With rouble paper money losing its value it was thought providing you with gold coin the safest course. Before the war, of course, travellers to Russia could carry British sovereigns and letters of credit. Now the Bolsheviks have taken the banks into state control the latter would be of little use. Your being caught with sovereigns, naturally, would instantly give the game away.’
Miss Henslowe filled out a docket for the banknotes and passed it to Paul.
‘Receipt it here please, Captain Ross.’
Paul signed again and Miss Henslowe gave the docket to Browning who placed it in the safe before locking the door again.
‘Now,’ she said handing Paul the envelope. ‘This contains the letter of which you have received instructions. Were they clear?’ She waited until he had nodded his assent before continuing. ‘Should you believe yourself in imminent danger of arrest you should destroy the letter rather than risk it falling into Bolshevik hands.’ She gave him a stern look. ‘You have understood all that C has told you, Captain Ross?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘Good,’ she said, ‘then that concludes our business,’ and without any more ado re-addressed herself to the paperwork on her desk.
‘Thank you, Miss Henslowe,’ Browning said in the ensuing silence. ‘As efficient as ever…’
Miss Henslowe didn’t reply and after a moment Browning took Paul’s arm and guided him back out the door. He escorted him along the corridor once more and a moment later they were standing on the roof again, Paul starting to sweat under the greatcoat.
Browning checked his watch. ‘You’ve plenty of time to settle your affairs and make the train but don’t miss it or you’ll have to pick up the steamer in Hull. Hart will supply you with your Russian documents and get you across the Russian border. Once your mission with Mikhail Rostov and the Legion is completed you’re on your own. You’ll be expected to make your own way back as best you can. Whatever happens, you have no official connections with the British Government or the Intelligence Service, is that understood? We don’t know you.’ He held out his hand and took Paul’s briefly. ‘Good luck, Ross or Rostov or whatever your name is.’ He nodded towards the iron bridge and the door on the far roof. ‘Make your own way back.’
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?’