With the smell of death in his nostrils — if only imagined — Paul knew he wasn’t going to get any more sleep. He climbed out of the bunk and took the opportunity of Pinker’s absence to retrieve his greatcoat from behind the man’s boxes. He checked the imperial roubles were still in place and decided upon a bath.
It was while soaking and letting his mind run over events that he began to consider once again how the man whom Kell had warned against had known Paul would be on the steamer. Paul hadn’t known himself before going to see Cumming, yet the fellow in the cap was already following him. How had he known who Paul was?
He sat up abruptly, slopping water onto the floor. Where had they got their information from? Not him, obviously. Paul had broached the question to Cumming but had been side-tracked by everything else. Now it was evident to him that the information must have come from Cumming’s office. Or Kell’s. Or from Hart, come to that.
Paul climbed out of the tub and dried himself off. Why hadn’t this occurred to Cumming? Paul would have liked to ask him again only it was too late now, of course. He sat on the side of the tub and tried to think it through.
Did it mean there was a spy in Cumming’s office? Or in Kell’s? Was Hart the spy himself? No, that wouldn’t work. Why would Hart want to betray Paul and have him killed in London when he could get the Bolsheviks to do the job for him in Petrograd? Or even the Germans in Helsingfors? He could even tip him over the side of the boat himself once they were aboard. Although that would require some sort of explanation for Cumming later. And, of course, Hart would have to be on the damned boat to do it.
Paul dismissed that idea and speculated as to whether the man in the cap had been watching Hart while Hart was watching Paul. That would explain how the man in the cap had got onto him, but not why Paul had spotted the man but hadn’t spotted Hart.
It was too confusing and the threads kept slipping out of his grasp as he tried to follow them. He gave up, shaved and dressed and went back to the cabin.
Pinker hadn’t returned and Paul dropped into the chair and lit a cigarette. The man’s attaché case lay on the top bunk and he wondered if he ought to take a quick look through it. It wasn’t something he would have dreamed of doing under other circumstances, but supposed Cumming would expect it of him if the opportunity arose. Paul looked down the corridor to see if the coast was clear, then locked the cabin door.
The case was a cheap leather affair, the corners bumped and the stitching coming undone in places. Pinker hadn’t locked it, which suggested there’d be nothing inside worth looking at but, having taken the thing down, Paul sat it on his knees and opened it, supposing he’d better make sure.
There was some paperwork concerning Pinker’s boot company in Northampton, a book of invoices, a catalogue listing various wares and their prices, and a couple of books. He’d noticed Pinker reading a cheap novel earlier but these weren’t novels. He flipped through the pages. One was a German primer and the other a German-English dictionary. There was also a school exercise book in which Pinker had written some German words. Paul didn’t know any German beyond the few insults the men had learned to shout across no-man’s-land whenever the trenches were close enough and, out of curiosity, looked up the words Pinker was trying to learn in the German dictionary. He had just found the verb, to buy, and saw how Pinker had conjugated it when the door handle began rattling.
Paul hurriedly stuffed the books back in the attaché case and closed the clasps.
‘Just a minute,’ he called.
He pushed the case onto the top bunk, pulled his own shirt out of his trousers and unlocked the door. Pinker looked at him questioningly.
‘I was dressing,’ Paul said, his face flushing.
‘Right-you-are, Filbert,’ said Pinker.
‘I’ve had a bath,’ explained Paul. ‘Good breakfast?’
‘Not bad, not bad. The Russians were there and the ladies. Oh, and the Reverend Pater, breathing fire and brimstone over everything.’
He looked around the cabin, his eyes falling on his attaché case, not quite in the same position as Paul had found it.
‘Well, Paul said quickly, ‘Time for a turn around the deck,’ and hurried out before Pinker had chance to say anything else.
He found the saloon empty except for the steward, Turner, who Paul could see through the open doors of the dining room clearing away after breakfast. The man looked up at Paul and stopped what he was doing.
‘Sorry, Mr Filbert, but the cook’s finished serving breakfast. Is there anything else I can get you?’
‘A pot of tea, if you would,’ Paul said.
He sat down and lit another cigarette, wondering if Pinker would realise he’d been through his case. He’d left the contents in a bit of a jumble, stuffing them back in like that, but perhaps the man wouldn’t notice. If he did, Paul supposed he’d just have to deny it.
Some newspapers lay on the table next to him and he picked up The Times. It was that morning’s issue, Monday 22nd July, and he supposed they’d been brought on board first thing before they sailed. He glanced out of habit at the casualty lists on the front page, tucked away as they always were amid the personal columns is if it might be hoped they would pass unnoticed. He was checking that he knew no one among the recent dead when Turner arrived with his tea.
‘Just put it down,’ Paul said. ‘I’ll see to it.’
‘Right sir,’ Turner said, laying the tray on the table. ‘Wonderful news this morning, isn’t it?’
‘News?’ he looked up but the steward had already turned back towards the dining room.
Paul poured himself a cup from the pot, added the milk and stirred in the sugar. Taking a sip, he returned to the paper and looked down the index to see what the steward meant. It caught his eye immediately:
Page five, Nicholas II. Memoir.
The hairs on Paul’s neck bristled. He put his cup down and turned to page five.
The ex-Tsar of Russia has been murdered by the Bolsheviks. The Russian account of the crime appears in the next page.
Dazed, he read quickly on through details of Nicholas’ birth and accession to the throne and an account of his reign. Frustratingly it said nothing about his death.
Paul skimmed through to the end where it concluded with a trite story about how the new Tsar’s sceptre had fallen to the ground during Nicholas’s coronation and how one of the Grand Dukes had referred to the incident as ‘an omen’.
Paul had never believed in omens and was reaching for his tea before turning the page when he saw that the article following the memoir to Nicholas was headlined:
THE CZECHO-SLOVAK ADVANCE.
His teacup clattered over onto the tray, spilling tea. The story was by-lined Vladivostok, July 18th.
Forty thousand Czecho-Slovaks hold the railway lines between Samara and Irkutsk, detachments occupying Novo-Nicolaievsk, Tomsk and Krasnoyask, where it is assumed the Bolshevists have been overthrown. It is presumed that the Czech-Slovaks are moving eastward, as their rear is secured in the direction of Irkutsk…