Coming out into the open a little later at the Sokolniki station, Shaw made for the main entrance to the park in Rusakovskaya Street. It was not yet dark; young couples were strolling in the twilight or sitting on the benches. It was a scene remarkably like any to be found in London — in Hyde Park or Kensington Gardens, and, like them, the park had its roots in history, for Sokolniki was in fact a remnant of an old-time forest where long ago the Tsars had carried on the sport of falconry. In the midnineteenth century, the City Duma had turned the forest into a park; and it had become a popular recreation ground, associated with the revolutionary movement of the Moscow proletariat since the very early days, being used as far back as 1905 for revolver practice by detachments of armed workers in preparation for the uprising.
Shaw went straight ahead along the path inside the Rusakovskaya Gate, making for the main circular clearing and its seven cleared radials through the old forest of oak and elm, cedar and pine. Walking around the circle, he took the fourth radial from the south as per orders, making his way along the path between the thickly-growing trees. The second bench was occupied by a couple of lovers, who were oblivious to Shaw as he strolled past. He glanced at his watch; there was time in hand. He walked on, apparently aimlessly, and turned into a broad avenue running across. He strolled along here for a while and then went back towards the fourth radial. Looking along it, he saw that the lovers had moved and were coming slowly in his direction, hand in hand. The second bench from the other end was now unoccupied. Shaw strolled on and when he was about half way along the path he saw a figure coming towards him, walking slowly and sniffing the evening air, cool after the day’s heat. He was a big man, with bison-like shoulders. This man wandered towards the empty bench, sat down, and pulled out what seemed to be a packet of sandwiches. As Shaw came closer, he saw that the man, who was hatless, had black hair, long and untidy and falling heavily across thick, hom-rimmed spectacles; he wore light-colored slacks with a sweater of heavy pale-blue wool. The general appearance was that of an undergraduate, and a rugger blue at that… and it fitted with the photograph Shaw had been shown in London.
Shaw walked towards the bench.
He caught the man’s eye… he could see now that he was older than he had at first thought. He moved on, reaching into a pocket for his handkerchief in accordance with his contact orders as passed by Treece’s department. As he pulled it out, he dropped a 25-rouble note. After a slight pause, the man called out in English, “I say, you’ve dropped a bill.”
Shaw stopped, clapped a hand to his pocket and turned. Grinning cheerily, the man held up the dark-blue bill. “See?” he said. “25 roubles…” He attempted to say something in Russian and Shaw grinned back. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’m English too. And thanks a lot.”
“Not at all. Well, well! How nice to see another Englishman.” The man gave a deep laugh. “How’s London looking?”
“As ever. I suppose you don’t see so many English people around in Moscow, do you?”
“Not so many that it isn’t nice to hear a voice you can understand. I came over with the World Oil Concession mission, trying to put this big deal through, you know — I dare say you’ve read of it in the papers. I’ve been here too long for my liking.” The big man fumbled with his package. “Care for a sandwich, by any chance? I like eating like this once in a way… saves having to be sociable and drink gallons of vodka.”
Shaw grinned understandingly. “Thanks,” he said. He sat on the bench and accepted a sandwich, which he ate with genuine enjoyment. A few moments later, Jones leaned forward, his forearms on his thighs and his head drooping towards his knees. “It’s all right,” he said quietly. “We can talk, but keep your voice low. I’d better fill you in as to myself first. I’m genuinely attached to the trade mission — that’s to say, I came in with them some months ago, as one of their sales team for all anyone knows, but in fact to watch the top boys in their dealings with the Russians, to make sure they don’t get bamboozled or compromised in any way. Trade and politics don’t separate out here. Part of my job is to liaise with the commercial section in the Embassy and I have an office there, all of which gives me perfect cover to pick up on this Conroy affair. Now — I’ve heard from our friend in London, of course, since you left, but I’d like your story first — in detail.” Looking shrewdly at Shaw he added, “I gather you were in the coach crash?”
“That’s right.” In as few words as possible, Shaw put Jones in the picture from start to finish and then asked, “Do you know this character Hartley Henderson?”
Jones shook his head and pushed a heavy lock of hair away from his glasses. “Not personally, no. Sir Hubert Worth-Butters has been expecting him to show up, I know that. Why?”
“Think he’s on the level?”
Jones gave a surprised laugh. “Don’t ask me! All I can say is, Worth-Butters wouldn’t keep doubtful company. He’s a very ambitious man, is our Hubert, and right on the ball too. I think you can take it Henderson’s clear security-wise.” He paused. “It’s the American girl I’d like to know a little more about — Virginia MacKinlay, didn’t you say? Can you fill me in about her?”
“I’ve told you all I know,” Shaw said. “Personally, I’m willing to accept her story. She had plenty of opportunities of playing me up and she didn’t take them. In fact she’s been a big help.”
“M’h’m… well, what d’you suggest we do about her now? You say she’s gone to Henderson’s hotel with him?”
“She will, but she’s calling at the US Embassy first about her passport. If—”
“It’s dammed awkward that you’ve gone and lost yours, old man.”
“I’m aware of that! However, if you want my views I’d suggest you liaise with the Americans, tell them we’re on to Miss MacKinlay’s identity and employment, and get both her passport and mine dealt with on exactly similar lines — if it’s not too late.”
Jones nodded. “Point taken. That’d be advisable, seeing you both got through to Moscow together.” He added, “I assume Henderson knows you’ve both lost your passports?”
“Yes. That’s all he does know, of course.”
“Quite, but we must take his knowledge of the fact into account. I’ll have a word with Worth-Butters about that.” Jones paused. “Now, I told you I’d heard from London. It’s the check on the coach passengers you were promised.”
“Yes?”
Jones shrugged. “Negative — absolutely blank. There’s nothing in the report that’ll be in the least use. Not one of the coach-party has ever stepped out of line security-wise, and none of them has a past that on the face of it could possibly check with Conroy. And London’s check was as exhaustive as possible.”