A workers’ canteen just off Petrovsky Boulevard offered a temporary haven. Behind the cover of the newspaper, he examined his new papers, and discovered that he was now Nikolai Matveyevich Davydov of Gogol Street, Tashkent. The accompanying permit authorized him to travel from Tashkent to Moscow on the given date; it was stamped for an arrival the previous day. Enclosed within the permit was a party card, which stated that he had been a member since March 1918.
Ruzhkov had excelled himself. All McColl needed was a shave, and he’d noticed a couple of barbers on Kuznetsky Most. He left the canteen, trying to appear neither casual nor hurried. No one gave him so much as a glance.
It was midafternoon when Komarov returned from a meeting at Vecheka headquarters. Yezhov was waiting in the outer office, feet up and half-asleep.
“Well?” Komarov barked.
Yezhov sat up rapidly. “We’ve found where he’s staying. The dormitory on Kuznetsky Most. His suitcase is there. Borin and Trepakov are waiting for him to come back.”
Komarov sat down. “What’s in the suitcase?”
“Some old leather trousers and a shirt.”
“He’s wearing the suit. Get back over there. I don’t want any slipups.”
McColl walked up Tverskaya to the Hotel Lux. The long, four-story stone building had recently been painted, presumably to impress the foreign delegates. The main effect, however, was to make the surrounding buildings look twice as dilapidated. One of two militiamen guarding the main entrance gave McColl’s papers a cursory examination and waved him through.
The lobby was empty of people, empty of furniture, lined with posters and blown-up photographs celebrating the Third Congress of the Communist International. A solitary clerk sat behind a reception counter long enough to accommodate twenty. McColl waited in vain for his presence to be acknowledged.
“I am appointed to the Indian delegation as a translator and interpreter,” he said eventually, gently pushing his papers across the counter.
The man called for a colleague without looking up and continued sorting registration cards into neat piles.
McColl realized that he was nervously stroking his newly shaven chin, and ceased doing so. A second reception clerk emerged, one more eager to please. McColl explained the situation and was informed that the Indian delegation was on a river cruise, along with the Chinese comrades. They would be back in time for supper. And when it came to his own accommodation, the comrade had arrived at an auspicious moment. News had just reached the hotel of an arrest at the Persian border—that country’s delegate had been seized by his own authorities and sent back to Tehran for questioning, thus freeing up his room. It was even on the same corridor as those occupied by the Indians. Room 453.
Pushing his luck, McColl asked for a list of the Indian comrades.
One would be typed out for him. It would be ready in an hour or so.
Feeling slightly less apprehensive, he went up to his room and lay down on the bed to await the Indians’ return.
The crack in the boarded-up window offered Piatakov and Brady a perfect view of the Shabolovka Street depot, and of the tram now clanking its way through the open gates, tires squealing with resentment at the tightness of the curve. As it disappeared behind the houses that fronted the main shed, a man emerged from the depot-office doorway, strode across the cobbles, and noisily swung the gates shut.
The American checked his fob. “Half past seven,” he announced. “Let’s go.”
He led the way down the staircase, taking care to step over the gaps where treads had been stolen for fuel.
Behind him, Piatakov felt as tense as he ever had going into battle, and far less certain he had right on his side. Accepting that any meaningful opposition required violence was one thing; finding himself face-to-face with old comrades over the barrel of a gun would be something else.
“I’ll check the street,” the American said, pulling back the front door and squeezing out past the corrugated iron flap that someone had nailed across the opening. Piatakov watched from the shadows, conscious of his own thumping heart and the nervous exhalations of his five companions.
Shahumian belched softly beside him. “Goddamn carrot tea,” he murmured.
The Indians flashed anxious smiles.
Brady reappeared. “Okay,” he said.
A horse-drawn cart was moving away down the street, but nothing was coming toward them. The sky had barely begun to darken, the daytime heat was showing no sign of dissipating, and Piatakov could feel the sweat running down his back. In the distance, the sinking sun was drawing flashes of golden light from the distant domes of the Kremlin churches.
They reached the gates, Shahumian peeling off as planned to take his position at the crossroads to the left. The others slipped into the empty yard. Leaving Grazhin and Nasim to stand guard by the entrance, Brady, Piatakov, Chatterji, and Rafiq walked along the inlaid tracks toward the depot offices.
They stopped by the side of the open door, deep in the building’s shadow, and took out the masks that Brady had devised. These were more like cloth bags than traditional masks, with rough holes cut for the eyes and mouth. He had taken the idea from his homeland, where some crazy gang of negro haters, whose name Piatakov had already forgotten, used such hoods to hide their faces.
As he pulled his on, Piatakov could hear the murmur of conversation coming from an upstairs room. And the welcome clink of coins.
And someone coming down the stairs, walking toward the doorway.
The footsteps stopped, giving way to the sound of furniture scraping the floor.
Brady and Piatakov went through the doors together. In the corridor beyond, a man in a leather jacket was bent in the act of seating himself at a table, holding a glass of steaming tea.
“Who the hell—”
“No noise,” Brady said quietly, showing the Chekist his Colt revolver, “or yours will be a lasting silence.” The man gulped and put down the glass, slopping tea across the table. “You two stay here with our new friend,” Brady told the Indians.
Piatakov followed the American up the stairs, into a room full of people counting coins into piles. One by one they became aware of the two masked men just inside the doorway, and of the guns they were holding.
“Good evening, comrades,” Brady said in a soft, insolent tone, leaning back against the doorjamb.
Piatakov could picture the expression behind the mask. The man had read too many penny dreadfuls, watched too many cowboy films.
“This is what they used to call an armed robbery in the bad old bourgeois days,” the American was telling the captive audience in his heavily accented Russian. “Don’t do anything heroic, and no one needs to die.” He paused. “And I can promise any true Bolshevik among you that the money we take will be used in the service of the revolution.”
Someone giggled, probably involuntarily.
“You,” Brady went on, picking out the nearest clerk and indicating a heap of canvas bags, “fill up four of those.”
The man in question started toppling piles of coins off the edges of tables and into the open bags, his nervousness making him clumsy. The other eight clerks—Piatakov had counted them—sat staring at him and Brady. Judging by the noise, more coins were ending up on the floor than in the bags.
“You,” the American snapped at one of the watchers, “help him.”
There was a pounding on the stairs; Rafiq’s head appeared, dark eyes flashing through the slitted cloth bag. “Militia patrol, coming down the street.”