At first they played mostly in silence. McColl was pleased to find that the Russian took the game no more seriously than he did, simply enjoying the mental exercise. He offered grunts of appreciation when McColl made a good move and self-deprecating laughs when it was obvious he himself had made a bad one. He won nevertheless, and offered a rematch. McColl was about to decline when he realized that he was actually enjoying himself. And that more than five minutes had passed since he’d thought about Caitlin.
While setting up the pieces for the next game, the Russian casually slipped in a question. How had McColl come to learn a language like Urdu when so few people spoke it in his native Turkestan?
“More than you might think,” McColl answered calmly, though his heart seemed to be beating a trifle faster. “My father had a large cotton plantation,” he went on, “and his manager was from the Punjab. In India. My mother was ill a great deal, and this man’s wife was like a cross between a nanny and a governess to me. I learned a lot of Urdu from her, and when I went to school in Tashkent, I found I had a knack for languages. So I carried on with the Urdu as well as learning Uzbek and a little Farsi.”
“I see,” Komarov said, raising his eyes after placing the final pawn.
He seemed satisfied with the explanation, and McColl could see no reason why he shouldn’t be.
“My first move, I believe.”
“It is.”
McColl was wondering how wise it would be to inquire after Komarov’s past when the Russian introduced it himself, albeit from a curious angle.
“Have you heard of Sherlock Holmes?” Komarov asked.
“I don’t think so,” McColl said after studying the board for several nerve-steadying seconds.
“He is an English detective. Not a real one, a storybook character. An amateur detective, I should say, not connected with the English police, Scotland Yard. There are many stories, though I believe the author stopped writing them some years ago. If so, a great pity. They are all in Russian translations—you should read them.” He stopped to consider his next move, then brought out his queen’s bishop. “I first read them in, oh, about 1906, when I was a young policeman in Moscow.” He looked up. “And though I shouldn’t say so, they probably influenced me more than Marx.”
McColl showed appropriate surprise. Was the Russian a little drunk?
“The stories,” Komarov continued, “taught me that detection was both an art and a science. Which made me want to be a detective. They also helped my political education, though of course the author had no such intention. You see, Sherlock Holmes is a classic bourgeois creation—a razor-sharp mind for solving problems, a blind eye to the social context in which such problems are bound to arise. And the contradictions revealed by that basic split are wonderfully illuminating. Holmes’s brilliance makes him heroic, and his obtuseness makes him a safe hero for the English bourgeoisie.” Komarov leaned back in his chair and gulped down what remained in his glass.
“I shall try to read these stories, comrade,” McColl said tactfully. He was trying to square this Komarov with the one that Ruzhkov had described.
“This will be a long journey. I am Yuri Vladimirovich.”
“Nikolai Matveyevich,” McColl responded.
“Well, Nikolai Matveyevich, it’s your move.”
On the second morning, she realized she would have to meet him. The train, as her man from the kitchen informed her, had still not reached Ryazan and, at its current rate of progress, was unlikely to reach Tashkent in less than a month. If she stayed that long in her compartment, she’d probably go mad.
And, she had to admit, she wanted to hear what he had to say. Whatever he was doing in Russia, it obviously had something to do with Brady, and therefore also with Sergei. Not to mention her own forced exile from Moscow and work. She wanted to know what it was all about.
The first opportunity arose about half an hour later, but Komarov and Maslov were both standing close to their carriage, so she decided to wait for another. The moment the train stopped again, she was out on the platform and putting distance between herself and the three red cars. After joining the queue at the samovar, she looked back to see if Jack was there, and was pleased to see him striding toward her. There was no sign of Komarov or Maslov.
He insisted on shaking hands, as if they were just introducing themselves. “Let’s walk,” he suggested in Russian, gesturing toward the distant rear of the train. “How are you?” he asked, as if they were friends who’d been out of touch for a while.
“I’m ready for the promised explanation,” she said coldly. Seeing him again up close was arousing all sorts of thoughts and emotions.
“Okay,” he agreed. “But it would be better if you didn’t look so angry with me. Komarov might wonder how his humble interpreter has managed to annoy you so much after such a brief acquaintance.”
“Is that what you are, his interpreter?”
“I was interpreting for the Indian delegation at the Comintern conference when it all blew up.”
“All what?”
“The robbery at the tram depot in which three of the Indians were involved. Along with Aidan Brady.”
“He’s the leader in all this, isn’t he?” she asked, wondering why McColl hadn’t mentioned Sergei. He had to know that they were married.
“I think so.”
“And what are they planning?” she asked, glancing down the platform to make sure there was no one in earshot.
“The murder of Mohandas Gandhi.”
“What?” What madness had Sergei gotten himself into?
“They think he’s a Menshevik, holding back the real revolution.”
“Oh, give me strength.” But the idea had a ghastly plausibility. Given how Sergei and his friends saw the world these days, it probably seemed like perfect sense to them. Another thought crossed her mind. “But then what brought you here? Why would your boss give a fig about Gandhi? Wouldn’t the British government be glad to see him gone?”
“I’m sure they would, but I don’t think they’d condone his assassination. It’s a small group of men in one section of British intelligence that’s behind all this. Not my section, and not my boss. He wants to know exactly who’s involved. Who hired Brady to put the team together in the first place and who’ll be helping them once they reach India.”
“Helping them how?” she asked, finding it all a bit hard to believe. Reaching the end of the train, they stood there for a moment, staring down the receding track. The way back to Moscow, she thought, wishing she could take it.
“With money,” Jack was saying. “And probably guns when the time comes. A suitable hideout, information. Whatever they need.”
“All right. But why in heaven’s name would Brady get involved with the British in the first place?”
“He was caught in Ireland, and that was their price for letting him go.”
“He’s using you.”
“I quit the Service three years ago.”
She wanted to trust him. “Okay, he’s using your former colleagues.”
“And they him. And as far as I’m concerned, they deserve each other. If it wasn’t for Gandhi…”
“You always did admire him,” she said, reducing McColl to silence. Referencing their mutual past was obviously not a good idea. “So why did you let yourself be press-ganged?” she asked.
He shrugged. “What better way to stay on their trail? If Komarov catches up with them, I can leave them to Soviet justice. If they get across the border, I’ll find a way to follow.”
“You know that one of the men is my husband?” she asked, aware she was trying to provoke a reaction but not knowing which sort she wanted.