The man emerged, his features clearer in the kerosene glow. He was a Russian, probably in his early twenties, with fair hair and a flat, slightly Mongoloid face. Komarov pointed him down the corridor toward Maslov. The three of them descended the stairs in silence.
“Take him into the dining room,” Komarov said. He checked the room number on the register, and a smile flickered on his face.
Maslov had sat the man down. Komarov took a chair and sat astride it, his arms crossed on the backrest, facing his captive. Maslov remained standing just behind the man’s right shoulder.
“What’s your name?” Komarov asked.
“Aleksandr Polyansky,” the man said sorrowfully. He looked as if he was about to burst into tears.
“Why did you want to kill Nikolai Davydov?”
Polyansky wrung his hands. “I…” His face brightened suddenly. “But he’s not really Davydov. He’s an English spy, an enemy of the revolution!”
“We know,” Komarov said, wiping the incredulous smile off Maslov’s face. “I have known since Moscow, Pavel Tasarovich,” Komarov told the young Ukrainian. “I decided it would be easier for you to behave naturally if you remained in ignorance.” He turned back to Polyansky. “Why did you want to kill this man? And don’t pretend it had anything to do with him being an English spy.”
Polyansky searched the ceiling for inspiration but found none.
“Who hired you?”
The look of defeat returned. “A man in Samarkand,” he mumbled.
“His name?” Komarov persisted.
“He never told me his name. An Indian. He came to me, gave me this man’s description, said that I would find him here in Tashkent. He told me the man was an English spy. But I didn’t do it for the money, you understand… It wasn’t…”
“What did you do it for?”
Another silence. Maslov moved behind Polyansky and placed a hand on each of his shoulders, as if about to offer a massage.
“You must tell us, citizen,” Komarov said.
The words came out in a sudden rush: “Passports, English passports for my family… We were branded as bourgeois… I can get no work… I…”
“Enough. Describe the Indian.”
“Just an Indian.” He shrugged helplessly. “About forty, maybe. Quite small. An Indian.”
So it wasn’t Durga Chatterji. “Did the Indian tell you where the English passports were coming from?”
Polyansky gave him a disbelieving look. “From the English.”
“Telephone for someone to come and collect him,” Komarov told Maslov. The whole business made less and less sense. Komarov tried to think coherently but thought only of how tired he was. He got to his feet and started pacing up and down between the lines of tables.
There was a quarrel between Englishmen—that seemed certain. A quarrel that had something to do with the American and his renegade friends. Was it possible that one group of Englishmen opposed their endeavor—whatever it might be—while another group supported it?
Perhaps. But why would any group of Englishmen give support to men like Brady and Piatakov? Either Komarov was missing some obvious point, or someone else had.
Where was Davydov? Komarov suddenly wondered. The Chekists outside had reported his and Piatakova’s return to the hotel, and the Englishman had not gone out again.
A probable answer came close on the heels of the question. Komarov grunted. It looked as though Davydov and Piatakova had each unwittingly saved the other’s life that night, he by leading his Cheka tail to the women’s meeting, she by taking him into her room. As Komarov’s father used to say, good fortune had a habit of repeating herself.
He heard the car pull up outside and told Maslov to take Polyansky out.
Alone in the empty dining room, Komarov turned his thoughts to Davydov and Piatakova. If he wasn’t the English agent she’d met up with in 1918, then Piatakova had made a third disastrous choice when it came to romantic attachments—two foreign agents and a renegade wouldn’t do much for anyone’s political reputation.
If Davydov was the same man, and he and she had known each other for years, they’d done a wonderful job of concealing the fact. Had they been partners all this time? Had they acted out a growing friendship on the train so that finally sharing a bed would seem quite natural? Was Caitlin Piatakova an English agent, too, or simply so besotted with love or lust that she was willing to put her own life at risk?
He couldn’t believe the former. She’d been living in Russia for years, and unless he’d completely misread the woman, her work at the Zhenotdel was a labor of love. She and the revolution’s leading lady were bosom friends.
And she’d married a Russian, for God’s sake. A committed Bolshevik then, a leftist renegade now.
So perhaps she’d told the truth in 1918. Perhaps Davydov’s reappearance had come as a total surprise.
What would Komarov have done in her shoes? He would have asked what the hell her former lover was doing in Russia and, depending on the answer, decided whether or not to give him up.
If that was what had happened, she must have been satisfied with his explanation. And if Komarov was right about her, that could mean only that Davydov’s presence in Russia was all on account of the men they were chasing, and wasn’t part of any fresh attempt by the British to undermine the Bolshevik government.
Was it possible, Komarov wondered, that he and Davydov were actually on the same side?
Maslov was standing in the doorway, apparently waiting for his presence to be acknowledged. “What about the Englishman?” he asked when Komarov finally looked his way. “Should we arrest him now?”
His Majesty’s Wireless in Samarkand
Caitlin was woken by the sunlight streaming through the uncovered window. His hand was resting lightly on her hip. She carefully moved it aside and got to her feet, then walked across to the window, the breeze caressing her skin. The distant mountains were wreathed in shadow; on the street below, a boy was sprinkling handfuls of water across the dusty sidewalk.
She turned her gaze to the sleeping McColl. What had she been thinking, inviting him in? And not just him—their whole damn past. And yet, and yet. She couldn’t deny it—not to herself—it had been as sweet as ever. He might not have been God’s gift to every woman, but there was something about him—about them—that made her want to weep with joy.
It had been that way from the start, she thought. A love so sweet and all consuming that it left no room for the rest of who she was.
He stirred and opened an eye. She reached for the blue dress and pulled it over her head. “I’m going to the bathroom,” she mumbled, and fled.
She washed herself from head to foot and examined her face in what was left of the mirror. “What should I say?” she murmured. That she’d enjoyed it, that they should do it again sometime soon. If she was using him, that was only what men had been doing to women since time began. Which of course was no excuse.
She made a face in the mirror and walked back to the room.
He was dressed and smoking one of her cigarettes.
“Let’s not say anything,” she said.
“All right.”
“So let’s go and find some breakfast.”
Once Caitlin had left for the local Zhenotdel office, McColl ordered more tea and lit another cigarette. Why was he smoking again? What in God’s name should he do?
Making love again had been wonderful, and he told himself to cherish what had happened, not use it to build up hopes of something more. Whatever would be would be and might well depend on how long they stayed in each other’s company. Sooner or later her husband would either be caught or cross the border, and she would go back to Moscow to resume her work and life.