He hoped it would be later. In the meantime, he still needed a clearer picture of what Brady and her husband were actually planning and what support they had from whom. In his last conversation with Cumming in London, they’d agreed that if, as seemed likely, the mission took McColl toward India, he should attempt to contact DCI HQ in Delhi. “If the people you speak to know nothing about Brady and Co.,” Cumming had said, “then you’ve alerted them. If, as seems more likely, they’re up to their necks in the plot, you won’t have told them anything that they don’t already know.”
McColl finished the apple tea and pocketed the raisins in the accompanying saucer, wondering which made the world go ’round—love or bastards in Whitehall.
Outside the sun was already busy transforming the city into an oven. It was just past nine o’clock, and the temperature had to be into the eighties. He walked down Chernyaevskaya Street, keeping to the shade of the karagach trees, and caught a tram heading east at the bridge that linked the old and Russian towns. A familiar poster caught his eye: the Moscow Circus was about to arrive in Tashkent.
He alighted from the tram outside the Kukeldash Madrasah and walked up a wide, stall-lined street that he seemed to remember led into Iski Juva market place. It did. He ordered tea at a chaikhana and cooled off in the welcome shade.
There was one other European face in sight, and it belonged to a man who had been on the same tram that he had. Was he being followed? And if so, why? Why would Peters keep a watch on one of Komarov’s assistants? The man’s presence could have been a coincidence, but he did have a sneaky look about him.
Another white face appeared right in front of McColl. Its owner, it seemed safe to assume, was not employed by the Cheka. He was about sixty, had a prematurely wizened face surrounded by white hair and beard, and carried a bright green parrot on his left shoulder. A large canvas bag hung from the other. “You want your fortune told,” he told McColl, first in German, then, with bewildering fluidity, in a succession of other languages, most of which sounded vaguely Balkan.
McColl laughed. “Why not?” he replied in Russian. “How much?”
The man looked surprised. “You are Russian?”
“Of course.”
The man just shook his head.
The Cheka could use this old man, McColl thought. “How much?” he asked again.
“A Kerensky note.”
It was only an opening bid, but it was far too hot for bargaining. McColl took a note from his pocket and placed it on the mattress on which he was sitting. The man unslung his bag and opened it up at the neck, then offered it to the parrot, who delved in and brought out a tiny envelope in its beak. After offering the prize to its master, the parrot turned its gimlet eyes on McColl, with a look that said: “Why do I do all the work?”
The old man passed the envelope on to McColl and scooped up the note with his other hand.
“And where do you come from?” McColl asked.
The man cackled. “I was born in Serbia, but that was a long time ago.” He was slowly backing away, as if concerned that the fortune foretold in the envelope might not be to his customer’s taste.
McColl watched him sidle off as he opened the envelope. On a small piece of rice paper, the words “She loves you” had been neatly printed in several languages. He smiled to himself and placed it in his pocket. “Maybe she does,” he murmured. In the distance the parrot squawked, probably in derision.
The Chekist—if that was what the man was—was still calmly sipping his tea. McColl would have to lose him, without giving the appearance of doing so. Which shouldn’t be too hard in the alleys of the old town, McColl thought. Without another glance in the man’s direction, McColl left the chaikhana and headed up Takhtapul Street, steadily increasing his walking pace as he did so. One abrupt turn led into another, and a half-demolished cart offered something to hide behind. If the Chekist saw him, he could say that he’d taken the man for a footpad; if he didn’t…
After a minute had passed, he reached the conclusion that he wasn’t being followed after all.
Watching out for the man just in case, McColl retraced his steps to Takhtapul Street and continued up it until he reached the covered bazaar he remembered from 1916. After passing booths containing silk workers, coppersmiths, and carpet makers, he recognized the narrow alley alongside the large rug emporium and, after one last glance around, ducked into it. Counting off the doorways, he let himself into the fifth.
The Indian was sitting in the small courtyard, watching one of his wives energetically beating the dust out of a Bokhara rug. He leapt up in alarm when McColl abruptly appeared, but once he realized who it was, his smile was almost too effusive. “Welcome to my home once again,” he said formally, offering space on the carpet. He shooed his wife into the house with a few sharp words, then quickly recalled her to order tea. “I trust you are fighting fit, Mr. Voronovsky,” he said in English.
“Yes, thank you,” McColl said. “But I am now Mr. Davydov. I hope you and your family are all in the best of health.”
A second wife, clothed in a jade-green sari, appeared with a silver dish of sweetmeats and was swiftly followed by a third with a plate of fresh figs. The two men nibbled in silence until the tea arrived, and all the women were back inside. McColl wondered, not for the first time, why sitting cross-legged was so uncomfortable.
“It is very hot, is it not?” the Indian said politely.
“Yes, it is. This meeting must be a short one, I’m sorry to say. I need to make contact with the head office.”
The Indian poured the tea unhurriedly. “I most regret,” he finally said, sounding not in the least regretful, “that our wireless set has not been received. They promise machine for several months, but…” He shrugged. “Do you wish sugar?”
McColl found it hard to conceal his annoyance.
“However,” the Indian continued, “not all is despairing. I can get a message to Delhi in three weeks.”
“Thank you, but I’m afraid my need is more urgent than that.” He got to his feet. “I will remind London that you’re waiting for a wireless.”
“That will be most exciting of you,” the Indian said solemnly.
McColl let himself out and walked slowly back through the old town. What should his next move be? The wireless in Samarkand was still operational—or had been when he left England—but that was a full day’s journey away. And once he’d abandoned Komarov, there’d be no coming back. He would lose touch with the Russian’s pursuit and, of course, with her. Again.
As it turned out, he was given no choice in the matter. Two Chekists were waiting outside the hotel; they bundled him into the back of their car, where his suitcase was already resting. Which was probably a good sign—if this was an arrest, they wouldn’t have bothered to collect his belongings.
He also recognized the street the car drove down—they’d come down it on their way from the train station.
The train was waiting in a bay platform: one locomotive and two crimson coaches. Komarov and Maslov beside it, obviously waiting for him. The fact that they’d delayed their pursuit for a mere interpreter was gratifying but also seemed slightly mysterious.
“Where now?” he asked them cheerfully.
“Samarkand,” Komarov said shortly. “Get the train moving,” he told Maslov.
It seemed that fate was conspiring to help him. “Have they been caught?” he asked Komarov.