“Welcome, comrades,” he said. “Chechevichkin, chairman of the Samarkand Cheka,” he introduced himself, before leading them through a detention room full of anxious faces, across a shaded inner courtyard, and into his personal office. A map and several exhortatory posters lined one white wall; on another a single framed photograph held pride of place. It showed a mass meeting in a square surrounded by mosques; the caption underneath read, the proclamation of the revolution, 28th november 1917, in the registan.
“Where is the body?” Caitlin wanted to know.
“In the next room—”
She strode past Chechevichkin and through the open doorway. A wooden coffin lay in the center of the floor, and for a moment she hesitated, fearful of whom she would find inside it. Then, with what felt like enormous effort, she moved herself forward a couple of paces.
It was Aram Shahumian, or rather his corpse, stripped to the waist, laid out on a bed of half-melted ice. Dried-brown blood caked his chest and folded arms. A handful of flies hovered hopefully over the open box, drawn by the flesh but repelled by the cold.
Caitlin let out an explosive breath. She had met the Armenian on several occasions, and while she’d considered him one of Sergei’s more likable friends, she’d been wary of his chronic restlessness, the trouble he had in simply sitting still. Now his face looked almost serene, as if aware that his struggles were over. For a moment she wished it were Sergei lying there, anger and heartache gone, finally at peace.
“Have you nothing to cover him with?” she heard herself ask.
Chechevichkin looked at Komarov, who nodded. “Aram Shahumian, I presume?” he asked her quietly.
“Yes,” she said softly. Next time it would be Sergei.
Chechevichkin came back with a sheet and draped it across the coffin.
“Did he ever regain consciousness?” Komarov asked him.
“Only for a short time in the car. He only said one thing.” The Chekist hesitated.
“Yes?”
“Long live the revolution.”
Caitlin didn’t know whether to laugh or weep.
After Komarov had sent them both off in a droshky, McColl wasted no time in telling Caitlin his news. “He knows I’m a spy. God knows how, but I’m sure he does. I doubt he knows that you know—I don’t see how he could—but then I didn’t think he knew about me. We need to keep our distance from each other, in case we give him ideas.”
She looked at him. “You must run.”
“I will. As soon as I get the chance.”
“Where will you go?” Caitlin asked.
“I’ll have to head south to the border, and if Komarov doesn’t catch Brady on this side, I’ll do my best on the other.”
She placed a hand in his. “Jack.”
“Yes?”
“If you can, spare Sergei. He’s not a bad man, and he’s doing what he thinks is right.”
And killing people who get in his way, McColl thought. As he had himself, for masters no better than Brady. “I will,” he promised as their droshky drew up outside the Kommercheskaya Hotel.
Four rooms had been requisitioned, apparently at rather short notice: the previous occupants were still disputing their eviction in the lobby when Caitlin and McColl arrived. He asked the clerk for directions and was swiftly besieged by an angry mob. For a second he looked for someone to hit—it had been a stressful day. The thought must have shown on his face—the complainants went back to work on the clerk.
Their rooms were on the upper floor. Caitlin disappeared into hers without speaking, closing the door behind her. His was next door, the usual white-walled square with its soiled mattress and jug of dirty water. He folded back the shutters to reveal the boulevard. Across the way an ex-bank was boarded up behind a row of ragged trees. The soft clatter of typing drifted up from a room below.
It would be dark in an hour and easier to lose whomever Komarov would have on his tail. And that would still have to look accidental, or Komarov might decide there was no point in leaving him free.
He felt tired, incredibly tired. But there was no knowing how long they’d be in Samarkand or how long he’d be at liberty. It might be days, might be hours. He paced up and down, willing the light to fade, wondering how to do it. Nothing clever occurred to him, but then the old tricks usually worked.
He walked down to the lobby and noticed the men on either side of the door. So far, so good. He called the reception clerk over and loudly asked to be woken in three hours’ time, then hurried back up the stairs. The window at the end of the corridor looked out over a small yard. He straddled the sill, then swung the other leg out, gripping whatever he could until he hung by his fingers and was able to let himself drop. The entrance to the yard gave out onto the street some thirty feet from the hotel door. He walked off briskly, glancing back every so often to check there was no pursuit.
High to his left, a large fortress gazed loftily down. Up ahead the road crossed a wooden bridge and deteriorated into a track, before burrowing into the old town’s maze of alleys and narrow streets. McColl stopped on the bridge to light a cigarette and watched the meagre water trickling across the stones.
“Taxi, mister?” a young voice shouted in heavily accented Russian. McColl looked up to see a grinning Uzbek boy, about twelve years old, in the circle of light thrown by the lamp on the bridge. He was sitting in the driving seat of an old, much-repaired droshky, holding the reins of an even-older-looking mule.
“Tashkent Street,” McColl told the boy as he climbed aboard the creaking contraption.
Motion seemed to suit it, and they were soon rattling along a potholed Registan Street, receiving raucous cries of encouragement from the denizens of the chaikhanas that spilled their light across the road. They skirted around the Registan, just three huge shapes against the sky, and entered Tashkent Street. Throwing caution to the winds, McColl asked the boy to take him to Biruni’s carpet shop. The mule snorted.
They passed a large mosque with a cloven arch, and a few minutes later clattered to a halt outside Biruni’s shop. Two Uzbeks were busy carrying rolls of carpet into the dimly lit interior.
When McColl handed over a Kerensky note, the boy’s face dropped. “Coin,” he demanded. McColl fished in his pocket and found one, restoring the habitual grin. “I wait,” the boy announced.
“No,” McColl insisted, handing over another coin, “no wait.” He asked one of the carpet-bearers for Ali Zahid and was pointed through the door. He went in, down a short passage, and out into a yard. An Indian was sitting on a wooden bench beside an open door. “Ali Zahid?” McColl asked.
The Indian nodded warily.
“I come from your brother-in-law,” McColl said.
The Indian’s eyes widened fractionally, but he said nothing.
McColl sat down beside him. “He said to tell you that your new niece’s name is Benazir and that your sister now has three gold teeth.” This had been the standard introduction in 1916—swapping Indira for Benazir when the agent was a Hindu—and McColl was hoping it hadn’t been changed.
Ali Zahid was smiling now, albeit anxiously. “What do you want?” he asked in a whisper.
“The wireless. I must talk to Delhi.”
“It is far away, hidden. Perhaps tomorrow.”
“No, now.” Why had the man been surprised to see him? And why was he trying to put him off?
“Tomorrow no problem, sahib,” the Indian said ingratiatingly.
“Tomorrow I may be in the hands of the Cheka. And they may force me to name my contact in Samarkand.”