Lenin's Roller Coaster, page 29
The two of them stayed only half an hour, and there was nothing in the conversation—which was mostly about the revolution and its current difficulties—to upset or annoy her, but Caitlin found the experience disquieting. She was used to men looking at her, but there was too much intensity in Brady’s eyes. His stare was forensic, almost judgmental, for reasons she couldn’t fathom. What had changed since their parting in Yekaterinburg? He had no way of knowing that she’d just had the letter from Jack.
Piatakov’s stare was easier to bear—there was sometimes a look in his eyes that made her think of her junior prom. He was really quite sweet, she decided. His insistence on kissing her hand when they left seemed like something out of War and Peace—she doubted that such courtesies were given much space in the Cheka rulebook.
She felt relieved when they were gone and then guilty for feeling so. They would soon be risking their lives for the cause, and she might never see them again. Added to which, she could hardly blame Brady for being suspicious. When it came to Jack and herself, she’d lied to him over and over again.
Once back in her room, she reread Jack’s message. The inner turmoil returned, the dance of contradictory feelings that never seemed to stop. How could she wish he hadn’t come when she couldn’t wait to see him?
There was nothing quite like sunlight after rain, Caitlin thought as she waited in the park for McColl to arrive. The grass and leaves were glistening, the colors as vivid as one of the new expressionist paintings. It felt like a brand-new day, and she had to remember it wasn’t.
When he came through the gate, the first thing she noticed was the Russian clothes. They looked strange on him, but doubtless only because she knew who he really was. A spy, she thought. My lover the spy.
He had seen her and quickened his step. He looked older, she thought as he approached. Or maybe just thinner of face. Like herself.
She had wondered how she should greet him, here, in Moscow, where so much else mattered. But in that moment nothing else did. They looked, they embraced, they kissed, as if the world were somewhere else.
“It’s good to see you,” he said.
She shook her head, if only to bring the world back. “Why?” she demanded, as all the mixed emotions his message had stirred came bubbling to the surface. “Why are you here?”
“Let’s walk,” he suggested mildly, offering his arm.
He must have known she’d be angry, Caitlin thought. She put her hand through his arm, feeling, for her, unusually unsure.
“Aidan Brady’s in Moscow,” he told her.
“I know,” she said. “I met him in Vladivostok in April, and we traveled together for weeks.”
“Oh,” McColl said, somehow looking both relieved and deflated. “So he doesn’t know about Dublin?”
“About me choosing you over them? No, he doesn’t. We hardly talked about Ireland. He probably thought it would be painful for me.”
“That doesn’t sound like him.”
“No, it doesn’t, does it? Still . . .”
“I was afraid he might run into you here and mete out his own idea of justice.”
She thought about that and had to admit that knowing what McColl knew, it was reason enough to seek her out. “How did you know he was here? Have you seen him?”
“I haven’t. My people keep a list of all the foreigners here in Moscow. It’s how I knew you were here.”
“And how did you find me?”
“A long story. But I wouldn’t have looked, let alone made contact, if I hadn’t thought Brady might be out for revenge.”
“He isn’t.”
“Good.”
They ambled on. The park was filling up now that the weather had improved, and she couldn’t help feeling a spring in her step. She stopped, turned toward him, and put a hand on each of his shoulders. “Now that Brady has brought us together, perhaps we should make the most of it. Do you have somewhere we could go?”
“Not where we’d be alone.” He put his arms around her waist. “Which is the other reason I wanted to see you. I have an eleven-year-old boy I don’t know what to do with. He’s from Ukraine, and his parents are both dead. I brought him to Moscow because he thought his uncle was here, but the uncle’s dead as well, so now he has nowhere to go. I can’t look after him forever, and I was hoping that you might know of a home.”
“You mean an orphanage?” Of all the things she’d expected from their meeting, finding a home for a Russian child wasn’t one of them.
“I suppose so,” he said, with obvious reluctance. “Wasn’t your friend Kollontai going to shake up the old system and make it better?”
“She was. And to a point she has, although the way things are at the moment, it’s not high on the government’s list of priorities. But . . . well, I’ll look into it.”
“Thank you. As to us,” he said, pushing her hair back from her eyes, “I don’t suppose a hotel . . .”
“No,” she said instantly. But why not take him back to her room? The others had all been out when she’d left, and having a man there was hardly unknown. Some nights the house sounded full of them. “We can go to my room,” she said. “Just this once—you understand that? We can’t keep meeting. I’m in enough trouble as it is.”
“With whom?”
As they left the park and walked toward the river, she told him about her recent brushes with the Cheka, the one in Yekaterinburg that had been her own fault, the one here in Moscow for carrying Spiridonova’s message. An ongoing affair with a British agent would certainly top them both, she said with some asperity. A swift deportation was the least she could expect.
“Then maybe we shouldn’t,” McColl said, slowing his pace.
The dismay on his face was almost comical. “I’m sure we shouldn’t,” she said, “but just this once . . .”
The house was no longer empty, but only one woman crossed their path on the way to Caitlin’s room, and the stare she gave them seemed truly blank.
“She has terrible eyesight,” Caitlin whispered, shutting the door behind them. “And she’s always losing her glasses. I know,” she added, seeing McColl’s expression, “the bed is a trifle narrow.”
“I’m sure we’ll fit,” he said with a smile, undoing the top button on her blouse.
“I’m sure we will,” she agreed, feeling the familiar spike of desire. The remembered scents and touches, the sudden thrill of joining together—no matter how many times they did it, no matter how long they’d been apart, the ecstasy and sense of rightness never seemed to fade.
It was over far too quickly.
“Sorry,” he murmured. “It’s been a while.”
“You don’t have to hurry off, do you?”
“No.”
“Well, then . . .” She laid her head against his shoulder. “I’ve been missing that.”
“That?”
“You. That and you are synonymous.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
She sighed and snuggled in. “What’s the news from home? Your home, I mean. Jed and your mother.”
McColl let out a deep breath. “It’s been months since I heard anything. Jed was still alive in April, and that’s all I know.”
She pulled him even closer, and they lay there in silence for a while.
“Have you been in Russia all this time?” he asked eventually.
“No. I went home to the States in March and came back here in April. Across the Pacific. It wasn’t so much fun on my own.”
“How was the family?”
“Fine. Most of them—my dad was his usual disapproving self. It was good to see Aunt Orla, but the rest of the trip . . . I hardly recognized the place. They’ve shut down any debate about the war—all my old friends are either in prison or hiding their heads in the sand. And it’s just about impossible for someone with views like mine to function as a journalist.” She told him about the searching of the house in Brooklyn, gave him a précis of the trial in Chicago. “And I wrote several letters to you,” she added. “I suppose they’re still waiting in London.”
“Yep.”
She sighed. “So where have you been this whole time?”
“All over the place. After you left in November, they kept me dangling for a month, but I feel like I’ve been on the move ever since.” He told her about Persia and Transcaspia, about the cotton and the oil and Audley Cheselden. He told her about the hostage shooting at Chaplino Junction, about Kerzhentsev and the gasworks bombing that never happened, knowing that she’d like the idea of him teaming up with a Bolshevik. He told her about finding Fedya asleep in the consul’s Pathfinder and their time in the German camp.
“Where is he now?” she wanted to know.
“Minding the store.”
“Store? What store?”
He described the antique shop and Fedya’s natural way with customers.
She propped herself up on an elbow. “You’re really fond of him, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
She had always believed he would make a good father, and suddenly, out of nowhere, the thought that they would never have children seemed to pierce her heart. Where had that come from?
She moved her hand down, with predictable results. “You seem to be ready again,” she murmured.
This time it seemed to last forever, leaving them breathless and laughing, their hands and lips still reaching for each other, as if afraid to let go.
But eventually they had to, and Caitlin asked the question that both had seemed to be avoiding. What was he doing in Moscow?
His wry smile didn’t bode well.
“The papers are full of British and French plots against the revolution,” she said when he didn’t respond right away. “There’s been fighting around Murmansk between your soldiers and ours.”
The “ours” was hard to miss. “I came to Russia to fight the Germans,” he said. “And that’s what I’ve been doing. In Transcaspia with the help of LSRs. In Ukraine with the Bolsheviks.”
“And in Moscow?” she prompted him.
“I don’t know yet,” he said. “It’s gotten complicated. There are things we are doing that are aimed at the Germans but might also hurt the Bolsheviks, and there are things we are doing that are actually aimed at the Bolsheviks. And the line between them isn’t as clear as you’d think. I’m not trying to make excuses,” he added. “All the things I’ve been involved with have been about beating the Germans, and if I’m asked to do anything else, I promise you I’ll quit.”
“But you said yourself that the line wasn’t clear.”
“It isn’t.”
“Then how . . . ?”
“All I can do is follow my conscience.”
She stared up at the ceiling. She understood his dilemma, but where it did leave them?
On opposite sides.
“I’ll do what I can to find a home for your boy,” she said. “And I’ll let you know what I’ve found out. But after that we won’t see each other again, not here in Russia, not while you’re doing what you’re doing.”
Sadness filled his eyes, but he took her hand and squeezed it. “Agreed.”
15
Soldiers in Plain Clothes
The English Club on Tverskaya, which McColl had visited on several occasions in 1917, was boarded up and liberally plastered with revolutionary slogans. The latter were unreadable through the grimy tram window and the lightly falling rain, but the improvised name change was all too clear. It now read “Conspiracy” rather than “Club.”
His fellow conspirator on this particular evening was sitting five yards farther down the car. He was dressed like McColl in blouse, trousers, and soft high boots, his cap more rakishly perched atop his thick blond hair. Northcutt had introduced him as Paul and stressed that they shouldn’t acknowledge each other’s presence until they reached their destination.
The point of the operation was wedged between McColl’s knees—a battered leather suitcase packed with paper money. Bowers had delivered it to the antique shop that afternoon, and while Fedya was in the back, McColl had examined the contents, mostly out of curiosity. The ruble notes were old and grubby, and he couldn’t help wondering where Northcutt had gotten them from.
Fedya had clearly been longing to know what the suitcase contained but had known enough not to ask.
Ah, Fedya.
Since Caitlin had offered to look for a home, McColl had been meaning to talk to the boy, but he hadn’t managed it yet. There’d been no lack of opportunity—it was just cowardice on his part. He’d rehearsed his arguments, worked out what he’d say, but knew that the boy would be deaf to logic. Desertion was desertion, no matter how good the reasons might be.
He wished there were some other option, but if there were, he hadn’t thought of it yet. The boy needed schooling. He needed someone to take care of him, someone who could and would stick around.
The tram crumbled across Sadovaya, narrowly missing a droshky that had strayed too close to the tracks. The rain had almost stopped, and the Triumphal Arch was visible up ahead. A long wall on his side of the street was lined with myriad copies of the same stirring poster, calling on the workers to defend their revolution. Could it be saved? Almost every day brought news of another Bolshevik reverse, and their papers had stopped printing maps of the fighting, presumably for fear of weakening morale.
He wondered again what the money was for. He’d asked Bowers, but the answer he’d gotten had been less than useful. “Take your pick,” the other man had said. “Bribery, guns, and keeping their army fed if we’re lucky. Buying back the nobles’ jewelry if we’re not.”
None of which would win the war. The Germans wouldn’t be bought off, and the Whites seemed far more interested in fighting their Russian enemies.
He’d promised Caitlin he would follow his conscience, but as she herself had told him once—people could decide what was right only when they had all the relevant facts. And he was far from sure he had them.
The tram was approaching the Triumphal Arch, the sunset behind it smudged with smoke from the station and yards beyond. A car was parked under the archway, two men leaning up against its bonnet. Chekists, most likely. Watching the world go by, wondering when to pounce.
The tram continued on up the Petersburg Chaussée, passing the moribund racecourse on the left. When he caught sight of the Petrovsky Palace, its chimneys fired by the rays of the sinking sun, McColl reached for the suitcase and rang the bell.
This was one of Moscow’s richer suburbs, which seemed strangely appropriate. Revolutionaries had traditionally held their trysts in the poorer parts of town, but in Russia’s upside-down world they gathered in streets lined with trees and big houses.
Two turns to the left and one to the right were the instructions. He walked on, aware of Paul’s presence some fifty yards behind. It was finally growing dark, and most of the windows he passed were lit, giving the streets an almost festive look. There was also a constant murmur of conversation, interposed with shouts and peals of laughter. Most of the houses had been split into flats and were now home to five or six families. Those owners who hadn’t fled were probably grinding their teeth in the single room that the Housing Committee had allowed them to keep.
The Alexander Bar was on a corner of a four-way intersection, amid several rows of mostly vacant shops. Across the street two droshky drivers were sharing a smoke, their horses nuzzling each other with obvious affection. Behind them, in what had once been the Anastasia Hair Salon, a man was visible through the badly cracked window, working at a table in an otherwise empty room.
The bar itself was full of smoke, so much so that McColl needed several seconds to get his bearings. The furniture was bizarre, the seating a mixture of armchairs and iron benches, the counter a wardrobe laid on its side. From what he could see, the clientele was more club than pub—exclusively male, rather well heeled, and reeking of the past.
There were several different vodkas on offer, and McColl was announcing his choice when a Russian loomed out of the smoke. He was about thirty, with wavy dark hair and a military mustache. After slapping McColl on the back, he gazed expectantly into his eyes.
“I’m from Boris,” McColl said, though an exchange of passwords already seemed somewhat redundant. “He told me I could get a game of eralash here.”
“You can!” the Russian said happily, looking down at the suitcase. “No, seriously. What was it? Only on Tuesday and Friday evenings. That’s right, isn’t it?” He beamed. “I am Vasily. Come. We are in the back room.”
He was drunk, McColl realized. Over the Russian’s shoulder, he saw Paul enter through the street door. “My partner has arrived,” he told the Russian. “We’ll both come.”
“The more the merrier!”
McColl rolled his eyes at Paul, who gave him a shrug in return. It didn’t bode well, but sobriety hadn’t been part of the deal.
The only occupant of the back room had wavy fair hair and a military mustache. “This is Viktor,” the first Russian said. “And I am Vasily,” he announced again, this time with a wink. “Not our real names, of course. He is Vasily and I am Viktor.”
Both he and his partner laughed uproariously; the two Englishmen offered supportive smiles.
A Russian Tweedledum and Tweedledee, McColl thought.
“Have a drink,” the original Viktor suggested. As with Vasily, an educated accent was recognizable through the slurring.
“We won’t stay,” McColl said, placing the suitcase on the table between them and opening the lid. The Russians were less impressed than he expected—not at all, in fact.
