She might have sent a note.
She had Bridget's address. She would have sent a note.
Feliks headed north.
He walked through the alleys of Theatreland and the quiet squares of Bloomsbury. The weather was changing. All the time he had been in England it had been sunny and warm, and he had yet to see rain. But for the last day or so the atmosphere had seemed oppressive, as if a storm were slowly gathering.
He thought: I wonder what it is like to live in Bloomsbury, in this prosperous middle-class atmosphere, where there is always enough to eat and money left over for books. But after the revolution we will take down the railings around the parks.
He had a headache. He had not suffered headaches since childhood. He wondered whether it was caused by the stormy air. More likely it was worry. After the revolution, he thought, headaches will be prohibited.
Would there be a note from her waiting at Bridget's house? He imagined it. "Dear Mr. Kschessinsky, I regret I am unable to keep our appointment today. Yours truly, Lady Charlotte Walden." No, it would surely not be like that. "Dear Feliks, Prince Orlov is staying at the home of the Russian Naval Attache, 25A Wilton Place, third floor, left front bedroom. Your affectionate friend, Charlotte." That was more like it. "Dear Father, Yes--I have learned the truth. But my 'Papa' has locked me in my room. Please come and rescue me. Your loving daughter, Charlotte Kschessinsky." Don't be a damned fool.
He reached Cork Street and looked along the road. There were no policemen guarding the house, no hefty characters in plain clothes reading newspapers outside the pub. It looked safe. His heart lifted. There's something marvelous about a warm welcome from a woman, he thought, whether she's a slip of a girl like Charlotte or a fat old witch like Bridget. I've spent too much of my life with men--or alone.
He knocked on Bridget's door. As he waited, he looked down at the window of his old basement room, and saw that there were new curtains. The door opened.
Bridget looked at him and smiled widely. "It's my favorite international terrorist, begod," she said. "Come in, you darling man."
He went into her parlor.
"Do you want some tea? It's hot."
"Yes, please." He sat down. "Did the police trouble you?"
"I was interrogated by a superintendent. You must be a big cheese."
"What did you tell him?"
She looked contemptuous. "He'd left his truncheon at home--he got nothing out of me."
Feliks smiled. "Have you got a letter--"
But she was still talking. "Did you want your room back? I've let it to another fellow, but I'll chuck him out--he's got side-whiskers, and I never could abide side-whiskers."
"No, I don't want my room--"
"You've been sleeping rough. I can tell by the look on you."
"That's right."
"Whatever it was you came to London to do, you haven't done it yet."
"No."
"Something's happened--you've changed."
"Yes."
"What, then?"
He was suddenly grateful for someone to whom he could talk about it. "Years ago I had a love affair. I didn't know it, but the woman had a baby. A few days ago . . . I met my daughter."
"Ah." She looked at him with pity in her eyes. "You poor bugger. As if you didn't have enough on your mind already. Is she the one that wrote the letter?"
Feliks gave a grunt of satisfaction. "There's a letter."
"I supposed that's what you came for." She went to the mantelpiece and reached behind the clock. "And is the poor girl mixed up with oppressors and tyrants?"
"Yes."
"I thought so from the crest. You don't get much luck, do you?" She handed him the letter.
Feliks saw the crest on the back of the envelope. He ripped it open. Inside were two pages covered with neat, stylish handwriting.
Walden Hall
July 1st, 1914
Dear Feliks,
By the time you get this you will have waited in vain for me at our rendezvous. I am most awfully sorry to let you down. Unfortunately I was seen with you on Monday and it is assumed I have a clandestine lover!!!
If she's in trouble she seems cheerful enough about it, Feliks thought.
I have been banished to the country for the rest of the season. However, it is a blessing in disguise. Nobody would tell me where Aleks was, but now I know because he is here!!!
Feliks was filled with savage triumph. "So that's where the rats have their nest."
Bridget said: "Is this child helping you?"
"She was my only hope."
"Then you deserve to look troubled."
"I know."
Take a train from Liverpool Street station to Waldenhall Halt. This is our village. The house is three miles out of the village on the north road. However, don't come to the house of course!!! On the left-hand side of the road you will see a wood. I always ride through the wood, along the bridle path, before breakfast between 7 and 8 o'clock. I will look out for you each day until you come.
Once she decided whose side she was on, Feliks thought, there were no half measures.
I'm not sure when this will get sent. I will put it on the hall table as soon as I see some other letters for posting there: that way, nobody will see my handwriting on an envelope, and the footman will just pick it up along with all the rest when he goes to the post office.
"She's a brave girl," Feliks said aloud.
I am doing this because you are the only person I ever met who talks sense to me.
Yours most affectionately,
Charlotte
Feliks sat back in his seat and closed his eyes. He was so proud of her, and so ashamed of himself, that he felt close to tears.
Bridget took the letter from his unresisting fingers and began to read.
"So she doesn't know you're her father," she said.
"No."
"Why is she helping you, then?"
"She believes in what I'm doing."
Bridget made a disgusted noise. "Men like yourself always find women to help them. I should know, bechrist." She read on. "She writes like a schoolgirl."
"Yes."
"How old is she?"
"Eighteen."
"Old enough to know her own mind. Aleks is the one you're after?"
Feliks nodded.
"What is he?"
"A Russian prince."
"Then he deserves to die."
"He's dragging Russia into war."
Bridget nodded. "And you're dragging Charlotte into it."
"Do you think I'm doing wrong?"
She handed the letter back to him. She seemed angry. "We'll never be sure, will we?"
"Politics is like that."
"Life is like that."
Feliks tore the envelope in half and dropped it in the wastepaper bin. He intended to rip up the letter but he could not bring himself to do it. When it's all over, he thought, this may be all I have to remember her by. He folded the two sheets of paper and put them in his coat pocket.
He stood up. "I've got a train to catch."
"Do you want me to make you a sandwich to take with you?"
He shook his head. "Thank you, I'm not hungry."
"Have you money for your fare?"
"I never pay train fares."
She put her hand into the pocket of her apron and took out a sovereign. "Here. You can buy a cup of tea as well."
"It's a lot of money."
"I can afford it this week. Away with you before I change my mind."
Feliks took the coin and kissed her good-bye. "You have been kind to me."
"It's not for you. It's for my Sean, God rest his merry soul."
"Good-bye."
"Good luck to you, boy."
Feliks went out.
Walden was in an optimistic mood as he entered the Admiralty building. He had done what he had promised: he had sold Constantinople to Aleks. The previous afternoon Aleks had sent a message to the Czar recommending acceptance of the British
offer. Walden was confident that the Czar would follow the advice of his favorite nephew, especially after the assassination in Sarajevo. He was not so sure that Lloyd George would bend to the will of Asquith.
He was shown into the office of the First Lord of the Admiralty. Churchill bounced up out of his chair and came around his desk to shake hands. "We sold it to Lloyd George," he said triumphantly.
"That's marvelous!" Walden said. "And I sold it to Orlov!"
"I knew you would. Sit down."
I might have known better than to expect a thank-you, Walden thought. But even Churchill could not damp his spirits today. He sat on a leather chair and glanced around the room, at the charts on the walls and the naval memorabilia on the desk. "We should hear from St. Petersburg at any time," he said. "The Russian Embassy will send a note directly to you."
"The sooner the better," Churchill said. "Count Hayes has been to Berlin. According to our intelligence, he took with him a letter asking the Kaiser whether Germany would support Austria in a war against Serbia. Our intelligence also says the answer was yes."
"The Germans don't want to fight Serbia--"
"No," Churchill interrupted, "they want an excuse to fight France. Once Germany mobilizes, France will mobilize, and that will be Germany's pretext for invading France. There's no stopping it now."
"Do the Russians know all this?"
"We've told 'em. I hope they believe us."
"Can nothing be done to make peace?"
"Everything is being done," Churchill said. "Sir Edward Grey is working night and day, as are our ambassadors in Berlin, Paris, Vienna and St. Petersburg. Even the King is firing off telegrams to his cousins, Kaiser 'Willy' and Czar 'Nicky.' It'll do no good."
There was a knock at the door, and a young male secretary came in with a piece of paper. "A message from the Russian ambassador, sir," he said.
Walden tensed.
Churchill glanced at the paper and looked up with triumph in his eyes. "They've accepted."
Walden beamed. "Bloody good show!"
The secretary went out. Churchill stood up. "This calls for a whiskey-and-soda. Will you join me?"
"Certainly."
Churchill opened a cupboard. "I'll have the treaty drafted overnight and bring it down to Walden Hall tomorrow afternoon. We can have a little signing ceremony tomorrow night. It will have to be ratified by the Czar and Asquith, of course, but that's a formality--so long as Orlov and I sign as soon as possible."
The secretary knocked and came in again. "Mr. Basil Thomson is here, sir."
"Show him in."
Thomson came in and spoke without preamble. "We've picked up the trail of our anarchist again."
"Good!" said Walden.
Thomson sat down. "You'll remember that I put a man in his old basement room in Cork Street, just in case he should go back there."
"I remember," Walden said.
"He did go back there. When he left, my man followed him."
"Where did he go?"
"To Liverpool Street station." Thomson paused. "And he bought a ticket to Waldenhall Halt."
THIRTEEN
Walden went cold.
His first thought was for Charlotte. She was vulnerable there: the bodyguards were concentrating on Aleks, and she had nobody to protect her but the servants. How could I have been so stupid? he thought.
He was nearly as worried for Aleks. The boy was almost like a son to Walden. He thought he was safe in Walden's home--and now Feliks was on his way there, with a gun or a bomb, to kill him, and perhaps Charlotte too, and sabotage the treaty--
Walden burst out: "Why the devil haven't you stopped him?"
Thomson said mildly: "I don't think it's a good idea for one man alone to go up against our friend Feliks, do you? We've seen what he can do against several men. He seems not to care about his own life. My chappie has instructions to follow him and report."
"It's not enough--"
"I know, my lord," Thomson interrupted.
Churchill said: "Let us be calm, gentlemen. At least we know where the fellow is. With all the resources of His Majesty's Government at our disposal we shall catch him. What do you propose, Thomson?"
"As a matter of fact I've already done it, sir. I spoke by telephone with the chief constable of the county. He will have a large detachment of men waiting at Waldenhall Halt to arrest Feliks as he gets off the train. Meanwhile, in case anything should go wrong, my chappie will stick to him like glue."
"That won't do," Walden said. "Stop the train and arrest him before he gets anywhere near my home."
"I did consider that," Thomson said. "The dangers outweigh the advantages. Much better to let him go on thinking he's safe, then catch him unawares."
Churchill said: "I agree."
"It's not your home!" Walden said.
"You're going to have to leave this to the professionals," Churchill said.
Walden realized he could not overrule them. He stood up. "I shall motor to Walden Hall immediately. Will you come, Thomson?"
"Not tonight. I'm going to arrest the Callahan woman. Once we've caught Feliks, we have to mount a prosecution, and she may be our chief witness. I'll come down tomorrow to interrogate Feliks."
"I don't know how you can be so confident," Walden said angrily.
"We'll catch him this time," Thomson said.
"I hope to God you're right."
The train steamed into the falling evening. Feliks watched the sun setting over the English wheatfields. He was not young enough to take mechanical transport for granted: he still found traveling by train almost magical. The boy who had walked in clogs across the muddy Russian meadows could not have dreamed this.
He was alone in the carriage but for a young man, who seemed intent on reading every line of this evening's Pall Mall Gazette. Feliks's mood was almost gay. Tomorrow morning he would see Charlotte. How fine she would look on a horse, with the wind streaming through her hair. They would be working together. She would tell him where Orlov's room was, where he was to be found at different times of the day. She would help him get hold of a weapon.
It was her letter that had made him so cheerful, he realized. She was on his side now, come what may. Except--
Except that he had told her he was going to kidnap Orlov. Each time he recalled this he wanted to squirm in his seat. He tried to put it out of his mind, but the thought was like an itch that could not be ignored and had to be scratched. Well, he thought, what is to be done? I must begin to prepare her for the news, at least. Perhaps I should tell her that I am her father. What a shock it will be.
For a moment he was tempted by the idea of going away, vanishing and never seeing her again, leaving her in peace. No, he thought; that is not her destiny, nor is it mine.
I wonder what my destiny is, after the killing of Orlov. Shall I die? He shook his head, as if he could get rid of the thought like shaking off a fly. This was no time for gloom. He had plans to make.
How will I kill Orlov? There will be guns to steal in an earl's country house: Charlotte can tell me where they are, or bring me one. Failing that there will be knives in the kitchen. And I have my bare hands.
He flexed his fingers.
Will I have to go into the house, or will Orlov come out? Shall I do it by day or by night? Shall I kill Walden, too? Politically the death of Walden would make no difference, but I should like to kill him anyway. So it's personal--so what?
He thought again of Walden catching the bottle. Don't underestimate that man, he told himself.
I must be careful that Charlotte has an alibi--no one must ever know she helped me.
The train slowed down and entered a little country station. Feliks tried to recall the map he had looked at in Liverpool Street station. He seemed to remember that Waldenhall Halt was the fourth station after this one.
His traveling companion at last finished the Pall Mall Gazette and put it down on the seat beside him. Feliks decided that he could not plan the assassination until h
e had seen the lay of the land, so he said: "May I read your newspaper?"
The man seemed startled. Englishmen did not speak to strangers on trains, Feliks recalled. "By all means," the man said.
Feliks had learned that this phrase meant yes. He picked up the paper. "Thank you."
He glanced at the headlines. His companion stared out of the window, as if embarrassed. He had the kind of facial hair that had been fashionable when Feliks was a boy. Feliks tried to remember the English word . . . "side-whiskers," that was it.
Side-whiskers.
Did you want your room back? I've let it to another fellow, but I'll chuck him out--he's got side-whiskers, and I never could abide side-whiskers.
And now Feliks recalled that this man had been behind him in the queue at the ticket office.
He felt a stab of fear.
He held the newspaper in front of his face in case his thoughts should show in his expression. He made himself think calmly and clearly. Something Bridget had said had made the police suspicious enough to place a watch on her house. They had done that by the simple means of having a detective live in the room Feliks had vacated. The detective had seen Feliks call, had recognized him and had followed him to the station. Standing behind Feliks in the queue, he had heard him ask for Waldenhall Halt and bought himself a ticket to the same destination. Then he had boarded the train along with Feliks.
No, not quite. Feliks had sat in the train for ten minutes or so before it pulled out. The man with the side-whiskers had jumped aboard at the last minute. What had he been doing in those few missing minutes?
He had probably made a phone call.
Feliks imagined the conversation as the detective sat in the stationmaster's office speaking into a telephone:
"The anarchist returned to the house in Cork Street, sir. I'm following him now."
"Where are you?"
"At Liverpool Street station. He bought a ticket to Waldenhall Halt. He's on the train now."
"Has it left?"
"Not for another . . . seven minutes."
"Are there any police in the station?"
"Just a couple of bobbies."
"It's not enough . . . This man is dangerous."
"I can have the train delayed while you get a team down here."
"Our anarchist might get suspicious and bolt for it. No. You stay with him . . ."
And what, Feliks wondered, would they do then? They could either take him off the train somewhere along the route or wait to catch him at Waldenhall Halt.