had not been brilliant. What was he doing here? “What exactly is this department?” Fitz asked as he sat down.
“This is the Foreign Section of the Secret Service Bureau,” said C.
“I didn’t know we had a Secret Service Bureau.”
“If people knew, it wouldn’t be secret.”
“I see.” Fitz felt a twinge of excitement. It was flattering to be given confidential information.
“Perhaps you’d be kind enough not to mention it to anyone.”
Fitz was being given an order, albeit politely phrased. “Of course,” he said. He was pleased to feel a member of an inner circle. Did this mean that C might ask him to work for the War Office?
“Congratulations on the success of your royal house party. I believe you put together an impressive group of well-connected young men for His Majesty to meet.”
“Thank you. It was a quiet social occasion, strictly speaking, but I’m afraid word gets around.”
“And now you’re taking your wife to Russia.”
“The princess is Russian. She wants to visit her brother. It’s a long-postponed trip.”
“And Gus Dewar is going with you.”
C seemed to know everything. “He’s on a world tour,” Fitz said. “Our plans coincided.”
C sat back in his chair and said conversationally: “Do you know why Admiral Alexeev was put in charge of the Russian army in the war against Japan, even though he knew nothing about fighting on land?”
Having spent time in Russia as a boy, Fitz had followed the progress of the Russo-Japanese War of 1904-1905, but he did not know this story. “Tell me.”
“Well, it seems the grand duke Alexis was involved in a punch-up in a brothel in Marseilles and got arrested by the French police. Alexeev came to the rescue and told the gendarmes that it was he, not the grand duke, who had misbehaved. The similarity of their names made the story plausible and the grand duke was let out of jail. Alexeev’s reward was command of the army.”
“No wonder they lost.”
“All the same, the Russians deploy the largest army the world has ever known-six million men, by some calculations, assuming they call up all their reserves. No matter how incompetent their leadership, it’s a formidable force. But how effective would they be in, say, a European war?”
“I haven’t been back since my marriage,” Fitz said. “I’m not sure.”
“Nor are we. That’s where you come in. I would like you to make some inquiries while you’re there.”
Fitz was surprised. “But surely, our embassy should do that.”
“Of course.” C shrugged. “But diplomats are always more interested in politics than military matters.”
“Still, there must be a military attache.”
“An outsider such as yourself can offer a fresh perspective-in much the same way as your group at Ty Gwyn gave the king something he could not have got from the Foreign Office. But if you feel you can’t… ”
“I’m not refusing,” Fitz said hastily. On the contrary, he was pleased to be asked to do a job for his country. “I’m just surprised that things should be done this way.”
“We are a newish department with few resources. My best informants are intelligent travelers with enough military background to understand what they’re looking at.”
“Very well.”
“I’d be interested to know whether you felt the Russian officer class has moved on since 1905. Have they modernized, or are they still attached to old ideas? You’ll meet all the top men in St. Petersburg-your wife is related to half of them.”
Fitz was thinking about the last time Russia went to war. “The main reason they lost against Japan was that the Russian railways were inadequate to supply their army.”
“But since then they have been trying to improve their rail network-using money borrowed from France, their ally.”
“Have they made much progress, I wonder?”
“That’s the key question. You’ll be traveling by rail. Do the trains run on time? Keep your eyes open. Are the lines still mostly single-track, or double? The German generals have a contingency plan for war that is based on a calculation of how long it will take to mobilize the Russian army. If there is a war, much will hang on the accuracy of that timetable.”
Fitz was as excited as a schoolboy, but he forced himself to speak with gravity. “I’ll find out all I can.”
“Thank you.” C looked at his watch.
Fitz stood up and they shook hands.
“When are you going, exactly?” C asked.
“We leave tomorrow,” said Fitz. “Good-bye.”
Grigori Peshkov watched his younger brother, Lev, taking money off the tall American. Lev’s attractive face wore an expression of boyish eagerness, as if his main aim was to show off his skill. Grigori suffered a familiar pang of anxiety. One day, he feared, Lev’s charm would not be enough to keep him out of trouble.
“This is a memory test,” Lev said in English. He had learned the words by rote. “Take any card.” He had to raise his voice over the racket of the factory: heavy machinery clanking, steam hissing, people yelling instructions and questions.
The visitor’s name was Gus Dewar. He wore a jacket, waistcoat, and trousers all in the same fine gray woollen cloth. Grigori was especially interested in him because he came from Buffalo.
Dewar was an amiable young man. With a shrug, he took a card from Lev’s pack and looked at it.
Lev said: “Put it on the bench, facedown.”
Dewar put the card on the rough wooden workbench.
Lev took a ruble note from his pocket and placed it on the card. “Now you put a dollar down.” This could be done only with rich visitors.
Grigori knew that Lev had already switched the playing card. In his hand, concealed by the ruble note, there had been a different card. The skill-which Lev had practised for hours-lay in picking up the first card, and concealing it in the palm of the hand, immediately after putting down the ruble note and the new card.
“Are you sure you can afford to lose a dollar, Mr. Dewar?” said Lev.
Dewar smiled, as the marks always did at that point. “I think so,” he said.
“Do you remember your card?” Lev did not really speak English. He could say these phrases in German, French, and Italian, too.
“Five of spades,” said Dewar.
“Wrong.”
“I’m pretty sure.”
“Turn it over.”
Dewar turned over the card. It was the queen of clubs.
Lev scooped up the dollar bill and his original ruble.
Grigori held his breath. This was the dangerous moment. Would the American complain that he had been robbed, and accuse Lev?
Dewar grinned ruefully and said: “You got me.”
“I know another game,” Lev said.
It was enough: Lev was about to push his luck. Although he was twenty years old, Grigori still had to protect him. “Don’t play against my brother,” Grigori said to Dewar in Russian. “He always wins.”
Dewar smiled and replied hesitantly in the same tongue. “That’s good advice.”
Dewar was the first of a small group of visitors touring the Putilov Machine Works. It was the largest factory in St. Petersburg, employing thirty thousand men, women, and children. Grigori’s job was to show them his own small but important section. The factory made locomotives and other large steel artifacts. Grigori was foreman of the shop that made train wheels.
Grigori was itching to speak to Dewar about Buffalo. But before he could ask a question the supervisor of the casting section, Kanin, appeared. A qualified engineer, he was tall and thin with receding hair.
With him was a second visitor. Grigori knew from his clothes that this must be the British lord. He was dressed
