matters. If Sheridan had not organized the defense, it was likely that the whole thing would have come out exactly as he had anticipated, with guilty verdicts for all three.
“I received your message from Petrovich,” a voice said. There was a tone of deep disdain in it. “You wanted to see me?”
Ashcraft had become so deeply absorbed in his thoughts that he had not seen the tall, stooped-shouldered man enter the cafe. The man slipped into the booth on the opposite side of the table and regarded him with watchful eyes. There was nothing inside the man, Ashcraft thought drearily, no devotion to duty, no humanity, only that cold, uncaring, never-ending vigilance. Didn’t these Russians ever stop
Tropov rested his elbows on the table. “What is it you want?” he asked finally. Ashcraft knew, by the tone of his voice, patronizing and contemptuous, that he had heard about the trial and guessed, no doubt, that he had been dismissed.
“I have something for you,” Ashcraft said stolidly. “Something that might be of value in your work.” Reaching into his coat pocket, he took out a small black notebook. His eyes lingered on it as he placed it carefully in the center of the table. Offering it to Tropov-was it a betrayal of his duty? Was he somehow giving aid to an enemy he did not fully understand?
No, his notes on the Hyde Park affair and the lists of names of the men and women who had served the Yard as informants-this was not evidence, but merely his own personal jottings. And since Assistant Commissioner Henry himself had made it clear that Ashcraft’s services were no longer required and the Hyde Park matter was closed, Ashcraft felt himself at liberty to do what he liked with his personal records. Moreover, it did not matter that Tropov served the Russian secret police. They were both on the same side, ultimately: the side of law and order, opposed to the death against lawlessness, chaos, and disorder.
Sitting across the table, Dmitri Tropov picked up the notebook and thumbed the pages. If he felt anything at all, it was something like contempt. He saw little that was new to him, and nothing that was of any particular interest. However, since the notebook contained Ashcraft’s personal notes, a closer reading might reveal something of the strange workings of the English, and for that reason might have some marginal value. This was his last meeting with Ashcraft, but there would no doubt be other policemen with whom he would have to deal. He tossed the notebook on the table in front of him.
“And why is it that you want me to have this?” he asked. It was an idle question, for nothing that Ashcraft had to tell him could be of any interest to him now.
Ashcraft turned away, appearing to be absorbed in the graceful movements of the balalaika player who was taking his seat on a stool in the corner. In a muffled voice, he said, “I assume that you have heard what transpired at the trial yesterday. You must know, as well, about the escape.”
“Right on both counts,” Tropov said carelessly. “And if you’re asking if I know where Kopinski and Mouffetard have got to, the answer is no. I have no idea.” He clicked his tongue scoldingly against the back of his teeth. “Careless of you, that business about the ginger-beer bottles. But it would have come out just the same in the end. They would all three have escaped. In Russia, of course, we would not have let that happen.”
Ashcraft turned back. A dullness seemed to have settled in his eyes, and his shoulders slumped as if he had suddenly become very weary. “My superiors have determined that my services are no longer required.” His voice was flat, without depth or resonance. “I was sacked this morning.”
Tropov pursed his lips, considering the matter. When he had heard the verdict and the report of what happened at the trial, he had known that Ashcraft was finished at the Yard. Did the notebook, and this meeting, constitute a request for employment? Did this fool think he had something of value to offer the Ochrana, something that might be of some conceivable use to them? Or might this be a trap, laid by someone with more brains than Ashcraft?
For a moment, Tropov studied the man’s hopeless eyes, his defeated expression, the dejection in his shoulders. Deciding that it was neither a trap nor a request for employment, he picked up the notebook and slipped it carelessly into his pocket. Ashcraft was a buffoon and this, whatever else it might be, was his final blunder. One must never give an enemy a weapon that might be used to destroy oneself-and that was what Ashcraft had just done.
Tropov smiled to himself. How could Ashcraft possibly explain the possession of his personal notes by a foreign agent? The man was obviously past ruination, and this was just another piece of evidence of his unforgivable errors of judgment. Tropov was quite certain that it was for similar errors of judgment and not a violation of some high-minded principle that Ashcraft’s superiors had turned him out. The man could count himself lucky. Had he been a Russian agent and brought so public a disgrace on the State, he would have lost not only his job but certainly his liberty and probably his life.
“So what will you do now?” he asked. Another idle question, since it hardly mattered to Tropov whether the man lived or died.
“My family and I will be leaving England,” the other replied dully. He shrugged his defeated shoulders. “ Canada, New Zealand, Australia -who knows? Somewhere, anywhere.” He glanced at the pocket into which Tropov had dropped the notebook, his eyes as hungry as if he were searching for emeralds. “I trust you will put my information to good use. Some of those listed there-especially a man named Nicholas Petrovich, a very useful man, by the way-might know where the escaped Anarchists are hiding.” A light flickered briefly in his eyes and then went out. “Perhaps you will be better at catching and keeping them than the Yard.”
“Yes, of course,” Tropov said reassuringly, although he wasn’t sure why he bothered. He thought of the multiple ironies here. Much of the information in Ashcraft’s notebook was pure rubbish, and Nicholas Petrovich was the double agent who had fed it to him. The real truth about what had transpired in Hyde Park, and how and why, of course, Petrovich had not supplied.
Tropov slid out of the booth and stood, looking down at the man. “I wish you well,” he said, the phrase a meaningless formality. He touched his cap and turned to leave. Behind him, the balalaika player began to sing. The mournful notes followed him out the door.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Freedom is the will to be responsible to ourselves.
Friedrich Nietzsche,
Ivan Kopinski sat cross-legged on the dirty floor of the tiny room at the back of the cigar shop in Church Lane, staring into the musty darkness. He could smell the familiar odor of strong Russian tobacco and hear the murmur of male Russian voices from the meeting room at the back of the Russian Free Library, on the floor above. The booming Slavic voice of the cigar shop proprietor, a ham-fisted brute of a man called Boris, could be heard occasionally, punctuating the murmur with bursts of raucous laughter, along with Petrovich’s nervous, high-pitched giggle. He and Pierre were among friends here, and safer from discovery than they would be anywhere in London.
But they had been hiding in this cramped space since the hansom driver had delivered them here the night before, with little opportunity to stretch their legs or move about. Petrovich had brought them packets of fish and chips from a nearby shop, and Boris had brought them a couple of bottles of beer and some tea. While Ivan had been able to tolerate the slow monotony of the passing hours by reviewing in his mind all of the things he would do once he was entirely free, Pierre had early on shown the strain, rolling his eyes, slapping his hands against his legs, and muttering incoherent French curses under his breath.
But while Ivan might be physically uncomfortable and Pierre fidgety, at least they were no longer handcuffed or shackled. They had rid themselves of the cuffs with the keys that had turned up in Pierre ’s pocket after the fracas in the Old Bailey yard. Unfortunately, there were no keys to the shackles, so they had literally flung themselves out of the swift-moving van onto the pavement, hoping they wouldn’t break their necks. Fortunately, the hansom cab that Lottie had promised was close behind and the driver, a hulk of a man, had hauled them on board and driven them swiftly into the East End. The hacksaw Petrovich had provided had made short work of their leg irons, and they were free.
It was night again now, Friday night, and the darkness pressed ominously against the pane of the single window high up in the wall. Even Ivan was beginning to find the long wait trying. That Special Branch inspector, Ashcraft, he would be turning over every rock trying to find them, of course, and there were betrayers everywhere-even upstairs, in the Russian Free Library, where information about those unfortunate enough to be fugitives from the Ochrana was passed quietly and sympathetically from mouth to mouth. One could not know who among the comrades could be trusted with one’s life, and who was ready to sell valuable information for the price of a family member’s freedom, or even for a hot meal and a bed.
There was a soft tap at the door, then two more in quick succession-the signal. In a fluid motion, Pierre rose from his crouch against the opposite wall and went to the door, opening it a crack. “It’s me,” came a whisper, and Pierre opened the door and stood back.
Ivan scrambled to his feet, blinking stupidly at the candle Lottie was holding shoulder-high. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder and slipped into the room. Pierre closed the door behind her.
Ivan watched as Lottie set the candle on the shelf beside the door and glanced around. Her hair had tumbled loose onto her shoulders and her eyes glinted like stars, he thought, in the oppressive darkness of the room. He stepped forward, suddenly aware of how hungry he had been for the sight of her.
She turned to him, smiling, a smile that seemed to banish the shadows. “Hello, Ivan,” she said, stepping toward him. “I’m sorry that this has taken so long. I came as soon as I could, but there were so many details to manage-”
“Never mind that,” Pierre growled savagely. “Is it arranged?”
Lottie turned to look at him, a furrow appearing between her eyes. “Yes,” she said.
Ivan found his voice. “When? How?”
“Tonight,” Lottie replied. “Very soon. A comrade who drives a freight wagon will take you to Dover, to a place where you will be safe. On Sunday morning, you will take passage to Ostende on a fishing boat. It is all taken care of. That’s what took so long, you see. We had to wait on a telegram confirming the details.”
“And after that?” Pierre demanded, his voice rising. “What after that?”
“Once in Belgium,” Lottie said, “you are to contact a man named Friedrich Witthaus. He will help you find lodging in Brussels, or see you on your way to Switzerland.” She looked from Pierre to Ivan, managing a small smile. “You are ready to leave?”
Ivan suppressed a dry chuckle. It was not as if he and Pierre had anything to pack. They had nothing but the clothes on their backs and a few toilet articles-a comb, a razor, soap, and a toothbrush-in their pockets. Pierre had also managed to obtain a small derringer, which was now in the pocket of his canvas coat. He had convinced Petrovich to get it for him, telling the man that he did not intend to be taken alive. Ivan didn’t like the idea that Pierre was armed; the Frenchman was impulsive and hot-headed and it was hard to predict what he might do. But Ivan’s protests went by the way. Pierre was resolute, determined. A man in his position must have a gun.
Lottie was speaking. “Since this is likely to be our last time together, there is something I have to know. Which of you put Yuri up to that business in Hyde Park? He could not have made the bomb himself.”
Ivan braced himself against the thought that he would not see Lottie again. “I wish I knew,” he said sadly. “Whoever it was signed poor Yuri’s death warrant.”
Lottie fastened her glance on Pierre, and he shifted uneasily. “I had nothing to do with it, if that’s what you’re thinking. I am no bomb-maker, regardless of what that fool of an inspector claimed. I could not have manufactured that device-and if I had, I would not have entrusted it to Yuri. He was incapable of carrying out a complicated and perilous task such as that.”
Lottie frowned, her face shadowed in the flicker of the candle. “Then where did he get it?” she persisted. “Who could have given it to him?”
