Sometimes she’d find herself thinking of the Bureau and the Fraternitas Draconum. Sometimes she’d think of her assignment in Paris: a blur of images of a bloodstained carpet, a strange alchemical diagram in an old book, the dark streets of Montmartre by night. Sometimes she’d think about Lil, waving goodbye from the airfield; and then about the offices of Taylor & Rose; and the Loyal Order of Lions; and all the adventures they’d had together. But often she thought about very different things. Orchard House, her childhood home. The smell of wet grass, and furniture polish; piano practice every morning; Papa sitting beside her at bedtime, telling her one of his stories. The pages of her mother’s diary, fluttering beneath her fingertips, the shape of her handwriting in faded blue ink, spelling out her name: Alice Grayson. Memories blended together, like a kind of dream.
Now and then, Nakamura would make a quick hand signal to her from the pilot’s seat, to let her know they were going to descend. But mostly he didn’t seem to notice she was there, his whole attention fixed on flying the plane. When he did bring them swooping to the ground, it was a strange feeling to rattle down to the busy hustle of the airfield, where mechanics in greasy overalls hurried to and fro, fellow pilots called out greetings, or race officials came forward to confirm their times.
At first the airfields had seemed strange to Sophie. But she soon grew accustomed to the hot smell of oil, the quips and jokes between the pilots, and the peculiar language of things like ‘fuel supply’ and ‘rudder control’. There was always a café close by, where pilots and spectators could get hot coffee and sandwiches, and here Sophie would sit, busily checking maps and charts, and making notes.
In Paris, she’d posed as heiress Celia Blaxland, in stylish gowns and expensive jewels. Now she’d become someone else altogether – Alice Grayson, the name on the passport the Bureau had sent her. They’d told people she was Nakamura’s navigator and secretary, which was accepted without question, though it was scarcely a conventional job for a young English girl. But airfields were free and easy places: there were as many eager young women excited by the possibilities of flight as there were young men. There were even a few female pilots: on their first stop, at Liège, Sophie had been lucky enough to meet one of the most famous, Elise Deroche, who the press had christened ‘la femme oiseau’. She’d been quick to take inspiration from the daring Frenchwoman, with a memory of what her detective mentor Ada Pickering had taught her: ‘Never underestimate the importance of the right clothes, Sophie!’ She’d copied Elise’s smart flying costume, travelling in a trim sweater and a divided skirt or slacks – every inch the bold young aviatrix. One or two of the journalists covering the race had wanted to take her photograph, but she always refused politely, not wanting to blow her cover, and she was always quick to slip out of sight on the occasions she glimpsed The Daily Picture’s Roberta Russell at the airfield, knowing that Miss Russell was certain to recognise her.
As the days had passed, she and Nakamura had slowly got to know more about each other. As they waited for a storm to pass in Belgium, he’d told her a little about growing up in Tokyo, the youngest son of a wealthy noble family. As they sat at the airfield in Denmark, waiting for the mechanics to finish a repair to the plane, he talked about being sent away to school in England, when he was just a little boy. He taught her a number of things with immense patience: how to read a map and calculate their flying speed; how an engine worked; and even a few words of Japanese. In return, she found herself confiding in him about herself and about her work. The Secret Service Bureau was a strict secret of course, but Sophie did tell him about Taylor & Rose, and her current mission to find the Count and the stolen notebook.
‘Are you really sure you want to come on with me to St Petersburg?’ she’d asked him, when the final stage of the air race was over. They’d been sitting in the café at the airfield in Zurich, admiring the gleaming bronze medal he had been awarded by Sir Chester Norton himself, after winning third place.
Nakamura had nodded at once. ‘I would like to see as much of the West as possible. Of course, I know England well – and something of France too. But it has been most interesting getting to know more of Europe on this tour, and now I am keen to see still more of it.’
Sophie had known just what he meant. The air race had brought the map of Europe from her old school room atlas vividly to life, and she too felt the same hunger to explore it. St Petersburg intrigued her especially – perhaps because she’d read about her mother’s experiences of travelling there in her old diaries.
‘St Petersburg interests me a great deal,’ Nakamura had said, his thoughts chiming with her own. ‘They have a new Aero Club there, and I’ve heard a lot about a young Scotsman, Mackenzie, who is designing new aeroplanes for the Tsar.’
Sophie hadn’t been surprised to hear that it was primarily for aeroplanes that Nakamura was interested in St Petersburg. She’d seen for herself how passionate he was about aviation: he could talk for hours with the other pilots and was always intensely fascinated by any new designs or developments. He’d even begun working on a few sketches for some new aeroplane designs of his own. Yet even so, his willingness to travel to Russia surprised her. She’d already seen how people looked at him: even in the café, a table of Austrian mechanics had been nudging each other and turning round to stare, as if they could scarcely believe a Japanese person existed – never mind one calmly eating an apfelstrudel. But Nakamura was always calm: their curious glances had seemed to slide right off him, and he’d gone on eating, quite unconcerned. Sophie had asked him about it, and he’d shrugged and grinned. ‘Oh, I got quite used to that at boarding school,’ he’d said. Yet she’d guessed it might be worse in Russia: it was only a few years since Russia and Japan had been at war, ending in a humiliating defeat for the Tsar’s forces. In St Petersburg, would Nakamura be viewed as the enemy?
Just the same, she’d been very glad indeed that Nakamura would be travelling with her. As she’d flipped through the fat dossier that had arrived from the Bureau, she’d begun to feel a little apprehensive about making the trip.
The Bureau had all manner of mysterious ways of sending her messages. Sometimes they would be delivered by shifty-looking errand boys on bicycles, other times handed over discreetly by a mechanic. Once or twice they had even arrived with uniformed officials, who would ceremonially present her with an envelope bearing a grand diplomatic seal. This envelope had been a particularly thick one, containing a stack of Russian roubles, identity papers, and the dossier, which she recognised at once as Carruthers’ work – she’d know his black type and inky scribbles anywhere. It had been accompanied by a brief note from the Chief himself, penned in his distinctive green ink. She had almost heard the sound of his gramophone in the background as she’d read it:
A week later, she and Nakamura had arrived in St Petersburg – this city of smoke and mist, canals and spires. It had been strange at first, but now she knew it well: its smells of river water and incense and warm bread; its rich colours – old gold and bottle green; its sounds of rattling trams, and hooves on cobblestones, and lapping water.
Now, as she strolled back along the quiet streets towards the pink house beside the canal, she felt comfortable here – hands tucked into her pockets for warmth, beginning to wonder what they’d be having for supper. It had been a satisfying day – she was finally making progress with the Count – and yet, there was something that still troubled her. She couldn’t fathom why the precious notebook was lying in a bank vault and why the Count was wasting his time looking at jewels in Rivière’s. Why hadn’t the Fraternitas come to claim it yet? What could they be waiting for? Not for the first time, she began to wonder whether she had got it all wrong, whether they could have discovered she was watching the Count – and were somehow toying with her, playing a kind of game of their own . . .
It was an uncomfortable thought. Even as she considered it, she became aware of a sound on the street behind her. It was the regular pad of footsteps, coming closer – m
ore than one set of footsteps too. As she began to walk a little faster, she heard the footsteps increase in pace.
All at once, she was on alert. Was someone following her? Could it be someone from the Fraternitas? She was perfectly capable of shaking off someone tailing her – amongst the bustle of the Nevsky, it would have been easy – but this was a quiet, dark street. She didn’t want to lead them back to Vera’s but where else could she go? She glanced quickly up into the darkened window of a house, hoping to catch a reflected glimpse of her pursuers, but as soon as she did, she stopped and grinned in relief.
‘Alice!’ called a familiar voice, and Mitya came hurrying up behind her. Vera’s son was a tall, scruffy, bespectacled young man, wearing the green cap favoured by the students of St Petersburg University. ‘You walk so fast. I could hardly catch up with you!’
Two of his student friends came up too. ‘So you can outrun a policeman, Mitya – but you can’t keep up with Alice here?’ teased Nikolai, a cheerful young fellow with a thatch of curly hair.
‘Outrun a policeman?’ repeated Sophie in surprise. ‘What have you all been doing?’
‘Our duty,’ announced Viktor, in a rather haughty voice. He was a slight, sharp-eyed young man who wore his hair close-cropped under his green cap. Sophie knew he was something of a leader amongst the students, and much admired by the others, although she’d never found him as friendly as Nikolai or Mitya’s other friends.
Before she could ask what he meant, Mitya was hustling them all forward. ‘Come on!’ he urged. ‘Mama will have supper on the table by now and I’m starving!’
The House on the Ulitsa Zelenaya, St Petersburg
As they hurried inside the pink house, Sophie breathed in the rich smell of garlic which told her that supper was ready. The house was a dark and cosy place, with creaky staircases, crooked ceilings, and tall shuttered windows that opened out over the greenish water of the canal that lay below. The walls were hung with pictures and icons; the armchairs were strewn with books and newspapers in a variety of languages; a tabby cat slept curled on the hearthrug; and there was always the smoky scent of the crackling fire.
Tonight, the others were already in the parlour, sitting around the big round table with its lace-edged tablecloth. As they made their way inside, the small room seemed crammed with people – talking, drinking and tucking into steaming-hot bowls of Vera’s borscht, possibly all at the same time. When she’d first arrived in St Petersburg, Sophie had found the food odd, but she’d grown to love dishes like this one – a rich savoury soup, served with salted cucumbers, black bread and sour cream.
Now, Boris called out to her in welcome: ‘Alice – come and sit here by me, before these greedy ones eat up all the supper!’
Discarding her coat and hat, she squeezed into the seat between him and Nakamura. It was because of Boris that she and Nakamura had come to be lodging here, in the tall pink house beside the canal. Unlikely as it might seem, the big, bearded man was one of Rivière’s most gifted craftsmen. Looking at him now, with a spoon in one enormous, spade-like hand, and a hunk of black bread in the other, it was difficult to imagine the precision of his work at Rivière’s. Yet Sophie had so often seen those same large hands carefully positioning a tiny pearl into place, or delicately adjusting a minute cog.
Vera pinched her cheek in welcome, and filled her bowl at once with borscht, before turning to wave her ladle furiously in the direction of Mitya and his friends.
‘You stupid boys! What were you thinking, giving out those leaflets in a public place like that? You could have been arrested!’
‘But Mama, we had to spread our message,’ protested Mitya, taking his own seat. ‘It’s important. People have to know the truth!’
‘That may be the case,’ said Vera darkly. ‘But you won’t spread your precious message very far if you’re arrested and locked up in prison – or worse!’
‘Ha! They couldn’t possibly arrest us,’ boasted Nikolai. ‘We’re too fast for those policemen. They didn’t even catch a glimpse of us. We ran as quickly as hares – they could never have caught up!’
He laughed but Vera didn’t look very amused. ‘It’s not a laughing matter,’ she said sharply, as she handed him a bowl of borscht.
‘But Mitya is right,’ argued Viktor. ‘Sometimes we have to take risks in order to show people the truth – to open their eyes. The workers are being exploited, and the Tsar has nothing but contempt for ordinary people. Look at the way he hides in his grand palace in the country, when his people have need of him! His policemen will arrest anyone who raises their voice to speak up for justice – or his soldiers will shoot them down like dogs in the street. It isn’t right! We cannot simply stay silent. We must take action – something must change.’
‘The Imperial system is outdated,’ agreed Mitya. ‘It’s barbaric! We should have a parliament of our own, like other countries, so that the people can have a voice. Russia must become a Republic.’
‘A Republic is all very well, but it would be nothing without a wise Tsar to govern it,’ objected his father.
‘A wise Tsar, perhaps,’ argued Vera. ‘But it must be said that our Tsar has not always shown the greatest of wisdom.’
‘Hmph! It is the fault of that holy man, Rasputin, pouring poison in his ears,’ rumbled Boris disapprovingly.
‘That’s right!’ exclaimed Nikolai. ‘You wouldn’t believe some of the stories about him I heard in the tavern yesterday. Did you know that . . . ?’
But before he could say any more, Boris held up his hands. ‘None of your tavern gossip here,’ he said gently. ‘This is a respectable house, and there are children and ladies present.’
Sophie was eating her borscht, listening with interest. She’d never known anywhere that politics was discussed so often, and with such fervour, as in this house. Even the London suffragettes she knew, who fought so tirelessly for women’s right to the vote, were not like this. At Vera’s, politics were debated morning, noon and night – over breakfast, dinner and supper. Everyone seemed to have a different view: Boris was a traditionalist, who believed Russia must have a Tsar. He even kept a photograph of the Tsar’s children hanging in the hallway, taking especial pride in the part he had played in crafting music boxes for them at Rivière’s. But Vera was more critical, and as for Mitya and his student friends, they were strongly in favour of abolishing the monarchy in favour of revolution and democracy. They believed that ordinary Russians should be able to vote for a people’s government, and attended many meetings, reading circles and lectures with others who believed the same. Now, it seemed, some of their radical activities had led them to a narrow escape from the police.
Sophie knew that expressing these kinds of views in St Petersburg could be dangerous. Since the assassination of Stolypin, there were even more suspicious mutterings than usual about ‘reds’ and ‘anarchists’ stirring up trouble, and the police seemed to be everywhere in their dark uniforms. You could be watched, searched, arrested or even imprisoned for nothing more than a policeman’s hunch that you might be a political agitator. Then there was the mysterious Okhrana – the Tsar’s secret police, who were rumoured to infiltrate every corner of the city, listening for even the slightest whisper of revolution.
‘If the Tsar isn’t careful, he’ll get what’s coming to him,’ said Viktor now, as he reached out for the dish of pickles. ‘Just like Stolypin.’
Vera frowned. ‘Whatever you may think of him, shooting the poor man like that in cold blood in a crowded theatre was a shocking thing to do!’
‘Of course, violence is always regrettable – but sometimes it is necessary, if there is to be real change,’ Viktor announced grandly.
Nikolai nodded, as if this was an idea he had heard many times before. But Mitya looked more doubtful, and Boris shook his head as he wiped the last of his borscht out of his bowl with a piece of bread. ‘If you had seen the true consequences of violence, you wouldn’t make such declarations,’ he said heavily. ‘The bombs, the as
sassinations, the blood in the street. If you had grown up witness to all that, as I did, you would not talk so easily of violence.’
Vera nodded in agreement. ‘Quite right,’ she said crisply. ‘And before you start rolling your eyes at me like that, young Viktor, let me tell you, it is not only us older people who think so. You agree with me, don’t you, Alice?’
Sophie looked up from her bowl. She found everyone was looking at her, and for a moment, she hesitated. It was not an easy question to answer. Of course, the murder of Stolypin was shocking and wrong – and of course she didn’t believe such a violent act could ever be right. Yet her father had been a military man: he had believed in the heroism of the battlefield, and raised her on stories of valiant men, fighting for honour and justice. Surely he would have agreed with Viktor that sometimes violence was justified – if the stakes were high enough? And she’d felt that herself too, hadn’t she? After all, she’d faced down the Baron with a gun in her hand – and she knew she would have shot him herself if she could.
But: ‘Yes,’ she said simply, after a moment. ‘I agree with you. I don’t believe violence is the answer.’
‘Nor do I,’ said Captain Nakamura.
Viktor looked from one to the other of them in annoyance. ‘And yet no more than five years ago, your countrymen were waging violent war against ours,’ he snapped back to Nakamura. ‘What have you say to that?’
Spies in St. Petersburg Page 6