by Janice Law
Out of the cab. He steadied himself on the car to pay the driver, then draped his arm across my shoulders, staggering me with his weight. “Steady on,” he said in English.
“I’ve had a bit of gas myself, you know.”
“A mere whiff.” Maybe he’d suffered more harm than I’d realized, because he started talking about gas attacks on the trenches. He stood on the sidewalk raving about clouds of chlorine, mustard, and phosgene gases and swearing like a trooper. I only got him into the house with difficulty, and I had to hand him the Webley before he would reveal his floor, the second, and his flat, directly across from the stair landing. I hoped he was not going to return to the western front like a dangerous chap I’d known in Berlin.
But the Webley had a calming effect and the box of bullets and the documents even more so. He unlocked the door to a big, square room with fine high windows. Shutters damped down the bright afternoon light; old but comfortable furniture and rose striped wallpaper completed the decor. My uncle—for despite the dyed hair and bad tailoring he was definitely Uncle Lastings once again—sat down heavily on the sofa. He examined the Webley with care and made sure it was loaded, before clicking on the safety and setting it on the table beside him. “We’ll have a whiskey.” He nodded toward a buffet well equipped with bottles and glasses. “Make mine a double.”
I wondered if that had been part of the cure in the trenches.
I gave him a large glass and sat down across from him with a slightly smaller one, since my stomach had not fully recovered. “I need to know about Alexi,” I said.
Chapter Nine
“Alexi tried to kill me,” Uncle Lastings said heavily.
“Why would he do that?”
My uncle took another sip of whiskey. His color was returning as if the great northern cure-all was doing its work. “Greed, my boy. A serious vice, one of the Seven Deadly. You might not believe it, but I got part of my education from a curate.”
I was afraid that my uncle’s mind was becoming unfocused, maybe conveniently so. I cut off his reminiscences of the curate, a man devoted to foxhunting, pheasant shooting, and single malts, to ask, “Alexi. What is he? What does he do?”
Uncle Lastings studied the rose-patterned stripes as if seeking inspiration. “He does this and that,” he said.
“Besides attempting to kill you with a leaking gas line.”
My uncle sighed. “That’s about the size of it.”
“Not good enough.” I was beginning to lose my temper. “What’s he doing in France—besides whatever you two have going—and what’s his relationship to a man named Bogdan Anoshkin?”
Well! Talk about the magic word. Uncle Lastings sat bolt upright. “What do you know about Anoshkin?”
Now the shoe was on the other foot. Now my uncle was desperately interested. Now I was the one considering the wallpaper and checking the technique on the roses: three tones of pink for the flowers, two of green for the leaves. I was thinking that they were not up to Armand’s standard by any means, when my uncle, reviving by the minute, lunged over and seized the front of my shirt.
“Anoshkin!” he repeated.
I put my hand on his wrist. “I know something, but I have a friend in need. Maybe you can help.”
He wasn’t pleased at this appeal for mutual assistance, and I think he would have walloped the information out of me if he’d felt at all like himself. As it was, we went back and forth for a few minutes before he thought to ask why I was interested.
“Alexi has a hold over Inessa, and as she is part of the troupe of Les Mortes Immortels—”
He flapped his hand, dismissively. Not good enough.
“A friend of mine is in love with her.”
“Romantic fool,” said my uncle. “And more fool you to get involved.”
Although I had to agree with him, I said, “You’re lucky I did. If I hadn’t come by today, you’d be in the Paris morgue. So what’s Alexi’s real business?”
He sighed and took another drink. “Alexi is ex-military, a political official whose real loyalties are uncertain. My best guess is that he’s an assassin. The NKVD sends them out after dissidents, czarists, and old Bolshies who fall afoul of Comrade Stalin. Alexi fits the picture, and today confirms it. He’s a professional.”
Nothing that sinister had crossed my mind, but the idea did open possibilities. “He must have plenty to keep him busy in Paris,” I said, thinking of the Cossacks and the murky political currents in the exiles’ favored cafés. “Why bother with some scam with you?”
My uncle shook his head. Now it was my turn to contribute. “Anoshkin,” he said and waited.
“He and Alexi were both political officials back in Irbit, where Inessa’s family was in exile. The two Red officials knew each other there.”
My uncle nodded in a knowledgeable way. “Inessa’s people must have been minus six, exiles who had to live outside the big, strategic metropolitan areas.”
“Irbit apparently qualified. Anyway, the parents died of TB and hardship, and Inessa came under Alexi’s dubious protection. As you know already.”
He nodded.
“What you maybe don’t know is that Inessa really did have a brother, a younger brother named Pavel. When I told her that the boy had entered France with Anoshkin, she was horrified. Horrified that a man of his reputation had custody of her brother and horrified because she reckoned Alexi had sold Pavel to Anoshkin and used either his money or his influence or both to get her safely into France.”
“How old was the boy? And what does he look like?” my uncle asked, all focused and less appalled than interested—I wasn’t sure what that told me.
“He was eleven at the time with a face like an angel, according to Inessa. She stays with Alexi in the hopes of finding the boy in Paris.”
“He could be anywhere.”
“Ah, but he got to Paris.” I gave him a digest of what Jules and I had learned from Monsieur Chaput. “Pavel and Anoshkin shared the same address until Anoshkin left for Istanbul a year ago. At that point, Pavel disappeared from the public records. What I need to know is who this Anoshkin is and what he’s done with Pavel.”
Uncle Lastings leaned back on the sofa without saying anything for several minutes. “Deep water, my boy,” he said at last. “We’re in deep water.”
“But have we a chance of finding him?”
He thought a minute. “If he’s alive and in Paris, probably. But it won’t be easy. Anoshkin is, like his sometime friend Alexi, an NKVD specialist.”
My uncle paused as if to gather scattered thoughts and raised his glass for a refill. I obliged. When I sat down again, he said, “Anoshkin’s specialty is blackmail. His job is to collect damaging information about foreign diplomats, politicians, and military men, usually military attachés. Documents are good, but pictures are preferred.” He gave me a questioning look to see if I understood.
“Must be tricky work.”
“In Paris?” He gave a snort. “A bit harder than in Berlin but only just. Of course, your upscale brothel is not going to cooperate with a Soviet operative armed with a spy camera. Why would they? But Anoshkin could take another tack: He’ll set up a honeypot, a little private enterprise with someone very special.”
“An underage boy of exceptional beauty.”
“If that is the taste of the target, certainly. And I suspect it is. There are candidates in our embassy and probably in others,” he said a trifle grimly. “Otherwise, it would have been less fuss all around to work with your friend Inessa.”
“Unless Alexi insisted on keeping her for himself.”
“Knowing Alexi, he would have sold either one or both. But who knows? Men are fathomless.”
“I still don’t understand why he ventured this painting scheme with you. Wouldn’t it interfere with his other work?”
“Maybe he consid
ered it a useful front,” my uncle said, “or maybe he is tired and wants out. As no one gets to retire from the NKVD, I suspect Alexi’s thinking of Argentina or the United States or Australia. Maybe with your friend’s girl.”
“He was not too tired to tamper with the pipe.”
My uncle shrugged eloquently and ran his hands through his dreadful red hair. Perhaps he was returning to Claude after all. “Old habits die hard, and he’s greedy. Plus,” he added after a moment, “he doesn’t trust me.”
If he expected me to be shocked at this, he was due to be disappointed. “He planned to kill or disable you and remove the paintings?”
“I think that’s likely. I thought I had a bit more time to let the Matisse dry. But I was weak on the perimeter, my boy, a fatal error every time. I was forgetting that Alexi knows nothing about art. Unlike me, who’s had a good advisor.” He leaned over and patted my knee. “As for the paintings, I suspect he’s there now.”
I couldn’t help glancing at the Webley.
“Don’t think of it. A shoot-out in that quartier would jeopardize other plans. And Alexi will be an excellent shot and hard to surprise.”
He sounded so sensible that I thought the gas had caused real damage until he winked. “Best of them already in transit,” he said. “I didn’t trust him, either.”
He laughed and raised his glass, but I was uneasy. In the course of a fraud, admittedly an amusing one, my uncle had managed to offend a professional assassin, who’d already nearly killed him. Here we sat, hungover with gas, in a flat that would be all too easy for a man of Alexi’s skills to locate. Was Uncle Lastings a good shot? I very much hoped so.
“Not to worry,” my uncle said. “He wouldn’t know a Rembrandt from a postcard artist.”
“Though he will surely have counted the paintings.”
“Perhaps he has his reasons for leaving prematurely,” Uncle Lastings said. “I believe that your ridiculous theatrical is winding down?”
“Last show tonight,” I said.
“It’s the perfect time to leave with the paintings and the girl. Too bad for your friend.”
I got up at this.
“Where are you going?”
“If you’re right, we have to get Inessa away from Alexi, for now she will leave him. When she learns what Anoshkin’s about, I know she will.”
“You will upset everything.” My uncle picked up the Webley.
I found that, like Pyotr, I preferred to have all the cards on the table. “Would you shoot me, Uncle Lastings?”
“I’m full of family feeling, my boy, but Claude might.”
I sat down again on the edge of the chair. “Will Alexi take the van?”
“He does not have the keys. He will have had to make other arrangements.”
“So we get the van, and my friend and Inessa leave from the theater before Alexi shows up as usual with the cab. What would that cost you?”
“Quite a lot if he spots the van. He couldn’t help but recognize it. And disaster if we should meet him at the shop.”
Uncle Lastings did not sound eager, but I picked up on the pronoun, we. “You always say, ‘Get the civilians out of the firing line.’ Get Inessa and my friend away, you’ve got a clear field of fire.” Was that the right term? I had the feeling I was mixing my military metaphors. Maybe the gas had affected me, too. “Besides, if Inessa isn’t being watched every minute, she can help in the search for Pavel.”
My uncle sat toying with the Webley as if we had all evening when, in fact, it was only two hours till curtain time, and I still had to convince Inessa and devise a plan with Jules. That was assuming Alexi delayed their departure until after the show. Would he do that or would he say the hell with the Theatrical Imperative—the show must go on? I needed to leave; at the same time, I sensed negotiations had reached a delicate point.
Uncle Lastings is never without what he calls an exit strategy. He is also rarely without irons in the fire: note the plural. Patience, Francis, Nan said in my ear, and I made myself lean back in the chair, although I couldn’t help jiggling one foot.
My uncle noticed and smiled, showing his bad dentistry and long canines. I had not noticed before how doggy his mouth looked. There was a pause before he said, “I think we should let bygones be bygones, in the interest of presenting a united front.”
Shades of his last scam involving pamphlets that advocated, if I remembered right, a United Front Against Barbarism and Communism. A fat lot of good that idea had done.
“I might be able to put some help your way,” he continued.
“When? The play closes tonight. The only time Inessa is out of Alexi’s sight is when she’s on the boards. Or posing for your pictures. Tonight’s our last chance—unless he leaves before the show. He might, you know. He might pack the goods and try to force Inessa to go before the performance. Do you know where they stay? Jules probably knows.” I jumped up in agitation, and my uncle again told me to sit down.
“Coolness under fire is essential,” he said.
“You don’t understand. If we can’t get her away, she’ll kill him. Or try to. She’ll never forgive him for Pavel. Never. And I doubt she will be able to hide her feelings much longer.”
“Timing is everything in war and love,” my uncle agreed, then added, “I can supply a vehicle.” He waved his hand. “I will call my landlady’s butler.”
“If Alexi is at the shop . . .” I began. The butler had been kind. I didn’t think that throwing him in the way of an NKVD assassin was a good idea.
Uncle Lastings was unperturbed. “Luc is a resourceful chap who has a key to the van. Your part will be to get Inessa and your friend out of the theater well ahead of the final curtain. I can collect them.”
I saw a dozen little problems with this, but it could work. It was possible—if I could leave this very minute, preferably with money for a cab. I needed to talk to Jules and Inessa. There were arrangements to be made for the machines and for a stand-in for Human Hope, a mass of details that made my head, already aching from the gas, throb some more.
My uncle nodded sagely. “It can be done by a boy of your abilities. In the interests of time, I will say no more. But I need something in return.”
I was already halfway to the door. “Yes,” I said, eager to be gone. “I’ll give you a hand.”
“That’s the spirit that built the empire,” my uncle said.
Which really should have warned me, but I was thinking of the performance and of what could be adjusted and of everything that could possibly go wrong.
Uncle Lastings gave me some francs for the cab. “Curtain comes down at what—nine? Nine thirty?” he asked.
“Never later than nine twenty.”
“Nine then. Twenty-one hundred on the nose. Stage door.”
“Right.”
“Come by tomorrow, and I’ll brief you on our next step.”
I agreed, of course; what else could I do? Then I hustled down the stairs and out to the street. I found a taxi on the boulevard and stopped first at the apartment to pick up Jules. On the way to the theater, I gave him an account.
“But can we trust this Claude Roleau? You said yourself he’s a scoundrel.”
I’d expected resistance from Inessa but not from Jules.
“Of course he’s a scoundrel. I know; he’s my uncle. But I saved his life today and that’s put him in a helpful mood. That and the gas.”
“Your uncle!”
More explanations necessary. We arrived at the theater with Jules only half committed and no plans for anything. Fortunately, Inessa, better acquainted with the NKVD, heard me out with clenched fists. “I will kill him. I will kill them both.”
“But not yet, Inessa. There is a chance to find your brother. If Claude is correct, there is a chance, and it won’t be just us looking for him, either. So you have to go tonight.
”
Her face was set.
“You’ll need to leave the stage nine sharp. Out the stage door with Jules. There will be a green works van. Get straight into it and go. Jules will think of somewhere. Or Claude will have an idea.”
She thought no, and then she thought yes. You can bet there was a discussion about this, ending with the conviction that it could be managed. Maybe.
“You can take my machine,” Jules said. “For the last few minutes.”
“Human Hope disappears,” Inessa said. “That is a problem.”
“Leandres will be furious,” Jules said, “but the audience won’t know the script.”
“It’s hard to follow in any case,” I said.
“When there is no Human Hope at the final curtain—”
“You will already be gone.”
“And then we start the search for Pavel,” she said. “Then we start in earnest.”
Chapter Ten
Jules gave me a hasty lesson on his machine. I was to work a lever that swung the steam shovel–like head around, not very taxing except the motions had to be coordinated with both lights and music. I struggled to tell one tune from another and found this assignment so tricky that we decided I would only take over at the last minute. Inessa packed her street clothes in a borrowed sack, and everything was ready for her quick departure with Jules until the houselights gave their preliminary dimming. It was Inessa’s habit to check the house at this point. We could already tell from the rustling of programs and the clatter of seats out front that it would be a good finale, and the atmosphere backstage was buoyant.
I was standing in the wings when she drew her head back from the gap in the curtain, her face stricken.
I touched her shoulder. “What is it?” I whispered.
“Alexi is in the house! Front row center. He is waiting to see the show!” Inessa began muttering in Russian. “He suspects something. I know he does.”
A major complication, making everything more delicate and dangerous—or did it? “He can’t be waiting in the alley if he’s sitting in the theater,” I said, thinking that Uncle Lastings would be safe in the van whenever he came.