‘Let them come to you,’ he said. ‘The arrangement has been made most definitely with the people from the Moscow centre that they are to come to Helsingfors to see you there.’
It was arranged that I should accompany my husband as far as Hamburg and there await his return. Except for the few days I had been at Ostend and to which I have already referred, we had not been separated for one day of our married life. But I was fain to acquiesce in the arrangement. His arrival in Helsingfors would be less noticed if he came alone than if I accompanied him. Besides as he was not going into Russia there was nothing particular for me to worry about.
The day before our departure we were leaving the Hotel Terminus, arm-in-arm, when a small dapper man suddenly dashed in front of us and took a snapshot of us. We had not time to recover from our astonishment when he jumped into a waiting taxi and was gone. The incident greatly amused us at the time, but when we told the story to E. that night he became very alarmed and asked all sorts of questions about the man. His alarm communicated itself to me, and I must admit that on the following day, the day fixed for our departure, I was feeling quite unreasonably nervous.
We were to catch the night express for Berlin, and dined beforehand with Z. It was the first time I had met this man, who was well known to my husband, and I must admit at once that the impression he made on me was far from favourable. He came to the station to see us off. My husband had told him that we were going to Berlin, but at the station he put some very adroit questions to me about our journey.
‘I wish you had not let this man bring us to the station,’ said I to my husband.
Owing to the short notice at which our journey had been arranged there had been no time to reserve seats in the sleeper, and my husband bribed the train official to find us some good seats. Until the train was due to start the official put us into a reserved compartment, into which almost immediately there entered a young man. The newcomer began at once to tell us that the compartment had been reserved entirely for him but that he would be honoured if we would share it with him. There was perhaps nothing but courtesy in the remark. What was strange was that he made it in Russian. How did he know my husband spoke Russian? Or what was he? Why should he use a language sufficiently outlandish there in Paris to a stranger who was obviously an Englishman?
Again I had the sensation, with which I had become so familiar, that we were being followed. At Cologne I parted from my husband, for I was going to Hamburg to await his return there, while he was proceeding first to Berlin. It was with a very heavy heart that I stood there on the platform waiting for his train to leave. I know not wherefore, but a feeling of impending calamity was on me. I remember the surprised look on Sidney’s face when, inspired by I know not what strange fear of the future, I suddenly said to him,
‘Please give me E.’s address.’
Sidney wrote it on the newspaper he was holding and handed it down to me.
The world goes on no matter who are taking leave. Trains will not wait forever. An official passed down the platform. A whistle shrilled. I felt Sidney suddenly lift me into his arms. Then he set me down and stepped into the train. I saw his hand waving out of infinite blackness. A lump rose in my throat. I suddenly wanted to cry. Slowly the train gathered speed. I saw the waving hand through the tear mists rapidly receding into the distance. Then it was gone. The train had swept Sidney out of my life forever.
I went on to Hamburg. I met some people I knew there from South America. Queer how I should remember them. One is meeting people one knows every day of one’s life. But I was feeling infinitely lonely and isolated. I wanted to talk to somebody about Sidney. But I dared not. It must remain a secret – where he had gone and why. I heard from him from Berlin.
17 September 1925
My beloved darling (he wrote)
I have a full half an hour (waiting for O.) and can just ‘talk a little’ with you. – It was a very sad journey without you, and most of the time I was thinking about you and wondering how you are. I am glad to feel that now you are with Chamriba and that you will not be so lonely. – Please, my little one, take care of yourself, follow the Doctor’s advice, don’t worry, and come back to me prettier than ever and as much rested as possible. – I shall also take great care of myself, so on that account you must not worry at all. All the rest is on the knees of the Gods. –
I arrived here about six, but was not met by O., who was out of town on urgent business. However I got hold of him by phone about seven and he will be round in a few minutes. By the way, our travelling companion whom you disliked so much was a Spaniard, as I said. I guessed at his nationality from the way he wrapped himself in his rug.
I will finish now as O. may be here any minute.
God bless you, my darling little sweetheart. Be of good cheer and take care of yourself. I love you always beyond everything.
The next letter was from Helsingfors, and dated Tuesday.
22 September 1925
My Sweetheart,
I had a very rotten trip. Sunday we had very bad weather and the little steamer did everything to make the passage very uncomfortable. I was not seasick but felt very headachey and congested. Yesterday about noon we stopped for a short while at Reval and I could gaze from the deck of the steamer upon the scene of my former exploits. Reval with all its natural and architectural beauty wears a forlorn air and I do not envy E. his life there. – It must be like living in a boarding house where the landlady had seen better days. The crowd on the trip was neither interesting nor prepossessing, mostly Germans and Finns. However, I would gladly exchange a Leviathan full of Americans for them and call it a bargain.
We arrived here very late, about 5 p.m. It was very fortunate that I had wired for a room from Paris. I got the one and only free. I got into touch with E.’s assistant (a very intelligent youngster, keen as mustard and most anxious to serve me in every possible way). He could not tell me much more than I already knew, but he attached great importance to the whole scheme and to my participation in it: then I saw Bunakoff (the man I had been in correspondence with). Although he is merely what we call a post office box, he could give me a considerable amount of useful information. B. is a very nice fellow and I am sure you would have liked him at first sight. A gentleman, unpretentious, not an eagle, though not without shrewdness and a considerable sense of humour. He enjoys the full confidence of E. and his assistant, but, as I have said, his rôle is purely secondary. He took me to his flat and gave me a wonderful Russian dinner. The piroshki were a dream, and I longed to put a couple into my pocket and bring them home to you. Mrs Bunakoff was also a dream, but a bad one. Enormous, elephantine female with peroxidised bobbed hair, black eyebrows and eyes like hot house plums, silly as a boot, absolutely ignorant as regards politics, but otherwise harmless and of course most hospitable.
How perfectly normal and sane men get hold of such life companions is the greatest puzzle to me. (I must try and make a limerick on this subject.) Bunakoff and I plunged into our subject only after Mrs B. had retired.
Very soon the two Schultzes came and the conference got into its full stride. The Schultzes (who are the link between the C. and the outer world) are a most extraordinary couple. He is just a boy, probably a very fine and undoubtedly a very brave boy, but of the type which you characterise as ‘nincompoop’. She is the head of the concern, and her very long skirt cannot disguise the trousers which she is wearing. – She is of the American school-marm type, which, strangely enough, is not uncommon in Russia, very plain and unattractive, but full of character and personality. It was most instructive to talk to her (or rather to listen to her, because she did most of the talking). She was full of information. You will understand that I cannot give you here an account of what she said, but if only 25 per cent of what she said is based on facts (and not on self-induced delusion, as is so often the case when the wish is the father of the will) then there is really something entirely new, powerful and worthwhile going on in Russia. – Anyway, when I leav
e here – I shall be fully and definitely ‘fixé-là-dessus’.
Now, however, comes the rub. There has been no news yet from the people we are expecting. A telegram is expected any moment and when it comes I will have to go to Wyborg (a night’s journey from here) to meet them. The conference will last two days at the utmost and then away. – It is already out of the question that I should leave by the Wednesday boat. The next boat is on Saturday, which would bring me into Stettin on Monday morning. But with bad luck, I may have to stay here (or in Wyborg) over the week-end, and get away only on Wednesday week. Until the expected telegram comes, I am completely at sea. Two things only are certain (I) that I must see these visitors and (II) that I must and want to get away as quickly as I possibly can. – The definite news about my movements I will have to send you by wire. – It will reach you earlier than this letter, which you will only get on Saturday morning.
(Here there followed divers instructions to me about my health and he concludes:)
Above all, don’t worry about me. I feel perfectly well and my heart is overflowing with love for you. You are never out of my thoughts.
We love each other so completely that it is impossible that such love should not reap its full reward both in spiritual and material happiness.
God bless you, my sweet, beloved darling, and keep you safe and well until we meet.
Together with this came another letter written apparently an hour or two later.
Sweetheart,
Just a few lines to tell you that the telegram has come, and that I am leaving tomorrow morning for Wyborg. I will be there Thursday and Friday; return here on Saturday morning and leave by the Saturday boat at 2 p.m. I shall write you whether I shall go from Stettin to Hamburg or to Berlin.
At all events on Monday the 28th I shall hold you in my arms – my beloved JJ.
I must repack my things and go to bed. I must be very early.
All my love is yours.
Almost simultaneously with these letters (on 25 September) arrived a telegram from Wyborg.
‘Must remain over week-end leaving by Wednesday boat arriving Hamburg Friday wire me Hotel Andrea Wyborg well lovingly.’
That was the last message I ever received direct from my dear husband, though his parting words to me I was to receive later and in circumstances which I shall presently have to narrate.
Of course I telegraphed him at the Hotel Andrea. I sent him a wire on an urgent business matter, which demanded an immediate reply. No answer. I wired again. Still no answer. On 28 September I wired the Hotel Andrea:
‘Has Reilly arrived or when did he leave?’ The following morning back came the reply: ‘Sidney Reilly shall arrive tonight Andrea.’ On the 30th I wired again early in the morning. I do not know how far I walked that day, in the streets of Hamburg, unable to rest for one minute until the reply should arrive. It came during the afternoon.
‘Reilly not arrived yesterday Andrea.’ Thankfully I remembered the strange premonition which on the platform at Cologne had impelled me to ask for E.’s address. There it was, written on the newspaper which Sidney had handed to me, and I wired at once.
‘No news from Sidney since 25 September. Should have returned today. Hotel Andrea Wyborg expected him yesterday, but wired has not arrived. What steps shall I take? Wire if you have news – very anxious.’
In due course came the reply from E.
‘Have had no news whatever, have telegraphed.’
Telegram from Commander E. reporting to Mrs Reilly that there is no news of Capt. Reilly
However shall I forget the agony of those next few days? In the midst of my own family I was alone. Even to them I dared not breathe a word of Sidney’s movements. What had happened to him? Surely he had not allowed himself to be lured over the border into Russia.
I remembered his own words: ‘Whatever you do, do not go into Russia.’ I remembered K.’s emphatic words on the same subject. What had happened then? Why had he not let me know? Where was he at the moment? What had happened? What had happened?
Several days passed before I received a letter from Commander E.
1 october
Dear Mrs Reilly,
I have heard from no one as to Sidney’s condition. In fact I have had no news from that part of the world since I left.
Judging from your telegram he has apparently undergone the operation after all. This is rather a surprise to me as I thought the doctors in Paris considered it unnecessary. I suppose further complications must have set in which decided him to have the operation. As I understood it the operation was a simple one but his recovery might take a little longer than was expected. We must not get panicky. I am sure he is in safe hands and everything will be done to make his recovery as speedy as possible. It will not help us to send frantic telegrams. We shall hear as soon as he is able to get about again.
On the heels of this letter came another bearing the same date.
Dear Mrs Reilly,
Since writing I have received a postcard dated 27 September which indicates that he was all right then, and it is unlikely that sufficient time could have elapsed by the 29th for him to have completely recovered from the operation, so there is nothing to worry about yet.
The following day came another letter from Commander E., announcing that he had now definitely the information that complications had set in, i.e. that Sidney had gone to Russia.
5 october
My dear Jeff4
I certainly think that it will be a very good idea to consult the Paris Surgeon. Unfortunately I have forgotten his name but I know it began with a K. I have asked a friend of mine by letter to let him know your address and to call on you.
It is a very sad thing about poor old Mutt. I do hope he pulls through all right. You know he was very fond of you, and before going into the hospital he left a letter for you with instructions that it should be sent on if he was incapable of writing himself after the operation. This letter is now being sent on to Paris to you. The doctors have asked that no further enquiries be made about him as it only harasses them. They will report any change in his condition. He has a strong constitution and should pull through, but it will be very slow. He is well looked after and everything possible is being done for him. He will not want for necessities when he recovers, but you will soon be informed how and where to send any money you may wish. I have had no further telegram and so suppose things are taking their normal course.
And so I returned to Paris. What a different Paris it was from the place I had left! The sun was shining brightly, but all his beams brought me no light. Everywhere were people laughing, talking, joking, faring about their business. The traffic roared in the streets. The evening came and the theatres opened at the usual time, as if – as if Sidney had not disappeared to an unknown fate and my heart been shattered to atoms a few short hours before.
I went to the Hotel Terminus, Gare St Lazare, where we had stayed together, where our trunks rested even now. I was alone, and all the rest of the world infinitely removed from me. I had done with it all for evermore. It was my ghost that had returned to visit the place where a short time before I had been so happy.
In the lounge a man stared at me with a sort of triumphant smile. I remembered the face somewhere. But I was past caring. Only when he had gone memory flashed back on me. It was Drebkoff.
General K. called to see me. But he had no news.
He could speak only Russian. He was very kind, very consoling, but – of what use was it all, of what use was life, of what use was anything?
A letter arrived from Commander E., dated from Helsingfors, 11 October.
My dear Jeff,
As I found it impossible to get anything definite out of my friends I finally decided to proceed to the place and see if I could find out anything more definite for you.
As you know the business was of such importance that it was considered necessary to keep it as secret as possible, and this secrecy is making it difficult to get at the facts.
Not being in their confidence, I am in the very unfortunate position of being only an outsider and therefore unable to bring any influence to bear on the subject. By insisting on being allowed to participate I should only work against your interests.
Adventures of a British Master Spy Page 15