‘But you couldn’t be his saviour… not officially… because you… and Annie – Mrs Pointer – had signed some agreement… your liberty conditional on some official pledge to keep away from matters of state? Something you’d signed in the aftermath of the South African business?’
‘Can’t fault you on your powers of deduction, Detective Coates.’
The man smiled.
‘Although it’s all moot now, of course,’ Coates went on. ‘I mean, if there’s a declaration… an accord… about to be signed between Britain and Russia, kiss and make up, then this whole crisis has been averted.’
‘Wait!’
‘What?’
‘The treaty… the agreement… If the wheels were already in motion this morning, why are the powers that be still invoking Ursa? Still detaining me? It can only mean that Ursa—’
‘It’s still happening… still ongoing…!’
Coates ushered Finch towards the car.
‘Right, we need to get you back to the station as soon as possible. I need to speak to my superiors.’
Finch raised his cuffed wrists. Coates shook his head.
‘You mean I’m still under arrest?’
‘Well here’s the thing… officially, yes…’
‘That’s no good, Detective. If I’m innocent, I expect to be treated as such.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t do that… for the moment. You have to play along.’
He gently nudged Finch into the vehicle.
Unseen, Finch worked his right wrist hard against the cuffs. He had endured enough pain these last few days. A little bit more didn’t seem to matter.
* * *
Chilcot came over. His little dog yapped and growled and ran around with the remnants of the human finger in its mouth, leaving blood spots on the carpet.
He extended his hand, an offer to help Annie up. She had little choice but to take it. Her head felt much clearer. On her feet she was weak but not unstable.
‘We will have some food sent up shortly,’ he said. ‘That will help restore you.’
He led her to the window and the lavender man standing there.
‘There,’ he said.
They were about three floors up. In the courtyard below them, within gates and iron railings, a motor limousine was being wheeled out. Its red bodywork and chrome plating were polished to a mirrored shine. It had a plush red leather interior to match. A uniformed chauffeur loitered nearby, smoking a cigarette. Over the front wheel arches, on little masts, were mounted horizontal tricolours in white, blue and red.
The whole scene seemed bizarre, thought Annie. There she was, somewhere in west London and yet, technically, she was beyond the sovereign jurisdiction of the nation. There were houses opposite, people passing by on the pavement not thirty yards away. They might as well be on a different planet.
‘You… going after Finch. Detaining me here. Is that what Ursa is all about?’
‘You could say that,’ said the lavender man. ‘Part of it, anyway.’
‘And what, November 4th, that was the day you began your little elimination spree, killing the Norfolk fishermen and then anyone else who was party to your misdemeanours in the North Sea?’
Chilcot began laughing. It was a big fruity laugh that she found both insulting and demeaning. He shook his head in mock exasperation at her apparent misreading of the situation.
‘Look there, Mrs Pointer…’
He waved his hand up towards the portrait on the wall – of the young man posed in a breastplate, with sad eyes, standing before a river and a line of trees.
‘…You know who that is?’
She shrugged.
‘Pyotr Velikiy… Peter the Great. Founding father of the modern Russian state. Conqueror of the Swedes, pacifier of the Turks. Six foot eight inches tall. A giant of a man by the standards of his own time, as indeed of today. A colossus in every respect. The man who dragged Russia kicking and screaming into the modern world…’
She feigned nonchalance.
‘So?’
‘You know, aside from his geographical consolidation of what we now call the Russian Empire, dear Peter performed two pieces of magic.’
‘He was quite the entertainer.’
‘The first one is that that he hoodwinked the Russian people into believing they were somehow “European”. He sealed it by marrying its royals into Europe’s great houses and introducing the notion that Russians were signed-up members of the Western Enlightenment, when, till then, Russia had been what it always was: a hybrid, a land that straddled East and West, Europe and Asia, a patchwork quilt of peoples – of Orthodox Christians, Jews, of Slavs and Samoyeds, of Tatars and Cossacks, Mohammedans and Mongols.’
He turned back to her.
‘You think he bound them together with familial love for the mother country, Mrs Pointer, a shared belief in a united destiny?’
‘I’m suspecting not.’
‘Quite right. His enlightened ideals only went so far. He bound them together by bloody autocratic rule, a modus operandi of the Tsars that has endured for four hundred years, since the days of Ivan the Terrible, and one that can no longer, in good conscience, be tolerated. Obfuscation and lies on the part of the Russian government cannot mask an unpalatable and inevitable truth about our homeland – that Tsarist Russia, Imperial Russia, is finished.’
The dog began growling, a pathetic little rasp, as it dropped the finger and began play-fighting with it, batting it around with its paws.
‘And two?’ said Annie.
‘Two?’
‘You said old Peter performed two tricks… Our magician.’
‘Really, Mrs Pointer, there is no need for such sarcasm. But, yes, Number Two. Peter’s other great act of modernisation was the refashioning of time itself. When he was a young man, wandering around Europe, filling his head with fancy ideas, it struck him as ludicrous that Russia should still operate according to an ancient biblical diktat which considered the world to be a mere 5,000 years old, a system of calibration so antiquated that even the Catholics had abandoned it. It seemed utterly bizarre to Peter that while the rest of Europe was in the year 1700, on the cusp of industrialisation, Russia was stuck in the past… in every sense…’
‘And so, he changed it?’
‘Precisely… He brought Russia into the present day. And from then on she would no longer celebrate her New Year on September 1st, either, but January 1st like everybody else. Only, despite revising the years, as a sop to the Church, he kept to the old Orthodox calendar – the Julian rather than the Gregorian one which most of Europe had since adopted. Yes, Russia is still out of step with the Western world, but now, thankfully, by only thirteen days. We may be here today in grey old London on the 17th of November but on the Russian calendar it is still…’
‘November the 4th!’
‘You will not have heard the news yet, Mrs Pointer…’ said the lavender man.
He reached to a nearby table where lay a copy of the Standard. He handed it to her. She saw the huge bold-type headline, ‘PEACE!’
But there was never war.
‘…The Russian ambassador is shortly to have an audience with the British prime minister and foreign secretary as a way of sealing our friendship. They will sign a document which will see off any further talk of war between our nations. Or in your Australian case, our Empires.’
‘Our nations? Which one is your nation?’
He gave a thin smile.
‘The accord will be formally consecrated next week, presented to Parliament, followed by an international peace commission in Paris – officially an impartial inquiry, but in reality a partisan tribunal at which Russia will concede full culpability for her actions under the terms of the Hague Convention, along with the agreed payment of reparations.
‘St Petersburg has done an exceptional job in selling this arrangement to the British government. An act of supreme diplomacy. There is nothing more that Russia wants than to join Britain and France in an
alliance against Germany – to convert the Entente Cordiale into a Triple Entente – and will grovel accordingly, prostrating herself like the third-rate power she is, in this case by acknowledging the stated incompetence of her very own navy, a national humiliation.’
Chilcot took over: ‘What many in Russia wish for, however, is not that which the ruling elite desires. Russia is a crumbling, failed state with a decadent inbred royal family – related to your own, I might add, Germany’s too – that till only recently held its entire population in servitude… serfs.
‘Russia is already engaged in a foolhardy war in the Far East with Japan. It is teetering on the brink of collapse. To which end there are some of us, of a more forward-thinking disposition, who see the bigger picture, take the longer view. We do not see war between Britain and Russia as a disaster at all. Indeed, a two-fronted war against the dominant power in each hemisphere – Japan in the East, Great Britain in the West – would actually be quite desirable, insomuch as it would give that final push, hasten the inevitable… total civil collapse. It suits our purpose so much better…’
‘Your purpose?’
‘…Then we… certain interested parties… can start from scratch and build a society fit for the twentieth century, turning our back on this stupid system of empires and alliances that will ultimately drag us, and you, to Armageddon. Regrettably, our plan in the North Sea failed. And unfortunately, in covering our tracks, we had to take some extreme measures. But our cause, bringing Britain and Russia into war against each other, is not yet lost…’
Down below, the chauffeur slid onto the front seat. Someone cranked the handle and, with some puffs of black smoke, the car coughed into life. Waistcoated embassy valets appeared and opened the car doors. Staff went to swing back the iron double gates to the street. A man stepped out of the building’s entrance, surrounded by apparent well-wishers – a morose-looking grey-haired man in a black suit, with a full moustache, some medal ribbons on his chest and a white, blue and red sash across his shoulder. He was helped on board the car and an associate climbed in with him.
‘Behold, our ambassador – poor oblivious fool; dim decadent aristocrat – off to supplicate before the British Crown,’ proclaimed Chilcot.
‘Fortunately,’ said the lavender man, ‘he will never make it.’
‘Ursa? Is that what Ursa is all about?’
‘As you might put it,’ scoffed Chilcot. ‘What better way to reignite hostilities between our two countries than by having our dear ambassador assassinated on the streets of your Empire’s capital? No matter who actually pulls the trigger – we have British militant workers’ groups just queuing up to take credit. Britain, thus far, has been too pragmatic to declare war on Russia. But Russian pride can only be pushed so far. This time it will be St Petersburg spoiling for war. You think I am acting in a clandestine fashion? There isn’t a single member of this embassy’s staff who isn’t a loyal Bolshevik. I’ve seen to that.’
‘You arrogant bastard… You arrogant bourgeois bastard.’
He uttered another of his smug chuckles. His chihuahua scampered over. He picked the dog up. The chewed finger lay on the floor at his feet, left like some little tribute.
‘There is hardly anyone more bourgeois than yourself, Mrs Pointer. The good news for you is that your husband is a valuable player in this exercise, helping fuel the arms race that will hasten the chaos, and with it our cause. As a hostage you hold great value. We can even smuggle you away under the cloak of diplomatic immunity. His anger, his determination, will be something we can use to our advantage. Another reason we wanted that irritant Finch out of the way.’
Annie swung a fist at Chilcot. With his hands cradling the dog and unable to react, she connected hard with his nose and dark red trickled from his left nostril. The dog began snarling at her and he put it down again. Seemingly taken aback by the sheer audacity of Annie’s blow, he pushed her hard on both shoulders. She fell to the floor. The dog yapped at her.
He turned to the lavender man.
‘Come,’ he said.
They left the room. She could hear the key turn in the lock.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
In his attic room on Eaton Square, Mordecai rechecked his scope and tested the manoeuvrability of his weapon, pulling the stock tightly into his shoulder. Shooting at a moving target required him to not just lock onto it, but follow its line of motion. He would have to anticipate its speed, its path, the crosswind and everything else that could have impact upon the flight of a bullet, perhaps firing slightly ahead if the conditions dictated.
An omnibus clopped past in an easterly direction, the same way as his intended target. On the open upper deck, at the front, sat a gentleman in a bowler hat. Mordecai pulled focus, going in and out until he could see him, clear as day, right there in front of him, rapt in something of a daydream, staring into space.
Mordecai got the man in his crosshairs, the lines intersecting right over his temple. He followed him for ten, twenty yards. He pulled the trigger, squeezing it oh-so-slowly until the firing pin went click in the empty chamber. Life, thought Mordecai… knew Mordecai… was suspended by the most slender of threads.
Passing the other way was an empty horse and cart, clipping along at a fair rate, maybe twenty miles an hour, having, he assumed, just delivered its wares. Mordecai homed in. The driver and his boy sat up front, the former twitching a long whip, evidently complaining about something, the boy with a surreptitious finger up his nostril. The cart was travelling about the same speed as an automobile in such traffic. He repeated the process, this time using the man’s baggy woollen cap as his target. Again… click!
Policemen had begun moving into the square. Pretty soon, within minutes, the last of the traffic had passed and the road was empty, blocked off. A trickle of pedestrians increased along each of the pavements, building into a steady stream. Children were being pushed to the front. They were in uniform, seconded hastily (no doubt on the promise of financial reward on the part of the embassy) from local schools.
Under the looming grey clouds, there was a sudden flowering of paper Union Jacks and Russian tricolours, waved with juvenile fervour. They were being handed out in pairs by young women proceeding down the lines… From the Russian Embassy too, Mordecai was sure, and probably with handfuls of sweets as easy bribes. Mother Russia was doing her utmost to foster goodwill, milking this occasion for all it was worth.
There had been some debate before about whether the square would be closed to normal traffic. The intelligence seemed to keep changing hourly. And now Mordecai resented the fact that not only would he have to perform his task before an audience of children, but that they would be right in harm’s way should he miss.
Should he miss…
He heard the grandfather clock strike a single chime. Half past three. It would not be long. He saw policemen moving in. He looked at the two bullets he had stood to attention. He was now primed and ready. He took one, kissed it, shuttled the bolt and locked it into place in the breech.
Mordecai, do not even entertain the notion of failure.
It was a good sniping position. He had chosen well. Despite the tree’s boughs, Mordecai could get a clear shot. His fulcrum was solid, secure and at a good height. He looked out again, ready, alert. And then he saw him, standing on the other side of the road, inert, just gazing up in his direction… Smert.
Is he here to check up on me?
He studied his flat, expressionless features through the scope, but it was unnerving. It was as if the freak were staring right back through the lens.
And then something else… Something he absolutely didn’t need. It had started raining…
* * *
Back in the police Ford, Finch said nothing. Wedged again between Detective Coates to his left and Sissons the junior constable to his right, he discreetly chafed his right wrist against the handcuffs. It was working. He had drawn blood.
As the first spots of rain appeared on the windscreen, t
he car zigzagged down to the Bayswater Road, turned westwards and back into the traffic, with the driver and PC Webb up front moaning and groaning to each other. Finch looked behind. They had lost the other car already. Though most likely it would catch up.
There was enough noise for Finch to whisper to Coates.
‘The clock’s ticking. The agreement is being signed at four o’clock, you say?’
‘That’s what’s been confirmed.’
‘What time is it now?’
Finch’s wristwatch had been removed at the police station. Coates carried a pocket watch. He flipped it out on its chain.
‘Almost twenty to. Not long now.’
‘Listen…’ urged Finch, ‘if you didn’t want this signing to go ahead, didn’t want peace between Britain and Russia, what would you do?… Your last roll of the dice?… I know what I’d do.’
There was a flash of realisation on Coates’ face.
‘You mean?’
‘That’s right,’ said Finch. ‘I’d eliminate the ambassador. And where better to take him out…?’
‘Damn it, Finch…!’
He called to the driver.
‘Jennings.’
‘Sir?’
‘Turn her around. West Carriage Drive. To Kensington. We’re going to cut straight across the park.’
‘But sir—’
‘Just do as I say.’
While the detective was preoccupied, Finch chafed the handcuff some more. His wrist was bleeding freely.
Above them the skies were darkening fast, the clouds leaden and laden. The temperature seemed to drop several degrees. And then the heavens opened.
‘Shit,’ snapped Coates.
The car was open-topped. While the detective buttoned his coat, the policemen started pulling on their capes.
Shouting to be heard, Coates again berated his driver. Finch seized his moment. He turned to the young policeman next to him.
The Cold North Sea Page 31