‘Why not, pray?’
‘The gas is still lying there. I cannot order my men forward into the same fog of poison that has decimated the Frenchmen. They too would suffer the same fate. It would be madness to follow up after a gas attack like this one.’
‘Presumably,’ said Powerscourt, ‘if the wind changed it could blow your own gas back into the German lines. There again your troops would suffer the same fate as their enemies.’
‘Exactly so,’ said the German, ‘it is yet another reason why this terrible weapon should never be used. It could boomerang back into the people who sent it there in the first place.’
There was a loud knock at the door and two well-built soldiers burst into the room. ‘Begging your pardon, sirs, but we found this one sketching in his little book outside the plant where they make the stuff, sir.’
Powerscourt remembered the glint that could have come from the sun on a pair of binoculars on the edge of the forest. Perhaps they too belonged to this man, currently wriggling as hard as he could to escape his captors. He was wearing a very long greatcoat with a cap that could be pulled down low. He had a small beard and a great air of injured righteousness, as if he’d been caught defending the Holy of Holies.
‘Let me go, you fools. You can’t treat me like this. I am a diplomat accredited to the Court of St James.’
Powerscourt remembered Rosebery telling him during his time as Foreign Secretary that at least a third — if not a half — of those who presented themselves and their papers to the Court were spies of one sort or another.
The German and the Frenchman tried to make themselves as invisible as possible. They did not want to be seen by anybody outside their own circle. If their presence here was known to the authorities in their own country, they could be tried for treason and shot. They were very brave to risk the wrath of the authorities in their own military hierarchy. Visibility only added to the prospect of capture and exposure.
Then the stranger made his move. He seemed to slump down for a moment. As he rose he thrust his knee with all his power into the groin of the guard on his left and smashed his other elbow into the face of the guard on his right. They seemed to be holding him, but with one great heave he wriggled free and headed off down the corridor at full speed. Powerscourt set off after him, conscious — as he had been on more than one occasion on this investigation — that he was not as fast on his feet as he had been. Danvers Tresilian picked up the telephone and began barking out orders. He shouted to Powerscourt as he set off in pursuit of the stranger, ‘For God’s sake, man, whatever you do, don’t go into the kitchen.’
26
Pulling up is critical to the success of a dancer because without it, the simple act of rising up would be extremely difficult. It involves the use of the entire body. The feeling of being simultaneously grounded and ‘pulled up’ is necessary for many of the traditional steps in ballet. To pull up, a dancer must lift the ribcage and sternum but keep the shoulders relaxed and centred over the hips, which requires use of the abdominal muscles. In addition, the dancer must tuck their pelvis under and keep their back straight [so] as to avoid arching and throwing themselves off balance. Use of the inner thigh muscles as well as the ‘bottom’ is very helpful in pulling up. Pulling up is also essential to dancers en pointe in order for them to balance on their toes.
The rag-and-bone man did not seem to be stopping at very many houses in London’s East End that morning. Perhaps it was too early. Karl Lodost, Lenin’s man sent from Cracow to look after his business interests in London, had called on Arthur Cooper two days before and informed him that he would be coming to take the pamphlets away in this unusual fashion and at this unusual hour. As he stacked the bundles of revolutionary rhetoric onto the back of the cart, Cooper wondered if this would be his moment in the great hall of historical fame, a revolution or revolutions started somewhere in Europe, inspired by Lenin’s words that had been stacked for three whole days in the attic of his little house. The packets of pamphlets were all stamped ‘BALLETS RUSSES, CUSTOMS CLEARANCE, ONWARDS DESPATCH’.
As he watched them trundle quite slowly up his street, he also wondered by whom and where they would be opened. When the cart had turned the corner into Union Street, he went back into his house to prepare some breakfast. He had not waited to see the milk float that seemed to follow Karl Lodost’s rag-and-bone cart towards Covent Garden and the West End of London. The milkman didn’t seem to be stopping to make any deliveries either.
Powerscourt hadn’t time to wonder about kitchens or poison gas recipes as he set off down the passage. The stranger seemed to have vanished. The thump of his boots told Powerscourt he was moving up the corridor. A set of steps led down into a lower level of hell, beneath where he was now standing. There was a prominent sign at the top that nobody could have escaped: KEEP OUT! AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY! As he too turned the corner he saw his opponent making full speed towards a great set of double doors. Even at fifty yards, Powerscourt picked up the traces of a terrible smell and a dull noise that might have been machinery of some sort. Maybe, he thought, running towards the entrance, this was the Devil’s Kitchen, where Lucifer or the Devil himself prepared menus of death for their victims. Human rather than crème brûlée, Enemy Flambé a speciality of the house.
It was the sound that struck Powerscourt as he made his way warily through the double doors. It was the throb of many giants hissing in unison, with the odd extra gurgle coming in from the side. The room was circular, about fifty feet by fifty. Great grey vats or silos lined the walls.
Powerscourt thought he could count thirteen of them. A series of pipes of varying shapes and sizes led down from each vat to the central section, a large open pit, the oven of the place. Very steep slopes led down to it from the main body of the death chamber, in case anybody needed to give the monstrous stew a stir or throw extra ingredients into the inferno. This was where the noise came from as the devil’s brew marinated or stewed, surrounded by the waters of the Thames and the countryside of England. Powerscourt saw the advantages of the river setting — the Thames could carry away at full speed any amount of noxious leftovers, the debris of the kitchen that even the dogs and the local vermin wouldn’t touch.
The Russian was right on the edge of the cauldron, sketching as fast as he could.
‘Who are you?’ asked Powerscourt.
‘My real name is immaterial. I am a patriot. I love my country. On patriotic missions like this one, I go under the name of Andrei Rublev. When I have finished my work here, I am going to kill you.’
‘That’s very considerate of you,’ said Powerscourt, feeling his feet going on the slippery floor. ‘Might I have the honour of knowing which nationality is going to take me to the other side?’
‘You may, you may indeed,’ said the man, turning over another page of his notebook. He’s a cool customer, this one, Powerscourt thought, finishing his work before he moves in for the kill.
‘I come from Mother Russia, the land of Kievan Rus and the home of the holy monks.’ Powerscourt wondered if he went to top-up courses in fanaticism with Rasputin in the Tsar’s village after a session with the Delphic oracle.
‘And what are you doing here?’ asked Powerscourt, playing for time. Surely that bloody civil servant with the Cornish name could have sent some soldiers here by now?
‘You do not understand. Russia may be building factories faster than any other power in Europe. But we do not have the knowledge acquired by you people in the decadent West. We have to steal to learn how to make the weapons of our enemies. We always have and we always will. Then Russia can take her seat at the top tables of the world. We would have the same weapons, including gas, as our enemies — and Mother Russia would not go naked to any conference table.’