She pulled him to his feet and they waltzed at ever growing speed across the floor. Natasha thought how nice it was to be held in these arms and how much more pleasant life would be in this palace than in her place of exile at Tsarskoe Selo. She could hear the music spinning in her head. She wanted it to go on for ever. Mikhail held her ever tighter, one arm pressing firmly in the small of her back. They stopped in front of a huge French tapestry of Bacchus and Ariadne. Mikhail kissed her, very gently at first, then with a growing passion as he felt her respond. Natasha thought she would like it here on Naxos, with the raging seas outside and the smell of the wild flowers on the mountainside and your lips being caressed by Dionysus.
Lord Francis Powerscourt was not thinking of love on a desert island, or even romance in a Russian palace, as he climbed the stairs to de Chassiron’s office on the first floor of the British Embassy, looking out over the frozen city. He was trying to work out how to exploit the fact that he knew the Okhrana were reading the outgoing and incoming traffic to and from the British Embassy. He felt sure he and Johnny Fitzgerald had devised some scheme to exploit a similar situation years ago in the Punjab. Not for the first time he wished Johnny was with him. After Johnny had carried out the requests he was going to send by the Mikhail Shaporov message service, he, Powerscourt, would ask Johnny to join him. That would please Lady Lucy too.
De Chassiron’s enormous desk was covered with telegraph cables, lying in unorganized heaps on the dark green leather. De Chassiron himself was stretched out on the sofa, one hand behind his back, the other doodling notes on a pad in front of him. He was still very pale, as if suffering from shock.
‘My dear Powerscourt,’ he said, the words slightly slurred, ‘how good to see you on day three of the Russian Revolution. Will you join me in a glass of Georgian brandy? They say it is good for the nerves.’ He bent to the floor and half filled a tumbler. ‘And how have the travails of the empire struck you today? Have you witnessed any more massacres? Cavalry charges in the poorer quarters? The Tsar in person with a sabre on a black horse?’
Powerscourt realized that the diplomat was slightly drunk. He must have been drinking for most of the day, for Powerscourt recalled on previous occasions how much alcohol he had been able to consume without showing any ill effects at all. He told de Chassiron about his encounter with the Okhrana. De Chassiron was fascinated.
‘As far as I know, you’re the first Englishman to go in there at all, Powerscourt, never mind come out again alive. Congratulations.’ He didn’t seem to take on board the subtler points about the dead Martin.
‘I’ve been a bad boy today, a bad, bad boy,’ de Chassiron went on, shaking his head slightly now. ‘Been told off by His Nibs. He didn’t like my account of what happened on Sunday. Asked me if I thought I was working for the Daily Mail with lurid and sensational’ – he just about managed to get the word out – ‘accounts of the slaughter of the innocents. He said, the silly old fool, that I was exaggerating what had happened. His Nibs doesn’t seem to realize that some of us here,’ the drunken diplomat was close to tears at this point, ‘do actually care what happens to this bloody country, that we can’t bear to see it being disembowelled in front of our eyes on such beautiful streets with such beautiful buildings. Our brother in Christ, the French Ambassador, usually well informed, says the people will probably all go on strike now. Whole country going to close down while the Tsar plays charades with the family at the Alexander Palace out at Tsarskoe Selo.’
De Chassiron bent down and refilled his glass. Powerscourt thought he should help him upstairs to his rooms quite soon so he could sleep it off.
‘I told His bloody Nibs I’d seen it all,’ he went on, waving his glass at Powerscourt, ‘that I’d held the hands of some of these poor people as they lay dying. No good. Useless. Ambassador says whole thing has been exaggerated by the liberals. Man in Foreign Ministry had told him so. Foreign newspapers are talking of thousands dead. Italians chief ghouls as usual. Six thousand dead, some rag in Rome says. Mind you, if they’d had their way, those bloody Italians, Our Lord would have fed fifty thousand rather than five on that holy mountain in those bloody Gospels. It’s the old story,’ de Chassiron polished off about half of his glass in one enormous gulp, ‘Foreign Office in London meant to represent interests of foreigners. Foreign embassies meant to represent view of the countries they’re stationed in to His Majesty’s Government, not the other way round.’
‘De Chassiron,’ said Powerscourt, knowing that there was limited time to get any sense out of his colleague, ‘I’ve got to send a message to London, to Lord Rosebery and the Foreign Office. How do I do that?’
‘All messages to London have to be cleared by Head of Station, His Nibs,’ said de Chassiron, rising slowly to his feet. ‘Telegraph room’s down the corridor from here. Turn left out of my door, second door on the right. Operated by helpful youth called Crabbe, Ricky Crabbe.’ During this little speech, de Chassiron had risen slowly but steadily to his feet. ‘Going upstairs now, Powerscourt. Don’t tell His Nibs you’ve seen me. Mum’s the word.’
As Powerscourt made his way towards the telegraph room, he wondered if de Chassiron had managed to send any cables to London that day. And, if he had, what they would make of them at Okhrana headquarters at 16 Fontanka Quai.
Ricky Crabbe, guardian and master of the telegraphic equipment, looked to Powerscourt to be little more than twenty years old. He was clean-shaven, painfully thin and had very clear blue eyes.
‘You must be Lord Powerscourt, Lord Powerscourt,’ he said, holding out a rather dirty hand with surprisingly elegant long fingers. ‘Sorry about that, my lord, I’ve not been myself these last two days and that’s a fact.’
‘Where did you watch the events from?’ asked Powerscourt.
‘I was over with my friend Harrison Wisebite Junior at the American Embassy, my lord,’ said Ricky Crabbe. ‘They had a near perfect view of the massacre at the Narva Gates. Then the Americans began sending telegrams to Washington and New York as soon as the first volley was fired. My friend Harrison said it was to tell their friends and their brokers to start selling their Russian stocks and bonds as fast as they could. Anyway, my lord, how can I help you? I think you knew my elder brother, my lord, Albert Crabbe, served with you in Army Intelligence in South Africa?’
Powerscourt looked closely at the young man. Then an elder version of Ricky came to him, again very slim, very cool in action, this one, sending telegraphs out right up to the last moment when the post had to be abandoned before the arrival of the Boers.
‘Albert Crabbe!’ said Powerscourt. ‘Known as Quick-Fingered Bertie to his friends! The finest and the fastest telegraphist in the British Army! What has become of him?’
‘Well, sir,’ said Ricky, delighted to hear the praise of his brother, ‘he got bored with peace. No point staying on at army rates of pay to send out all that routine stuff, Albert said. He went to work for one of those big banks in the City, my lord. He’s in charge of all their telegraphs and telephones and heaven knows what all now. Making a packet of money now, our Albert, always on at me to join him.’
‘We’ll talk about this another time, Ricky,’ said Powerscourt, looking at the clock, wondering if the Okhrana’s decoders worked twenty-four hours a day. ‘I’ve got to send a couple of messages to London. Is the Ambassador fussy about length, number of words and so on?’
‘Don’t think His Nibs knows how the machines work at all, my lord,’ said the young man cheerfully. ‘He’s supposed to see all outgoing messages, but you just write yours out and I’ll send it off for you.’
As Ricky Crabbe checked the inner workings of his machinery, Powerscourt composed his messages with great care. To Sir Jeremiah Reddaway: ‘Proceeding with mission. Please expect inquiry from Russian sources about our meeting in Markham Square. They merely seek confirmation that you were trying to persuade me out of retirement. They have some silly notion that we discussed Martin and the nature of his mission. I hope to have made them see the truth but your help would be most welcome. Powerscourt.’