‘Yakov! Lyubov moya!’ she shouted, in the best Russian accent she could manage. ‘Do not do this, not for me, I am not worth it, I would just follow you to Land of Summer, please let it go!’
She flung her arms around Kulagin’s neck.
‘Stop this nonsense right now or the deal is off,’ she hissed in his ear. ‘And let me do the talking.’
Amusement dawned in the Russian’s dim eyes. Hesitantly, he lowered his weapon and wrapped his other arm around Rachel. She nestled close to his thick body.
Shaw-Asquith had also lowered his pistol and was staring at them, confused.
‘Sir, please let matter rest,’ Rachel said. ‘Please forgive my poor Yakov, he was not in his right mind. We quarrelled, and he was simply mad—your beautiful words must have reminded him of how I hurt him, do not hold it against him, I beg you. And now he is wounded, my poor Yakov, poor zvezda moya … it is my fault, my fault!’
She poked Kulagin in the ribs on the uninjured side.
‘She … she is right,’ the Russian growled. ‘Sir, please accept my humble apologies. I did not know what I was doing.’
‘Well, then.’ Shaw-Asquith flicked wet blond locks off his forehead. ‘You take back your words about my mother, sir?’
‘I do.’
‘Then, before these witnesses, I declare that I have received satisfaction.’
Scattered murmurs rose from his side of the crowd, but Shaw-Asquith raised a hand and silenced them.
‘My lady. Your intervention was most timely. Would you care to join us for a drink as a peace offering?’
‘I thank you, but I must see to my Yakov’s wound, and … other injuries.’
A camera flashed and Rachel pulled Kulagin in for a deep kiss to obscure his face. His lips were cold. The liquor taste was nauseating, but she held on until the crowd cheered.
The best way to keep the real story away from the press was to give them a better one.
She took Kulagin’s hand. Major Allen ploughed a path for them through the crowd, holding an umbrella above their heads, and then they were back in the glorious glow of the hotel’s ballroom, warm like summer after the garden’s rain.
Half-dragging, half-carrying Kulagin between them, Rachel and the major took the elevator to the fourth floor and escorted the Russian to his room, number 433.
It was a business suite, small but luxurious, with dark wood-panelled walls, thick patterned carpet and a mahogany desk. Kulagin sat down heavily on the couch next to the window, leaned back and looked at Rachel.
‘So, Mrs Moore, are you planning to continue where we left off?’ he asked in Russian. Moore was the alias Rachel had been using during their interviews.
‘In a manner of speaking,’ Rachel said in the same language, then switched back to English. ‘Major Allen, would you be so kind as to fetch a first-aid kit?’
‘Shouldn’t he see a doctor?’ the major asked.
‘Let me find out how bad it is first. Yakov Mikhailovich, please remove your shirt.’
Smirking, Kulagin unbuttoned his shirt and grunted when he pulled it off. His skin was dough-white and the fleshy folds of his paunch rolled as he moved, but his hairy arms and chest were strong, bear-like.
One of the shots had grazed Kulagin’s ribs. The wound was not deep but it started bleeding again when he lifted his arm for Rachel to inspect it. Beneath the liquor, he smelled strangely fresh, of fine hotel soap and light cologne.
She fetched a small towel from the bathroom and told him to apply pressure to the wound until Allen came back. Then she poured him a glass of water. He drank it slowly, setting the glass down between sips, one crooked arm holding the bloody towel like a broken wing.
The view of Regent Street through the window was dissected into an orderly golden grid by the Faraday cage wires that kept unwanted spirits out. The heat from the radiator beneath the window made her damp clothes hot and uncomfortable.
Then it hit her.
I was nearly shot, she thought. I could have died. A quick flash of red pain, and then falling, that’s what it was supposed to be like.
Her hands started shaking. Her heart pounded. There was no reason to be afraid, she chided herself. She wanted to go to Summerland one day, after all. But not like this, not in a messy, random, foolish way, a victim in a boys’ shooting game.
Kulagin lifted his glass. ‘It appears we could both use something stronger, Mrs Moore. I hope you are not unwell. A drink will warm you up. That fop Shaw-Asquith was right about that, at least! And you should get out of those wet clothes.’
Rachel folded her arms to hide her trembling hands and forced herself to smile.
‘You are absolutely right, Yakov Mikhailovich. I will join you in just one moment, wearing something more comfortable.’
Rachel closed the bathroom door behind her and took off her soaked skirt and blouse. They made a dark pile on the floor. The Service was a boys’ world and it helped to dress like a nun. Shivering, she wrapped herself in a heavy bathrobe that was far too big for her. Her hair was a mess. She fumbled in her purse for a brush, focused on the mirror and straightened the thick black tresses with rapid strokes, squeezing the handle in a white-knuckled grip. After a while, the repetitive motion and the gentle pull on her scalp calmed her down.
She wiped off the rain-ruined makeup and studied her reflection with a critical eye. Shorter than she would have liked, with a desk clerk’s posture. Tired grey eyes. Smooth, pale complexion that even a childhood in Bengal had not touched—her best feature. Her husband Joe said it made her look like a photograph. At least that was something. Given the way the case was going, she was unlikely to remain wrinkle-free for long.
The whole thing had been a disaster from the start. When Kulagin showed up at the gates of Wormwood Scrubs and stated that he was a Soviet illegal who wanted to defect, no one actually knew what to do with him. The only thing her superiors at the Winter Court were able to agree on was that the opportunity should be seized before the Summer Court got a whiff of it.
Her own Section F—Counter-subversion—was assigned to formulate a debriefing strategy, led by her immediate superior, Brigadier Harker. Unsurprisingly, Vee-Vee, the head of Terrestrial Counter-intelligence Section V, and Liddell, the deputy chief, both decided to butt in and claim their share of the glory. Crowded by three senior officers, Kulagin clammed up and claimed that a sugar cube they offered for his tea was a poisoning attempt. A furious Harker left the subsequent interviews to Rachel, making it abundantly clear that he was expecting results.
The only thing she had to show for the two weeks of sullen interviews in the Langham’s gilded birdcage was a short list of Russian assets in Britain, mostly code names the Winter Court already knew. All her experience told her that there had to be more. For years, she had argued that they needed direct human intelligence on the Soviets, not just the signals intelligence the Summer Court gathered, and this was her chance to prove her point.
But time was running out. Tomorrow, Rachel and the major would file their reports. Harker, Liddell and Vee-Vee would take one look at them, decide that the Russian was too volatile to be useful, trade him to the Americans for chickenfeed and send Rachel back to her desk to pore over endless files on angry Irishmen.
Unless there was a way to make Kulagin talk before dawn.
When Rachel returned to the room, Major Allen blushed, looked firmly away and set a small first-aid kit and a bottle of alcohol on the table, next to Kulagin’s discarded duelling pistol.
‘Major, could you leave us for a while and make sure we are not disturbed?’ Rachel said.