It took some time to find her way down to the courtyard because the house—houses, really—seemed like a labyrinth. The young voices rose and fell, coming from this direction and that, until she turned the handle on a large wooden gate and found herself the object of many astonished eyes.
One of the women—a girl, really; she couldn’t have been much more than fifteen—broke the spell by walking forward, smiling, and ushering Caitlin to one of the seats. “You must be our father’s guest,” she said slowly in English, before unleashing a torrent of Urdu at the other women and children.
Caitlin introduced herself.
“I am Maneka,” the girl said, bringing her hands together in a namaskar. Like all the other girls, she was wearing a white muslin shift with a colored border. Bangles carved from bone circled her forearms. “You are English?” she asked.
“American. I grew up in New York City. Have you heard of it?”
“Yes. There’s a picture in one of my books—the Statue of Liberty.”
“That’s the place. Now can you tell me the other girls’ names?”
Maneka introduced everyone in turn, starting with Katima, whom Caitlin knew was Sinha’s wife, and then presumably working her way down through the family pecking order. The three adult women smiled and brought their palms together; the seven other girls giggled and did the same. The big bright eyes in the dark brown faces made them all seem astonishingly beautiful.
Katima’s English was not very good, and after sharing a warm but halting conversation with Harry’s wife for several minutes, Caitlin was claimed by one of the girls, who shyly asked her to come and see a pair of lizards resting on a rubbery leaf on the other side of the courtyard. Then another child demanded attention, and another, until Maneka pulled rank and asked for help with her English. By the time an hour had passed, Caitlin was feeling almost part of the family.
On those rare occasions when she had some time for reflection, she felt the gentle pull of two contradictory emotions: on the one hand, the old anger at women’s position in the world—these women sequestered in their courtyard, while the men ran the world outside—and on the other, a slight hint of envy.
What was she envious of? The simple camaraderie, perhaps. And knowing your place in the world rather than having to fight for it every day. Which was no more than she should have expected—no one knew better than a Zhenotdel worker how hard it was for women to set aside those expectations learned in childhood and reinforced each day thereafter.
Watching one of the smaller girls rocking a doll to and fro in her arms, Caitlin wondered, not for the first time, whether she wanted children. Maybe later had always been the answer, but she was in her thirties now, and she didn’t want age to decide the matter for her.
Something of this must have shown in her face, because Maneka’s next question was on the button. “Children,” the girl said tentatively, waving an arm at the ones all around them. “You have?”
“No,” Caitlin said. She still could. She could turn her back on Russia, stay with Jack, hope to bear their children. Was that a life she wanted? Was that the life she wanted most?
Deep inside the heavily perfumed bush, McColl removed the kurta, dhoti and turban he had been wearing on top of his European shirt and trousers. That was the trouble with the British Empire, he thought, rolling the trouser legs down—if you didn’t want to stick out like a sore thumb, you had to swap outfits every time you changed social circles.
After stuffing the Indian clothes into a carpetbag, he emerged from the bush, lingering in its shadow until he was sure that the dark road was empty. Once convinced, he started walking. Ahead and to the left, the Delhi ridge was silhouetted against the stars; on either side of the rutted road, large, sprawling bungalows nestled beneath the trees.
He walked on, following the road around the base of a low, forested hill until he saw the familiar shape of the visitors’ bungalow. McColl had lodged there himself in 1916 and, during his reconnaissance that afternoon, had not been wholly surprised to find someone he knew in residence. The fact that it was Alex Cunningham, whom McColl had worked and often sparred with in 1915, had been something of a bonus. The other man was bright enough, but he was also one of Five’s less industrious agents.
There were no lights shining. Cunningham, McColl knew, was rather partial to a social drink, and would probably still be at the club. And, like any prudent intelligence agent, he had always insisted on the servants living out.
As McColl walked up the path, the breeze rose, stirring the branches of the tamarind trees and scenting the air with jasmine. Above the bungalow roof, a crescent moon was hanging in the eastern sky.
The front door opened to McColl’s push. He went in, down the short hall, and into a large but sparsely furnished room. In the reflected moonlight, he could make out a gramophone with a huge silver trumpet perched on a tea chest. A low table bearing a brass tray with whiskey decanter and glasses stood next to a familiar armchair. Beside it, on a chest of drawers, sat a large, ornate paraffin lamp and a box of safety matches. A writing table stood against the opposite wall, flanked by two upright chairs.
McColl poured himself a whiskey and sat down to wait, the Webley within easy reach on the writing table. As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, the room began to look more familiar, like a photograph in a developing tray. He had spent several weeks living in this bungalow, but it felt like aeons ago.
An hour or so had passed when he heard a tonga coming up the road. The rattle of hooves slowed and stopped; a barely audible spoken exchange gave way to the sound of footsteps on the front path. McColl put down his glass and picked up the gun.
Cunningham stumbled slightly as he came through the door, and his efforts to light the paraffin lamp—burning his finger on the first match—made it clear that he’d been drinking. His success with the second augured rather better for the conversation McColl hoped was at hand.
“Evening, Alex,” he said softly.
The Five man spun around, almost too fast for his impaired sense of balance. There was nothing wrong with his brain, though: recognition of both man and gun was instant. An ironic smile flitted briefly across his face.
“Sit down,” McColl said, indicating the armchair by the low table. He stayed where he was, in the upright chair with his back to the wall, out of sight from either window.
“Bonnie Prince Charlie in the flesh,” Cunningham said distinctly. “You made it. I suppose congratulations are in order.”
“Probably,” McColl said dryly.
“Want another drink?” Cunningham asked.
“No thanks.”
“Mind if I do?”
“Not so long as you keep a clear head. I have some questions for you.”
“What makes you think I’ll give you any answers?” Cunningham asked as he poured himself a generous measure.
“I may shoot you if you don’t. I’ve got nothing to lose, as I’m sure you know.”
“True.” Cunningham took a sip of whiskey. “But since you’ve managed to get this far in one piece, why not just keep going?”
“I intend to. But first—and just between us—whose bright idea was Good Indian?”
Cunningham considered. “The idea came from here, originally. Given the Russian involvement, they thought about asking your lot for help, but came to the conclusion that Cumming wouldn’t approve. Much too old-school for this sort of caper. So they came to us instead.”
“And Cumming still doesn’t know?” McColl asked.
“Oh, I’m afraid he does, old boy. He was still in ignorance when you set off for Moscow, but he knows all about it now. The PM insisted he be told. I hear he kicked up a bit of a fuss at first, but, well…”