But she had never said that she wanted to leave that country behind. Not once. Not for political reasons and not for love of him.
As he turned to look at her, she wrapped herself up in her arms.
“Are you cold?” he asked, surprised.
“No. How much farther is it?”
“Not far.”
“I just want it over. I expect you do, too.”
Part of him did, though what came after might be worse.
Assuming they survived. Going up against three armed men—at least two of whom were seasoned fighters—felt like a real roll of the dice.
They were passing the Queen’s Gardens, heading up toward Chandni Chowk. The town hall clock struck eleven as they turned onto the wide thoroughfare, too British a sound for such a hot night. The number of people still in motion was rapidly diminishing, the pavements filling with would-be sleepers and more than a few crying babies.
A hundred yards short of their turnoff, McColl leaned forward and tapped their driver’s shoulder. “This will do.”
The boy hauled back on the reins and guided them into the curb. A man on the nearby pavement raised his head in surprise, then gently laid it back on his makeshift pillow.
McColl paid off the boy and pulled Caitlin into the shadows of a shop front. “See that side street?” he said, pointing it out. “Number four is about twenty yards in. You can just see the corner of its roof from here,” he added. “Take the staircase right to the top—”
“And it’s the door on the left. I haven’t forgotten.” Farther up Chandni Chowk, the dark outline of a huge fortress was visible. “Your prince will come this way?” she asked.
“Yes.” He tried to picture it. Soldiers and elephants, rajas and banners. Presumably the homeless would be moved out first.
The veil was now a neck scarf. “So this is where we part.”
“Yep. But I won’t be far away. You just keep them talking.”
“Oh, I don’t think the conversation will flag,” she said drily.
“You are sure about this?”
“As sure as I can be.” She gave him a farewell kiss and was halfway across the street by the time he realized she was gone.
McColl pulled his service revolver from his waistband and checked it. “Time to be myself again,” he murmured, unwinding the turban and hanging the doubled-up strip around his neck.
She found the house without difficulty. Her knock on the door brought an Indian, so she pointed upward. The Indian smiled, said something incomprehensible, and gestured her toward the stairs. She climbed to the top and found a door with a strip of yellow light beneath it.
She rapped on it softly, and after a few seconds, the light all but disappeared.
“Sergei, it’s me,” she said loudly, the words sounding strangely inadequate.
The door edged opened, and the familiar features stared out of the gloom. His face was a picture.
“Caitlin! What—”
“Get inside,” Brady said, bustling past them onto the landing, clearly intent on making sure that she was alone.
She followed Sergei into the room and watched as he turned the lamp back up. Their Indian comrade was staring at her, a gun hanging loosely in his hand.
“What in God’s name are you doing here, Caitlin?” Sergei wanted to know.
He sounded so distressed, as if her appearance was the worst thing he could have imagined. Which might even have been a good sign. “I—”
“First things first,” Brady said, striding back in and leaving the door slightly ajar. “Durga, check the roof. And you,” he said, turning to Caitlin, “will explain how you found us.”
She and Jack had expected the question. “With Indian comrades’ help,” she said curtly. “We knew the British would want to keep you at a distance, and finding two white men in the Indian town isn’t so difficult.”
“What were you trying to achieve with that business at the station?” Brady asked.
“That was aimed at the British,” she patiently explained. “We thought you might be playing into their hands, so we had to make sure they didn’t come out on top.”
Sergei looked like he might explode. “But who is this we? And what does this have to do with you?”
“I am here on behalf of the Cheka,” she told him, noting in passing that this wasn’t a sentence she’d ever expected to hear herself say. “The Cheka that your friend here once served,” she added with a contemptuous glance at Brady. “But I know I won’t change his mind. It’s you I’ve come to plead with,” she told Sergei. “The party—your party—the one you made the revolution with, the one you served for all those years. It opposes this. It asks you to think again.”
Out on the roof, crouched in the shadow of a large tin chimney, McColl could see Chatterji in the open doorway, his gun gleaming blue in the somber light. Behind the open window off to the Indian’s right, there were three people conversing in Russian: Caitlin, Brady, and a second man, who had to be her husband, Sergei.
On his reconnaissance earlier that evening, McColl had been tempted to go it alone and simply kill or disable all three men—he hadn’t got around to deciding which. With surprise on his side, his chances of survival would have been much better, and there would have been no need to put her at risk. She would have been furious with him for presuming to know what was best for them both, but that he could have coped with—his problem was, he knew why she wanted to give Sergei a chance. Her husband had been responsible for several innocent deaths over the last few months, but McColl was willing to believe that Sergei was following his conscience. Just as Caitlin’s brother Colm had done; Colm, whose death would always haunt McColl’s relationship with her. Just as he himself had done while working for the Service. You did what you thought was right, and people died. Because you made a simple mistake, or didn’t think things through, or were simply wrong to begin with. It was hard playing God without the omniscience.
He could see Fedya’s face as the boy told him good-bye.
The latch clicked as Chatterji pulled the door shut. It was time to get closer.
She knew she was wasting her breath from the look of amazement on his face.
“This is insane,” Sergei said. “That you should come all this way… it’s… Go home, Caitlin. Go back to your work. There is nothing for you here.”
She met his eyes, knew it was true.
“You and the party disapprove of our plan,” Brady said, “but you don’t even know what it is.”
She glanced at the American, now sitting on the edge of his chair, but still outwardly unruffled. “You’re going to shoot the English prince,” she told him. She turned back to Sergei. “I remember when you had nothing but contempt for this sort of terrorism,” she said. “All that killing this prince will do is give the English the excuse they need to cancel the trade treaty. And we cannot afford to be alone in the world. Russia will starve.”
Sergei stared her straight in the eye, and she could feel the sadness and rage washing around inside him. “It was the party leadership that betrayed the revolution,” he said, grinding out each word. “It wasn’t me.”
Chatterji reappeared. “Nothing,” he told Brady before taking a seat at the table and placing the gun within easy reach. As far as she could see, neither Brady nor Sergei was armed.
“Women always say they have more imagination than men,” Brady was saying, a self-satisfied smile on his face, “but I’m afraid you haven’t bothered to apply yours. I’m sure it will be satisfying to assassinate a prince, but as you say, that on its own is hardly likely to set India ablaze.”