Afterwards, amidst the chorus of Easter salutations the two men sauntered
by the banks of the river. A.J. said how glad he was to have seen such a
spectacle, and Stanfield answered: “Yes, it’s one of the things I
never miss if I happen to be here. I’ve seen it now at least a dozen
times, yet it’s always fresh, and never fails to give me a
thrill.”
Something then impelled A.J. to say: “I’m particularly glad to
have seen it, because I don’t suppose I’ll ever have the chance
again.”
“Oh, indeed? You’re only on a visit? You spoke Russian so well
I imagined you lived here.”
“I do—or rather I have done for some time—but I’m
going away—very soon, I’m afraid—for good.”
“Really?”
A.J. was not a person to confide easily, but the difficulty of his
problem, combined with Stanfield’s sympathetic attitude and the
emotional mood in which the Cathedral ceremony had left them both, made it
easy for him to hint that the circumstances of his leaving Petersburg were
not of the happiest. Stanfield was immediately interested, and within half an
hour (it was by that time nearly two in the morning) most of A.J.’s
position had been explained and explored. Once the process began it was
difficult to stop, and in the end A.J. found himself confessing even the
ridiculous suffragette episode which had been the immediate cause of his
departure from England four years before. Stanfield was amused at that.
“So I gather,” he summarised at last, “that you’re in
the rather awkward position of having to leave this country and of having no
other country that you particularly want to go to?”
“That’s it.”
“You definitely don’t want to return to England?”
“I’d rather go anywhere else.”
“But you must have friends there—a few, at any rate. Four
years isn’t such a tremendous interval.”
“I know. That’s why I’d rather go anywhere
else.”
“Don’t you think you’re taking the suffragette affair
rather too seriously? After all, most people will have forgotten it by now,
and in any case it wasn’t anything particularly disgraceful.”
“Yes, but—there are other reasons—much more important
ones. I—I don’t want to go back to England.” He gave
Stanfield a glance which decided the latter against any further questioning
in that direction. “Besides, even if I
were
to go back there,
what could I do?”
“I don’t know, do I? What
are
your
accomplishments?”
A.J. smiled. “Very few, and all of them extremely unmarketable. I
can speak Russian, that’s about all. Oh yes, and I can swim and fence,
and I’m a bit of a geologist in my spare time. It doesn’t really
sound the sort of thing to impress an employment agency, does it?”
“Do you fancy an outdoor life?”
“I don’t mind, provided it isn’t just merely physical
work. It may sound conceited, but I rather want something where I have to use
a small amount of brains. Yet I wouldn’t care for a job at a desk all
the time. I’m afraid I’m talking as though I were likely to be
given any choice in the matter.”
“What about danger—personal danger? Would that be a
disadvantage?”
“I’d hate the army, if that’s what you mean.”
“No, that isn’t what I mean. I meant some kind of job where
you had occasionally to take risks—pretty big risks, in their
way—playing for high stakes—
that
sort of thing.”
“I’m afraid your description doesn’t help me to imagine
such a job, but as a guess I should say it would suit me very
well.”
Stanfield laughed. “I can’t be more explicit. How about the
money?”
“Oh well, I’d like enough to live on and a little bit more.
But isn’t it rather absurd to be talking in this way, since I shall be
very lucky to get any sort of job at all?”
“On the contrary, it’s just possible—yes, it is just
possible that I might be able to put you in the way of the kind of job you
say you would like. And here in Petersburg, too.”
“You forget that I have to leave. My police permit expires on
Tuesday.”
“No, I don’t forget that at all. I am remembering it most
carefully.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Let me explain. But first, I must pledge you to the strictest
secrecy. Whether or not you and I can come to terms, you must give me that
assurance.”
“I do, of course.”
“Good. Then listen.”
Briefly, Stanfield’s suggestion was that A.J. should become attached
to the British Secret Service. That sounded simple enough, but an examination
of all that it implied revealed a network of complication and detail.
Stanfield, relying on A.J.’s promise of secrecy, was as frank as he
needed to be, but no more so. British diplomacy, he explained, had its own
reasons for wishing to know the precise strength and significance of the
revolutionary movement in Russia. It was impossible to obtain reliable
information from official channels, whether British or Russian; the only
sources were devious and underground. “Supposing, for instance, you
decided to help us, you would have to join one of the revolutionary
societies, identify yourself with the cause, gain the confidence of its
leaders, and judge for yourself how much the whole thing counts. I think
you’ll agree with me that such a job calls for brains and might well
involve considerable personal risks.”
“I should be a spy, in fact?”
“In a way, yes, but you would not be betraying anybody. You would
merely make your confidential reports to our headquarters—you would not
be working either for or against the revolutionaries themselves. We take no
sides, of course—we merely want to know what is really
happening.”
“I see. And the danger would be that the revolutionaries would find
me out and think I was betraying them to the Russian police?”
“The danger, my friend, would be twofold, and I’m not going to
try to minimise it in the least. There would be, of course, the danger you
mention, but there would be the even greater danger that the Russian police
would take you for a genuine revolutionary and deal with you accordingly. And
you know what ‘accordingly’ means.”
“But in that case I suppose I should have to tell them the real
truth?”
“Not at all—that is just what you would not have to do. You
would have to keep up your pretence and accept whatever punishment they gave
you. If you
did
tell them the truth, the British authorities would
merely arch their eyebrows with great loftiness and disown you. I want you to
be quite clear about that. We should, in the beginning, provide you with
passport and papers proving you to be a Russian subject, and after that, if
anything ever went wrong, you would have to become that Russian
subject—completely. Do you see? We could not risk trouble with the
Russian Government by having anything to do with you.”
“It seems rather a one-sided arrangement.”
“It is, as I can say from experience, having worked under it for the
best part of my life. On the other hand, it has certain advantages which
probably appeal to people like you and me rather more than to most others. It
is interesting, adventurous, and quite well paid. It is also emphatically a
job for the Cat that Walks by Itself—you remember Kipling’s
story?—and I should imagine both of us are that type of
animal.”
“Maybe.”
“Mind you, I don’t want to persuade you at all—and I do
want you to have time to think the whole thing over very carefully before
coming to a decision. Unless, of course, you feel that you may as well say
‘No’ straight away?”
A.J. shook his head. “I’ll think it over, as you
suggest.”
“Then we’d better meet again to-morrow.” He gave A.J. an
address, and the arrangement was made. A.J. did not sleep well that night.
When he tried to look at the future quite coolly, when he asked himself
whether his ambition really was to be a Secret Service spy in a Russian
revolutionary club, the answer was neither yes nor no, but a mere gasp of
incredulity. It was almost impossible to realise that such an extraordinary
doorway had suddenly opened into his life. It was not impossible, however, to
grasp the fact that if he did not accept Stanfield’s offer he would
have to leave Russia in two days’ time, with very poor and uncertain
prospects.
He called in the morning at the address Stanfield had given him—a
well-furnished apartment in one of the better-class districts. Stanfield was
there, together with another man, introduced as Forrester.
“Well,” began Stanfield, “have you made up your
mind?”
A.J. answered, with a wry smile: “I don’t feel in the least
like jumping at the job, but I’m aware that I must either take it or
leave Russia.”
“And you’re as keen as all that on not leaving
Russia?”
“I rather think I am.”
“That means you’ll take on the job.”
“I suppose it does.”
Here Forrester intervened with: “I suppose Stanfield gave you
details of what you’d have to do?”
“More or less—yes.”
“You’d have to be the young intellectual type—your
accent and manner would pass well enough, I daresay. But what about
enthusiasm for the cause—can you act?” He added, slyly: “Or
perhaps you would not need to act very much, eh?”
“As an Englishman in Russia,” answered A.J. cautiously,
“I have always felt that I ought to avoid taking sides in Russian
politics. You can judge from that, then, how much I should have to
act.”
Forrester nodded. “Good, my friend—a wise and admirable reply.
I should think he would do, wouldn’t you, Stanfield?”
The latter said: “I thought so all along. Still, we mustn’t
persuade him. It’s risky work and he knows some of the more unpleasant
possibilities. It’s emphatically a game of heads somebody else wins and
tails he loses.”
“Oh yes,” Forrester agreed. “Most decidedly so. The pay,
by the way, works out at about fifty pounds a month, besides expenses and an
occasional bonus.”
“That sounds attractive,” said A.J.
“
Attractive?
” Forrester turned again to Stanfield.
“Did you hear that? He says the pay’s attractive! You know
Stanfield, it’s the money that most people go for in, this job, yet I
really do believe our friend here is an exception! He only admits that the
money’s attractive!” With a smile, he swung round to A.J.
“I’m rather curious to know what it is that weighs most with you
in this business. Is it adventure?”
“I don’t know,” answered A.J. “I really
don’t know at all.”
So they had to leave that engrossing problem and get down to definite talk
about details. That definite talk lasted several hours, after which A.J. was
offered lunch. Then, during the afternoon, the talk was resumed. It was all
rather complicated. He was to be given a Russian passport (forged, of course,
though the ugly word was not emphasised) establishing him to be one Peter
Vasilevitch Ouranov, a student. He must secure rooms under that name in a
part of the city where he was not known; he must pose as a young man of small
private means occupied in literary work of some kind. To assist the disguise
he must cultivate a short beard and moustache. Then he must frequent a
certain bookshop (its address would be given him) where revolutionaries were
known to foregather, and must cautiously make known his sympathies so that he
would be invited to join a society. Once in the society, it would be his task
to get to know all he could concerning its aims, personnel, and the sources
from which it obtained funds; such information he would transmit at intervals
to an agent in Petersburg whose constantly changing address would be given
him from time to time. It would not be expected, nor would it even be
desirable, that he should take any prominent or active part in the
revolutionary movement; he must avoid, therefore, being elected to any
position of authority. “We don’t want you chosen to throw bombs
at the Emperor,” said Forrester, “but supposing anyone else
throws them, then we do want to know who he is, who’s behind him, and
all that sort of thing. Get the idea?”
A.J. got the idea, and left the two men towards evening, after Stanfield
had taken his photograph with an ordinary camera. That night and much of the
next day he spent in packing. He had told the porter and the woman who looked
after his room that he might be leaving very soon, so they were not surprised
by his preparations for departure. In the evening, following instructions, he
gave the two of them handsome tips, said good-bye, and drove to the Warsaw
station. There he left his bags in the luggage office, giving his proper name
(which was, in fact, on all the luggage labels as well). After sauntering
about the station for a short time he left it and walked to Stanfield’s
address. There he handed over to Forrester his English passport and luggage
tickets. He rather expected to see Forrester burn the passport, but the
latter merely put it in his pocket and soon afterwards left the house.
Stanfield smiled. “Forrester’s a thorough fellow,” he
commented. “He doesn’t intend to have the Russian police
wondering what’s happened to you. To-night, my friend, though it may
startle you to know it, Mr. A.J. Fothergill will leave Russia. He will
collect his luggage at the Warsaw station, he will board the night express
for Germany, his passport will be stamped in the usual way at Wierjbolovo and
Eydkuhnen, but in Berlin, curiously enough if anyone bothered to make
enquiries, all trace of him would be lost. How fortunate that your height and
features are reasonably normal and that passport photographs are always so
dreadfully bad!”
After an hour or so Forrester returned and informed A.J. that he was to
stay with them in their apartment for a fortnight at least, and that during
that time he must consider himself a prisoner. The rather amusing object of
the interval was to give time for his beard and moustache to grow. A.J.
rather enjoyed the fortnight, for both Forrester and Stanfield were excellent
company, and there was a large library of books for him to dip into. The two
men came in and went out at all kinds of odd hours, and had their needs
attended to by a queer-looking man-servant who was evidently trustworthy,
since they spoke freely enough in front of him.