The Man from St. Petersburg by Ken Follett Page A

ought to be an international waterway, in any event. What you’re suggesting is that we offer, as if it were a concession, something which we want anyway.”
    “Yes.”
    Churchill looked up and grinned suddenly. “When it comes to Machiavellian maneuvering, there’s no one to beat the English aristocracy. All right. Go ahead and propose it to Orlov.”
    “You don’t want to put it to the Cabinet?”
    “No.”
    “Not even to the Foreign Secretary?”
    “Not at this stage. The Russians are certain to want to modify the proposal—they’ll want details of how the guarantee is to be enforced, at least—so I’ll go to the Cabinet when the deal is fully elaborated.”
    “Very well.” Walden wondered just how much the Cabinet knew about what Churchill and he were up to. Churchill, too, could be Machiavellian. Were there wheels within wheels?
    Churchill said: “Where is Orlov now?”
    “In the diplomatic supper room.”
    “Let’s go and put it to him right away.”
    Walden shook his head, thinking that people were right when they accused Churchill of being impulsive. “This is not the moment.”
    “We can’t wait for the moment, Walden. Every day counts.”
    It will take a bigger man than you to bully me, Walden thought. He said: “You’re going to have to leave that to my judgment, Churchill. I’ll put this to Orlov tomorrow morning.”
    Churchill seemed disposed to argue, but he restrained himself visibly and said: “I don’t suppose Germany will declare war tonight. Very well.” He looked at his watch. “I’m going to leave. Keep me fully informed.”
    “Of course. Good-bye.”
    Churchill went down the staircase and Walden went back into the supper room. The party was breaking up. Now that the King and Queen had disappeared and everyone had been fed there was nothing to stay for. Walden rounded up his family and took them downstairs. They met up with Aleks in the great hall.
    While the ladies went into the cloakroom Walden asked one of the attendants to summon his carriage.
    All in all, he thought as he waited, it had been a rather successful evening.

    The Mall reminded Feliks of the streets of the Old Equerries Quarter of Moscow. It was a wide, straight avenue that ran from Trafalgar Square to Buckingham Palace. On one side was a series of grand houses including St. James’s Palace. On the other side was St. James’s Park. The carriages and motor cars of the great were lined up on both sides of The Mall for half its length. Chauffeurs and coachmen leaned against their vehicles, yawning and fidgeting, waiting to be summoned to the palace to collect their masters and mistresses.
    The Walden carriage waited on the park side of The Mall. Their coachman, in the blue-and-pink Walden livery, stood beside the horses, reading a newspaper by the light of a carriage lamp. A few yards away, in the darkness of the park, Feliks stood watching him.
    Feliks was desperate. His plan was in ruins.
    He had not understood the difference between the English words “coachman” and “footman” and consequently he had misunderstood the notice in The Times about summoning carriages. He had thought that the driver of the coach would wait at the palace gate until his master emerged, then would come running to fetch the coach. At that point, Feliks had planned, he would have overpowered the coachman, taken his livery and driven the coach to the palace himself.
    What happened in fact was that the coachman stayed with the vehicle and the footman waited at the palace gate. When the coach was wanted, the footman would come running; then he and the coachman would go with the carriage to pick up the passengers. That meant Feliks had to overpower two people, not one; and the difficulty was that it had to be done surreptitiously, so that none of the hundreds of other servants in The Mall would know anything was wrong.
    Since realizing his mistake a couple of hours ago he had worried at the problem, while he watched the coachman