by A J Allen
He thrust it nearer to Fatiev’s face so that he could inspect it more closely.
“Like the more recent Parabellum, it takes nine-millimetre ammunition, more than capable of killing you from quite a long way away. But, given the circumstances, it does not suit me to use it. So it shall remain in my holster. Cleaned and unfired.”
Suiting the action to the word, he slid the weapon back into its holster, pressing the holster button closed with a loud snap.
“Now there is only one gun,” he explained, indicating the gun in his hand. “This one, the one I shall say you brought in with you. Of course, after he has dragged your body away, the sergeant will be severely reprimanded. He should have thoroughly searched you before bringing you in. Instead, in the middle of your interrogation, you produced this gun and tried to assassinate me but, alas, you were inexperienced and the gun became caught in your clothing. There was a struggle and you got shot. Twice. Once in the face, once in the body. Not that anyone will ask any questions, you understand? But I have always believed that the records should contain no discrepancies.”
He raised the gun slightly, then lowered it until it was resting on his lap.
“I am sorry,” he apologised. “I should have offered you a cigarette. That was rude of me. I am afraid that we have no more time left now.”
With deliberate slowness, he raised the pistol again, until the end of its barrel was less than two hands’ width from the prisoner’s right eye.
“The face first, I think.”
“No,” gasped Fatiev weakly.
“Yes,” Izorov contradicted him. “You have less than ten seconds to live.”
Fatiev’s legs began to shake uncontrollably, making the chair rock slightly.
“NO! Please… No!”
“You are going to die now.”
“God! No… please!…”
“Hush now.”
“Please… I’m sorry…”
“I know, I know.”
“Oh, please don’t… Please don’t…”
“Goodbye Fatiev!”
With a deafening roar that filled the room, Colonel Izorov leapt forward, bringing the fist of his free hand crashing down against the side of Fatiev’s head.
“Tell me!” he bellowed.
The chair toppled over sideways and with a scream, Fatiev fell to the floor. Izorov followed him down, hitting him repeatedly in the face with the butt of the pistol.
“Tell me!” he roared again.
This time Fatiev broke. For a split second he had glimpsed the nameless animal that had been let loose beneath the policeman’s skin: its lips drawn back, its hackles roused, its razor sharp teeth gleaming in its mouth. Izorov had gone, had become a beast: inhuman, untameable, longing to kill. It had been there in his last shout and it remained in his taut brow and staring eyes.
“Stop!” Fatiev screamed. “I… I… know about the convoy!”
Grasping a handful of his hair, the beast pulled Fatiev’s head back until his body was arched upon the floor. Laying the cold steel of the gun’s barrel against the side of his damaged nose, it whispered:
“I know you know, Fatiev! What I don’t know, and what you are going to tell me, is what you and your gang are planning to do about it.”
Fatiev made the mistake of hesitating for a fraction of a second. The gun jerked viciously in the beast’s hand and the young man screamed for a third time as fresh gobbets of blood began to fall from his damaged nose.
“Nothing! Just a demonstration… that’s all,” he blubbered. “Followed by a mass meeting in front of the prison. Please stop!”
Blinded by his tears and the pain, Fatiev felt the beast’s grip tighten on his hair and wondered where the gun had gone. A sudden heavy pressure at the hollow of his exposed throat provided the answer.
“Which groups?” snarled the beast. “Tell me or I will kill you.”
“Just my group and some of the Essers. Not many.”
The end of the muzzle continued to press against his throat, as if it were trying to bore through the skin. Fatiev realised that if he couldn’t swallow in the next few seconds, he would choke to death. Then, suddenly, it was gone and Colonel Izorov had let go of his hair and was straightening up, moving away.
“Get up now,” he heard him say quietly. “Here, take my hand.”
Automatically, Fatiev reached out and let the policeman help him to his feet and brush the worst of the dust from his clothes as he leant shaking against the desk.
“Ah Fatiev, Fatiev!” said Izorov sorrowfully. “Why do we do such terrible things to each other? It’s all over now. All finished.”
Leaving him by the desk, Izorov bent down and picked up the fallen chair. Beckoning Fatiev to it, he gently but firmly pressed him down onto its seat.
Burying his face in his hands, Fatiev began to sob loudly.
Unmoved, the Chief of Police returned to his desk and began wrapping the rags around the pistol, murmuring the occasional word of comfort as he did so.
“There, there. That’s right, you have a good cry my young friend. It doesn’t matter. There’s just you and me here. Would you like something to drink?”
The young exile shook his head. All the same, when he had put the bundle of rags back in its drawer, Izorov went to the door of his office and spoke softly to the policeman outside. Within a few minutes the man had brought in two glasses of freshly made tea and put them on the desk.
When the policeman had gone, Colonel Izorov pulled open another drawer and produced a tin of cigarettes. Opening it, he placed it invitingly between the two cups.
“Have some tea,” he suggested, adding knowingly, “tears and blood parch the throat.”
His face still buried in his hands, Fatiev shook his head miserably.
“Go on,” the Colonel coaxed him. “Don’t worry, they aren’t poisoned. Look, I will drink whichever one you don’t choose.”
Getting up from his desk again, he picked up both cups and offered them to Fatiev.
“I make it a rule not to try to kill the same person twice the same day,” he joked.
Lowering his hands, Fatiev wiped the tears from his eyes with the sleeve of his torn jacket then pointed uncertainly to one of the two cups. Pressing it into his trembling hand, Izorov gently guided the cup to his lips. By accident, some of the scalding liquid spilt over the edge of the cup and fell onto Fatiev’s lap but he did not flinch. The policeman noted this with approval. It was a measure of a prisoner’s level of shock: in the face of great danger, such minor mishaps counted for nothing. Taking a cigarette, Izorov lit it and laid it on the edge of the desk for Fatiev to take. Taking another for himself, he lit it and returned to his seat behind his desk.
Now he waited, biding his time until Fatiev could bring himself around to looking him in the eye again. He knew that only then would his prisoner be ready to accept the final defeat: the one that really mattered. Until that moment came, he would be looking inward, nursing his pain and his humiliation. Then he would slowly begin to realise, first with surprise then anger and finally with self-disgust, how easily he had crumbled. He would turn the memory of those few seconds when he had smelt his own death over and over in his mind; telling himself that he should have done this, or moved like that or said some other thing. He would be both prosecutor and defence, accuser and the accused, until finally he would realise that he would never know how it might have been if things had been different, until it happened again.
When Fatiev slowly lifted his brimming eyes and stared balefully up at him, Colonel Izorov was ready.
“We can have that smoke now,” he said, pointing casually to the cigarette that was burning the edge of his desk.
Leaning forward, Fatiev took the cigarette and dragged deeply on it.
“Where were we?” asked Izorov. “Let me see… Oh yes, I remember. You know all about tomorrow. And I know you know. And now,” he added with a sardonic smile, “you know that I know you know. What a game!”
“W
hat happens now?” asked Fatiev.
Izorov shrugged.
“Now? That depends on you,” he replied amiably. “But first tell me, were you really serious? Did you honestly imagine that you could stand up against my men and Captain Steklov’s troops and God knows how many guards there are in the escort?”
“It would have been a gesture, nothing more,” Fatiev said defensively.
“Another fine, glorious, stupid gesture!” retorted Izorov. “Our history books are full of them. The Essers would never have joined you, you know; it would have meant Chazowski’s neck. But never mind, the matter is closed. There will be no demonstration and no bloodshed, above that which has been spilt already. We shall let these people wash over us like a wave. And when they have gone, we shall remain; still living and still breathing.”
“And still prisoners,” Fatiev said dolefully.
“Don’t be so fatalistic! You are young. You have less than three years left here now, unless I submit a report about this nonsense. But I am here for life. Think about that!”
“Will you submit a report?”
“If you keep your people in check, then I see no reason why I should. But if you don’t, well…”
He left the remainder of the sentence unsaid, but his meaning was clear to his prisoner.
“I can’t answer for all of them,” said Fatiev sullenly. “They will want to make some sort of a show.”
“Persuade them. Show them the error of their ways.”
“But they will still want to meet the prisoners. It’s traditional.”
Colonel Izorov laughed drily.
“Isn’t it strange,” he observed, “how traditional you revolutionists become when it suits you? All the same, I am prepared to stretch a point. First I must have your assurance that there will be no demonstration in the town, of any sort.”
Reluctantly, Fatiev agreed.
“Good!” exclaimed Izorov. “In return I will allow the prisoners in the convoy out of their cells between the hours of ten o’ clock in the morning and four o’clock in the afternoon. They will be free to meet and talk to whomsoever they like, providing they stay within the prescribed zone.”
Fatiev sat forward in his chair, a look of concentration on his wounded face.
“Which zone is this?” he asked.
Standing up, Izorov crooked a finger at him, and signalled him to follow. Picking up a thick black pencil from the desk, he walked over to the town map that was pinned on the wall beside the door.
When Fatiev had joined him, Colonel Izorov began to draw in the prescribed zone with a series of broken lines.
“From the prison gates to the end of the Market Square. Up Well Lane. Then the length of Alexei Street, from the church to the Town Hall. That is the Zone. All other streets will be off limits to them.”
“Even Hospital Street?” asked Fatiev, his eyes fixed on the map.
“Even Hospital Street,” confirmed the Colonel. “There will be no entry to the Quarter. Everyone back in their cells by four o’ clock. The prison compound is also off limits to local exiles. Is that understood?”
Satisfied that he had memorised the zone and regaining some of his old confidence, Fatiev turned to face the policeman.
“What happens if they stray into the Quarter by accident?” he asked.
Colonel Izorov smiled coldly.
“There are no accidents, Fatiev. You know that.”
“You mean, that they would be shot as attempting to escape.”
Still smiling, Izorov did not reply.
“In that case, Colonel, I accept your conditions.”
With as much dignity as he could muster, the young man offered Izorov his hand in agreement. Ignoring it, the policeman instead clapped him on the shoulder and began steering him towards the door.
“You need some snow on that nose of yours,” he advised him cheerfully as he opened the door for him. “That will take some of the swelling out of it.”
Allowing himself to be propelled through the doorway, Fatiev found himself in the outer office. He sat down on the bench, suddenly too exhausted by what had happened to him to be intimidated by the glowering looks from the sergeant at the duty desk.
For the first time, it occurred to him that not only had he betrayed his Party’s plans, but that he, in turn, had been betrayed; Izorov had already known. Thinking about who he had talked to about the demonstration made no sense, unless it had been someone outside the Party. Someone like the sister of the Jew Usov; the woman who had run past him as he waited across the Alley from Goldman’s.
She must have been worried, he thought, that when the reaction came, it would be directed against the Quarter.
That was reasonable. That made sense, because it showed that he had been right after all. You couldn’t trust any of them.
Getting slowly to his feet, he stared at the closed door to Izorov’s lair. There was still one question that remained unanswered. He had watched him load the Browning, but what about the Luger?
At the desk, the sergeant cleared his throat noisily.
“Piss off, Fatiev,” he advised, “before he changes his mind.”
In his office, Colonel Izorov finished joining up the last of the dashes on his sketch map. The Zone was now delineated by a continuous black line.
Standing back, he admired his handiwork.
He had not been wrong about Hospital Street, he told himself. It was far too near to the Quarter to be included within the zone. If the secret orders he had received the fortnight before had not expressly stated that the exiles should be allowed a certain freedom of movement, none of this would have been necessary. He would have locked them up for the duration of their stay and kept them in leg irons and the keys under his pillow. But that was Peterhof all over: why make things difficult when, with a bit more effort and imagination, you could make them impossible?
Scowling at the folly of his superiors, he went back to his desk and, taking out a clean sheet of paper, began to draft his report to the Okhrana headquarter in Tobolsk.
Conspiracy to riot, he thought contentedly to himself. Fatiev should get at least another two years for that.
Chapter Seventeen
Saturday 10th February 1907
Berezovo
At the same moment that Colonel Izorov was in the uchastok assaulting the exiled revolutionist Fatiev, at the Hotel New Century Madame Pobednyeva was standing in the doorway of its proprietor’s office scowling in displeasure at one of the Hotel’s waiters.
“Proprietor is not here,” repeated the young man stubbornly. “You must come back later.”
“Well,” the Mayor’s wife demanded, “where is he? I have an appointment to see him.”
“I don’t know. Perhaps he is elsewhere in the hotel, or perhaps he has gone out.”
“But I have an appointment to see him,” she insisted, adding emphatically, “an important appointment.”
The waiter nodded his head solemnly.
“Yes, but not here,” he repeated stubbornly.
“Then you must go and fetch him!” ordered Madame Pobednyeva. “I have to speak to him on an important matter on behalf of the Mayor. You will get into serious trouble if you don’t fetch him.”
“I can’t leave the dining room,” replied the waiter plaintively. “I work in the dining room only. I am not allowed upstairs or to leave the hotel. Those are the orders of the proprietor.”
“But can’t you see?” exclaimed the Mayor’s wife impatiently. “This is an exception.”
The waiter shook his head and smiled apologetically at her.
“No exception,” he said confidently. “Only proprietor can make an exception.”
“Then you must ask him!”
The waiter’s smile grew broader. He held his hands palms outward as if appealing to her to see reason.
“Proprietor not here.”
They were joined by the head waiter.
“Good afternoon, Madame Mayoress!” the older man greeted her smo
othly. “What a pleasure to see you here.”
“Oh Sasha, I am so glad to see you!” responded Madame Pobednyeva. “I have been trying to explain to this fool here that I have an appointment to see Fyodor Gregorivich but he won’t listen.”
The head waiter held up one hand to interrupt her.
“One moment please, Madame.”
Turning to his subordinate, he regarded the young waiter sternly.
“Stepan, your customers are waiting and your tables are a disgrace! Return to the dining room at once and clean them up.”
Bristling, the younger man looked as if he was on the point of argument but the older waiter imperiously cut him short.
“We will speak more of this later!” he said loudly for Madame Pobednyeva’s benefit. “And remember what I told you before…”
Taking the younger man firmly by the arm he led him away towards the dining room.
“Don’t let the suka staraya mess you up,” he added, lowering his voice. “There will be plenty of tips tomorrow and you will want to be in on it.”
“Fat blyad!” muttered Stepan.
“Absolutely!” agreed the head waiter.
Pausing only to propel his young subordinate through the dining room doors, he turned on his heel and made his way back to the proprietor’s office. Madame Pobednyeva was standing by the desk. In her hand she held a piece of paper.
“Thank you, Sasha,” she said loftily, adopting a tone she believed the head waiter would recognise as being appropriate for a lady of breeding addressing a favoured and trusted servant. “A most unfortunate young man. I have come to see Fyodor Gregorivich. I have an appointment. We are meant to be discussing the seating plan for tomorrow’s luncheon.”
The head waiter regarded her with a sad smile that expertly mixed understanding and sorrow.
“I regret, Madame, that Fyodor Gregorivich is not here at this precise moment.”
Madame Pobednyeva’s eyes narrowed.
“Now don’t you start!” she warned him in a coarser tone. “Do you know where the hell he is?”
The head waiter hesitated, recognising the impracticality of admitting that he did indeed have knowledge of where his boss was: namely that he was in a room on the upper floor of the hotel spying on the fornication of two the town’s most prominent citizens. On principle he always tried to avoid telling outright lies to the Hotel’s customers.