‘Yes, she’s an attractive woman,’ said Mikhailov tersely. ‘But we must consider your work. The date has been fixed ’
He was interrupted by a low moan of pain from the bedroom. The ether had worn off at last. The injured man groaned again and in a dry sticky voice called: ‘Nikolai, I’m going to be sick.’ A few seconds later they heard Valentin retching and whimpering with discomfort.
‘You need more help,’ said Mikhailov. ‘We have four days and we need all the explosive we can manage.’
Kibalchich nodded slowly. ‘Will the cellar be empty long enough to connect the charge?’
‘Our friend has invited the workmen he shares with to celebrate his engagement at a tavern nearby.’
‘He has a fiancée?’
‘No, no, my friend,’ said Mikhailov, slapping him on the back good-humouredly. ‘At six o’clock he’ll tell them he’s going to fetch his fiancée, but he’ll go to the cellar and light the fuse.’ He stroked his beard thoughtfully for a moment. ‘We’ll have a fiancée close by in case things go wrong.’
But nothing could be allowed to go wrong. It was the perfect opportunity. The tsar, his sons, the entire imperial family gathered about a table to eat off fine china and drink from crystal twinkling in the candlelight, and below them – three hundred pounds of dynamite. The People’s Will be done.
26
For once Anna had arranged to meet him in person and in a public place, trusting to darkness and the inclement weather. It was snowing heavy soft flakes she could reach up to and catch in her open hand. Beyond the cemetery railings, the tombs of the great, the dome and towers of the Alexander Nevsky Monastery were merely indistinct shadows on a billowing sheet of snow. She pulled her scarf tighter about her nose and mouth and stepped out of the light to rest her back against the railings. It was almost eight o’clock. It would be too dangerous for her to wait for more than a few minutes, but not since his first visit to the clinic almost a year ago had he been late for a meeting. Sure enough, the droshky slithered up to the cemetery gates before the monastery clock began to chime the hour.
Hadfield jumped down and kissed her on both cheeks. Then pulling off a glove, he gently wiped the flakes from her eyebrows with his thumb. ‘I thought skating and then dinner?’
‘Let’s just eat.’
‘Fine. Hey, Vanka – Baskov Street.’
The driver – a bear of a man in his thick furs – nodded sullenly, showed the whip to his horse, and a moment later they were gliding along Nevsky. Hadfield reached for her hand and gave it an affectionate squeeze. ‘I’ve missed you.’
‘But we only saw each other two days ago.’
‘Yes. But I missed you.’ He was a little aggrieved. ‘Haven’t you missed me?’
She laughed and shook her hand free, pulling the fur rug to her chin: ‘It’s going to snow like this for days.’
The restaurant was a simple whitewashed cellar a short distance from the Preobrazhensky barracks, and a number of the regiment’s officers were drinking and bantering noisily at its tables.
‘Are you comfortable here?’ Hadfield whispered as he helped her with her coat.
‘Yes, this is all right.’
They were shown, at his insistence, to a discreet table in a corner where Anna sat with her back to the rest of the restaurant. The waiter took their order and brought a bottle of rustic wine Hadfield declared to be undrinkable.
‘We must have something better,’ he said, clicking his fingers for service. He was on edge, fiddling with his napkin, the cutlery, the stem of his glass, smoothing his hair with the palm of his hand.
‘What is it?’ she asked, leaning forward.
He looked up and, catching her eye, gave her a weak smile. ‘I have acquired two new patients.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your . . .’ he paused to let a waiter sweep past, ‘your comrades called upon me again. The unfortunate Valentin has injured his hand in an explosion.’
‘Is he all right?’ she asked mechanically; she barely knew the man.
‘He’ll have to learn to write with his left. But,’ he looked at her sternly, ‘I don’t want you or your Alexander Mikhailov or any of your other “friends” to think they can call on my services.’
‘What do you mean? Isn’t it your job to help the sick?’
‘Yes. But I don’t want to be drawn into your conspiracies. The explosives laboratory, the informer murdered at the clinic . . .’
‘Executed.’
‘So you knew about that.’
‘Keep your voice down!’ she hissed. ‘This is not the place to talk.’
‘No one can hear us.’ He tried to reach across the table for her hand but she drew it away.
‘You’re afraid,’ she said contemptuously.
‘No. That’s not true. I don’t believe killing anyone will change things for the better in this country. And—’
He stopped abruptly as the waiter approached with their Shchi and bread. As the soup was served, Anna was conscious of him trying to make eye contact and of his foot reaching for hers beneath the table. But she was boiling inside. Did he think so little of her? She had taken a solemn pledge to dedicate her life to the people. After a few seconds she picked up her spoon then banged it down again: ‘I must go.’
‘Why?’
‘I must go.’
‘Not until you explain why. I’m not going to let you just run away.’
‘I can’t explain.’
‘Try.’
‘Because our struggle means more to me than you do.’
There, she had said it. Why had he pushed her? He flushed as if slapped in the face, took a deep breath and lifted his eyes to the ceiling for a moment. Then, drawing the napkin from his lap, he screwed it into a tight ball and dumped it on the table. ‘You don’t have to choose,’ he said at last. ‘Look, you’re right, we can’t talk here.’ And he waved the waiter across.
But it was still snowing hard outside and Anna could tell from his expression that he was no more enthusiastic than she was about the prospect of wandering the streets.
‘Come to my apartment,’ he said.
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
They did not speak and the silence was broken only by the steady crunch of their footsteps in the snow. Anna gazed with envy into the bright halls of the mansions they passed and at the chinks of light between their drawing-room curtains, the tantalising suggestion of warmth and refuge from the street. Why had it become a battle? She knew she was being unreasonable and she was sorry, but her feelings frightened her.
As luck would have it, there was a droshky waiting at the district gendarmerie.
‘Stay here, I’ll call him over,’ said Hadfield.
‘You take it. I can’t afford it anyway.’
‘For God’s sake!’ he said, exasperated. ‘If it makes you happy, we can both use him.’
‘Where shall I tell the driver to take you?’ he asked when they were sitting in the cab. She hesitated, reluctant to commit herself, and Hadfield took her silence for lack of trust.
‘I don’t mean your address, just where you want to be left,’ he said irritably.
‘No, no, I wasn’t trying to – oh, anywhere. The Tsarskoe Selo Station,’ she said, flustered.
He leant forward to give instructions to the driver, but before he could speak, she clutched his hand and gave it a tight squeeze. And he turned to look at her with a smile.
‘Well? Where to?’ the driver demanded bad-temperedly.
‘The Church of St Boris and St Gleb.’
Later, as they lay together on the mattress, his knee between her thighs, his chest warm to hers, rising and falling almost together, she wondered how she would find the strength to turn him away when the time came. Was it a mistake to have shared this intimacy, to have sought and accepted love? She watched him dozing, his auburn hair tousled about his face.
He stirred, opened his eyes and, after gazing into hers for a few seconds,
he leant forward to kiss her tenderly. ‘There’s something I must tell you,’ he whispered.
‘Please. Let’s just be happy.’
He smiled and raised his hand to her brow, smoothing away the deep crease between her eyes with his thumb.
‘Do you remember in the restaurant that I said I had two new patients? I must tell you of the other one.’
A letter had been delivered to the hospital from a man called Dobrshinsky who wanted to consult him on a medical matter and requested a visit at home.
‘I was suspicious and contacted my newspaper friend, Dobson. It seems this man is a special investigator at the Third Section.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’ Anna exclaimed, raising herself to her elbow.
He rolled on his back and looked up at her with a wry smile. ‘We didn’t get further than Patient Number One, if you remember. And what difference does it make?’
‘What difference? He’ll ask you about me and the party,’ she said crossly.
‘Yes. And I’ll lie.’ He tried to pull her down but she wriggled free.
‘What will you say?’
The story he told to Major Barclay of their meeting at the clinic, he said, his respect for her work as a nurse and his shock when he heard she was a terrorist. ‘Please stop worrying. I’m a respectable member of the medical bourgeoisie. The cream of Russian society is happy to place its life in my hands.’
‘I don’t think you should go. He could arrest you.’ She was tense, but tried to smile.
‘He wouldn’t invite me to his home if he was going to do that.’ He paused and reached up for her again: ‘Come here.’
And this time she let him pull her down. And he kissed her, tenderly at first and then more fiercely, his hands kneading her back and buttocks until, breathless with excitement, he entered her again. And when they had both reached a climax and lay still in each others arms, he whispered, ‘I love you.’
‘You will be careful, won’t you?’ she said.
He did not reply.
27
For all Hadfield’s confidence the night before, he was full of apprehension as he was shown up the stairs to the special investigator’s apartment. Collegiate Councillor Dobrshinsky’s well-groomed valet took his hat and coat – carefully brushing the ice crystals from the collar – then led him from the hall into the study and informed him that His Honour would be with him shortly. Hadfield tried to ease his nerves by peering at the books that lined the walls from almost floor to ceiling. It was a catholic selection that included volumes he was sure the censor considered unsuitable. Conscious that his choice might interest the investigator, he deliberately pulled an anodyne history of the Empress Catherine from the shelf and was pleased when he found a reference to his great-grandfather, the first General Glen.
‘Do you enjoy reading, Doctor? I’m sorry, I surprised you.’
Hadfield turned quickly to find his new patient at the door. ‘You did, sir. I read a good deal.’
Dobrshinsky closed the door quietly and stepped into the body of the room. ‘What are you reading?’
Hadfield told him, mentioning his great-grandfather.
‘Ah, yes,’ said Dobrshinsky with an amused smile. ‘And how is General Glen?’
‘Are you acquainted with my uncle?’
‘I have had the honour of being introduced, yes.’
‘He’s well, thank you.’ Hadfield inclined his head. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘how may I be of assistance, Mr Dobrshinsky?’
‘Anton Frankzevich, please,’ said Dobrshinsky. ‘My man will bring us some coffee.’ Lifting his tailcoat, he eased himself carefully into one of the leather library chairs in front of the desk, indicating with a casual wave that Hadfield should take the one opposite. He was immaculately dressed in a dark brown suit and black tie, his hands beautifully manicured, but his face was thin and there were dark rings about his eyes, his skin an unhealthy grey. Hadfield wondered if he was a little anaemic or taking strong medicine because his pupils seemed abnormally small.
‘May I ask who recommended me to you?’
The special investigator did not answer at first but gave him a cool, appraising look, small dark brown eyes fixed on his face. If he was hoping to intimidate he was doing very well. Hadfield bent down to his medical bag and began searching inside it for a journal.
‘Surely you can guess, Doctor,’ said Dobrshinsky at last. ‘You told one of my colleagues that you were a friend of the chief prosecutor’s.’
‘One of your colleagues?’
‘Major Barclay.’
‘I see. You’re a policeman. I think I may have mentioned Count von Plehve’s name, yes,’ Hadfield said, rising from the bag with his journal. ‘Now perhaps you can tell me what you think the problem may be – your symptoms?’
‘The problem?’ Dobrshinsky gave a little laugh and, with a dismissive sweep of his right hand, brushed a fleck of dust from the knee of his trousers. ‘Please excuse me, Doctor, but the problem is not really with my health but with yours.’
‘Oh?’
‘It seems you’ve been keeping dangerous company.’
‘You mean Anna Petrovna?’ Hadfield interrupted. ‘I explained to Major Barclay: she was an able nurse and I know nothing more about her than that. Naturally I was shocked to hear she was wanted by the police.’
‘Quite so. Quite so. But you didn’t mention to Major Barclay that you attended an illegal gathering, that there were a number of terrorists wanted by the police there, one of them the Kovalenko woman.’
Hadfield leant forward. ‘I’ve never knowingly been in the company of terrorists. I’m a doctor . . .’
‘We all need doctors, don’t we?’ Dobrshinsky replied with an amused smile.
‘You don’t seem to need me,’ said Hadfield haughtily, ‘but I have patients who do.’ He bent again to his medical bag as if preparing to leave.
‘Aren’t you ready to help our investigation, Doctor?’
‘I can’t see how I can.’
‘Do you know Madame Volkonsky?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you will remember her political salon.’
‘I do remember a rather disagreeable afternoon at her home,’ Hadfield said calmly. And he described briefly the gathering and the discussion, but without mentioning the names of those who were there.
‘So you admit there was talk of the attempt made on His Majesty’s life?’
Hadfield gave a short laugh. ‘There was talk of that in every home in the city.’
‘Do you think of yourself as a Russian?’
‘I think so, yes.’
‘And a loyal subject?’
‘Yes,’ he lied.
There was not a flicker of emotion – anger, disbelief, disappointment – in the investigator’s face. He was a patient man – that much was apparent – but Hadfield detected something else, a certain distance in his manner he could not entirely explain.
‘Would you inform the police if you knew someone was trying to kill His Majesty?
‘Yes.’
‘Who spoke up for the assassin?’
‘A small Jewish fellow called Goldenberg. Red hair. Voluble.’
‘He remembers you too.’
‘I should hope so. We argued about the attempt to murder His Majesty.’
‘But you didn’t see fit to inform the police?’
‘I thought he was a hothead but essentially harmless.’
The investigator clucked sceptically: ‘Goldenberg is a murderer.’ He clearly did not believe a word of Hadfield’s story, and for another half-hour he snapped question after question at him, dismissing his man servant with a wave when he dared to interrupt with the coffee. Did the doctor expect him to believe he had not seen Anna at the salon? What about the meeting at the opera? Questions, questions. Hadfield batted them back with either an angry denial or a sad, incredulous shake of the head: ‘Are you going to accept my word or the lies of a murderer?’ he asked eventually.
‘Do
n’t you think a murderer capable of the truth?’
‘An interesting question to debate at length, Anton Frankzevich, but you have spent an hour trying to prove I am a terrorist, so there really isn’t time.’
‘Simple questions, that’s all, Doctor,’ Dobrshinsky said, his thin lips twitching with amusement.
‘If you’re not going to arrest me for having had the misfortune to accept an invitation to the wrong sort of party then you must excuse me,’ Hadfield replied. ‘You see, I generally charge for my time.’ He paused. ‘But perhaps you would like me to examine you? You don’t look well.’ He bent again to his medical bag. There was nothing more likely to distract and worry a man than a doctor’s professional concern.
‘That isn’t necessary. I’m in good health,’ said Dobrshinsky irritably.
‘As you wish,’ said Hadfield, easing himself out of the low library chair.
The special investigator rose, too, carefully smoothing the creases from his tailcoat. What a peculiar fellow, Hadfield thought, fastidious, with a lawyer’s eye for detail but – what else? He had a certain louche quality.
‘Have you read Mr Dostoevsky’s The Devils?’ Dobrshinsky asked. His smile was disingenuous.
‘No,’ Hadfield lied again.
‘You must.’ Dobrshinsky walked over to the bookcase to the right of the fireplace and took out two volumes.
‘But I can buy my own copy.’
‘No, I insist. You can return it. I think you’ll find it illuminating. In particular, the ease with which clever people can be tricked by the unscrupulous acting in the name of principle.’
In the street outside, an image began to form in the back of Hadfield’s mind.
At first it was diffuse, like sunlight through a morning mist. By the time he had hailed a cab, it had sharpened into the recollection of an evening in Zurich in the company of a young man with a pallor and distance very like the collegiate councillor’s. As the evening had progressed the student had become agitated and his thin body had begun to shake uncontrollably.
Hadfield’s exclamation so alarmed the driver he brought his cab to a halt.
‘Is something wrong, Your Honour?’
To Kill a Tsar Page 24