Rags for binding his legs, a filthy grey and brown smock, peasant shoes and an unlined sheepskin coat saturated with the stale sweat of many.
The penance cell was lit by a shaft of light from a small barred window high in the wall, the stone floor covered in rubbish and fetid straw, the only furniture a narrow plank bed with a wafer thin mattress and a toilet bucket.
An old soldier from the time of Tsar Nicholas was posted at his door, pledged to guard him at all hours. The gendarmes called him ‘Uncle Vishka’, a filthy white-haired rat of a man who, after two decades within the ravelin’s walls, was sick and bitter and malignant. His bloodshot eye hovered at the spy hole in the door for hours and he spoke only abuse to the prisoners. He would thrust his grubby hands through a window like a wicket in the iron door twice a day with a glass of tea, dry bread or a little weak soup that tasted of nothing and was often tainted by the guards.
The stench in the cell was overpowering, and Mikhailov’s hair and beard were soon crawling with lice. But it was the oppressive silence that troubled him most. Once he heard screaming from the corridor and hammered on the door until Uncle Vishka spoke to him: ‘They’re thrashing some money out of a newcomer.’
‘What?’
‘Everyone has to pay,’ the old soldier said carelessly. ‘You gentlemen politicals get off lightly.’
His escape was to the past, conversations, people, whirling Anna about the dancefloor – he thought of her often – and summers on his father’s estate. He took an unholy delight too in imagining the death of the tyrant, the revolution, a popular uprising that would set the prisoners free. But hope was inseparable from fear. There were times in the winter chill at night when he knew despair and he would pray to the Russian god he did not believe in for a quick release.
At first, he had been flattered by the attention of the authorities, the procession of visitors to his cell at the Preliminary – senior policemen and soldiers, government ministers – who had learned of his importance to the party from the testimony of Goldenberg. Collegiate Counsellor Dobrshinsky had spent many hours trying to break him with threats and promises and even the offer of a pardon if he turned state evidence. He had expected and enjoyed resisting these blandishments. But he had been surprised and irritated by the particular interest the special investigator had shown in the English doctor. Why had the party tried to kill him? Was he a member of The People’s Will? What help were they receiving from the British? Money? Explosives? Mikhailov had refused to answer all but the last of these, for he was a socialist patriot and would never have accepted assistance from a foreign power. What a trouble the Englishman had been to him. Would he have stepped inside the photographer’s shop if Anna had not charged him so vehemently with acting only in his own interests?
By a wicked irony it was the doctor who brought him some relief from the cell and the ravelin at Christmas. It was late afternoon, to judge from the grey rectangle of sky, and in the corridor the confused echo of boots and a jangle of keys. The iron door opened and the warder stepped inside, his nose pinched between thumb and forefinger: ‘You stink like a Tatar. What’s your visitor going to think?’
For the five minutes it took to walk under escort to the Commandant’s House he felt drunk with the hope his mother or sister was waiting to see him, or a comrade in disguise. The crunch of boots in the snow, the tolling of a barracks bell, a troika sliding towards the Peter Gate, clean air sharp in his chest, the sights, sounds, taste of the life he used to live.
But it was Major Vladimir Barclay who was warming his hands at the stove. With a weak smile and a casual wave, he indicated that Mikhailov should take a chair. For once, the major was in the blue and red of the corps, campaign medals on his broad chest and the Order of St Vladimir at his throat. To Mikhailov’s mind he did not cut an impressive figure, rather foreign with his round beardless face, crafty eyes and thin brown hair.
‘You look awful,’ the policeman observed coolly. ‘I’ll speak to the warder. A bath and a shave. After all, you are a gentleman, aren’t you? Tea?’
Mikhailov nodded.
‘But you’ve lost a little weight; that’s a good thing.’
The tea tasted as it should taste and Mikhailov sat at the table with a glass cupped in his hands, grateful for that small kindness. It was a warm panelled room with an eighteenth-century chandelier, fine walnut chairs and a stove of pretty blue and white Dutch tiles. It made Mikhailov feel dirtier and even a little ashamed, and that made him irritable.
‘Well, what do you want?’
‘Collegiate Counsellor Dobrshinsky has asked me to speak to you again,’ said Barclay. ‘The ravelin is no place for a gentleman. He said to me: “See if Alexander Dmitrievich is ready to help us a little, now he’s had time to reflect upon his future”.’
Mikhailov watched impassively as the policeman leant across the table and poured more tea into his glass.
‘We know your little comrades are plotting another attempt on the emperor’s life.’
‘Oh?’
‘You people can’t take a shit without us knowing about it.’
Mikhailov looked at him disdainfully. ‘Then I can’t possibly be of service to you.’
‘But you can.’ The policeman leant forward again, his big hands clasped together, warm smile, eyebrows arched. ‘How? When? Where?’
‘I really have nothing to say.’ Mikhailov wondered that the special investigator had trusted this task to a man with the intellect of a common soldier.
‘A porter has reported seeing your comrade Anna Kovalenko again.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, she was visiting the Englishman at the Nikolaevsky,’ said Barclay, with a knowing voice.
Mikhailov felt the colour rising in his face. The policeman had swung wildly and caught him a glancing blow. He was not going to show it. Placing his palms flat on the table, he almost shut his eyes, as inscrutable as a plaster saint.
‘If your comrades kill the emperor another will take his place, but if you don’t help us you will die in a damp hole forgotten by everyone.’
‘Right-minded people must give themselves to this struggle.’
‘The gentleman peasant,’ said Barclay with a cynical smile. ‘Collegiate Counsellor Dobrshinsky was sure you wouldn’t listen to reason. That’s why he sent me, of course.’ He sat up slowly, dragging his fists back across the table then rising to his feet.
‘Do you recognise this one?’ he asked, pointing to the red enamel decoration at his throat.
‘The Order of St Vladimir.’
‘I call it my Mikhailov medal,’ Barclay said with a broad grin. ‘I have you to thank for it.’ Then, turning to the door, he shouted: ‘Sergeant, I’ve finished with him.’
And again to Mikhailov: ‘Oh, I forget to mention. A comrade of yours is here too. Nikolai Kletochnikov.’
‘I’ve never heard of the fellow.’
‘What was it you called him, “your Director”? He hadn’t heard from you for a while so he paid you a visit. He was at a loss without you. Resentful that you’d kept him from the rest of the party. Of course, he didn’t know we’d picked you up already. A couple of his Moscow comrades were waiting for him – they were a little rough. He’s been very helpful.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘No? Well, if you change your mind – and you might – speak to your guards.’
Mikhailov could hear their heavy tread on the polished boards behind him, and a moment later the warder of the ravelin was at his side with handcuffs.
‘Is the prisoner moving, sir?’ he asked.
‘Yes. To the Secret House. A chance for a little more reflection,’ replied Barclay.
It was the final test for enemies of the state, a damp unheated solitary block below the level of the river, where prisoners were left to rot in medieval darkness.
Mikhailov gazed at him with unflinching contempt. ‘You must know the tsar will die.’ His voice was cool, matter-of-fact, full of
certainty. ‘It must be. It is the will of the people.’
1881
Alexander II must die . . . the near future will show whether it is for me or another to strike the final blow. But he will die and with him we shall die, his enemies and executioners . . . fate has allotted me an early death. I shall not see one day, not one hour of our triumph. But I believe that by my death I am doing all that I have in my power to do . . .
Farewell letter of Ignatei Grinevitski, member of The People’s Will, 1 March 1881
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Polite society celebrated Christmas as it always did in St Petersburg, with extravagant piety and glittering pomp. A score of expensively embossed invitations on Hadfield’s mantelpiece presented a daily challenge to the maid. In the bright gilded rooms of the rich, the season was much as it had been the previous year and for many more before. And yet there was something subtly different too, like a reflection in a mirror warped just a little by age, an uncomfortable distortion of the settled order. The authorities were demonstrating unusual efficiency. Hundreds of arrests, executions pour encourager, and it was almost a year since the explosion at the palace had rocked the foundations of the empire. Expensive drawing-room opinion on the English Embankment was that this was so much to the good but, like the frozen Neva they could see from their windows, a troubling and irreversible current was flowing beneath the surface. And there was a general reluctance to talk of the future, even at gatherings where serious conversation was not deemed to be a breach of good manners.
Hadfield noticed another, more particular change in the embankment’s opinion. Some of those who had been solicitous and most anxious to be his friend were beginning to avoid him. And while there were the invitations from the usual people – Baron Stieglitz, Count Shuvalov, the Baird and Gascoigne families – he was aware of a new stiffness in their smiles. At first he wondered if this was to do with his uncle’s fall from grace. Villagers were close to starvation in many parts of the south and the government was without the means to alleviate their suffering. Blame was falling squarely on General Glen’s shoulders as the controller of the empire’s finances. But if Hadfield was tarnished a little by this association, it was nothing to the stain caused by the rumour of his ‘unfortunate’ affair. Snatches of conversation, an oblique warning from Dobson, and his cousin Alexandra’s angry inarticulate tears one evening left him in little doubt that his private life was a matter of public speculation. Von Plehve or Dobrshinsky or someone acting under their orders must have set tongues wagging with a cleverly indiscreet remark. A hostess might welcome a handsome radical doctor into her drawing room to prove her liberal mind, but there was no social advantage to be won from someone who had conducted a relationship with a terrorist, a married woman to boot. The embankment felt aggrieved when it recalled the sympathy it had lavished upon him. So, although there were invitations still – he was a member of the Glen family, after all – no tears were shed when he made his excuses.
Hadfield was surprised by how little it bothered him. He had always felt himself to be an outsider, revelled in his secret difference, and yet he had enjoyed the privileges of family and his connections too. But when Anna had returned to him he had accepted her without hesitation. He did not share her faith in The People’s Will, he rejected the morality and efficacy of terror, but he no longer felt comfortable with the easy assumptions of most of his class, nodding at balls and parties and dinners when the privileged spoke of the futility of hoping for democracy in Russia.
He saw very little of Anna at Christmas – a few snatched hours – and he spent the last day of the old year with his family. The first day of the new one arrived with champagne and dancing, the rustle of silk, gay uniforms whirling across a polished floor, familiar, happy faces. But Hadfield felt only the dull ache of separation. Later at home he sat with his journal on his knee and tried to write of his hopes, but mostly of his fears for the coming year, his sense of life on the cusp. But his befuddled mind could not conjure the words necessary to bring order to his feelings. He was still awake after une nuit blanche as the church bells rang out across the city the following morning.
In the first weeks of January Hadfield realised he was being followed once again. Tall – a little too tall to pass entirely unnoticed by someone on his guard – early thirties, neatly trimmed brown beard, plainly but well dressed, his shadow moved on a crowded street with the ease of one trained to the task. And there were others at night and skulking outside his home in the morning. His shadow was with him when he visited the British embassy to treat one of the secretaries who had wrenched his knee. The ambassador’s wife no longer included Hadfield’s name on her guest list for dinner. Fortunately, his professional judgement was still valued and he remained the embassy doctor in all but name. Lord Dufferin’s secretary – an Anglo-Irishman called Kennedy – had fallen badly on the frozen Neva and his friends had been obliged to carry him back to the embassy on a hand cart.
Hadfield found him with a large glass of brandy in the ambassador’s outer office. It was soon apparent from his ill-tempered muttering that his pride had taken as sharp a knock as his knee.
‘Some cheeky wee buggers pelted me with snow while I was lying there helpless on the cart,’ he explained in surprisingly broad Ulster Scots.
Hadfield gave him a mild analgesic and instructed him to rest for a few days.
‘By the way, Doctor, Colonel Gonne was hoping you would spare some time to see him before you leave,’ Kennedy informed him.
‘A professional matter?’
Kennedy did not know.
The military attaché’s rooms were in the gloomy west wing of the embassy but with a fine and fitting view over the Field of Mars. Hadfield had met the colonel for the first time at his uncle’s house and twice more since, and he had formed the impression of a steely and ambitious character. A handsome man in his late forties, with red hair and whiskers, there was a glint in his eye that suggested he might be quick to take offence. ‘Thank you for finding the time to see me, Doctor,’ he said, indicating Hadfield should take the chair in front of his desk. ‘I’ll come straight to the point. Lord Dufferin has asked me to raise a delicate matter with you.’
‘Oh?’ said Hadfield in a carefully neutral tone. Most of the ‘delicate’ matters soldiers wished to discuss with a doctor belonged under the general heading of ‘the wages of sin’.
Gonne frowned. ‘Delicate and serious.’ He rose to stand at the window behind his desk, almost a silhouette against the parade ground. ‘Perhaps you know the emperor reviews the guards regiments at the riding school on Sundays.’
Hadfield nodded. ‘The Mikhailovsky Manège.’
‘Last Sunday Lord Dufferin was present at the parade with some of the other ambassadors. Count von Plehve of the Justice Ministry was in the gallery too – are you listening, Doctor?’
‘I’m sorry, please – it’s nothing . . .’ and Hadfield indicated with a light wave of the hand that the colonel should continue.
‘The count made some pointed remarks about you.’
‘What sort of remarks?’
‘He mentioned a woman, a terrorist – the Kovalenko woman – someone you used to . . . meet . . .’ The colonel was trying to be delicate.
‘I have not seen Miss Kovalenko for some time.’ Hadfield’s thoughts were racing and he was struggling to appear calm.
‘I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that any suggestion of a British involvement with these people will embarrass Her Majesty’s government.’
‘No. You don’t need to remind me,’ said Hadfield. ‘As I informed the authorities, I met Miss Kovalenko at a clinic. She proved a capable nurse.’
‘Yes. Yes. Well, I am sure a doctor is required to meet all sorts of people . . .’ Gonne trailed off without conviction.
‘Then if there is nothing else, Colonel, perhaps you’ll excuse me?’
Colonel Gonne nodded curtly and stepped away from the window with the intention of escorting Hadfield from the room. Bu
t his sleeve caught a photograph at the edge of the desk and it fell to the floor with a splintering crash.
‘Damn. Clumsy. I’m sorry, Doctor, I’m forgetting myself,’ he said, bending to pick up the picture. ‘My daughter.’ He turned it over to show Hadfield the shattered face.
‘It’s only the glass . . . she’s pretty.’
‘Yes, well . . .’ Colonel Gonne put the picture back on the table and walked over to the door. He was on the point of opening it when he turned suddenly to speak to Hadfield once more. ‘Pretty girls . . . a word to the wise, Doctor. Take care. The secret police have spies everywhere.’ He paused to make eye contact: ‘You may not be as fortunate a second time.’
The police spy was waiting at the ice-bound pier outside the embassy, where the ferry left for the islands in spring. Hadfield did not give him a second glance. He could think of nothing but the parade at the manège, his mind swirling with the implications. That it should take a casual word from a British soldier who knew very little of the city. The emperor would pass the cheese shop on the Malaya Sadovaya before or after the parade. What were they planning? There was no need to rent a shop if they were going to shoot the tsar and they had rented basement premises. Why? They were driving a gallery into the street. A mine. They were going to kill the tsar with a mine. He leaned back against the wall of the embassy, a cold sweat on his skin like a sickness. A mine. He was sure of it. And how many soldiers like the young Finn he had treated after the palace explosion would die this time? Head bent, fingers pressing hard on his forehead, he let out a long anguished groan.
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To Kill a Tsar Page 32