‘Are you strong enough to go to them?’ asked Vera.
Kibalchich had found abandoned workings close to the river at the northern edge of Vasilievsky. The ground was frozen hard enough to keep the market gardeners from their plots, and the vast wooded cemetery lay between them and the island’s lines. They would be safe there from prying eyes and Anna would patrol the edge of the gravel pit to be sure. A fine mist was rising from the land, the weak sun shaping it into layers, the sky luminescent, a diffuse light, the towers of the city churches lost on the soft horizon. The winter silence was broken only by the distant cawing of the rooks in the cemetery treetops and from time to time the voices of her comrades as they practised in the pit with their dummy grenades.
Kibalchich called to her, his eyes shining like a schoolboy’s: ‘We’re going to try one with a charge.’ It was heavy, the size of a large grapefruit, and the worker – she was not to know his name – threw it with both hands. It detonated on the frozen ground with a sharp yellow flash and a fizzle like a damp firework.
‘Well, it works. That’s a comfort,’ said Kibalchich cheerfully, ‘but they’ll have to be close to be sure of killing him.’
When the bombers had learnt all they could of trajectory and blast radius they left to ready themselves as best they could for the following morning. Kibalchich took a droshky back with Anna to the Voznesensky apartment. Two sharp knocks followed by two more, the tinkle of the lock, the drawing back of bolts and Vera stood there with doubt and even a little fear written in her face.
‘They’ve taken Andrei Zhelyabov. Last night.’
The door closed behind them and they stood in the small hall.
‘Does Sophia know?’
‘Yes. She’ll be here soon.’
Poor Perovskaya. She loved him deeply. Everyone would share her grief, hug her, speak to her with sympathy, but there will be no word for me, Anna thought.
‘Can we go ahead without him? Is there word from the shop?’
‘No. I don’t know . . . oh, Anna, what is happening?’
There was still no report from the Malaya Sadovaya when the executive committee gathered at three o’clock. Long faces, frustrated, frightened, and so many comrades missing. This time there were chairs in Vera’s little sitting room for all. There was no comfort they could give Sophia and she was impatient with those who tried, but she accepted Anna’s hands and offered in return a weak smile. Her face was white and strained, and appeared even more so in her simple black dress. But there was no mistaking her composure, and she was the first to speak.
‘There is no turning back. Whatever happens we must act tomorrow.’ She paused to look about the room, defying any of them to challenge her: ‘The mine must be laid and the bombs primed by morning.’
‘What if they’ve discovered the tunnel?’ asked Figner.
‘We still have the grenades. And we must act for the people. Do we act?’ Sophia asked quietly. ‘Vera, do we act?’
‘Yes. We act.’
‘It’s suicide. The police will be everywhere.’ It was the young naval lieutenant, Sukhanov. He was sitting at the edge of his seat, his hands pressed over his ears in a gesture of incredulity. ‘The grenades are not properly made. The gendarmes are in the shop . . . suicide.’
Sophia Perovskaya gave him a steely look: ‘Do we act?’
‘What will be left of the party after this?’
‘Do we act?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said with a shake of his head. ‘We must hear from the shop before we can decide.’
Sophia Perovskaya stared at him coldly for a moment, then turned to Anna: ‘Annushka, do we act?’
Dead comrades, comrades in prison, the isolation, fear, so much sacrifice in the two years they had been fighting. Zhelyabov would never feel the warm southern sun on his shoulders again. There was no longer a choice.
‘Annushka?’ Sophia asked, again.
‘Yes. We shall act . . .’
THE HOUSE OF PRELIMINARY DETENTION 25 SHPALERNAYA STREET
‘Will you help us, Doctor?’
‘If I can.’
‘Then where will we find Anna Kovalenko?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But you would tell me if you did know?’
Hadfield did not reply but folded his arms across his chest and stared impassively at the special investigator. They were sitting on either side of an iron table in the House of Preliminary Detention. The interrogation room was larger than his cell but with the same bleak grey walls and asphalt floor, lit by an unscreened gas flame. They had given him an ill-fitting prison uniform with trousers he was obliged to grasp like a village simpleton to prevent them falling to his ankles. The duty doctor had made a respectable job of cleaning and stitching the wound in his head, but a little blood was seeping through the bandage. It was not how he would choose to dress for an embassy soirée but there was little chance of his name appearing on the guest list for a while.
‘Why did you visit the Sunday parade?’
‘To see the emperor.’
‘Were you helping your terrorist friends with information?’
‘No.’
‘Then why were you there?’
‘To see the emperor.’
Dobrshinsky sighed with exasperation: ‘I don’t think you understand how serious your situation is, Doctor. Consorting with a terrorist – the old Ukrainian woman has told me of your meetings – resisting His Majesty’s servants in the line of duty . . .’
‘He wasn’t in uniform.’
‘Doctor, that’s quite insulting.’ Dobrshinsky leant forward earnestly, elbows on the table: ‘You’re an intelligent fellow – if misguided – you know Anna Petrovna and her comrades are going to make another attempt on the emperor’s life. Isn’t that why you went to see the Sunday parade?’
Hadfield did not reply.
‘Do you think killing the emperor will solve anything in this country? ’
‘No,’ said Hadfield emphatically. ‘I’m opposed to terror, whether it’s directed at or by the state.’
‘Said with creditable frankness. But then you must help me prevent another outrage.’ Dobrshinsky paused to let him answer, and when none was forthcoming: ‘Didn’t you make a promise to preserve life?’
‘You asked me if I would help you if I could and I said “Yes – if I could”.’
‘You’re not telling me what you know,’ said Dobrshinsky. ‘Is she worth the disgrace and imprisonment? What about your principles?’
‘If I could, I would help you.’
‘A facile mantra. You think you’re trapped, but you have a choice. You’re a doctor, a gentleman, a man of reason – please use it.’
Dobrshinsky paused again, his little brown eyes watching Hadfield intently, perhaps hoping for a flicker of weakness – of sense. But there was nothing Hadfield could say. He could own that he used to be a man of reason and even some principle, he could admit to his confusion, to terrible doubt, he could say he had not made a decision to pursue this course, that it was a feeling, a compulsion he was in thrall to. Would a man who struggled with an irresistible impulse of his own understand a little of this?
‘No one knows you’re here,’ Dobrshinsky continued. ‘Help me and you will walk free. You can return to your patients and to society. If you don’t help me you’ll be sent to trial and then to a convict settlement, a disgrace to your family and your country.’
‘This is my country.’
‘Then serve her.’
‘If I could, I would help you,’ Hadfield repeated.
‘We will catch Kovalenko and the rest, Figner, Perovskaya. We’ve arrested Zhelyabov. You have a choice . . .’ Dobrshinsky paused, then, almost as an afterthought, added: ‘Perhaps I should arrange for you to speak with your uncle?’
‘As you wish,’ said Hadfield with exaggerated composure.
Dobrshinsky’s thin lips twitched a little with amusement: ‘Of course that would have unfortunate consequences. You understand th
e choice you must make. I urge you to think on your future and the right course.’ He pulled a gold timepiece from his waistcoat pocket: ‘Four o’clock. I’ll return in a few hours.’
Rising stiffly from the table, he smoothed the creases from his frock coat with great care and turned to the door. He knocked sharply then turned once more: ‘Did you read those volumes of Mr Dostoevsky’s I lent you, Doctor? There’s a line, I can’t remember it precisely but it is something like, “Do not underestimate how powerful a single man may be.” That power is given to you now. Choose wisely.’
THE PEOPLE’S WILL APARTMENT 25 VOZNESENSKY PROSPEKT
They were saved by a cat. Yakimova had left as soon as she was able and hurried to the flat on the Voznesensky. The gendarmes had arrived at the cheese shop with a surveyor of buildings.
‘Not just any old surveyor. He was a general,’ Bashka reported.
They had searched all three rooms but were most interested in the cellar. The general kicked at the pile of coke they had placed in front of the gallery entrance but did not ask for it to be moved. Nor had the gendarmes taken the trouble to look under the shopkeeper’s bed and in the barrels where they would have found the earth from the gallery. The general had been on the point of asking for one to be opened when Bashka’s cat had bounded down the steps into the cellar and rubbed against his shiny boots.
‘He bent to stroke her and I began rattling on about her history, and that was enough to distract him,’ Bashka said with a throaty chuckle. They were now on the best of terms with the gendarmes. It was the first piece of good fortune they had enjoyed in weeks.
By eight o’clock the mine was charged for firing and the rendezvous set for the bomb-throwers. Nikolai Kibalchich would work through the night to ready the grenades. There were six of them left at the flat on the Voznesensky, cutting the kerosene cans for the shell of the grenades, bending and twisting the metal with fire tongs in the grate and casting weights on the kitchen table. Anna Kovalenko and the other women knew nothing of explosives, but fetched and carried and measured and mixed as they were bidden. The living-room floor was covered in shards of metal, the apartment full of stinging acrid smoke. They spoke little and only of the tasks they needed to perform. At eleven o’clock Sophia Perovskaya left them to rest as best she could before the morning.
‘You must go too, Annushka,’ Vera Figner said a short time later. ‘You’re exhausted. You should be fresh for tomorrow.’
But Anna could not sleep. She lay on the bed in her stained dress, conscious of Sophia restless beside her and the noise of the bomb-makers in the sitting room. With nothing to distract her tired mind, she became a prisoner of her thoughts again. Where was Frederick?
‘Are you awake, Annushka?’
‘Yes.’
Sophia turned to face her and reached up to touch her cheek.
‘He didn’t betray us, Sonechka,’ she said, trying to hold back her tears.
‘Who, Annushka? Are you crying?’ She brushed the moisture from Anna’s cheek with the back of her hand, then leant forward to kiss her brow.
‘Your English doctor,’ she said. ‘You love him.’
Anna did not answer. She was ashamed to speak of him when her friend’s thoughts must be with Zhelyabov.
‘Are you afraid, Sonechka?’ she asked at last.
‘Only that we may fail again.’
And Anna could see in the splinter of light from the open door the implacable resolve in her white face.
42
SUNDAY, 1 MARCH 1881
8.00 A.M.
THE VOZNESENSKY PROSPEKT
The pavement was slippery and the bombs were too delicate to risk carrying far. Anna found a cab just beyond the frozen Fontanka, its driver snoozing in his furs, hat pulled down over his eyes and ears. Sophia was waiting for her beneath the carriage arch of the block, the bombs in her arms like a baby. As the cab slid along rutted streets, she nursed them in her lap for fear a jolt would cause one or more to explode. It was early, a little after eight, a cold clear day, the snowy pavements Sunday quiet, church bells calling believers to prayer.
The four members of the bombing party were already at the apartment in the Telezhnaya.
‘But where is Andrei?’ they asked. Andrei Zhelyabov was their mentor and talisman. But Andrei was not going to come. A petite woman with her bombs in a stout paper bag had taken his place. Was it possible without him?
Yes, it was possible, Sophia told them with quiet assurance. The executive committee of The People’s Will had decided that the attempt would be made that day. There could be no turning away. They sat in silence, fidgeting with their tea glasses, hands, buttons, avoiding her gaze, too frightened to speak but too frightened to break the circle. Anna stood watching at the window, her mouth dry, her chest tight.
Sophia Perovskaya unfolded a pencil map of the streets and marked with neat little crosses the positions she had chosen for the bombers. If the emperor took his customary route to the parade he would pass the cheese shop on the Malaya Sadovaya. If the mine did not kill him the bombers would be able to make sure. If he came by the other route – the Ekaterininsky Canal – then they would catch him on his journey back to the palace.
‘If you see me at the corner of the Malaya Sadovaya with a handkerchief in my hand,’ she said, ‘that is the signal to take up new positions along the canal. Is that clear? Good. Comrades, courage. Today is a day of hope for the people.’
They found a café close by and ordered coffee and cakes. The bag with the bombs sat on the bench beside them.
‘And me, Sonechka? What must I do?’ Anna asked, when there seemed nothing more to discuss.
Sophia placed a tiny hand on top of hers. ‘You must go back to the apartment on Voznesensky and wait for us.’
Anna was aghast. How could her friend suggest such a thing?
‘I knew you would be upset but it is the will of the executive committee.’
‘You mean it is your will.’
‘Annushka. It is important someone is there . . .’
‘Vera will be there. Please Sophia, I must . . .’ Again Anna was struggling to control her tears. She pulled her hand free, clenching her fists in frustration. I have become so weak, she thought.
‘Shhhh, Annushka.’ Sophia’s face softened and she reached for Anna’s hand. ‘There are things you must do, your future . . .’ She hesitated.
‘But you will need a lookout . . .’
‘No, Anna,’ she said firmly. ‘No. It is the will of the executive committee. And that’s an end to the matter.’
They paid and left the café and on the street they kissed and held each other for a moment.
‘Wish me luck, Annushka.’
Anna kissed her cold cheek again and stood watching her comrade’s diminutive figure until it was lost among the passers-by.
12.45 P.M.
THE WINTER PALACE
The tsar had risen at half past eight and his valet reported him to be in high good humour. He had taken a turn about the Winter Palace gardens with his children and, after divine worship, he ate a light breakfast. At ten o’clock he received His Excellency Count Loris-Melikov in his study and listened with satisfaction to his account of the arrest of the notorious terrorist Zhelyabov.
‘It’s a feather in all our caps, Anton Frankzevich,’ the chief prosecutor reported. ‘I’ve spoken to His Excellency and he sends his compliments to you and Major Barclay.’
To communicate this courtesy, Count von Plehve made a gracious little bow to his two companions.
Dobrshinsky returned it with a small smile. ‘Please pass on my thanks to His Excellency.’
They were standing in the courtyard of the palace in the midst of great activity as the royal grooms prepared the emperor’s covered coach for the review at the manège. The stones rang to the restless clopping of the horses, the Cossacks gathered in a cloud of vapour beneath the carriage arch.
‘And did His Excellency represent our views to His Majesty?’ aske
d Dobrshinsky.
‘His Majesty is determined to take the parade,’ von Plehve replied, raising his shoulders a little in a gesture of resignation. ‘The imperial chamberlain asked him to reconsider, but he will hear none of it.’
‘Folly.’ Dobrshinsky slapped his cane against his boots in exasperation.
‘He has acceded to your request for an additional escort,’ said von Plehve, almost apologetically. ‘Major Barclay will travel in the police sleigh.’
‘And the route?’
‘That is for His Majesty to decide, but our concerns were made known to him. We can only hope he was listening.’
‘Amen to that,’ said Barclay, crossing himself vigorously.
Yes, it was time to fall back on prayer, Dobrshinsky reflected, what more could they do?
There were gendarmes outside the manège, and his own people were posted among the crowd, but it was impossible to guard against reckless hate.
‘Health to Your Majesty!’
The soldiers in the covered entrance shouted their customary greeting and a moment later Tsar Alexander II stepped into the courtyard with the captain of his guard a few steps behind. He stopped to adjust the clasp of his cloak, blinking in the winter sunshine. A word to his coachman, then he stepped inside and a moment later the royal cortège pulled away, the Cossacks with swords drawn in front and on the flanks, the police bringing up the rear in two small sleighs.
‘A fine thing, I’m sure, to have your police escort travelling behind you,’ muttered Dobrshinsky.
‘Well, take a little comfort,’ the chief prosecutor observed tartly, his gaze fixed on the coach as it trundled through the echoing arch into the street. ‘His Majesty has just instructed his coachman to take him over the Pevchesky Bridge.’
‘Yes, there is comfort in that,’ Dobrshinsky replied. So he had listened to that much advice. The tsar would follow the route along the Ekaterininsky Canal to the parade. ‘Perhaps it will be enough to keep him alive.’
To Kill a Tsar Page 34