The Man From St. Petersburg

by Ken Follett

  At the palace end of the avenue he spotted an empty space on the right, the side of the road farther from the park. The footman would come along the opposite pavement and would not see the coach. He pulled into the space and set the brake.

  He climbed down from the seat and stood behind the horses, watching the opposite pavement. He wondered whether he would get out of this alive.

  In his original plan there had been a good chance that Walden would get into the carriage without so much as a glance at the coachman, but now he would surely notice that his footman was missing. The palace doorman would have to open the coach door and pull down the steps. Would Walden stop and speak to the coachman, or would he postpone inquiries until he got home? If he were to speak to Feliks, then Feliks would have to reply and his voice would give the game away. What will I do then? Feliks thought.

  I'll shoot Orlov at the palace door and take the consequences.

  He saw the footman in blue-and-pink running along the far side of The Mall.

  Feliks jumped on the coach, released the brake and drove into the courtyard of Buckingham Palace.

  There was a queue. Ahead of him, the beautiful women and the well-fed men climbed into their carriages and cars. Behind him, somewhere in The Mall, the Walden footman was running up and down, hunting for his coach. How long before he returned?

  The palace servants had a fast and efficient system for loading guests into vehicles. While the passengers were getting into the carriage at the door, a servant was calling the owners of the second in line, and another servant was inquiring the name of the people for the third.

  The line moved, and a servant approached Feliks. "The Earl of Walden," Feliks said. The servant went inside.

  They mustn't come out too soon, Feliks thought.

  The line moved forward, and now there was only a motor car in front of him. Pray God it doesn't stall, he thought. The chauffeur held the doors for an elderly couple. The car pulled away.

  Feliks moved the coach to the porch, halting it a little too far forward, so that he was beyond the wash of light from inside, and his back was to the palace doors.

  He waited, not daring to look around.

  He heard the voice of a young girl say, in Russian: "And how many ladies proposed marriage to you this evening, Cousin Aleks?"

  A drop of sweat ran down into Feliks's eye, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

  A man said: "Where the devil is my footman?"

  Feliks reached into the pocket of the coat beside him and got his hand on the butt of the revolver. Six shots left, he thought.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw a palace servant spring forward, and a moment later he heard the door of the coach being opened. The vehicle rocked slightly as someone got in.

  "I say, William, where's Charles?"

  Feliks tensed. He imagined he could feel Walden's eyes boring into the back of his head. The girl's voice said: "Come on, Papa," from inside the carriage.

  "William's getting deaf in his old age . . ." Walden's words were muffled as he got into the coach. The door slammed.

  "Right away, coachman!" said the palace servant.

  Feliks breathed out, and drove away.

  The release of tension made him feel weak for a moment. Then, as he guided the carriage out of the courtyard, he felt a surge of elation. Orlov was in his power, shut in a box behind him, caught like an animal in a trap. Nothing could stop Feliks now.

  He drove into the park.

  Holding the reins in his right hand, he struggled to get his left arm into his topcoat. That done, he switched the reins to his left hand and got his right arm in. He stood up and shrugged the coat up over his shoulders. He felt in the pocket and touched the gun.

  He sat down again and wound a scarf around his neck.

  He was ready.

  Now he had to choose his moment.

  He had only a few minutes. The Walden house was less than a mile from the palace. He had bicycled along this road the night before, a reconnoiter. He had found two suitable places, where a streetlamp would illuminate his victim and there was thick shrubbery nearby into which he could disappear afterward.

  The first spot loomed up fifty yards ahead. As he approached it he saw a man in evening dress pause beneath the lamp to light his cigar. He drove past the spot.

  The second place was a bend in the road. If there was someone there, Feliks would just have to take a chance, and shoot the intruder if necessary.

  Six bullets.

  He saw the bend. He made the horses trot a little faster. From inside the coach he heard the young girl laugh.

  He came to the bend. His nerves were as taut as piano wire.

  Now.

  He dropped the reins and heaved on the brake. The horses staggered and the carriage shuddered and jerked to a halt.

  From inside the coach he heard a woman cry and a man shout. Something about the woman's voice bothered him, but there was no time to wonder why. He jumped down to the ground, pulled the scarf up over his mouth and nose, took the gun from his pocket and cocked it.

  Full of strength and rage, he flung open the coach door.

  FOUR

  A woman cried out, and time stood still.

  Feliks knew the voice. The sound hit him like a mighty blow. The shock paralyzed him.

  He was supposed to locate Orlov, point the gun at him, pull the trigger, make sure he was dead with another bullet, then turn and run into the bushes . . .

  Instead he looked for the source of the cry, and saw her face. It was startlingly familiar, as if he had last seen it only yesterday, instead of nineteen years ago. Her eyes were wide with panic, and her small red mouth was open.

  Lydia.

  He stood at the door of the coach with his mouth open under the scarf, the gun pointing nowhere, and he thought: My Lydia--here in this carriage . . .

  As he stared at her he was dimly aware that Walden was moving, with uncanny slowness, close by him on his left; but all Feliks could think was: This is how she used to look, wide-eyed and openmouthed, when she lay naked beneath me, her legs wrapped around my waist, and she stared at me and began to cry out with delight . . .

  Then he saw that Walden had drawn a sword--

  For God's sake, a sword?

  --and the blade was glinting in the lamplight as it swept down, and Feliks moved too slowly and too late, and the sword bit into his right hand, and he dropped the gun and it went off with a bang as it hit the road.

  The explosion broke the spell.

  Walden drew back the sword and thrust at Feliks's heart. Feliks moved sideways. The point of the sword went through his coat and jacket and stuck into his shoulder. He jumped back reflexively and the sword came out. He felt a rush of warm blood inside his shirt.

  He stared down at the road, looking for the gun, but he could not see it. He looked up again, but saw that Walden and Orlov had bumped into one another as they tried simultaneously to get out through the narrow carriage door. Feliks's right arm hung limply at his side. He realized he was unarmed and helpless. He could not even strangle Orlov, for his right arm was useless. He had failed utterly, and all because of the voice of a woman from the past.

  After all that, he thought bitterly; after all that.

  Full of despair, he turned and ran away.

  Walden roared: "Damned villain!"

  Feliks's wound hurt at every step. He heard someone running behind him. The footsteps were too light to be Walden's: Orlov was chasing him. He teetered on the edge of hysteria as he thought: Orlov is chasing me--and I am running away!

  He darted off the road and into the bushes. He heard Walden shout: "Aleks, come back. He's got a gun!" They don't know I dropped it, Feliks thought. If only I still had it I could shoot Orlov now.

  He ran a little farther, then stopped, listening. He could hear nothing. Orlov had given up.

  He leaned against a tree. He was exhausted by his short sprint. When he had caught his breath he took off his topcoat and the
stolen livery coat and gingerly touched his wounds. They hurt like the devil, which he thought was probably a good sign, for if they had been very grave they would have been numb. His shoulder bled slowly, and throbbed. His hand had been sliced in the fleshy part between thumb and forefinger, and it bled fast.

  He had to get out of the park before Walden had a chance to raise the hue and cry.

  With difficulty he drew on the topcoat. He left the livery coat on the ground where it lay. He squeezed his right hand under his left armpit, to relieve the pain and slow the flow of blood. Wearily, he headed toward The Mall.

  Lydia.

  It was the second time in his life that she had caused a catastrophe. The first time, in 1895, in St. Petersburg--

  No. He would not allow himself to think about her, not yet. He needed his wits about him now.

  He saw with relief that his bicycle was where he had left it, under the overhanging branches of a big tree. He wheeled it across the grass to the edge of the park. Had Walden alerted the police yet? Were they looking for a tall man in a dark coat? He stared at the scene in The Mall. The footmen were still running, the car engines roaring, the carriages maneuvering. How long had it been since Feliks had climbed up onto the Walden coach--twenty minutes? In that time the world had turned over.

  He took a deep breath and wheeled the bicycle into the road. Everyone was busy, nobody looked at him. Keeping his right hand in his coat pocket, he mounted the machine. He pushed off and began to pedal, steering with his left hand.

  There were bobbies all around the palace. If Walden mobilized them quickly they could cordon off the park and the roads around it. Feliks looked ahead, toward Admiralty Arch. There was no sign of a roadblock.

  Once past the arch he would be in the West End and they would have lost him.

  He began to get the knack of cycling one-handed, and increased his speed.

  As he approached the arch a motor car drew alongside him and, at the same time, a policeman stepped into the road ahead. Feliks stopped the bicycle and prepared to run--but the policeman was merely holding up the traffic to permit another car, belonging presumably to some kind of dignitary, to emerge from a gateway. When the car came out the policeman saluted, then waved the traffic on.

  Feliks cycled through the arch and into Trafalgar Square.

  Too slow, Walden, he thought with satisfaction.

  It was midnight, but the West End was bright with streetlights and crowded with people and traffic. There were policemen everywhere and no other cyclists: Feliks was conspicuous. He considered abandoning the bicycle and walking back to Camden Town, but he was not sure he could make the journey on foot: he seemed to be tiring very easily.

  From Trafalgar Square he rode up St. Martin's Lane, then left the main streets for the back alleys of Theatreland. A dark lane was suddenly illuminated as a stage door opened and a bunch of actors came out, talking loudly and laughing. Farther on he heard groans and sighs, and passed a couple making love standing up in a doorway.

  He crossed into Bloomsbury. Here it was quieter and darker. He cycled north up Gower Street, past the classical facade of the deserted university. Pushing the pedals became an enormous effort, and he ached all over. Just a mile or two more, he thought.

  He dismounted to cross the busy Euston Road. The lights of the traffic dazzled him. He seemed to be having difficulty focusing his eyes.

  Outside Euston Station he got on the bicycle again and pedaled off. Suddenly he felt dizzy. A streetlight blinded him. The front wheel wobbled and hit the curb. Feliks fell.

  He lay on the ground, dazed and weak. He opened his eyes and saw a policeman approaching. He struggled to his knees.

  "Have you been drinkin'?" the policeman said.

  "Feel faint," Feliks managed.

  The policeman took his right arm and hauled him to his feet. The pain in his wounded shoulder brought Feliks to his senses. He managed to keep his bleeding right hand in his pocket.

  The policeman sniffed audibly and said: "Hmm." His attitude became more genial when he discovered that Feliks did not smell of drink. "Will you be all right?"

  "In a minute."

  "Foreigner, are you?"

  The policeman had noticed his accent. "French," Feliks said. "I work at the embassy."

  The policeman became more polite. "Would you like a cab?"

  "No, thank you. I have only a little way to go."

  The policeman picked up the bicycle. "I should wheel it home if I were you."

  Feliks took the bicycle from him. "I will do that."

  "Very good, sir. Bong noo-wee."

  "Bonne nuit, Officer." With an effort Feliks produced a smile. Pushing the bicycle with his left hand, he walked away. I'll turn into the next alley and sit down for a rest, he resolved. He looked back over his shoulder: the policeman was still watching him. He made himself keep on walking, although he desperately needed to lie down. The next alley, he thought. But when he came to an alley he passed it, thinking: Not this one, but the next.

  And in that way he got home.

  It seemed hours later that he stood outside the high terraced house in Camden Town. He peered through a fog at the number on the door to make sure this was the right place.

  To get to his room he had to go down a flight of stone steps to the basement area. He leaned the bicycle against the wrought-iron railings while he opened the little gate. He then made the mistake of trying to wheel the bicycle down the steps. It slid out of his grasp and fell into the area with a loud clatter. A moment later his landlady, Bridget, appeared at the street door in a shawl.

  "What the divil is it?" she called.

  Feliks sat on the steps and made no reply. He decided he would not move for a while, until he felt stronger.

  Bridget came down and helped him to his feet. "You've had a few too many drinks," she said. She made him walk down the steps to the basement door.

  "Give us your key," she said.

  Feliks had to use his left hand to take the key from his right trouser pocket. He gave it to her and she opened the door. They went in. Feliks stood in the middle of the little room while she lit the lamp.

  "Let's have your coat off," she said.

  He let her remove his coat, and she saw the bloodstains. "Have you been fightin'?"

  Feliks went and lay on the mattress.

  Bridget said: "You look as if you lost!"

  "I did," said Feliks, and he passed out.

  An agonizing pain brought him around. He opened his eyes to see Bridget bathing his wounds with something that stung like fire. "This hand should be stitched," she said.

  "Tomorrow," Feliks breathed.

  She made him drink from a cup. It was warm water with gin in it. She said: "I haven't any brandy."

  He lay back and let her bandage him.

  "I could fetch the doctor but I couldn't be payin' him."

  "Tomorrow."

  She stood up. "I'll look at you first thing in the morning."

  "Thank you."

  She went out, and at last Feliks allowed himself to remember:

  It has happened in the long run of ages that everything which permits men to increase their production, or even to continue it, has been appropriated by the few. The land belongs to the few, who may prevent the community from cultivating it. The coal-pits, which represent the labor of generations, belong again to the few. The lace-weaving machine, which represents, in its present state of perfection, the work of three generations of Lancashire weavers, belongs also to the few; and if the grandsons of the very same weaver who invented the first lace-weaving machine claim their right to bring one of these machines into motion, they will be told: "Hands off! This machine does not belong to you!" The railroads belong to a few shareholders, who may not even know where is situated the railway which brings them a yearly income larger than that of a medieval king. And if the children of those people who died by the thousands in digging the tunnels should gather and go--a ragged and starving crowd--to ask bread or work
from the shareholders, they would be met with bayonets and bullets.

  Feliks looked up from Kropotkin's pamphlet. The bookshop was empty. The bookseller was an old revolutionist who made his money selling novels to wealthy women and kept a hoard of subversive literature in the back of the shop. Feliks spent a lot of time in here.

  He was nineteen. He was about to be thrown out of the prestigious Spiritual Academy for truancy, indiscipline, long hair and associating with Nihilists. He was hungry and broke, and soon he would be homeless, and life was wonderful. He cared about nothing other than ideas, and he was learning every day new things about poetry, history, psychology and--most of all--politics.

  Laws on property are not made to guarantee either to the individual or to society the enjoyment of the produce of their own labor. On the contrary, they are made to rob the producer of a part of what he has created. When, for example, the law establishes Mr. So-and-so's right to a house, it is not establishing his right to a cottage he has built for himself, or to a house he has erected with the help of some of his friends. In that case no one would have disputed his right! On the contrary, the law is establishing his right to a house which is not the product of his labor.

  The anarchist slogans had sounded ridiculous when he had first heard them: Property is theft, Government is tyranny, Anarchy is justice. It was astonishing how, when he had really thought about them, they came to seem not only true but crashingly obvious. Kropotkin's point about laws was undeniable. No laws were required to prevent theft in Feliks's home village: if one peasant stole another's horse, or his chair, or the coat his wife had embroidered, then the whole village would see the culprit in possession of the goods and make him give them back. The only stealing that went on was when the landlord demanded rent; and the policeman was there to enforce that theft. It was the same with government. The peasants needed no one to tell them how the plow and the oxen were to be shared between their fields: they decided among themselves. It was only the plowing of the landlord's fields that had to be enforced.

  We are continually told of the benefits conferred by laws and penalties, but have the speakers ever attempted to balance the benefits attributed to laws and penalties against the degrading effects of these penalties upon humanity? Only calculate all the evil passions awakened in mankind by the atrocious punishments inflicted in our streets! Man is the cruelest animal on earth. And who has pampered and developed the cruel instincts if it is not the king, the judge and the priests, armed with law, who caused flesh to be torn off in strips, boiling pitch to be poured onto wounds, limbs to be dislocated, bones to be crushed, men to be sawn asunder to maintain their authority? Only estimate the torrent of depravity let loose in human society by the "informing" which is countenanced by judges, and paid in hard cash by governments, under pretext of assisting in the discovery of "crime." Only go into the jails and study what man becomes when he is steeped in the vice and corruption which oozes from the very walls of our prisons. Finally, consider what corruption, what depravity of mind is kept up among men by the idea of obedience, the very essence of law; of chastisement; of authority having the right to punish; of the necessity for executioners, jailers, and informers--in a word, by all the attributes of law and authority. Consider this, and you will assuredly agree that a law inflicting penalties is an abomination which should cease to exist.