Field of Mars

by Stephen Miller

  Of course she will agree.

  But, while she waits, he has been generous; the villa in Antibes on the Riviera is absolute paradise and the one place on earth that she feels truly alive. If all else falls away she is determined to hold on to the villa. The winters are glorious there, every now and then a draught, or one of those pelting rains that send floods coursing down the mountain rills, washing out the road to Cannes.

  The servants are gone. The doors are closed and she slips on to the floor at his knees and allows herself to be kissed. These times she floats away, these times it is easy. For these times she is prepared; more awake than he is, more energetic, his dominatrix and now is her time. She has him in these hours and she will not let him go.

  She has him again. And he sleeps and she watches him, watches and tries to imagine him as a boy … Naturally she has perused family photographs, but she never can quite see the transformation when the boy is lost to the man; something about the strength of the nose, the darkness around his eyes; the way he frowns as he sleeps. The way his mouth can fall open in sleep, as if he is trying to suck up all the air in the sky.

  And she puts out the last candle, throws off her negligée and stands shivering in front of the great window. A nightscape of the trees, the leaves beginning to yellow, and the clouds coming in to erase the stars; infringing on the trees are the lead roofs and the tiled pediments of the Shugalov Palace. Over there all the lights are on, if she opened the window she might hear the strains of music—that’s right, Betsy is giving a party tonight for her circle of all the liberals, journalists, and representatives of the Duma. Princes Trubetskoy and Cantacuzène of course, a mob of high-borns who think they understand the workers, tedious dreamers with foreign ideas that they keep pushing on everyone they meet. She was not invited. Of course. Betsy and that fool husband of hers.

  She stands there naked, the sweat turning cold on her skin, her nipples hard, the gooseflesh spreading up her arms and across her strong thighs to her belly. Would they have a girl or a boy, she wonders. She will have it out with him, she will strike a bargain with him, have the child. Bastards, everyone has bastards, it’s no shame any more, this is a modern age. She considers the matter as she stretches there in the night-light. She’ll take the girl away and raise her in France, bring her back to Petersburg occasionally. What can he do about it? Nothing. She has her own money. Safe.

  She returns to the huge bed, slips under the sheets, and he wakes a little, rolls over to meet her, pressing his face into the hollow of her neck, one arm thrown around her, latched together there in the great bed like two perfect beings finally made one. As close to heaven, or closer even, than most poor souls will ever get.

  In the night she wakes … there is light pouring from the doorway of his den. His special room, not much bigger than a cupboard off the library, the door to which he always keeps locked. Inside he has installed a machine for receiving cable traffic. It is a large glass-enclosed machine hooked to a typewriter that fills the space and clatters and snaps at all hours of the night. She always thinks it will catch fire. Even through the soundproofing she can hear it and whenever she is sleeping it wakes her up immediately.

  In that little room he has things that are too secret for her to know. Business that is too private to be carried out at his offices. Clandestine matters. No one must ever go inside, he says.

  The door has been constructed behind a bookcase, built on swivels so that he can push it out of the way. It is heavy because the books are real ones, and unless you knew where to put the key you would never find it. There is a telephone in the room that he sometimes uses. She has been allowed to look inside, but never enters. She would not presume. An ashtray. An extra leather chair that, as far as she knows, no one has ever sat upon.

  Well, of course he sometimes uses the Morskaya house when she is in France, he could have someone in the bedroom then. But surely Anna would tell her. Is he unfaithful, is that why he spends time in the little room? Does he have a lover in Warsaw? Or, where else did he go, in Belgrade, or Berlin. He’s always been so impressed with the Germans. Some girl in Germany. As she curls there in half-sleep, images of German ballerinas she has known flash through her imagination like bejewelled sheep leaping a turnstile. It makes her laugh, these girls. He doesn’t like women like that. He likes the thin ones. The skeletal ones. So, some German wraith then, some ghoul that he brings to Petersburg while she is sunning herself in Antibes and cooking squid on the rocks. Well, there are men in France, too. Plenty of them who come for the sun in the winter, so he’d better watch out. Two can play that game, after all.

  She rolls over. There is a little noise and she realizes he is pulling the bookcase closed for silence, and then a few moments later, as she falls asleep, she hears him composing a message, the little taps taking her down into slumber.

  Over breakfast he is angry. At her, at the cook, at the newspapers, and without finishing his food, he telephones an attaché at some embassy. She looks at the headlines and finds that peace has broken out in the Balkans. But he is angry? Yes, angry at the peace. Angry at the diplomats and the negotiators. Angry that they have backed down at some conference in Bucharest. By they he means Bulgaria, who have surrendered to the Turks, not to mention Serbia, who he says could have won it all; he spits his words, little flakes of egg and pastry fly across the table. Peace! It is like an obscene curse. It throws everything off schedule, he complains. Everything? What everything? He is too busy to explain. She had wanted them both to go to the botanical gardens. It is getting colder outside and in there are the most amazing flowers and beneath the glass it is like spring. He had already agreed and now he is angry about peace?

  They go. He sulks the entire time. It is the kind of place he hates, but he still goes. This is how she knows he loves her still.

  At the entrance there is a courier waiting for him. A reply from an embassy. He walks away from her to the kiosk at the front. He’ll only be a few moments.

  She looks at the plants and thinks about how she’s going to get even, how he doesn’t deserve her. Watches him through the glass, pretending to look at the curious cacti, the rare orchids. Now he’s smoking, pacing along the gravel path dictating a telegram with another in his hands. Throws the cigarillo stub away with an angry gesture. Well, for someone who sells guns she can understand why the onset of peace might be vexing.

  She has worked her way to the strange little tortured Japanese trees by the time he comes in to join her. An apology, but he has to see Nestor tonight. Nestor and some others, business associates.

  She cannot understand what he sees in Nestor. An oversexed oaf. A man with the brain of a boar. It cannot be business, or any business that she can imagine. Nestor can barely count. It is more than business, it is … politics.

  He loves his country, she thinks. He loves his country more than he loves her.

  It is so touching, so boyish of him. It causes a little tear to spring from her eye. Another telegram, another excursion outside, something quick this time, a yes or a no.

  Now she can hear his heels on the tiles, and he is there, happier, energized. Whatever he has been doing she can see that he believes it will work.

  And standing there in front of the little crippled trees, with his arm around her, she is filled with warmth.

  THIRTEEN

  Hand-wringers and old women! Weak sisters and dilettantes! Andrianov was beside himself. He managed to keep his voice down, pushed his chair back from the table, started for the toilets and then returned, turned his withering fire on Gulka. Gulka! Who was supposed to be in charge of security, who was supposed to take care of the … troublesome cases.

  ‘Yes, but as a high official, my hands are tied, Sergei. There’s a procedure, even for me, rules and regulations. In the past too much corruption and various temptations put in front of various parties have muddied the waters,’ he whined. That was it. That was when Andrianov whirled on him.

  ‘Don’t you understand, Alexandr Ivanovi
ch? This is not a game, this is not a theory, this is a war. Can’t you understand that? I wanted Gosling protected and you said that was something you could do. And did you protect him, General?’

  ‘Well, in a manner of speaking …’ Gulka made his jelly face, double, triple chins waggling in equivocation.

  ‘Well, what’s all this about someone in your own department starting an investigation? Why am I hearing about this? Aren’t you in charge of these people?’

  ‘I only mentioned the investigation, I only reported this because I wanted to emphasize that it’s nothing. It’s routine.’ Gulka shrugged but only managed a half-smile.

  ‘You’ll have to explain that to me, Alexandr. I wanted Gosling to be invisible. No one should notice him or be able to discover what he is doing for us. That’s why covering up his mistake was important. And you said you could take care of that. If you have, if you are taking steps, everything is fine, there is no reason for us to talk. If you did it, wonderful. Perhaps something can be salvaged.’

  ‘Something can probably be salvaged …’

  For a moment Andrianov just stared at him, a thousand invisible bullets smashed into the fat man’s skull. He fought for control, fought to keep his voice calm, refusing to shout, to scream curses. ‘All right, Alexandr,’ he managed to say. ‘Why can’t this all be hushed up? Why can’t you stop an investigation in your own department? Why can’t these people be transferred, or fired, or simply reassigned. Don’t you have any power at all in Okhrana? Aren’t you supposed to be in command?’

  ‘You’d best answer him,’ Evdaev glowered across the table. They had finished the dinner, except for Gulka who was lingering over his dessert.

  ‘I am trying to explain! Good God, Sergei! Try to understand!’ Gulka exploded. He looked like he was arguing with his mother over having to do his homework. Perhaps he was going to cry?

  ‘I’m sorry, Alexandr Ivanovich … please.’

  ‘We’re both sorry, Alexei,’ Evdaev put in.

  ‘You say you wanted him protected and we did it, the St Petersburg police know nothing at all, but, yes … unaccountably an investigation has been started, files have been opened by a low-level section chief here in the city. It’s purely routine, they’ve requested all the reports and probably they’ve started a search for witnesses—’

  ‘You said there were no witnesses!’

  ‘No one in the room, that’s correct. Ivo told me—’

  ‘Heron,’ Evdaev prompted.

  ‘Yes, all right, Heron, then. Heron told me there was no one in the room. But there were people around that night. The photographer has been taken care of, but there were all our guests, various whores, servants, assorted persons who may have seen him arrive, those kind of witnesses …’

  Andrianov stood there watching him, the strength of his focus driving Gulka into silence. ‘What?’ the fat man asked, nervously.

  ‘Fine, fine. I see,’ Andrianov said quietly. Evdaev looked up at him, a little surprised at the calm that had suddenly dispersed the storm. ‘I think I understand, Alexandr. You’re saying that if you were to attempt to stifle this investigation you would betray your interest.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Gulka said, relieved that he had broken through. ‘It might cause even more damage. It would look too curious, Sergei. Someone like me, someone from on high who’s suddenly interested. You know, excite their scrutiny, provoke them, raise a flag of warning. We’ll do our utmost of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said quietly. He returned to the table and sat for a long moment. Gulka relaxed and went back to the dessert.

  Evdaev looked at the pair of them, nodded in agreement, then twisted in his seat and cleared his throat. ‘Also, I’m somewhat concerned about the winter, Sergei. Perhaps this delay isn’t so terrible after all. Fighting in the mountains in winter … awfully difficult. Not good for the horses at all.’ His brow was furrowed in concentration. ‘I know we were winning. Three cheers for those Rumanians, eh? Seize the day, attack the rear. First principles right out of the book. I can’t for the life of me understand why Serbia knuckled under like that. All we need is a spark, as you’ve said many times. I’ve spoken to … ah … all the relevant parties and we’ve moved men up to the border. Quietly, of course—’

  Andrianov cut him off. ‘No, the delay is simply what it is, a delay, nothing more, Nestor. And, yes, we can use the delay they’ve given us to our own advantage. Never mind. Here, Alexandr Ivanovich, this is what I want you to do next.’ Gulka sat there, licking his spoon, placed it carefully on the edge of the dish, detached his napkin, waited for instructions.

  ‘Very discreetly take whatever steps you must to impede the investigation. Don’t get involved personally, don’t tip your hand, but find other business for them to do. Keep them busy. If they are going to discover anything, at least they will have to work for it, eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gulka. ‘Grind away.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Andrianov said. ‘Grind away. For now that’s enough.’

  ‘And there’ll be no war in the winter?’ Evdaev was smiling.

  ‘Oh, make no mistake, Nestor, even now we are at war, but your horses will be warm.’

  And not a half-hour later he was in his car being driven back to Mina’s Luxe on the Morskaya. Once there he climbed the stairs to his secret room, and pulled the bookcase-door closed behind him. He turned on the ticker and took a few moments to compose the message. The encryption took longer because the code was his most secure. It had only one receiver, Apis. And in one sentence he phrased his request.

  He would require four men from Serbia to do a better job.

  Gosling is going to fly.

  FOURTEEN

  Ryzhkov and Hokhodiev met Inspector Iosif Schliff at the crowded entrance to the Gostiny Dvor market on the Nevsky and went from there to the Central Police Department at the head of Gorokhovaya. Schliff was an officer in the St Petersburg police but you would never suspect it; a diminutive man, well fed within his shabby clothes laced with the sharp tang of body odour. He went about in a raincoat that was even more tattered than a typical police detective’s, and he seemed always to have a cigar stub clamped between his lips. He was one half of the St Petersburg Police Department’s ‘Morality Detachment’; the other officer was on sick leave. The Morality Detachment’s fortunes drifted as politics drifted it into or out of the spotlight. If the newspapers reported a particularly hideous sex crime then there was a sudden call for additional resources for the detachment’s eternal battle against perversion. Instant largess that would cause procedures to be improved, new equipment to be purchased, new recruits trained, and even rumours of upgraded offices. Then the excitement would die, gradually the new officers would be required elsewhere, the detachment would begin to wither away. Schliff didn’t seem to mind. ‘Frankly I like it out of the public eye. I can make my own hours, there are relatively few reports to write. I can take my time and get to know all the significant personalities.’

  They had asked about violent paedophiles and were met at first with a long pause of assessment, followed by a nod and Schliff’s wordless tour through the bowels of the Central Police Department until they discovered a small conference room. The walls were stone and cold, the paint was flaking off due to the moisture that seeped through from the embankment. The best you could say for the atmosphere was that it was mouldy; it looked to Ryzhkov like a good place to grow mushrooms. Schliff left them and a few minutes later tea was brought around. After about fifteen minutes he returned with a trolley stacked with boxes of files.

  ‘If I am correct you’re looking for someone in here,’ Schliff gestured to the overladen cart.

  ‘Oh God,’ moaned Kostya.

  Ryzhkov looked so aghast that Schliff suddenly said, ‘But I think I might have a way of narrowing this down. It will mean going about the city.’

  ‘Anything you can suggest, anything at all,’ Ryzhkov said.

  As Schliff explained it, the killer of Ekatarina Lvova was most like
ly a habitual violent sex criminal. ‘And it is highly likely that he had flown off the handle before. If so, he is almost certainly a regular patron of any one of several … houses of special interest, where he can indulge himself in his particular form of debasement. If he has lost control he would be known, barred from such establishments, and we might be able to track him that way. Paedophile? It shouldn’t be that difficult, a lot easier than if we were trying to find an opium-seller.’ Schliff smiled. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Now?’ Ryzhkov said. It was only ten in the morning.

  ‘Oh, yes. If we leave now we have a chance to catch some of the children before they start to work. That way we don’t interrupt anyone’s business, it will be much easier to talk. I’ve got a list of six places, all within the central districts where we can start.’

  Accordingly the three of them crowded into a police droshky and headed across the city. Schliff had decided to work his way through the richer neighbourhoods, on the supposition that the killer was from the upper classes, which would have fitted with Ryzhkov’s description of the clientele at the bindery. The first place they stopped was an ornate town house across the street from the Italian embassy, an old structure with high windows and sculptural touches beneath the eaves, the whole of it surrounded by a wall. There were children’s toys littered across a wide lawn, which itself was ragged with pathways, treasure-holes and play-fortresses that were in various states of assembly or destruction.

  ‘What is this? A school?’ Hokhodiev asked.

  ‘A type of orphanage,’ Schliff replied, shrugging. Inside they met with a Madame Khory who obviously knew Schliff well. She invited them into the parlour to talk, asked if they desired tea, had some brought in anyway. Ryzhkov put the case to her, watched her frown grow as he described the type of man they were looking for, watched her look nervously to Schliff.