‘Nestor?’ he said, feeling the skin at the back of his neck beginning to prickle.
‘Mmm …’ Gulka sighed.
‘Nestor is right here, do you want to tell him now?’ Ryzhkov said and nodded to Dima.
‘Ah … what is the, ah … status of the, um … operation, Alexei?’ Dima said rather too firmly, Ryzhkov thought. Hokhodiev had come up the stairs and was lingering there, his face looking like death.
‘We are … sailing,’ Gulka said blissfully.
‘Yes, good, good.’
‘So … everything is on schedule?’ Dima asked gruffly.
‘… dead before sunset …’ Gulka’s voice had a singsong quality to it, like a child walking along a sunny lane, humming nursery rhymes.
‘Tell me everything,’ Ryzhkov said. ‘Nestor wants to go through it one step at a time, just to be certain. Don’t you Nestor?’
‘Oh, yes. Yes, I do,’ Dima said.
‘Fine. Now, Alexei, where exactly is the … act, the iskra, taking place?’
There was a grumbling from Gulka’s chest, a sound like a cough and a laugh mixed together. His belly shook like an Easter pudding as the spasm ran through him, beneath the blindfold the lips curled back in a wide smile.
‘Clever boy,’ Gulka said. ‘You too, Sergei.’ The rumbling went on until Gulka forgot what was so funny.
‘Just tell me, Alexei. Tell me now,’ Ryzhkov said quietly.
Gulka’s eyes opened and it seemed that he was looking up at the ceiling. ‘… the gateway … the gateway to the east …’
‘The gate?’ Dima looked up at Ryzhkov and frowned.
‘Mmm …’ Gulka cooed. The smile subsided only for a moment and then he began to hum.
Dima frowned. ‘What’s that?’ he whispered. Gulka’s lips were moving, but the words were slurred.
Ryzhkov reached out and grasped his shoulder, put his lips close to Gulka’s ear.
‘Where, Alexei, where? You must tell me where. It’s terribly important.’
‘… sun rises, above … the new Sla-vi-a …’ he sang.
Ryzhkov sat back in the chair. The blood had drained from his face. His fingers were trembling. Gulka was keeping time with one foot against the iron frame of the bedstead.
‘… Sa-ra …’ Gulka sang, his voice crackling with phlegm. ‘Sa-ra, O, beautiful, beautiful Sa-ra-jevo …’
They argued but it was Hokhodiev who killed him. They led Gulka out into the green woods behind the clinic, tied him to a tree and let him watch while they dug a hole. There wasn’t enough time to make it deep. Then they argued about who was going to do it, but Hokhodiev wasn’t listening to reason and didn’t even really reply, shoving them both away. Ryzhkov and Dima went back towards the clinic, picking their way through the underbrush and waited up on the porch while he did it.
Hokhodiev came back and they talked while he was washing his hands, a quick meeting to agree to travel separately across the border, reasoning that Gulka or Evdaev might have men at the stations.
But time was running out and the idea was to meet at the station in Riga and, from there, if everything looked clear, they would purchase tickets for the Warsaw train.
THIRTY-SIX
He was at the Finland Station by nine that night, travelling second class with a large bundle of fruit and sausages jammed into a pillowcase, unshaven and shabby, buying his ticket with coins that he counted out slowly and stupidly, shuffling past the gendarmes, afraid to look around the station to see if anyone was waiting for him, taking a seat at the very end of the car and pretending to sleep all the way to the border, crossing his fingers and using his best Polish accent when they came to check his ticket at the frontier. Taking the food to his sick grandfather, that was the story.
The train south was slow, rocking over the swampy ground, barely crawling where there had been work along the tracks. In the early hours there was a jolt and he saw that they had arrived in Rezhitsa. The engine took on water and he used the opportunity to walk into the gloom of the tiny station and buy a glass of tea. They crossed Lake Luban and went along the river arriving at Riga just as the dawn was lighting the sky red. He checked the timetable and walked into the town to find a baths where he cleaned himself and had his clothes brushed. When the shops opened he purchased a suitcase, two new shirts and a homburg.
When he went back to the station he found Dima sleeping in the corner of a bench just inside the wide doorways. He had arrived on the train that connected with the Tallinn line and was exhausted. They ate a late breakfast in the park across from the station and waited for Hokhodiev to arrive. It was eerie; neither of them had encountered any trouble along the way.
‘The only explanation is that we’re ahead of them,’ Ryzhkov said. ‘Maybe only just ahead of them, but for now that’s enough.’ He stood and paced away from the bench as he said it, because partly it was a lie, just wishful thinking, and he didn’t want Dima to see his face.
He was beginning to get a picture of the ‘conspiracy’ now, beginning to understand its scope. Gulka would have been its strongest weapon—as head of the secret police he was virtually omnipotent. When, via Tomlinovich’s report which Gulka would have been able to intercept, Evdaev had learned of the Fauré investigation, the Okhrana’s resources had been unleashed to retaliate with savagery. But now that Gulka had disappeared, what would be Evdaev’s next move?
The first sign of trouble was when they saw Kostya climbing down from the morning train, looking fit and well dressed. He carried a sample case and a travelling trunk that he reluctantly tipped a porter to put on the loading dock. Then he looked around in their direction and shook his head almost imperceptibly. Immediately Dima rose and headed for the lavatory and Ryzhkov willed himself to slump there in his seat and feign sleep.
They kept themselves separated on the Warsaw train, a long haul. He and Dima sat a row apart in the second class section, shared a newspaper as strangers might. In the dining-car they watched Hokhodiev charm two elderly Polish sisters. It was the last sitting and the three of them lingered after their meal and when Hokhodiev rose to excuse himself bowing to his companions, he turned and walked back towards their end of the carriage—‘Warsaw,’ the big man said quietly as he passed them and edged through the door between cars.
The Warsaw Station was crowded; Ryzhkov and Dima stood aside and listened while Kostya called for the trunk for Herr Abusch, and then they followed his carriage to the Hotel Minerva, just a few streets away. They waited a half-hour and then they went in and asked at the desk and went up to see him in his room at the rear of the building overlooking the Vistula.
‘Don’t get excited. I think it’s nothing,’ Kostya said as he let them in. The trunk was open and he had arrayed mineral samples across his bedspread. The false bottom was raised and three revolvers were fixed there with thongs. ‘I saw some rather odd-looking fellows at the station, passing around some photographs at the barriers, so I thought we might take precautions, eh?’
‘Good, you did the right thing.’
‘I didn’t see who they were looking for, I didn’t go over there, but I didn’t recognize any of these boys … amateurs, hired flics …’
‘Still …’
‘Still, yes, it’s just going to heat up. They’ll be looking for Fatso now, and soon someone is going to put two and two together and come after us. I’m just glad Lena’s out of it,’ he sighed.
Once again they travelled separately to Krakow, then staggered their departures, taking separate trains over the Carpathians. It so happened that Ryzhkov’s made the ascent in the middle of the night. He dozed, with his head resting against the cold glass as they climbed toward the frontier. He brooded over the combination of Gulka and Nestor Evdaev. How he should have seen it all along.
After Katowice the train stopped and Austrian customs inspectors came through the carriages. He explained that he was en route to Vienna to meet with prospective clients, courteously handed over his papers to be stamped. Once the carriage h
ad been inspected he was free to go outside. He wandered all the way up the track, paused to look up at the gigantic hissing locomotive, and then continued across the tracks to where there was an outlook through the moonlit mountains that curved away to the east.
Just ahead of him, beyond the border was the sprawling empire of the House of Hapsburg, the Dual Monarchy of Austria-Hungary, busily preserving its supremacy in the Balkans with every diplomatic and military technique in the book. All of it was born from a centuries-old loathing of everything Slavic. Their opposites, the Black Handers, were even more vigorously dedicated to establishing their independence and superiority. How could there not be a spark?
What had the great conspiracy cost Evdaev? How many roubles would have been needed to buy a Smyrba, or Russia’s Ambassador Hartwig? To bring along the military attaché Artamonov? It might have come cheap; perhaps it had cost no roubles at all, perhaps they were all doing it because they were true believers in the cause of a greater Slavia. Perhaps to sweeten the bargain they would have had to toss in a few bags of grenades since nothing was so seductive to a terrorist as providing the means to his end. There was a scraping on the gravel behind him. He turned to see one of the uniformed Austrian border inspectors approaching.
‘Excuse me, sir, have you been passed?’ the guard said politely. Ryzhkov dug his papers out, opened them. The moonlight was so bright that the inspector didn’t even need to use his torch. ‘Very good, sir,’ the guard said, touching his hand to his cap and clicking his heels. ‘A beautiful night, yes?’
‘Exquisite.’
‘You are Russian?’
‘Yes, from Moscow.’
‘Ah.’
‘Have you ever been there?’
‘Unfortunately, no.’
‘It is not as beautiful as this …’
‘Bohemia is the best,’ the man said with a touch of pride.
‘So, you are Czech?’ The guard had taken out a cigarette and Ryzhkov offered him a match.
‘Yes, not quite a full-blooded Austrian, but almost as good,’ the guard said with a laugh, then suddenly he turned. ‘Ah! Listen!’ he whispered.
From the trees came the regular hooting of an owl. ‘A good night for a kill.’ The guard smiled at him. His teeth were prominent and glowing; the moonlight and shadows had turned his face into a skull. Ryzhkov turned back to the mountains. If there ever was a war Russian armies would rush down this same track towards these passes, for days it would be a war of artillery and explosive mines, of repair crews laying rails while under fire. The guard began to whistle, something lilting and sad. After a few moments he tossed his cigarette out into the track.
‘Good evening to you, sir. Enjoy the remainder of your journey.’ A little bow and then he was gone, back to his duties.
Ryzhkov looked up into the clear sky. The moon was not quite full, washing out the stars. The owl began its calling again. An unexpected chill rose up from the darkness of the trees, cold, even for June. For a moment he thought about running, running headlong into the forest. He could make his way to a village, change his identity, leave, run away. Forget about plots and conspiracies, forget all about the victims, ignore the newspaper headlines when they trumpeted the victory of evil. Who were they to try and set the world right? Only little men. Little men fighting against the giants. Maybe he could go back and persuade Kostya and Dima to give up the quest. They could all run away together, become fishermen, or woodcutters, or customs inspectors, or drunks.
There was a long hissing sound from the engine, and Ryzhkov turned and headed back along the tracks, the great green eye of the locomotive flickering into life above him, the stinging smell of burning coal wafting over him in a sudden downdraught as he walked past the cab towards his car. No, the leopard cannot change his spots, he thought.
In Vienna they bought tickets for their own compartment.
Ahead of him in the queue Ryzhkov watched as Hokhodiev met a Swede, a mining engineer who’d been drinking and wanted to talk about bauxite. Bauxite was everything, he said. If you controlled bauxite, you could control the production of aluminium, and aluminium was the metal that was going to drive the new electro-industrial world.
‘It’s basic chemistry,’ the Swede said. ‘You have common chemicals, you have oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen. Everybody has those, but only a few …’
‘Gold,’ Hokhodiev said.
‘Correct, diamonds, things that glitter, we call them precious. There’s a reason for that,’ the Swede said.
‘Where are you headed?’ Hokhodiev asked, growing tired of the man. He’d been drinking, it was obvious.
‘At the end of it all, Turkey. I don’t care who knows it. If you know the chemistry, you’d be doing the same thing, eh?’ The man reached up and tapped Hokhodiev in the chest with a thick finger. ‘What do you do, anyway?’ the Swede asked, suddenly suspicious.
‘I’m a member of the secret police,’ Hokhodiev said flatly. The Swede’s eyes went wide and then he started laughing. ‘That’s good! Hah! That’s good!’ He slapped Hokhodiev on the back and dragged him into the buffet car to have another schnapps.
The train had barely begun to get up steam when Dima came in and tossed a newspaper on the seat. His face was drawn and he stared out at the window with a disgusted expression. ‘You wanted a spark,’ he said tightly. ‘This is your spark, right here.’
It was a copy of the Bosnian Post and on the third page was an article about the upcoming military manoeuvres that the Austrian army would be holding in the mountains west of Sarajevo. Archduke Franz Ferdinand, the heir to the Austrian throne, would attend the manoeuvres himself and be in command of the ‘enemy’ forces. He would be joined by his wife, Princess Sophie von Hohenberg and spend a day in Ilidze, a pleasant suburb outside Sarajevo. On the following day the royal couple would make a procession by motorcar into the city and be greeted by the mayor and the governor of the province of Bosnia. Below the article the archduke’s motor route into the city was detailed. There was a small map adjacent to the article so that well-wishers could be on hand to cheer and throw flowers.
‘That’s it, eh? Don’t you think?’ Dima looked at him.
‘Yes,’ he said. His voice was quiet, almost a whisper. ‘They’re insane to send him to Bosnia,’ Dima spat. ‘Mad. Can we warn them off? There’s still time to cancel things, he could get a cold, that would do it, wouldn’t it?’
‘Until we get there, it will have to …’ He had the porter get them some writing paper and began to draft a letter. It was a straightforward chronicle of the conspiracy, including the names of all the principals from Artamonov to Smyrba. The more he wrote the worse it got. He began to realize how little hard information he could include. There was nothing that could be verified, no proof, of course, that an attempt would be made on the archduke during his visit to Sarajevo. He took pains to word the letter as rationally as he could, including as a source the recently missing head of the Russian secret police, General Alexandr Ivanovich Gulka, thinking Gulka’s name should strike a chord with Austrian military intelligence. When it was done he read it over with a sinking heart. It all sounded speculative, the product of a madman struggling to put the best face on his nightmares.
He passed it by Dima and Hokhodiev, who’d finally pulled himself away from the Swede, and used the last of his paper before they arrived in Budapest to add as many details as he could remember of Lavrik’s corrupt business deals.
In Budapest there was a thundershower and time to kill. He walked through the dark station and posted the letter himself and purchased a copy of the Vienna paper Neue Freie Presse. In the society section there was an additional report on Franz Ferdinand’s route. The festivities were scheduled for twenty-eighth, there were still four days to go.
When he came back to the train Hokhodiev and Dima were still talking it over. ‘No, this is crazy. We’re Russians, as far as the Austrians are concerned we’re supposed to be the enemy, right? So when we get there, what do we do? We go to the poli
ce, tell them everything we know?’ Dima said laughing.
‘And we promptly get ourselves arrested,’ Hokhodiev stopped him. He leaned forward and spun the bottle of schnapps in the ice bucket, took it out in the towel and poured Ryzhkov a glass. ‘It’s more simple than that,’ he said to Dima. ‘It’s basic. It’s chemistry …’
‘Yes … yes …’ Ryzhkov heard himself agreeing.
‘We go and kill them. That’s the magic formula, they kill us, we kill them,’ Hokhodiev said. ‘Russia or whether you love her has nothing to do with it, eh? If you’re a Slav or a Teuton, or a Spartan or an Athenian, or a fucking Albanian or Turk or shit knows what, who cares really? It comes down to the fact that they’re going to kill us if they can, they’ve ruined our shabby little lives, changed everything around.’
‘We go on … we can’t go back,’ Dima nodded. ‘I think I can adjust to that,’ he said with a shrug.
‘Adjust, yes. Because we cannot ever go home. Our lives are over.’ Hokhodiev took a moment to let it sink in. ‘So … I have one or two breaths left in the old bag yet,’ he patted at his pockets. ‘And I have my ticket on this very nice train, so … I don’t stop until it’s all over.
You—’ he turned to Dima, ‘you, I can understand if you start to run out.’
‘Hey—’ Dima complained.
‘You’re young, you’ve got a future. You can get married, have a home. Have something to be proud of. Get out at Belgrade, run away to Greece. The girls there like it in the ass, you’d do fine.’
‘Go to hell, old man.’
Hokhodiev laughed. ‘Here …’ He emptied the bottle into Ryzhkov’s glass. ‘One last katzenjammer before we go and save the House of Hapsburg, eh, brother?’ Ryzhkov smiled and raised his glass. Of all of them Hokhodiev, who’d lost the most, seemed the best at taking it in his stride. He drained the glass. Dima watched him and shook his head.
‘Forward, then …’ he said as the train rattled southwards through the hot, broad valleys fed by the Danube and Tisa, past the fortified city of Subotica, along the ramparts at Topola, beneath the crenellated towers of Novi Sad, and once again back to the Danube.
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