by Jasper Kent
From the bridge above him Dmitry heard shouting. Shots rang out and Iuda fell. Dmitry looked and saw the three soldiers on the bridge, their rifles still aimed. The bullets would do little permanent damage to Iuda, but they had knocked him down and left him scrabbling on the slippery surface, trying to regain his footing. Within seconds Dmitry was upon him.
The two voordalaki slid further out across the ice, carried by Dmitry’s momentum. He looked into Iuda’s face – a face which he had in his time regarded with both love and indifference. Now he felt only hatred. It was almost a separate part of his mind, that fragment of Raisa that remained in him. It was she who wanted revenge, and Dmitry was happy to comply.
It was a rare thing for one voordalak to kill another. Dmitry had never seen it done, but he had heard talk of it. He and Zmyeevich had discussed it, aware of the fate that eventually must befall Iuda. There were many ways, but in present circumstances one seemed obvious.
Iuda was lying on his back, his head towards Dmitry. Dmitry pressed his knees against Iuda’s shoulders and then took his head firmly in his hands, one under his chin, one at the back of his skull. Decapitation would kill a vampire, but it did not have to be the neat, clinical severance of a sharpened blade. Iuda writhed and struggled, but Dmitry knew he had the strength; together he and Raisa had the strength.
But then he stopped. He could not say why. It was as though some third presence in his mind had said ‘No’ – and that third voice held sway. Dmitry tried to ignore it, but already it was too late. A semicircle of three soldiers had formed beside them. The other three had climbed down off the pontoon bridge, and were already approaching.
‘What the hell’s going on here?’ barked one of them, a captain, before adding ‘sir’ as an afterthought.
Dmitry rose to his feet, gazing down at Iuda with loathing but trying to appear calm and dignified. His heart beat fast from the chase and the cold and the lack of air, and his head still reeled, pulled in different directions.
‘This man is in my custody,’ he said, aware of how heavily he had to breathe. ‘My commendation for your help in his recapture, but I’ll take it from here.’
It was a sign of the times that a captain would dare question a colonel, even in these strange circumstances. It would not have happened in Dmitry’s day.
‘Sir, are you really sure?’ he said. ‘You’re wet through and frozen. God knows you could be wounded and you wouldn’t feel it.’
‘I’m perfectly fine, thank you, Captain.’ Dmitry emphasized the man’s rank.
‘Sir, look,’ the captain persisted, pointing across the ice. ‘The fortress is just there. What better place for him, if only overnight?’
Dmitry looked. The captain was quite right. There stood the Peter and Paul Fortress, the stronghold at the heart of Pyotr’s city, and also its prison. There was no need for him to comply. He could easily deal with these six and do with Iuda as he chose. But that would mean six corpses, and he knew that his and Zmyeevich’s presence in the city would be better kept secret. And still his mind was in turmoil.
‘Very well,’ he growled.
One of the soldiers hauled Iuda to his feet. Iuda’s eyes darted around, looking for a chance to escape. Once he was away from Dmitry, he might not find it so difficult. Dmitry reached into his pocket and drew out the manacles that he had taken from Iuda back in the cathedral, scarcely half an hour before.
‘Use these,’ he said.
The captain complied.
‘And be careful with him. You don’t know how dangerous he can be. Put him in the deepest cell they’ve got. Don’t take the cuffs off him. Don’t let him even see a window.’ Dmitry hoped he sounded casual.
‘Absolutely, sir.’ The captain knew his place better now that he had got his way.
‘Don’t let him out for exercise and don’t let anyone question him without my authority, you understand? Colonel Otrepyev.’
‘Sir. Do you require an escort, sir?’
‘No. I’ll be fine. Carry on.’
The captain saluted and turned. He and his five men led Iuda away to the Neva Gate, the gate from which Dmitry’s father had departed on his journey into exile, half a century before. It would take them only a couple of minutes to cross the ice to the fortress. When they thought they were out of earshot, one of the men said something that raised a laugh. The captain snapped at them and order was re-established. With discipline like that they might just survive the short journey. If they did, then perhaps it would all prove to be for the good. Keeping Iuda captive was a burden to Zmyeevich and Dmitry – if His Majesty was happy to take on the responsibility, then who were they to complain? If they could get him as far as the cell, then even Iuda would not be able to escape.
All the same, Dmitry did not relish having to relate what had happened to Zmyeevich. He turned and headed back. On the quay, just beside the Winter Palace, the dark figure stood silhouetted, waiting for him.
It hadn’t taken Mihail long to work out where he was. His mother had told him of the place – she used to work here. This was Fontanka 16; the building beside the chain bridge; the headquarters of the secret police. In her day it had been the Third Section; now it was the Ohrana, but it all meant much the same.
He’d tried to rest, lying on the thin mattress and letting the hours pass. The food they’d brought him had been unrecognizable as such, but he’d forced it down, not knowing when he might get more. The army had been good training for that. He wondered what would become of him. He tried to think of the best outcome – tried to believe in it, not because believing would make it true, but because expecting the worst would drive him to despair. Tamara had told him how they worked here – the first task was to break a man’s will.
He’d not had a weapon; that was in his favour. He’d had a sword at his side, but so did any officer in uniform. And he was a hero of Geok Tepe – he still had the wound to show it. His hand was almost healed now, but it was still bandaged, and beneath the linen the scar looked worse than it felt. He’d still need a story to tell them. He could say that he’d been so overcome with joy at being close to the grand duke that he’d felt the urge to rush to him and thank him for his family’s support of the army. Perhaps that was taking it too far; he would be more convincing if he was petitioning for better rations for the men. Neither made absolute sense – Konstantin’s power lay in the navy, not the army – but it was the best he had. He spent the day inventing further details for his story, but no one came to question him.
He still had the note, and the sapphire. He could do nothing with the gemstone, but he wondered whether he should try to get rid of the letter from his mother. It undermined his story, but if they found it, they might take it to the grand duke and Mihail’s ends would be achieved after all. But more than that, he couldn’t bring himself to destroy the last communication from his mother to his father, however brief it might be.
He heard the rattle of keys in the door, and then it opened. A sentry looked in, then withdrew. He heard a voice outside.
‘I’ll be perfectly safe. It’s imperative that I speak to him alone.’
Mihail turned his chair away and stared at the wall, not wanting to appear too eager to begin his interrogation. The door slammed and there was a moment’s silence, followed by a slight cough. Mihail turned.
It was Grand Duke Konstantin Nikolayevich – his father. Mihail leapt to his feet, turning as he did, knocking the chair to the floor. He tried to speak, but was tongue-tied. He could not tell whether it was down to coming face to face with his father for the first time, or to being in the presence of so high-ranking a Romanov. He reached into his pocket for the note.
‘You … you must read this,’ he stammered.
Konstantin shook his head. ‘No, I have no need to read anything. Do you think I cannot see your mother in your eyes? Do you think I cannot see myself in … in everything about you? I know you are my son.’
He opened his arms in preparation to embrace Mihail, but the gestu
re was not a comfortable one. Mihail hung back. However unconventional his upbringing might have been, he was still a Russian, and a Russian did not embrace a grand duke, even if he was his bastard son. In an instant Mihail understood how little he really cared for his absent father; he was interested in him, he might grow to like him, but there was no aching gap in his heart that would now be filled. He suspected Konstantin felt the same.
His father chuckled and offered Mihail his hand. Mihail grasped it firmly and shook.
‘It seems we’re very much alike already,’ said Konstantin. ‘But tell me. Tell me everything. I don’t even know your name.’
Mihail picked up the chair and offered it to Konstantin, who sat down. Mihail himself sat on the mattress, leaning against the wall. Too late he realized that he should not sit without permission, but his father didn’t complain. He looked up at the man, now in his early fifties, and managed to see a little of himself, but still he felt a greater sense of excitement than affection. He took a deep breath – there was much to tell.
‘My name,’ he began, ‘is Mihail Konstantinovich Lukin.’
‘Mihail.’ Konstantin thought about it for a moment. ‘After the archangel.’
‘Actually, no.’ Tamara had always been quite clear about it. ‘After Mihail Maleinos.’
Konstantin chuckled again. ‘The protector of the Romanovs? That was good of her. And Lukin, where does that come from? Has she married again?’
The name Lukin meant so much: the name of the family that had cared for Tamara and Mihail when they had arrived in Saratov; the name of Aleksei’s closest friend. But there was no need for Konstantin to hear of it.
‘Lukin’s not my real name. And no, she never remarried.’
Konstantin guessed the implication of those last words. ‘You mean …?’
Mihail spoke quickly, avoiding his father’s eyes. ‘She died. The end of last year.’
Konstantin stood and paced the room. ‘I see. I wish you’d come to me sooner.’
‘It’s not easy.’
‘I know. I know. And why have you come now? You want something? Money?’
Mihail shook his head. ‘Nothing like that. I still have this, look.’ He slipped off his boot and from inside took the pink sapphire. He handed it to Konstantin, who lifted his spectacles from his nose to peer deeply at the stone.
‘I remember,’ he said softly. ‘Did she have to break the necklace up?’
‘When would she have worn it?’
Konstantin nodded wistfully. ‘That’s just what she said.’ He handed the sapphire back and returned to the present. ‘You can have money. She could have had. Anna Vasilyevna and the children have a dacha to themselves in Pavlovsk.’
Mihail had heard rumours enough to know who Anna Vasilyevna was. He knew that Tamara had not been his father’s only lover.
‘Really, no,’ he insisted. ‘I still have money – and a career, in the army.’
Konstantin nodded. ‘A lieutenant, I see,’ he said, gesturing at Mihail’s uniform, ‘in the grenadiers.’
‘Grand Duke Pyetr Nikolayevich Battalion. I was at Geok Tepe.’
‘A great victory. General Skobyelev has made a name for himself.’ Konstantin’s voice hinted that this was not a good thing for the general to have done. There was a pause. It was surprising how quickly father and son had run out of things to say. Mihail broke the silence.
‘What I wanted from you – other than to meet you, of course – was some information.’
‘You only have to ask.’
‘I was wondering if you knew the whereabouts of my half-brother.’
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to be a little more specific than that, you know. You have more than one half-brother. Two of them are grand dukes.’
Mihail knew that he was being teased, but he noted the small number of grand dukes. It was common knowledge that Konstantin had sired four legitimate sons – along with God knew how many other bastards – but the youngest of them had died a few years before, aged just sixteen. The eldest, Nikolai Konstantinovich, was still alive, but had been banished to some distant corner of the empire after a scandal. Technically he was still a grand duke, but in his father’s mind he had evidently been stripped of the title, if not of existence itself.
‘I meant on my mother’s side,’ replied Mihail. ‘He’s called Luka; Luka Miroslavich Novikov.’
‘I know. I know,’ said Konstantin soothingly, sensing his attempt to play the fool had been misplaced. ‘Your mother told me of him. I hoped to keep a watchful eye over him, but I’m afraid I failed.’
‘He’s dead?’ It would be a surprise, given what Iuda and Dmitry had said.
‘No. No.’ Konstantin reached into his pocket and brought out a folded piece of paper. ‘As soon as I saw you yesterday, I thought you’d ask. Here’s his address.’
Mihail looked at the paper. He did not know Petersburg well enough for it to mean anything to him, but he would easily find it.
‘I don’t suppose you even know what he looks like,’ said Konstantin.
Mihail shook his head. Konstantin reached into his pocket again and handed over a photograph. Mihail could not see much of himself in Luka, but recognized a little of Tamara. The man was in his thirties, his hair longer than was popular at the time, but well kempt. He had a moustache, but no beard. He was handsome. The real oddity was that Konstantin should have a photograph of him – but the style and pose of the picture gave away its origin. It was taken from the files of the Ohrana.
‘He’s a criminal?’ asked Mihail.
‘A suspect – nothing has ever been proved.’
‘Suspected of what?’
‘Have you heard of the People’s Will?’
Mihail nodded.
‘It was they who tried to blow up my brother’s train; they who exploded a bomb at the Winter Palace.’ Konstantin’s voice rose with suppressed anger. ‘A dozen guardsmen died; ordinary men – the very people they’re supposed to be fighting for.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Mihail quietly.
‘They want us to react, but we won’t. We’ll give them liberty – we have done already – but we won’t let them take it.’
‘And Luka’s one of them?’
‘He knows people who are – the police aren’t sure about him.’
‘I’m guessing you don’t want me to see him.’
‘He’s your brother,’ said Konstantin. ‘I wouldn’t stop you. But be circumspect. They have as many spies as we do – even in here.’ He glanced around with an air that hinted of paranoia.
‘Here?’
Konstantin nodded gravely. ‘Just yesterday they arrested one – a clerk named Kletochnikov. No wonder we’d made so few arrests; he’d been warning them, just in time.’
‘There are others?’
‘Who knows? Perhaps your brother can tell you.’ He paused for a moment, then changed the subject. ‘Why did she go so suddenly?’
It was obvious he meant Tamara. ‘It was nothing to do with you,’ Mihail explained. ‘Family stuff.’
‘Did she ever find her parents?’ Konstantin asked. ‘She told me she was looking.’
‘She did.’ Mihail felt warm just to speak of it, to be reminded of his mother’s happiness, however short-lived it had been, however tragic the circumstances. ‘Though she didn’t know them for long.’
‘And that’s why she went away?’
Mihail nodded. It was time to test the water regarding another matter on which Konstantin might have information. ‘I mentioned earlier my name isn’t really Lukin,’ he said. ‘I get my true name from my grandfather. It’s Danilov. He was Aleksei Ivanovich Danilov.’ Konstantin looked blank. ‘He was a colonel under Aleksandr Pavlovich.’
‘Against Bonaparte?’
‘And later. But then he was exiled – after 14 December.’
‘Ah! And then he came back after my brother’s pardon. That would explain it.’
‘You’ve not heard of him?’
Konstan
tin shook his head. ‘I’m sorry.’
Mihail felt anger welling inside him. After everything his grandfather had done to protect the Romanovs, with all the secrets he could have revealed to save himself from exile, still he’d remained loyal. At the time it had been necessary, but now, so many years on, he was forgotten, regarded as no different from any of the others who had genuinely stood against Nikolai. It was a disgrace, but Mihail was in no position to say anything.
Konstantin stood. ‘I must go. But we’ll talk again later.’
‘You’re leaving me here?’
Konstantin looked shocked. ‘Goodness, no. You’ll be released in a few hours. You understand …? There has to be a gap.’
Mihail nodded.
‘Where are you staying?’ asked Konstantin.
Mihail gave the address of his hotel.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ said his father. He walked over to the door and was about to rouse the guard, but then he turned. ‘What was it you wanted me to read – when I came in?’
Mihail reached into his pocket for the note. ‘It’s what I was trying to give you on the coach,’ he explained, offering it to his father.
Konstantin read it – presumably several times, given how long he took. Then he looked up at Mihail. ‘You think that’s a fair summary – of her feelings? “Many affectionate memories”?’
Mihail nodded. ‘Did you really feel any different?’ he asked.
Konstantin cocked his head to one side, thinking. ‘And did she love you, as a son?’ he asked.
Mihail believed she did, but all the time he had known her, her capacity to love had never been as great as her capacity to hate. But that was not down to Konstantin, and he did not need to be concerned with it.
‘I know she did.’
Konstantin gave half a smile. ‘That’s all an absent father can really ask.’
He turned and left.
It was a step in the right direction; a step away from Zmyeevich. Three weeks before Iuda had been in a gaol built to hold a voordalak. Now his cell was constructed merely to hold a man. Getting out should not prove too much of a problem.