The People's Will

by Jasper Kent

  Mihail gave half a nod. ‘Thankfully I’ve never had to make the distinction.’

  ‘No distinction needs to be made.’

  ‘You think so?’

  Luka had thought about it often. ‘I am my mind – nothing more. My mind was made by my experience, my parents contributed much to that.’

  ‘As did Vasiliy?’ Luka could not account for the cynicism that Mihail managed to inject into his question.

  ‘More so than my birth mother, certainly.’

  ‘But don’t you ever wonder about other things, where they might come from? You wouldn’t question that your hair or your eyes come from your parents. What about other things, not your whole mind but parts of it perhaps; small parts? Your sense of right and wrong?’

  Mihail spoke with a passion that Luka could only admire, enough for him to wonder if, in other circumstances, they might have been friends. And his argument might also serve to answer Luka’s original silent question: were the contrasts between them down not to the unique events of their lives, but to difference in their parentage? It was not the way Luka wanted to see the world. He believed that all men were created equal, and moulded as they grew. He had to believe it.

  ‘I told you, my mother went mad. Would you want to inherit that?’

  Mihail’s lips lost their colour as he pressed them tightly together. His eyes became misty and he turned away from Luka, suppressing an anger whose cause could not be fathomed. He stared down from the window on to the gas-lit street below, his hands clasped behind his back, the thumb of one squeezing so hard on the fingers of the other that they had become white and bloodless. He remained silent for several seconds. When he spoke, it was not to answer Luka’s question.

  ‘Shit!’

  The emission of the word from Mihail’s throat was accompanied by a sudden galvanization of his body – his whole mood. He spun round on his heel.

  ‘What?’ asked Luka.

  ‘An ohranik,’ spat Mihail. ‘Out there, on the street.’

  Luka glanced involuntarily across the room at one of the faded paintings that hung on the walls. He was not interested in the picture, but hidden there were documents that must not be allowed to fall into the hands of the police. That was where the gun lay too, if needed. In an instant he was looking back at Mihail.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘It’s Otrepyev, for God’s sake!’

  So Mihail did know Colonel Otrepyev, just as Vasiliy had predicted. Even so, his reaction was not what might be expected.

  ‘Is he coming up?’ Luka asked.

  Mihail looked again. ‘No. No – he’s moving on. He was just talking to the dvornik.’ Even as he spoke, Mihail was crossing the room, heading for the door. ‘Stay here, I’m going after him.’

  Luka had no intention of going anywhere. At the door, Mihail paused.

  ‘We still have to talk,’ he said earnestly. ‘I’ll come and find you. I know you don’t trust me, but you will, I promise.’

  With those words, steeped in faux sincerity, Mihail was gone.

  ‘Where’s Luka?’

  The question came from Dusya, and was to be expected.

  ‘Don’t worry about Luka,’ said the chairman sternly. ‘He’s doing other work essential to our cause.’

  Dusya said no more. She was like that. They were all like that – obedient to authority even within an organization dedicated to overthrowing authority. Their only freedom was to choose whom they would obey. But the need to obey someone was what made them, underneath it all, serfs. Most of the aristocrats of Europe were serfs in that sense. Only a select few ruled themselves.

  This meeting of the Executive Committee was held in a different apartment, this one on Voznesensky Prospekt, the long, straight thoroughfare that split Petersburg into east and west, meeting with Nevsky Prospekt as they converged on the Admiralty. There was only one item of business. The chairman was not happy with it, but there was nothing he could do. There were some matters over which even he would not be obeyed. He glanced at Sofia and she stood up. She dared look at no one as she spoke.

  ‘As some of you may already have heard, Comrade Kletochnikov has been arrested.’

  Gasps filled the room, though not from everyone. For some the name Kletochnikov meant nothing – such was the need for secrecy. Sofia explained.

  ‘For the past two years Nikolai Vasilyevich Kletochnikov has worked as a filing clerk at Fontanka 16, first for the Third Section and now for the Ohrana. In all that time, he has in truth been a loyal member of the People’s Will. Some of you may have heard of him as the Protecting Angel. He reported whatever came across his desk that might be of use to us. He’s saved many from arrest with his information.’

  ‘But not himself,’ said Kibalchich grimly.

  ‘There’s been too many arrests recently,’ said Bogdanovich. ‘Somebody’s been talking.’

  The chairman raised a finger to silence him. ‘Let Sofia proceed.’

  ‘We think you’re right,’ said Sofia. ‘And we think we know who it is.’ She looked at each face in the room in turn, as if testing each one to reveal its guilt, though she knew that the traitor was not present.

  ‘Kletochnikov was arrested on Wednesday,’ she continued. ‘In the early hours of Friday morning another arrest was made, that of a comrade who has been away from Petersburg for many years, but who has always remained loyal. He was taken to the Peter and Paul Fortress. His name is Vasiliy Grigoryevich Chernetskiy.’

  A few faces around the room nodded in recognition of the name, as well they might.

  ‘What was he doing back in Petersburg?’ asked the chairman, though he would be surprised to receive an answer.

  ‘We don’t know,’ admitted Sofia, ‘but we believe that the reason for his arrest is that he was about to unmask the collaborator who betrayed Kletochnikov.’

  ‘We all know who Vasiliy Grigoryevich would visit first on his return to the city, don’t we?’ said Zhelyabov.

  Sofia glanced at Dusya, but her eyes were glued to the floor.

  ‘We can’t make guesses like that,’ said Kibalchich. ‘Now they’re both locked up, we’ll never know.’

  ‘We can and we do know,’ countered Sofia. ‘Kletochnikov is incarcerated where he worked, at Fontanka 16. We won’t hear a word from him. But the Pyetropavlovskaya Fortress is a different matter. We received a message from Chernetskiy today.’

  ‘Saying?’ asked Kibalchich.

  ‘Saying that Luka Miroslavich Novikov betrayed both him and Kletochnikov.’

  ‘No!’ The word came as a whisper from Dusya’s throat – more of a prayer than a denial.

  ‘Can we trust Chernetskiy?’ asked Kibalchich. ‘Especially after so long?’ He was addressing the chairman.

  ‘I’ve never met Vasiliy Grigoryevich,’ the chairman admitted, glad not to be forced to make the decision. ‘He was before my time.’

  ‘I’d trust him with my life,’ said Sofia firmly.

  ‘I too,’ added Zhelyabov.

  There were general nods of the head from those who knew the man. Only Dusya dared object.

  ‘Can we be sure it was Chernetskiy who sent the message?’ she asked. ‘A prisoner tapping against a pipe has no face.’

  ‘He used a codeword that we recognized, Dusya,’ Sofia explained. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘What was the codeword?’ Dusya asked.

  ‘“Susanna”.’

  Dusya nodded meekly and returned her eyes to the floor.

  ‘So what do we do?’ asked the chairman, though he could already guess the decision of the committee.

  ‘We should question Luka,’ said Kibalchich firmly.

  ‘And let him tell us more lies?’ countered Sofia. ‘We can’t even risk him guessing we’re on to him. We must be swift and brutal.’

  ‘Sofia’s right,’ agreed Zhelyabov. ‘Luka doesn’t know our exact plans for the tsar, but he knows all of us. If we deal with him now we may be able to cut out the rot. If he thinks we’re about to act, he mi
ght have us arrested en masse.’

  ‘What do you think, Dusya?’ asked the chairman gently.

  ‘I can’t question your reasoning,’ she replied. ‘And we can’t allow sentiment to turn us from our course. If Luka is guilty, he must die. If he is innocent, he would understand the sacrifice he has made.’

  The chairman almost sniggered at the perversity of her logic; these people had managed to delude themselves quite thoroughly.

  ‘There’s only one thing to do then,’ announced Sofia. ‘We vote.’

  The chairman could not prevent it. ‘Very well,’ he agreed. There was nothing like democracy to wash the blood from one’s hands.

  There was only one place to be in Petersburg on that morning, Sunday 1 February: at the funeral of Fyodor Mihailovich Dostoyevsky. He was to be interred at the Tihvin Cemetery at the Aleksandr Nevsky Monastery, alongside Glinka and Krylov and other great Russians, but none so great as him.

  Mihail followed the path beside the Yekaterininsky Canal and then turned on to Nevsky Prospekt, named after the monastery to which it led. The road was densely packed, the rich in carriages, the poor on foot – all heading in the same direction; all to pay honour to the same man.

  As he walked, Mihail considered his encounters of the day before; one with his father and his uncle, another – two others – with his brother. Speaking to the tsar Mihail had realized what he should always have known: that it was impossible to surgically isolate his search for vengeance against Iuda from Zmyeevich’s vendetta against the Romanovs. Zmyeevich and Iuda might no longer be allies, but their lives were intertwined. Mihail would gladly help the tsar in his fight against Zmyeevich, as long as their two fights were the same.

  But there was always another possibility. Aleksandr and Iuda were both enemies of Zmyeevich, and might each not think that his enemy’s enemy was his friend? Then where would Mihail be? Would he be able to take on Aleksandr and even perhaps his own father if they sided with Iuda? He would have to, though he prayed events wouldn’t come to that. And yet the Romanovs would always do what was best for their dynasty.

  He was equally torn over Luka. At their second meeting yesterday he had been on the brink of revealing the truth of their relationship – that they were half-brothers – but had funked it at the last moment. Seeing Dmitry out on the street below had been a shock, but it was probably to the good. Now wasn’t the time to tell Luka. It would have been easier if Mihail hadn’t lied in the first place. Luka naturally had greater loyalty to Iuda than he would have to a brother he didn’t even know existed. But Mihail needed to discover where Iuda was – and in that he’d succeeded. Why Dmitry should have had him locked in the fortress was beyond Mihail’s understanding, but he would be safe there for now.

  And Luka would come round eventually, however much his politics made him fearful of all those around him, and however much he insisted that the ties of blood meant nothing to him. A brother could not be separated from a brother. All it would take was time, and they had plenty of that.

  Mihail’s pursuit of Dmitry had been short-lived. By the time he had got to the street the voordalak had gone. Mihail had chosen a direction at random, and then another at the next junction, but he wasn’t in luck. He wondered what Dmitry had been doing there. Perhaps he’d come to visit Luka but had learned of Mihail’s presence from the dvornik and changed his mind. It certainly went to prove that there was a connection between him and Luka. It was another thing he would talk to his brother about when the time was right, revealing to him not just a long-lost brother but an uncle to boot; though not an uncle to be proud of.

  And there was one other benefit to Dmitry’s visit the previous day. Mihail now knew that there was something hidden in that apartment. It might be papers, or explosives, or both. And Mihail knew pretty much exactly where it was. He’d seen Luka’s furtive glance at the picture on the wall, wondering if his secret would be revealed. Soon Mihail would find an opportunity to see just what lay behind. Brotherly love was not strong enough to stop him in that.

  After the Nikolaievsky Vokzal, the station where Mihail had first arrived in the city, Nevsky Prospekt kinked slightly to the right before heading directly to the monastery. From here Mihail, and those around him, could see the folly of their journey. Not far ahead, the road was packed. Those in carriages had no hope of progress; those on foot might squeeze forward a little further, but would have to fight their way through to get anywhere close to the ceremony, the speeches and the burial itself. There must have been tens of thousands trying to say their farewells to the great novelist. Mihail felt a little pride at being Russian. In what other nation would a man of words instil such affection in the common people?

  But Mihail knew he did not need to push his way through the throng in order to mourn – that could be done anywhere. He turned round and headed back towards the centre of town. The crowds quickly thinned as he made his way up Nevsky Prospekt, finally slipping between the Winter Palace and the Admiralty to gaze out on the great white expanse of the frozen Neva. Across the ice the fortress could be clearly seen, the spire of the Peter and Paul Cathedral looming inside it. Somewhere in there, in a deep, dark cell, unlit by the winter sun, lurked his enemy. It was safe enough to leave him there for now, but soon Mihail would have to act.

  He turned left and strolled along the quayside. He had been in Petersburg for less than a week, but he was beginning to gain some sense of familiarity with it. Tamara had told him much about the place, and every street he walked down, every river or canal he crossed, he had only to associate with the name that was already lodged in his mind. Soon he found himself on the edge of Senate Square, the place where his grandfather’s life had changed for ever – both his grandfathers’ lives.

  He looked out across the ice again and tried to imagine the precise spot at which Aleksei had shot Iuda, and then cradled him, and then realized that he would not die but become undead. It was close to there too that he had been arrested, to be sent into exile in Siberia for thirty years. It had ruined Tamara’s life, but she had forgiven him for it. Mihail saw the man with better perspective – saw his flaws as well as his patriotism – and knew how both existed in Mihail himself, much as he might fight them. It was what he’d been telling Luka the previous day. They were both sons of Tamara and grandsons of Aleksei. Mihail was the lucky one; he was aware of it, but in the end Luka would not be able to elude his destiny.

  Mihail looked at his injured hand. There was no need for a bandage any more and there was only a slight scar, which would heal. It still hurt when he flexed his fingers, but like the scar the pain would fade. He was luckier than Aleksei, who had lost two of his fingers when only a little older than Mihail, and then later the tip of a third. He turned inland and tramped across Senate Square. It had snowed recently and his were among the first footsteps to break through the glistering whiteness of what lay before him. Soon he was at the foot of the statue of Pyotr – the Bronze Horseman, as Pushkin had unintentionally named it.

  ‘Not going to the funeral?’

  The question was posed in French. Mihail turned. An old man had emerged from the far side of the statue, where he had been hidden from view behind the Thunder Stone. The word ‘old’ was inadequate. Even ‘wizened’ did not quite do him justice. He was bent forward and moved his feet by only the smallest amount on each step, though he carried no stick. A thick, woolly ushanka was pulled down tight over his head, hiding whatever hair he might have had. He was clean-shaven but for a long moustache of purest white, scarcely paler than the wrinkled skin that sucked into his hollow cheeks. He was almost too old – like a younger man in stage make-up, though close up Mihail could see that his flesh was quite real. He was certainly eighty – possibly ninety.

  ‘It’s too busy,’ Mihail replied, sticking with French. Given the age of the man, he might have grown up at a time when that was the first language of the aristocracy. ‘Fyodor Mihailovich will be buried well enough without me.’ The old man gave a short laugh. ‘How about yo
u?’ Mihail asked.

  ‘I’ve stood by enough graves in my time.’

  ‘A soldier?’

  ‘For a while.’

  Mihail wasn’t in uniform, and didn’t feel the need to point out his own, so far insignificant military career. ‘Were you here?’ he asked instead, on a whim. ‘When it all happened?’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘14 December 1825.’

  The man shook his head with a tight, rapid motion. ‘No, I was somewhere else. But I heard tell of it.’ Mihail wondered whether, even now, the old soldier was lying to hide his part in a rebellion against his tsar. ‘Three thousand men standing against Nikolai Pavlovich,’ the man continued. ‘But they didn’t have a chance. Nikolai was strong. Just like him, up there.’ He nodded towards the statue of Pyotr, mounted on horseback.

  ‘He was a great man,’ said Mihail, instantly regretting the platitude.

  ‘Funny way to pose him though – pretending he’s Saint George.’

  Mihail turned. No one other than his mother had ever mentioned the similarity before. ‘How do you mean?’ he asked, happy to let the old man share his memories, and curious too.

  ‘Don’t you see it? Victorious; on horseback; with the vanquished serpent at his feet. Just like in all those icons. Of course, you see them more in Moscow than round here. And have you noticed how they always show the dragon’s tail just curling around the horse’s leg, as if he’s about to topple George from it, even as he raises Ascalon high in the air to deliver—’

  Mihail’s heart pounded. ‘Ascalon?’ he interrupted.

  ‘Ascalon. Nobody remembers. It was George’s sword. Like Arthur’s Excalibur or Beowulf’s Hrunting. Though some say it was a lance, not a sword, but I don’t suppose that made too much difference to the dragon, eh?’ He emitted a wheezy laugh.

  ‘I suppose not,’ muttered Mihail, deep in thought. At last he had a meaning for the word, though it was hard to see how it was connected to Iuda or Zmyeevich. And yet it had come about from a discussion of the statue of Pyotr. It was too much for coincidence.

  ‘I can tell you’ve had enough of me,’ said the old man. Mihail tried to object, but the man raised his hand. ‘Anyway, I’m starting to feel the cold. It’s been pleasant talking to you.’