by Jasper Kent
Mihail murmured a goodbye and watched as the old man hobbled across the square in the direction of Saint Isaac’s, his shadow a long black streak across the snow. Mihail watched him for a little while, then turned back to the statue, pondering what, if anything, he had discovered.
Luka looked at the note once again.
My dearest Luka,
Meet me at two o’clock on the corner of Nevsky and Kalashnikovsky Prospekts. It is urgent. Tell no one; your life may depend on it.
With my undying love,
Dusya
It was a quarter past now. It was a stupid place to meet, but Dusya had probably not considered the masses that would be attracted to the monastery by Dostoyevsky’s funeral. They were close here and the crowds were thick; still slowly trudging along Nevsky Prospekt. Luka tried to examine every face, in search of Dusya, but she was small and might easily get lost among the jostling bodies.
He had seen one face that he knew – the ugly, flat nose of Rysakov, or was it Glazov? One name was genuine, the other an alias, but Luka couldn’t remember which. They might both be fake, such was the need for security. They hadn’t spoken much recently; Rysakov had been given some covert assignment by the Executive Committee and secrecy was deemed essential; an honour for one so young, only nineteen. It wasn’t so surprising to see him there, hoping to pay homage to the great novelist. The revolutionary movement had always been in two minds about Dostoyevsky. Without question they saw him as a writer of genius, a man who understood the heart of the Russian people; and they knew of his younger days as a radical, of how he’d even stood in front of a firing squad for his beliefs, only to be reprieved and exiled to Siberia. But he’d become a reactionary, loving God and, worse, loving his tsar more than he did his fellow man. And he’d grown to hate revolutionaries.
Devils – that’s what he called them; made it the title of a novel. It was only a slight exaggeration. Luka had been there, at the Agricultural College in Moscow in 1869. He’d been a follower of Nyechayev, but only on the periphery. Their fellow student, Ivanov, had seen through Nyechayev sooner than anyone else and questioned his authority – and his honesty. Nyechayev and a few of his cronies – not Luka – had murdered him for it. Dostoyevsky had turned it into fiction, but all who read it knew the truth. But it was an exceptional case, not the general rule. Nyechayev was a charlatan – there were a few in the movement, but they were rare. The People’s Will was prepared to kill – but it would only be for the good of the people.
Even Dostoyevsky had come to see it, if the rumours were true. His next novel had been planned to follow on from The Brothers Karamazov, where the pious Alyosha would leave the monastery and himself become a revolutionary. But Fyodor Mihailovich would not have kept things simple. Who could say whether Alyosha’s new calling would be for good or ill? Only one man knew, and soon he would be in the embrace of Russia’s soil.
And then through the crowd Luka saw a head of blonde hair that he recognized. It was not Dusya’s glimmering flaxen, but a little darker. Beneath it was the unmistakable high forehead of Sofia Lvovna. She of all people was unlikely to come to an event such as this. Luka remembered the words of Dusya’s note. ‘Tell no one; your life may depend on it.’ By ‘no one’ she could only mean members of the Executive Committee. Luka wondered what he could have done to arouse their displeasure, but he could think of nothing. It must be a mistake.
He looked again and Sofia was at his side. She held something hard against his ribs. A gun? A knife? He couldn’t tell. He heard her voice in his ear.
‘Come with me, Luka Miroslavich. Don’t make a fuss.’
It was a straightforward enough request. Why shouldn’t he just go with her? They would talk. They’d sort things out. All of them were reasonable people. But he remembered what had happened to Ivanov. Things had got worse since then. Sofia was desperate – they all were. He could hear it in her voice. She was afraid, and that meant he should be afraid of her. She wasn’t here to talk; she was here to kill – unless he could prevent it. He shoved with both hands and she stepped back away from him. Soon the crowd had enveloped her like waves coming in from the sea. Luka turned down Kalashnikovsky Prospekt and started to walk briskly.
The crowds began to thin. A few figures milled around, looking for a better route to the monastery along a side street, but Luka stuck to the prospekt. He glanced over to the other side of the road and saw that a figure was shadowing him, and realized in the same instant that it was Zhelyabov. Luka quickened his pace, but Zhelyabov’s long strides easily kept him level.
Luka briefly turned his head to glimpse what was behind him, and saw three figures that he knew: Sofia and Rysakov, whom he had already seen, plus Mihail Fyodorovich Frolenko. None of them bothered to call out to him, or even to raise a hand in greeting. Conversation was not their intent.
Luka broke into a run. The road itself had become a trap, with the high walls of the Cattle Market meaning he could not turn off to the left. On the right Zhelyabov, now running too, prevented any escape and behind Luka knew that Sofia and the others would be keeping close. His only chance was to move forward. Ahead lay the river. With luck there would be people on it – walking as they did every winter when it was frozen. He was there moments later, but the river was quiet. Not empty, but with none of the swarming masses that there had been on Nevsky Prospekt. He should have stayed there, in the crowd – but even there a silent blade slipped between the ribs would have allowed the assailant to steal away unnoticed.
The bank down to the river was steep; it would take too long to negotiate. Instead Luka turned left, sticking to the wall of the Cattle Market. There was no real path here, just snow-covered, frozen mud. It made for slow progress, but it would have the same effect on the others. He risked turning to look, and saw that they were now some way behind, further hindered by having to move in single file. Luka could count only three of them, but didn’t waste time trying to spot a fourth. He pressed on, seeing that the end of the wall was in sight and knowing that there he would be able to turn back inland and perhaps make good his escape.
But then the path was blocked. It was Frolenko. He must have cut through the Cattle Market – closed and abandoned on a Sunday – and found some gateway out to the river. As Luka approached he could see the narrow gap in the wall. He slowed to walking pace and then finally stopped a few paces in front of Frolenko. They were of about the same stature. Luka might get past him, but in the time it took, the others would be upon him. He turned. They were close now; Zhelyabov in front, Sofia and Rysakov at the rear. Rysakov carried a revolver in his hand, but had not raised it.
Now it seemed there was no option but to talk, to try to clear up whatever confusion had led them to this moment. He opened his hands in a gesture of friendship and breathed in, preparing to say he knew not what. But he could see in none of their eyes the willingness to talk. He chose not to speak but to shout.
‘Help!’ he screamed. He had never produced such a sound before, but neither had he been so close to death. ‘Murder!’ There were still a few passers-by, walking or skating along the river, trying to get to the funeral by a back route. They were some distance away, but surely they’d hear him.
He felt Frolenko’s hand across his mouth and then the full weight of Zhelyabov’s shoulder hitting him in the chest, knocking him backwards into the Cattle Market. Frolenko landed underneath him and wriggled away as Zhelyabov moved forward, sitting on Luka’s chest and pinning his arms. Luka was winded but still managed to shout and scream, not knowing or caring what words came out of him, hoping only to attract some attention and the chance of salvation.
He felt a hand pressing against his mouth, trying to silence him – a small, dainty, female hand. He looked up into the eyes of Sofia, but saw only malevolence in them as she pushed down to stop his screaming. He tried to think of the kindness and simplicity in Dusya’s eyes, and prayed that he would live to see them again.
He bit hard and tasted blood. Sofia emitted a startl
ed yelp and withdrew her hand. Luka began to scream again, louder even than before. He felt the back of Zhelyabov’s fist catch him heavily across the jaw. Now it hurt him to scream, but still it didn’t stop him. He kicked and thrashed, but he was no match for the huge frame that held him down. He heard Sofia speak.
‘Give it to me.’
He looked and saw Rysakov handing her something – the gun he had been carrying. She held it to the left-hand side of Luka’s head.
He heard the sound of the blast in his right ear and felt burning to the side of his face. In the other ear there was nothing – he could sense the absence of sound like a void. He noticed too that he had stopped screaming. He could feel his mouth and his throat, but had forgotten how to command them. He could now only see with one eye, though whether the other was filled with blood or whether he was blind, he could not tell.
He felt Zhelyabov relax his hold, and chose the moment to kick with all his strength. The big man fell sideways and Luka was on his feet. His head was exploding with pain and he could barely see. He ran forward, hoping it would take him back out on the river, where he might get help. The ground vanished and he was slipping down a slope, then he felt hard smooth ice beneath his fingertips. He crawled forward, but then hands grabbed him. He hoped for a moment that they might be friendly, but found himself being dragged brutally along.
Then the ice vanished and Luka sensed cold, flowing water close to his nose. A hand grabbed his hair and pushed his head downwards. His face became instantly numb as the river enveloped it. Cold tendrils of water infiltrated his nostrils and mouth. He pushed upwards and found himself for a moment above the surface and able to breathe. He heard Sofia’s voice whisper in his ear.
‘Thus perish all traitors.’
At last he rediscovered the ability to scream, but at the same moment the water took him again, absorbing the sound and snatching the air that created it. Luka lay still, his lungs empty, the hands on his back and head preventing any movement. He willed himself not to breathe, and managed it for a few seconds.
But then his body rebelled, his mouth opened and his lungs howled as the icy water hit them.
CHAPTER XIII
LUKA’S DEATH MADE the newspapers on thursday, the day after his body was found. Mihail had suspected something. He’d called on Luka several times and never found him home. On Wednesday evening he saw gendarmes standing at the door of the house on Maksimilianovsky Lane, and walked on by. On Thursday he learned the truth.
The reports were guarded, but one thing was thankfully clear: Luka had not been killed by a vampire. The wounds did not match up; the bullet to the head was not the ultimate cause of death, but neither that nor the actual drowning could be the handiwork of Zmyeevich, Dmitry or Iuda.
It was only by luck that the body had been found. It should either have been washed out to sea or remained shrouded by the frozen river until spring, but there were always a few holes in the ice, and the corpse had snagged against one of them, just where the Great Nevka split away from the Neva. Whoever had killed him had not wanted the body to be found. To Mihail’s mind there were two possibilities: either Luka had been running from the Ohrana and their attempts to capture him had gone too far, or he had been killed by his own side – either rightly or falsely taken for a police informer. They were quite capable of it. Mihail remembered hearing a few years before of a government informer called Gorinovich. They’d lured him to a railway siding in Odessa where they’d stabbed him and then poured quicklime on his face so that he wouldn’t be recognized. But he’d survived and staggered to safety, the label they’d pinned to his chest still clear to read: ‘Witness the fate of a spy.’ If it was the People’s Will who’d killed Luka then they’d been more efficient and less ostentatious about it.
But whatever the direct cause, Mihail could see how convenient Luka’s death was for Iuda, eliminating one of the few people who knew anything about him. Iuda was locked away in the Peter and Paul Fortress, but Mihail knew that would be little hindrance to his achieving what he wanted. Luka had visited Iuda the day before his death; he would have spoken of Mihail and his questions. Had it been enough for Iuda to realize the danger that Luka might pose to him?
If that were the case then Mihail was responsible for Luka’s murder. In the space of just a few weeks he’d lost a mother and a brother. He searched his heart to find true sorrow at Luka’s death, but he could not. He pitied him as a stranger, a man he had met just twice. It went against his point of view, the one he’d pressed when talking to Luka, that blood – the family bond – was the strongest tie in existence. He should have told Luka the truth – told him that they were brothers. Then at least they’d have been able to judge each other fairly. Perhaps Mihail would still have felt none of the affection that one brother should hold for another, but at least he would have been certain.
The Ohrana had spent all of Thursday and most of Friday searching the apartment, preventing Mihail from making his own investigation. Instead, he’d followed up another unlikely lead – the apartment on Konyushennaya Street. The bookshop underneath that Tamara had spoken of was still there, but neither its proprietor nor the new tenants above had heard of Iuda, by any of his names. It had never been likely, but it was best to be certain. Luka’s rooms would be of far greater interest.
Now, on the Friday afternoon, all was quiet on Maksimilianovsky Lane. A solitary gendarme stood guard at the door, chatting occasionally to the dvornik. It was possible that there were still other police up there, but no one had gone in or out for a very long time.
Mihail walked boldly down the street and then mounted the steps of the building; not of number 15, but number 17, next door. He was in luck. The dvornik there was asleep, his snoring wafting gently across the hallway. If he’d been awake Mihail had a story about a romantic liaison worked out, and the bribe to back it up, but it proved unnecessary. The house was the mirror image of its neighbour. Mihail climbed the stairs up to the first half-landing. There, just as he’d expected, was a small window looking out behind the building. It opened easily. Beyond was a tiny yard, the overgrown weeds punctuated only by rubbish from the stacked apartments on all four sides. Everything covered with undisturbed snow.
Mihail stuck his head and shoulders through the small gap and looked right towards number 15. The equivalent window was there, just as he’d remembered it, but the wall between them was flat and smooth, and there was no way he could climb across. He pulled himself back in and ascended two more flights. Here, on the half-landing, was a similar window. Looking out he saw that it was directly above the first, with another in between. He reached into his bag and brought out a rope, securing it to the banister. He threw it out and watched it fall and dangle, just outside the first window.
He crept back downstairs and climbed out, using the rope to support himself, then, hanging from it, traversed across the featureless wall until his toes were perched on the window ledge of number 15. He brought out a knife and eased the sash up a little. It wasn’t locked. Soon he had it open and was inside. He pulled the rope in afterwards so that it could not swing back without him. He went down a few steps and peeked round the corner. He could see the gendarme standing in the doorway, performing his duty to protect the building from unauthorized entrants.
Mihail tiptoed up to apartment 7. There was no guard on the door here. In truth, there was not much of a door. The ohraniki had evidently taken an axe to it in order to gain access, and had not bothered to replace it.
Inside it seemed they had been thorough but tidy in their search. The chairs and other furniture were roughly where Mihail had seen them before, but the fabric of the divan had been slashed open to allow a hand to delve inside in search of whatever secrets might be found there. Tufts of stuffing were scattered sparsely across the floor. The samovar had been moved to the other end of the table. As Mihail had noted on his first visit, there was quite deliberately little to find in this place.
He looked into the other two rooms. Both were
bedrooms. The one on the left was as unlived-in as the main room. There was a bed, but the bedding had been thrown on the floor. It was rumpled, but seemed clean. There was a wardrobe and a washstand, but nothing that hinted of a personal effect. He opened the window. It looked out on to that same yard. From above hung his rope, stretching diagonally down to another window below. It was beyond reach, but not by much.
He went back and grabbed a length of wood from the remnants of the door. It had a nail sticking out of the end which would serve as a hook. Within seconds he had the rope. He pulled it in and wrapped it around his makeshift fishing rod so that it would not fall back. Now he could make a quicker exit, if needed.
The other bedroom was clearly the one that Luka had normally used. The bedlinen smelt of human sweat. There were clothes here too. Some of them were women’s; Dusya’s, he guessed. How would she be taking the news of her lover’s death? As stoically as he himself had, Mihail would have to assume. They both had their hatreds: he of Iuda; she of the tsar. It was an effective immunization against sorrow.
He went back to the living room. He’d expected the ohraniki to have done their job thoroughly and so there was really only one place they might not have looked. The pictures still hung on the wall, but they could easily have been removed and replaced. Mihail went over to the one that Luka had glanced at when afraid. It was a watercolour, a cheap copy of a view of Moscow by Alekseyev. Mihail lifted it off the wall.
Behind it the wallpaper had been neatly slashed in the shape of a cross – one vertical stroke, one horizontal. Looking more closely Mihail could see that this was in fact a separate square of wallpaper, of the same pattern that covered the remainder of the room, but pasted over at this point. Behind the flapping corners he could see a cavity in the wall beyond. Luka – or someone else – must have removed a few bricks to create the hole, put whatever he wanted in there and then concealed his work with both the wallpaper and the picture. An alert ohranik had not been fooled, but had removed the painting, cut through the paper and uncovered whatever lay within.