by Jasper Kent
‘And here in Petersburg?’
Lukin laughed again. ‘In a word – mud.’
‘That’s hardly specific.’
‘Enough!’ The chairman’s interruption cut through the room. ‘I’m confident the lieutenant knows his job. The question is where his loyalties lie.’
‘How can we know?’ asked Sofia. ‘It’s not worth the risk. If we take him in we’ll all be arrested within days.’
‘So what?’ asked Kibalchich. ‘If we kill him we’ll all be arrested in weeks anyway. This organization is on the brink of collapse. The question is what we do in that time.’
‘What can we do?’
‘If we can get that tunnel completed, the tsar could be dead before the month is out. I think this man could get it done.’
‘He’s army,’ said Zhelyabov. ‘He should be with the Fighting Services Section, not with us. He’ll be more use after the tsar is dead, when we need to take control.’
‘We’re too short of people to worry about that,’ pressed Kibalchich. ‘Since they got Goldenberg to talk the arrests haven’t stopped. There’s more of us in the Peter and Paul than out.’
‘It’s still a question of trust,’ said Sofia.
‘It’s a question of whether he’ll do it,’ said Bogdanovich, speaking for the first time. It was a good point.
‘So let’s ask him,’ said the chairman, bored with the prevarication.
‘Wait,’ said Sofia. ‘I want to see his face when he speaks.’
The chairman considered. It would not only allow Lukin to be seen, but to see. Did it matter? Did it really matter whether he lived or died? Did it matter if the tunnel was ever completed? None of it was relevant.
‘Very well then,’ he said. ‘Take off the hood.’
He leaned forward so that his face was just inches from Lukin’s. Lukin knelt, his hands tied behind his back. Zhelyabov held him by the shoulders as Sofia began to loosen the cord around his neck. Moments later, Lukin’s face was revealed. He blinked, becoming used to the lamp-lit room after a day in darkness. He turned his head, exercising his stiff neck. As his eyes adjusted he began to take in his surroundings. He glanced from face to face, trying to link individuals to voices, until his gaze settled on the one that was directly in front of him. His eyes met the chairman’s and he blinked again. His face showed surprise.
Surprise and, just as the chairman had expected, recognition.
CHAPTER XVI
IT WAS DARK and cold and damp and mihail’s head throbbed. But he was alive. Twenty-four hours before, that had not seemed like a probable outcome. Better than that, he had now been accepted – albeit tentatively – into the People’s Will. And he had discovered something that he had never expected: the identity of the chairman of their Executive Committee.
It was Dmitry.
Conversely, Dmitry had recognized him, but that – so Mihail hoped – mattered little. To Dmitry he was simply Lieutenant Lukin, the man who had so ably assisted his cause at Geok Tepe. There was no reason why Dmitry should have discovered his true identity. On the other hand, to Mihail Dmitry was in fact Colonel Otrepyev of the Ohrana, but clearly Dmitry did not fear being denounced. Why should any of them believe him? And why should Dmitry really care? Mihail doubted whether the assassination of the tsar was his primary concern.
The important thing was that for Mihail the trail was hot again.
He sat up and put his hand to his head. They had knocked him out a second time and he’d found himself here in the street. The last he had heard they were going to discuss him, but evidently the decision had now been made; otherwise he’d be dead.
Dmitry’s had not been the only face he recognized. There was the man who had greeted him at Luka’s flat, with the pince-nez and the battered top hat, and also the big man who had been keeping an eye on Dusya on the train. And then there had been the woman with the large forehead who had been watching Konstantin’s coach, who today had a strange semicircular wound to the side of her hand. How many more of the souls that Mihail had walked past on the city’s streets might also be connected with the People’s Will? Aleksandr should be afraid.
Mihail looked around and tried to work out where they had dumped him. It was a quiet back street; it could be almost anywhere in Petersburg. He pulled himself to his feet, his head still throbbing, and began to walk. The road sloped a little and he chose the downhill path; the key to navigating this city was to find a river or a canal. It wouldn’t be long before he came to one.
His senses gradually returned to him as he walked, and it was only a few minutes before he realized that he wasn’t alone. Someone was shadowing him, travelling on the other side of the street, always hanging a little way behind. He thought about breaking into a run, or doubling back around a block of buildings, but none of it appealed to him. If he was being tracked by an ohranik, then what did he care? If they arrested him he could simply appeal to his father for help. If he was being followed by the People’s Will, they would still learn nothing. And why should they bother? They’d only just let him go.
He continued along the road and then turned left, where the way sloped more steeply. Soon he hit a river that he could only guess was the Fontanka. He was south of it, so he followed its curve round to the right. Eventually he found himself on familiar territory, and headed north towards his hotel. Still his pursuer shadowed him and still he didn’t care. By now he felt confident as to who the diminutive figure was.
In twenty minutes he was back at the door of his hotel, but he didn’t go in. Instead he turned and marched swiftly towards where the tail stood watching him. He covered the distance between them in seconds, but there was no attempt to evade him. When he was close, he saw what he had suspected. It was Dusya. He hadn’t heard her voice during his interrogation, but when the hood had been removed he’d caught a glimpse of her, at the back of the room, her lips pressed tightly together and her eyebrows pinched.
‘Why don’t you come in?’ he asked.
She lowered her hood so that he could see her face more clearly, but shook her head.
‘So you’re just going to stand out here all night?’
‘I just wanted to see you safely home,’ she said.
‘They’re dangerous stairs. I might still not make it.’
She smiled. ‘I’d better make sure then.’
They walked back across the street side by side and went in. Mihail spoke briefly to the porter to ask him to send up some refreshments, then he and Dusya went up to his room. It was not the kind of establishment that asked questions concerning its residents’ guests. It would have been a quite different matter at the Hôtel d’Europe. Mihail still had the key to one of their rooms. Would Dusya be impressed by such splendour, he wondered.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said as soon as they were alone.
‘I’m not,’ he replied. This was no time to drop his guard. He was still being interrogated, simply in a more charming manner.
‘What do you mean?’ Dusya was removing her coat. She was an attractive girl, but tonight she looked something special. It took Mihail a moment to realize; she was wearing make-up. He’d never seen that before. It fitted his concept of why she was here.
‘Your freedom, your lives depend on you making sure that you can trust the people you work alongside. And if I join you, then my life depends on it too. So it’s nice to know just how seriously you take security.’ He too began to take off his overcoat. ‘That sort of peace of mind is worth a few bruises.’ He winced as he spoke, perhaps a little theatrically, but it hardly mattered.
‘Is it very bad?’
‘Nothing broken – I don’t think.’
She stood and went over to the washstand. ‘Take off your shirt,’ she instructed, dipping a flannel into the cold water.
He sat on the bed and complied.
‘And I’m sorry about last night – about tricking you,’ she said.
‘It was the smart thing to do. You couldn’t just invite me over for a chat; it wo
uld have given me time to work out my story.’ He glanced up at her and smiled. ‘If I’d needed to.’
‘I didn’t have to … you know. They told me it would distract you.’
‘It worked,’ he said with a laugh which he cut short, genuinely in pain.
She drew her breath over her teeth. ‘Those don’t look too pleasant.’
He turned and tried to see, lifting his arm. He could feel each point at which Zhelyabov had kicked him, more to his back than his side. He stretched to see further.
‘I wouldn’t if I were you,’ she said, then began to dab at him with the flannel. He relaxed and let her get on with it. The cold water stung at first, but then began to ease the pain.
The People’s Will had been right to grab him and take him by surprise for just the reason he had said. But then they’d made the mistake of leaving him alone for twenty-four hours. The idea, he presumed, was to make him sweat, and he’d done that for the first two or three, until he’d realized just where he was and why he was there. Then he’d had plenty of time to think – to do exactly what he’d said and get his story straight. He guessed they were unsure of him, seeing him as a possible ally. He worked out what they might know of him. What he had said to Dusya; what he had said to Luka. If Luka had revealed all then Mihail was doomed, but he’d not had long between speaking to Mihail and his death – and it seemed more likely that he would have reported to Iuda rather than to the others. Mihail’s only fear was if they had any inkling as to what had happened within Fontanka 16. Konstantin had told him of one spy they had just uncovered there; there could be others, but Mihail’s continued survival indicated not.
‘So is it true what you said?’ she asked. ‘About why you spoke to me, and then Luka?’
‘You’re asking me if I just lied to the Executive Committee?’
‘No, but … I thought there might have been another reason.’
She was more likely to mean in regard to herself than Luka. ‘I was brought up to be a gentleman. You were a lady in distress.’
She went back to the bowl and rinsed the cloth. Mihail could see his blood mixing with the water. He thought about the bathroom in the Hôtel d’Europe, and the blood he had washed away. In his trunk was Zmyeevich’s blood, and more besides. Much as he wished she’d go, so that he could examine it, he sensed she was here to do more than wash his wounds.
‘So what happened to Luka?’ he asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I read about it, Dusya. I’m not stupid. I can guess who did it.’
‘He was a traitor. He paid the usual price.’ She began tending to his wounds again.
‘I got the impression that the two of you were close.’
‘At times we were. But we don’t hold to the view that a man and a woman should be exclusively faithful to one another.’
‘We?’ asked Mihail. ‘So Luka agreed with the idea?’
‘He did, but I meant “we” in a broader sense; our movement. Marriage is a vehicle for the state to control us, just like poverty. Sex belongs to us, the people, the same as the land does.’
She turned as she spoke, placing her hand on Mihail’s and squeezing it. There was passion in her eyes, but he suspected it was not the personal attraction of one human being for another. Her fervour was for the idea; to her he was not a man but an audience.
‘I’d have thought any affection would be a distraction from the ultimate goal,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t it be better to postpone it till afterwards?’ It was a question he had asked himself often, though the goal he was speaking of was quite different from hers. His conclusion was that it did no harm, as long as it became no more than a distraction.
‘That could be a long time to wait.’
‘Not from what I heard today. It sounds like the end is very close.’ Again, he hoped that it applied to his own quest.
‘I’m not supposed to talk to you about that,’ she said.
‘Ah! And what are you supposed to talk to me about?’
She grinned. ‘All done,’ she said, returning to rinse the cloth once again. ‘I hear you studied in Moscow.’
‘That’s right.’ So this was what they were meant to discuss.
‘We have a lot of supporters at the Imperial Technical School.’
‘I know.’
‘And yet you weren’t one of them?’
There was a knock. Mihail raised a finger to his lips and then put his shirt back on. He went over to the door and opened it a crack. It was only a boy with the food he had ordered. He took the tray and handed back a few kopeks. He put the tray on the table and poured two glasses of the red wine, then grabbed a piece of bread and began to gnaw on it. It had been over a day since he had eaten.
‘Do have some,’ he said after a minute or so, through a mouthful of cheese.
‘I’ll let you have what you want first,’ she said. She sipped at her wine.
In the end, Mihail ate everything, leaving only an apple for Dusya out of politeness, though he would still have liked to devour it. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. She ate it at his insistence, but he guessed that she too was being polite.
‘You were telling me about Moscow,’ she said.
‘Don’t think I was,’ he replied, ‘but I can if you want.’
‘So why didn’t you get involved at the institute? From what we hear, you kept your head down.’
‘I mistrust youth,’ he said.
‘What?’ she laughed.
‘Even in myself.’ He leaned forward, speaking intensely. He was being honest, even though his purpose was to deceive. ‘Think about it. At the institute half of them, maybe more, claimed to oppose the tsar. Not openly – that was the fun of it. It makes them important – makes it clear to everyone that they care about something; really care. And that makes them popular. Then others see it work and copy; not just the action, the belief. But there comes a point where it’s obvious that it’s just a fashion and so there’s others – the richer ones generally – who have to react against it and say how much they love their tsar. But how many really keep their beliefs, on either side, as they grow older? They’ll pay lip service to them, to prove they’re not hypocrites, but in the end they just get on with their lives as best they can and hope the Ohrana don’t have their names on file.’
‘But that’s not you.’
‘No, but I thought it might be. How was I to know? I remember thinking to myself, if I still believe this at twenty-five, then I’ll know it’s right.’
‘And now you’re twenty-five?’
‘No, I’m twenty-three, but I bumped into a pretty girl on the train and I realized it might be my only opportunity to get involved.’
She smiled, averting her eyes. ‘And you think that I’m one of those who’ll grow up and forget it all?’
‘How old are you?’
‘I’m twenty-six.’
‘Well if I’m old enough, then you are.’ He noticed a twinkle in her eye and realized the other meaning of what he’d said. ‘You’re old enough to let the man you loved die,’ he added.
She leaned forward. ‘Does that bother you so?’
Mihail tried to hide his reaction. It was so preposterous a thing to say, and yet she believed it so sincerely – more than that, she expected him, and presumably the rest of the world, to see it in the same way. They called themselves the People’s Will, but they had no understanding of the people, no comprehension that such clinical decisions as to what was best meant nothing when stood up against the sense in men’s hearts of what was right. Though who was he to judge? He had no idea – nor very much interest – as to what lay in the hearts of ordinary men, but he felt pretty sure it wasn’t what Dusya stood for.
And yet for Mihail specifically, she was right. It didn’t bother him that Luka, his half-brother, was dead any more than it bothered her that Luka, her lover, was dead. Mihail had a singular destiny to fulfil and so did Dusya – and the rest could go hang. They were made for each other. He felt a sudden at
traction to her. It was mostly physical, but also the realization that they were kindred spirits. That was probably a rarer thing for him to find than for her.
‘If it did, do you think I’d be here?’ he asked.
She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips. He pulled away and put his hand to the back of his head, which was still bruised.
‘I know what happens next,’ he said. ‘I don’t want another bang on the head.’
She giggled and leaned towards him once more. ‘Not this time.’ She kissed him again.
‘You don’t have to, you know, just because they’ve told you to.’ She looked at him intently. ‘Just because they told me to doesn’t mean I don’t want to.’
Mihail gazed back. Where would be the harm? It would make her – and therefore her comrades – more trusting of him. It wouldn’t hinder his search for Iuda in any way. And she was attractive and willing and … here; and it had been a long time. But however pleasant it might be, it riled him that this opportunity to exercise his passions came at the behest of the Executive Committee of the People’s Will. Christ, they’d probably even taken a vote on it!
A chuckle escaped him.
‘What?’ she asked.
‘They told you to say that too, didn’t they?’
The slap to his face was well deserved, but it didn’t make what he’d said untrue. Now she was on her feet and putting her overcoat back on.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘Don’t be,’ she replied. ‘You were right.’
‘Does that make a difference?’
She looked at him, puzzled, giving him one last chance.
‘Please don’t go,’ he said. It was only when the prospect of her departure had become a reality that he realized how much he wanted her, and feared that he had pushed her too far.
She considered, then took off her coat again. It was inevitable now. Mihail lay back on the bed, feeling content, but detached from his normal life – from his quest. She sat beside him, with her back to him. He ran his finger down her spine through the cloth of her blouse, enjoying the fact that she allowed him to more than the sensation itself. It was better that he had pushed her – better that they knew where they stood, each aware of the other’s insincerity. She reached to the table beside them and extinguished the lamp, leaving them in darkness.