The People's Will
Page 27
‘Don’t stop,’ he heard her say.
He reached out again and this time only her bare skin stood between his fingertips and the ridges and valleys of her vertebrae. She turned and he managed to remain in contact with her, so that now he could feel the smooth flesh of her belly. Her lips pressed against his, and he silently thanked the Executive Committee for their efforts.
When Mihail awoke he was alone. He tried to think what had roused him, then he heard the sound again – a knocking at the door. It was only the maid, bringing hot water. Mihail washed and dressed. Looking in the mirror as he shaved, he noticed how broadly he was smiling, as memories of his night with Dusya played through his mind. He glanced over at the rumpled bedding. It was no surprise that she had gone – to have stayed might have suggested a depth to their relationship. She knew where her loyalties lay, but even so Mihail wondered whether he might in future gain some slight advantage if she had to make a choice between him and her beliefs. She pretended to be stalwart, but she was still human. As was Mihail. He knew that he too must take care that affection for her did not cause his determination to waver. But already he felt the urge to be with her again, if only to test that determination.
But that was for later. What was he to do next? He felt both energized and helpless. Now that he knew of Dmitry’s connection with the People’s Will, he felt sure he was a step closer to Iuda, but he knew also that there was little he could do but wait. He had, it seemed, been accepted into the organization. If he started investigating they would become suspicious – take him for an ohranik. But they would come for him. They needed him. He would uncover what he needed to know, but at their pace, not his.
Besides, he had another line of enquiry – perhaps a better one, but one that he had not had a moment to examine.
He went over to his trunk and opened it. He found the knapsack where he’d left it, underneath his clothes. He looked inside. The blood sample was still there, undamaged; Zmyeevich’s blood. He knew full well the power that it gave him. He could simply open the curtains and throw it out into the sunlight and Zmyeevich, wherever he might be in the world, would experience the most unimaginable pain. But the moment would be short-lived. There were better uses to which he could put his treasure. He grabbed the shirt he had been wearing the previous night. It was in a sorry state anyway. He ripped off a sleeve and used it to wrap the vial safely, then pushed it back among the clothes in the trunk.
Then he moved on to the papers he had taken. Iuda’s journals were written in English, as he had expected. The other documents were in a variety of languages, French and Russian mostly, but some English and even a few in what looked like Italian, which Mihail had never studied. He began to skim through the folder marked ‘Petersburg’, but did not learn much. Most of the Russian material related simply to Iuda’s rooms at the Hôtel d’Europe, some of which was new to Mihail – such as the fact that Iuda had first settled there on 6 December 1876 – but was of little value.
He was interrupted by a knock on the door. It was the maid again, this time offering him a note.
Dear Mihail Konstantinovich,
There is a basement shop on the east side of Malaya Sadovaya Street which sells a fine selection of cheeses from around the world. Please meet me there at 10 o’clock this morning.
Yours,
Yevdokia Yegorovna Nikonova
Mihail looked at his watch. It was after nine. For a moment he hesitated. The last time he had been lured away by Dusya it had ended in a great deal of discomfort for him. He believed he had been accepted into the People’s Will, but could he ever be sure? If they were to discern one tiny extra fact about him, it could change their entire attitude; and they would not hesitate to deal with him as brutally as they had Luka. What if he had talked in his sleep? But if he didn’t go, they would come and find him anyway, and worse, he might forfeit the opportunity to gain the knowledge he craved.
He packed the papers away and set off. The direct route was to head towards the Admiralty and then turn down Nevsky Prospekt. This would take Mihail past the Hôtel d’Europe. He wondered for a moment whether it might be tempting fate to go so close to where he presumed Iuda still resided, but he dismissed his fears. It was a sunny winter’s day. Iuda would be sleeping. Even if not, he wouldn’t dare even peek out of the window, and anyway those windows looked out of the back of the hotel, not the front; a voordalak would seldom ask for a room with a view. The thought of his pilfering of Iuda’s hotel rooms brought to mind the fact that he too could easily become victim of a similar manoeuvre. Dusya knew where he was staying, and therefore undoubtedly Dmitry did too, as chairman of the committee. There was no reason for him to search Mihail’s rooms, but if he did he would be overjoyed at what he found. Mihail would have to find himself a new den – for those stolen possessions, if not for himself. Another room in another cheap hotel would suffice. He had Iuda’s money to pay for it, and he could always sell that final sapphire. It occurred to him that it might already be too late – that Dusya’s letter had drawn him away from his rooms with the express intent of allowing them to be searched. There was no time to go back, but Mihail cursed his stupidity.
There was a little snow in the air as he pressed on down the street. He buried his hands in his pockets to keep them warm, wishing he had worn his uniform, but knowing that civilian clothes would be more appropriate for the day ahead. He passed the corner of Mihailovskaya Street and the hotel without incident and carried on past the frontage of shops and bars and the gateways that led to courtyards within the blocks of buildings. A break appeared in the façade, allowing access to a little blue and white church, set back from the street, behind the buildings. Mihail quickly realized what it was: the Armenian Church. His mother had often said that it was a place he should visit if he ever went to Petersburg, but as in everything to do with her there was a sadness to the truth behind it. She had always promised to take her other children there – Mihail’s half-brothers and sister – but it had never happened. Only Luka had survived into adulthood, and now he was gone too. Had he ever fulfilled his mother’s wish, Mihail wondered. He made a vow to himself that he would one day go in there and look around – but not today.
He pressed on across Sadovaya Street and finally turned into Malaya Sadovaya. It stood right opposite Aleksandrinsky Square and beside it the library where Mihail had been studying just two days before. The ‘Malaya’ of its name evidently referred to its length rather than its width. It spanned only one block, between Nevsky Prospekt and Italyanskaya Street, but for that short length was broad enough for perhaps six carriages to run side by side, without even taking to the pavements. About a third of the way along, Mihail saw it.
Склад Русских Сыров – Е. Кобозева
Russian Cheese Store – Y. Kobozev
The sign was at the level of his knees. Beneath it a set of stone steps with an iron railing led down to the basement shop. Barred, arched windows peeped just over the level of the pavement. As he descended Mihail noticed in one of them an unlit votive candle in front of a small icon depicting Saint George. He smiled; another connection to Zmyeevich – another coincidence.
He went inside.
He was immediately assailed by the aroma of cheese. Looking around, it was easy to see that the source of the smell was everywhere. Behind the counter stood a young woman, about the same age as Dusya and just as attractive. She gave Mihail a furtive glance, though he did not recognize her face. Over by the shelves stood a more familiar figure – Mihail had noticed him during the brief period he’d had to take in the members of the Executive Committee. He was explaining the merits of a particular cheese to another man who was a stranger to Mihail – presumably a customer. Soon the shopkeeper had cut a piece and had taken it over to the counter for his assistant to wrap and charge for.
‘Good morning, sir,’ he then said to Mihail. ‘And what might I interest you in?’ There was not a flicker of recognition in his eyes.
‘As it hap
pens, I was looking for something French,’ replied Mihail. On his journey there he had not considered the possibility of putting on a show like this; his knowledge of the subject would rapidly dry up.
‘Soft or hard, sir? Or perhaps blue?’
Mihail rubbed his chin and narrowed his eyes to gaze at the range of cheeses in front of him, without the slightest idea what country they might hail from. With relief he heard the door close behind him and footsteps ascending, but he was wise enough not to turn and check they were alone. The shopkeeper, however, had a clear view.
‘You don’t know much about cheese, do you?’ he said.
Mihail grinned. ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Neither do I, really. They call me Yevdokim Yermolayevich Kobozev – at least they do when I’m in here. Truth be told, it’s Bogdanovich. This is my “wife”, Anna Vasilyevna.’ He indicated the woman. She nodded at Mihail. He conceded a smile, noting that this revolutionary shared a name and patronymic with his father’s mistress. Whatever the other inequalities, names were common property to rich and poor in Russia. She turned and went to the window, lighting the candle in front of the icon with a match.
‘If it’s lit, the place is clear,’ explained Bogdanovich. ‘If not, just walk on by. The chairman’s idea.’
‘You certainly take security seriously,’ said Mihail.
‘That’s nothing.’ He glanced at Mihail’s cheek. Mihail could feel that there was a bruise forming there. ‘Did we do that?’ Bogdanovich asked, with a hint of concern.
‘Afraid so.’
‘Sorry. It must hurt. You should slap a bit of Brie on it.’
‘Does that help?’
Bogdanovich laughed. ‘God knows. It’s the sort of stuff I tell customers; seems to keep them happy. We’d be ruined if an ohranik came in who was a real expert.’
He led Mihail to a door at the back of the shop and opened it, but didn’t go inside. ‘That’s just a storeroom,’ he explained. ‘Some of the barrels really contain cheese, but we also keep the earth in here until we can shift it somewhere else. Through here is where the real action happens.’
They went across the shop to another door, which this time they went through. The room was smaller than the shop itself, and furnished with a table and a few chairs. On the table a ledger lay, with similar books on the shelves behind. Next to it stood a samovar and a parcel wrapped in newspaper. On one of the chairs a cat lay curled in sleep. On their arrival it looked up and then leapt on to the table, sniffing at the parcel. Bogdanovich shooed it away. The high windows did not let in much light, but afforded glimpses of feet passing on the pavement above. Beneath was the only unusual feature of the place: a gaping hole in the wall, two-thirds of Mihail’s height, leading out in the direction of the street. Mihail considered making a joke about them having trouble with mice, but guessed they’d have heard it from every newcomer who came down here.
Bogdanovich leaned forward and called softly, his hands cupped around his mouth. ‘Nikolai!’
The next instant the head and shoulders of a man popped out of the tunnel and into the room. The face was familiar, not least from the pince-nez perched on its nose. Mihail had seen it at Luka’s flat and again at his interrogation. The man didn’t bother to emerge fully, but held his hand outstretched from where he was. Mihail took it.
‘I’m Kibalchich,’ he said. ‘Nikolai Ivanovich.’ Mihail recognized his voice as that of the man who had asked the technical questions. ‘I’m very much hoping you’re going to be able to help us with a few problems.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Come on in,’ said Kibalchich, before disappearing again.
Mihail bent forward and followed. The tunnel was surprisingly well lit. A string of electric light bulbs – of the Edison or Swan type – trailed along its low ceiling, fastened to the regular wooden struts, giving enough light to see to the end where Kibalchich was crouched, not very far away. The whole place stank. In the shop Mihail had put it down to the cheese, but here it was stronger, and fouler.
‘Very impressive,’ he said.
‘The lighting?’ replied Kibalchich, with a hint of pride in his voice.
Mihail nodded.
‘A little bit of showing off, I’m afraid. We don’t use them most of the time; the batteries wouldn’t last. Generally it’s just oil lamps.’
‘I’m surprised you’ve room for any batteries at all,’ said Mihail.
‘Ah! That’s what you’re supposed to think.’
Kibalchich reached out in front of him and for the first time Mihail noticed that the floor at that point was not mud, but a sheet of wood. Kibalchich levered it up to reveal a narrow vertical shaft. It was not a rough structure like the one they were in, but lined with brick.
‘We thought it was a well at first,’ explained Kibalchich, ‘but it turns out there was someone here before us.’
He sat with his legs dangling in the hole and then pushed himself forward. Now he stood in it with the floor at the height of his chest and began to descend more slowly. Evidently there was a ladder beneath him. Mihail gave him a few seconds to get to the bottom and then followed.
The passageway below was far more spacious than that above and far better built, reminding him of the change at Geok Tepe from roughly hewn tunnels to the stonework of the corridors that led to Iuda’s prison cell. Here the floor was paved with flagstones and the walls were of brick, curving to an arched roof that supported the weight of the earth above. The ladder and the shaft upwards were at the end of the corridor. Kibalchich was already making his way in the opposite direction, which Mihail judged went out under the street, but at an angle.
The path ended with three archways, one at the end of the corridor and one to either side. In each hung a rusty iron gate, but only the one on the end was closed. Beyond it there was no further light. Mihail could just make out a pile of collapsed stonework, but nothing more.
‘That one’s locked,’ said Kibalchich. ‘We could get through, but what would be the point? We’re not here for archaeology.’
He went through the doorway on the right. It led to a small cellar, constructed in the same style as the corridor outside and full of clutter. A figure whom Mihail could recognize even from behind was unpacking one of the crates.
‘He’s here,’ said Kibalchich.
Dusya turned and smiled at him. He reciprocated. There was nothing in her face to indicate what had happened between them the previous night. ‘You got my invitation then?’ she said. The hint of something in her voice could have been genuine or purely his imagination.
‘This is where we keep the majority of the batteries,’ Kibalchich explained, casting a hand across the room. ‘Most are like this one’ – he indicated a Leclanché cell on the workbench – ‘but we have lead-acid accumulators too. I’ll show you what we’ve got and then we’ll go back up and look at the tunnel.’
‘Security first,’ said Dusya, her coldness contrasting with Kibalchich’s enthusiasm. Mihail looked at her plaintively. She gave him the slightest shake of her head and pressed a finger briefly to her lips, so that only Mihail would see. Her need for reticence was not clear; perhaps she was in truth far more diffident about her liaisons than she’d made out. But that was not important. The simple act of secrecy itself was enough to make Mihail feel close to her.
‘Of course,’ said Kibalchich. ‘First a quick observation test. In the living room up there, what was on the table?’
‘Ledger. Samovar. Parcel.’ Mihail reeled off the items quickly. ‘And a cat,’ he added after a brief pause.
Kibalchich smirked. ‘Very good. And most of those items are just what they seem. The parcel, however, contains nitroglycerin – without any stabilizer. Just inside the entrance of the tunnel there’s a revolver.’
‘A dangerous combination,’ Mihail observed.
‘But a necessary one,’ Kibalchich countered. ‘If there’s a raid at least they won’t take us alive – and we’ll take a few of them with us.’<
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‘Who makes the call?’ Mihail asked.
‘Whoever’s nearest.’ Kibalchich saw the expression on Mihail’s face. ‘Terrible waste, I know.’ He picked up a saucer and offered it to Mihail. In it sat half a dozen hazelnuts, still in their shells. ‘Care for one?’ he asked.
‘No thanks.’
‘Good answer.’
He put down the saucer and picked up a single nut, turning it around in his fingers until he had it in the orientation he wanted. He pointed to it. ‘See there – that little blemish?’
‘Just about.’
‘That’s where we drilled it. Then we scrape out the kernel, fill up the shell and seal the hole with a bit of clay. Ingenious, eh?’
‘Fill it with what?’ asked Mihail, bewildered.
‘Prussic acid,’ Kibalchich happily explained. ‘Cyanide.’
‘And why do you do that?’ Mihail asked, though he could hazard a guess.
‘Again, it’s if we’re caught. It’s not something you’ll need every day, but there are times – you know – if you’re carrying a gun, or a bomb. Just keep one of these under your tongue or in your cheek and when they arrest you all you have to do is bite on it. It’s better than being tortured and hanged.’
‘Be quick about it though,’ interjected Dusya. ‘They know about them. They’ll try to stop you.’
Mihail shot her a look of distaste that he hoped she could tell was in jest.
‘We wouldn’t want you to suffer,’ she said, hiding a smirk.
‘Take one,’ said Kibalchich.
Mihail complied, slipping the nut into his pocket.
‘I’d say take two but it would be … superfluous. Though some of us like to have one under the tongue when we’re digging the tunnel. If there’s a cave-in and you’re buried it’ll be – well – quicker.’
‘You think of everything,’ said Mihail.