by Jasper Kent
‘You are Mihail Konstantinovich Danilov?’
I said nothing.
‘You will answer, please.’
I wondered why Danilov was reluctant to respond to so straightforward a question, particularly since he had already confirmed his identity outside the café. Then I realized; he did not because he could not. It was up to me.
‘That’s right, yes.’
‘You live at Panteleimonovskaya Street 2 with Nadya Vadimovna Primakova and a servant Syevastyan Pyetrovich Obnizov?’
‘Syevastyan Pyetrovich doesn’t live with us any more.’ I remembered Danilov telling Susanna about it. ‘He’s dead.’
The man opened a drawer in his desk and tutted. He tried another and found a pencil with which he made the appropriate correction to the paper in front of him.
‘And you were a member of the Fourth State Duma, until its dissolution?’
‘I was.’
‘A member of the Kadet party?’
I nodded, though the term meant nothing to me.
‘When were you first elected to the institution?’
That I couldn’t answer. ‘I can’t remember,’ I said lamely.
He looked up, narrowing his grey eyes. ‘I’d advise you to take this interview seriously. Your prospects for the future will not be promising if we determine you to be a counterrevolutionary.’
I almost chuckled, but managed to contain myself. I’d presumed that we were here because of the murders. I’d been surprised at how quickly the wheels of justice had moved. But this was nothing more than a general act of score-settling by the new regime. I was mildly impressed that Danilov had done anything in his life to merit such attention.
‘About five years ago,’ I said. It was a pure guess, but he seemed satisfied by it.
‘And before that you were in the army?’
‘That’s right. I fought at Geok Tepe.’ That was where I had first encountered Danilov. ‘And against the Japanese.’ That was where Danilov had known the colonel that I’d killed.
The man nodded. ‘And after that you were one of the founders of the Military Air Fleet?’
‘That’s right.’ I could only assume he wasn’t trying to trick me.
He put down one sheet of paper and picked up another: the inventory of my possessions. He tapped the ash from his cigarette as he read, then began poking through the items where they’d been laid on the desk. He pushed the paper envelope of tablets towards me.
‘What are these for?’
‘I get chest pains.’ I knew that well enough.
He wrote something down on the paper. ‘You’d better keep them then,’ he said.
‘Aren’t you worried I might kill myself – take them all at once?’ Even as I spoke I realized it might be a good idea, if I could achieve it while my blood was still in Danilov’s body.
‘I couldn’t give a shit.’ He picked up the folded wad of banknotes. ‘Your money will be kept, of course.’
I said nothing.
‘What about these three?’ He indicated the razor, my double-bladed knife and Ascalon. ‘Why are you carrying concealed weapons?’
‘The streets are dangerous out there.’ It was interesting that he had immediately identified Ascalon as a weapon.
He picked up the lance and examined it, rolling it between his fingers. ‘This is an odd thing to have on you.’
I knew that I mustn’t make too much of it. ‘I got into a fight,’ I explained. ‘Just grabbed what came to hand.’
He continued to peer at it, then finally put it down and wrote again on the papers in front of him. Then he looked up at me.
‘You’ll be taken from here to a place of internment until such time as your fate can be determined. Your possessions will be kept, pending your possible release. Your relatives will be informed – I imagine that will be Nadya Vadimovna.’
I nodded. I could see no reason not to let her know of Danilov’s humiliation.
‘You’re not going to string me up then?’
‘The death penalty no longer exists in Russia. However, you can make things easier for yourself if you tell us the names of anyone else who has the same sympathies as you.’
I could offer nothing. ‘Don’t you know who the other members of the Duma were?’ I asked.
‘There’s nothing wrong in itself with having been a member of the Duma. It’s your support of the Provisional Government that raises problems – and your speech last summer denouncing Comrade Lenin.’
‘I’m no Kornilovite.’ I’d picked up the term from one of the leaflets I’d read and concluded it was a good thing not to be.
‘That will be determined. But you must know those who are.’
Ordinarily I’d have thrown him a few names, just to stir up the waters, but I knew so little it was better to say nothing.
‘No?’ He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. ‘Very well.’ He stood up and went to the door. As soon as he’d opened it the two thugs who’d brought me into the room came through. I noticed now that both of them had holsters on their belts. ‘Take him,’ said the man who had interviewed me, then returned to his chair.
They unlocked my handcuffs and stood me up, then fastened my hands behind my back once again. I went with them to the door.
‘Comrade Danilov.’ I turned. He was still in his chair, holding out his hand towards me. ‘Don’t forget your pills.’
I couldn’t take them because of the cuffs. He stood and came over to me, then put the envelope into my pocket. The other two marched me out of the office and back the way we had come. Although the building was new to me, it seemed familiar. I had worked for the Third Section, based at Fontanka 16, during Nikolai I’s reign, before setting up my own offices in Moscow. The passing of seventy years and the transfer of power from the old order to the new had made little difference to the way they worked. They took me down the stairs and then outside by a different door, at the side of the building. We emerged on to Gorohovaya Street and came to a halt.
‘The car will be here in a moment,’ one of them said. He was evidently new to the job, or he would not have been so polite.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked.
He seemed about to answer, but his comrade merely growled, ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’
A car rolled up. It might have been the same one we came in, but I couldn’t tell. For the most part they looked identical to me. On the journey here I’d been thrilled at the new experience of riding in one of these vehicles. If I had been in a position to express myself I would have seemed in a merry mood for one who had just been arrested. To Danilov though it was a mundane activity.
But much as I might have enjoyed it, I didn’t plan to partake of the next leg of the journey. It seemed we were in for a long incarceration, by the end of which Danilov would be free of my blood. I doubted he would allow me to take all his pills at once. The more polite of my two escorts went to the car and opened the door, then began to climb inside in front of me. Now was my chance.
I pretended to stumble, but as I did so, pushed myself forward on to the car door, slamming it against my captor. His calf was caught between the door and the body of the vehicle and he let out a cry. Meanwhile the other one had let go of my arm and I began to run, heading as fast as I could down Gorohovaya Street. With my hands still restrained behind my back I had little prospect of getting very far. But that wasn’t my plan.
‘Stop, or I’ll fire!’
The shout came from behind me. It was precisely what I’d hoped for. Ever since Dmitry had so cleverly pointed out what neither I, nor Danilov, nor Susanna had realized – that if I were to die now I would rise again as a vampire – the tables had been reversed. Now it was I who should seek death, and Danilov who should avoid it. I was sure he would be able to stop me in something so blatant as a leap from a high building, just as I had stopped him, but this might prove more fruitful.
On either side of me, pedestrians separated, not to allow me to pass, but to get themselves
out of the line of fire. Ordinarily I’d have weaved from side to side, to make myself a more difficult target, but today I kept in a dead straight line. And I didn’t run so very fast either, though Danilov’s body could achieve no great speed even if pushed.
A shot rang out. I flinched, anticipating the feeling of the bullet entering me, but instead heard the ping of it hitting the brickwork of the building beside me. He’d got his eye in now. The fatal shot was only moments away.
I tried to stop and turn at the same time. My instinct was to raise my hands, but I knew that I couldn’t. In the end, with the speed I was running at, none of it worked and I fell forward on to the pavement. My cheekbone banged heavily against the stone and at the same moment the sound of a second shot reached me. I sensed the bullet whistle overhead, but I was in no danger from it. I heard the sound of booted feet running towards me. I made no attempt to move. There was still the risk that Iuda’s pretence of trying to escape had given them excuse enough to finish me there and then, with a shot to the back of the head, but I doubted they would risk it – not on a busy street like this, with so many witnesses.
Two pairs of feet came to a halt beside me. One of them kicked me in the ribs and I rolled over on to my back.
‘Moron,’ said a voice.
A hand grabbed the collar of my coat and began to drag me along the pavement. It had been a good idea of Iuda’s; he’d been unlucky that the man was such a bad shot. I would bear it in mind. Iuda and I desired precisely the same thing – to die. I just wanted to delay it a little while. Being shot in the back while trying to escape wouldn’t be such a bad way to go, when the time came.
We reached the car and I was hauled up to my feet. This time I climbed in obediently. Again I was squashed between the two figures. We drove along Admiralty Square, then turned left between the Admiralty and the Winter Palace to get on to the Palace Quay. I’d already guessed where we were going; now I could see it. The Peter and Paul Fortress sat there across the Neva, like a long shallow boat floating low in the water, the spire of the Peter and Paul Cathedral stretching up into the sky as its mast. Back in February the crowds had forced its gates to open and liberated the few prisoners inside. That had been a turning point in the revolution; our Bastille Day. Only three days ago it had turned its guns on the Provisional Government, and now it was being used to house the enemies of the new regime. Not just tsarists – though there would be a good many of those – but anyone who supported a form of government other than the one dictated to us by Lenin and Trotsky. They were right to arrest me; I was their enemy.
We crossed the Neva by the Troitsky Bridge. The fortress loomed ever larger. Before long we were on Petrogradsky Island. Moments later we were on the much smaller Ioannovksy Bridge, which took us to the Ivan Gate of the fortress. I felt a certain irrational pride at being here. My grandfather, Aleksei, had been imprisoned within these walls after the Decembrist Uprising, as he waited to be sent into exile. On the other hand, Iuda had been held captive here for a while too. I’d been here myself, but only on business for the Duma and to visit the cathedral. I would have to get him to show me the ropes.
The driver got out and spoke to the sentry at the gate and soon we were let through. My cuffs were removed and I was handed over to the fortress guards. They might have been Bolsheviks too, but they wore the uniforms of regular soldiers. There was little doubt as to the side with which their sympathies would lie. I was taken to the Trubetskoy Bastion and walked along a grim corridor with windows on one side looking out on to a courtyard and solid wooden doors on the other. The walls were a dull grey for the most part, with a broad layer of maroon pretending to be a wainscoting. The ceiling was white. It was all carefully calculated to demoralize. About halfway along a guard sat at a table between two of the windows. He looked up as we approached.
‘Danilov,’ said one of my escorts.
The guard consulted his list and then searched through a ring of keys. I felt a disproportionate degree of outrage to know that my name was written down there. It proved that my fate had been discussed – had been determined – in my absence, hours, perhaps days in advance. I had walked through the streets of Petrograd a free man while they had known that I was no such thing. It was nothing new in Russia – the fate of the individual was not a matter for him to decide, but for the state. It was only chance that meant on this occasion I was happy with the decision.
The guard stood up and led us to a door. He unlocked it and I walked inside. The door slammed shut and I heard the key turn. It wasn’t too awful; about twice the length of the camp bed that stood against one wall, and maybe four times as wide. There was a large, high, rectangular window that currently managed to fill the chamber with the light of the setting sun. As well as a bed there was a table, but no chair. The whole place smelled of bleach.
I lay down on the bed. I doubted I could have managed a better outcome if I’d planned it. What harm could Iuda do me now? What harm could he do Nadya? Locked up in this cell, we were both powerless. It wasn’t inconceivable that I might remain here forever. Over the centuries there’d been enough men whom tsars had sent here who had never come out again. It wasn’t the end that I would have chosen for my life, but of all the prospects I’d considered over the last few days, it seemed the most amiable. But I might not be here for ever. Exile was another ancient Russian tradition, though perhaps the Bolsheviks would shy away from it. Would Nadya want to follow me to Siberia – or wherever – as my grandmother, Domnikiia, had Aleksei? I couldn’t allow it. Even far out there in the east I would still be sharing my existence with Iuda.
But death was a more likely outcome. I couldn’t imagine that the repeal of the death penalty would last long under the Bolsheviks. There might be a trial, but I would stand by my beliefs – although that might not be so simple. Iuda would be speaking some of the time and would do whatever he could to keep us alive. Such ever-changing swings of opinion might lead them to think me mad, but even life in an asylum would be an acceptable outcome.
And whatever happened I would preserve my honour, at least in the eyes of those I cared about. Exiled or executed or left to rot here, it would be for standing up for what I thought was right. Even to be condemned as a madman wouldn’t be too bad. The only risk was that some clue would connect me to the murders. Even so, we would hang – and I would know, as would the Lord, that my honour remained intact. Above all, Nadya would never learn my true fate, or discover who it was who had made love to her that night.
And if we were to be executed, for whatever crime, it would not be soon – Iuda’s blood would have left me. If we died, we would die; both of us; I a little before my time, he long after his. I’d beaten him; just as my mother did; just as my grandfather did.
Danilov seemed quite confident of what he’d achieved. He had good reason to be. He’d considered all the obvious possibilities for our fate and found a way to see in each of them an outcome that favoured him more than me. That didn’t leave me without hope. I no longer had the physical strength of a vampire, but I still had my wits. I’d been incarcerated in this gaol once before, and had left it a free man, without any resort to force, or threat, or violence.
But it seemed the gaolers had learned from their mistakes. This was not the cell I had been in before, by chance the same cell that Lyosha had occupied even longer ago. This was built much more recently. I looked around, but saw no pipes upon which I could tap messages to the outside world. And anyway, I had no friends out there that I might turn to. In all the world only Dmitry and Susanna even knew of my existence, and neither was likely to help me, not knowingly. On the other hand Danilov did have friends. He would not call on them for aid, but if the chance arose – if one visited while I possessed our body, or if I could write – I might petition them.
But Danilov would try to thwart me in whatever I attempted and had as good a chance of getting his way as I did. He had overlooked one thing, however. Whatever our fate, we would be together for some time – for the res
t of his aging body’s life as far as either of us could guess, however long that might be. We would share each other’s thoughts. Did he really believe that that could ever be as unpleasant an experience for me as it was for him? So far he’d seemed to enjoy it – my recollections of members of his family that he had never known. And who was it that he still yearned to meet? His grandmother, Dominique. I would oblige him.
I would begin with our first encounter. I cast my mind back. We met, unsurprisingly given her profession, in a brothel, in Moscow, on Degtyarny Lane, delightfully named after the tar factory that once stood near by. I’d been inside, chatting to her colleague, Margarita. She’d been looking out of the window and saw the two of them arrive. She pulled back the bolts and opened the door. Standing outside were Lyosha and a pretty young thing I soon learned to be Dominique.
‘Good evening, Aleksei Ivanovich,’ I said.
He blanched, as well he might. He’d already become mistrustful of me. It must have horrified him to find me here, where he came to hide from the world.
‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to this delightful young lady?’ I continued.
Lyosha said nothing, but she was not so reticent. ‘I’m Dominique,’ she said, holding out her hand. I bent forward to kiss it and noticed how Lyosha bristled as I did so. My plans against him weren’t well formed at the time. I’d been intending to get at him through his wife in Petersburg – which I did too, eventually – but it was then that I realized how useful this woman might also be against him.