“I’m aware,” Dima said. His gold tooth glistened as a truck hauling coal dragged past. “Come, to the next hotel.”
XXIII
Inside the Hotel Neiburgs, Vanya and Yuri found the lobby empty. The grandfather clock in the center of the marble foyer was stopped. Vanya rang a silver bell at the front desk. A door opened and closed down the hall. Feet scurried and then a man in a red hotel uniform pulled back a curtain and appeared in front of them. “Can I help you, soldiers?” he asked. His eyes were wrinkled like raisins, and it seemed as if he had too many teeth for his mouth, all of them gray.
“We’re looking for an American named Russell Clay. Is he your guest?” Vanya asked.
The man flinched, opened his mouth, and closed it just as fast. Then he peered over the desk and looked around the lobby. Vanya nearly smiled as the man’s face cycled through every display of guilt Babushka had ever described. There was no question the man had seen the American professor. “I know nothing. God bless the czar.”
“Liar.” Vanya pounded the desk. He was not letting this lead slip away.
The manager shrank back. “I told you, I know nothing.”
Out of patience, Yuri lunged over the desk and grabbed the man’s hand, bent his wrist backward at an excruciating angle. “Yuri, stop,” Vanya said.
“Not until this man tells us what he knows.” He twisted the man’s wrist harder. “I’m tired and we’ve risked too much. Now, tell us. Russell Clay. What do you know?”
The manager whimpered, “Better. To speak. In private.”
Yuri shoved him backward. “Take us somewhere private and start talking.”
They trailed the man down the hall. It was as empty as the lobby, and their footsteps echoed. They passed three offices, all closed and dark. Then they came to a fourth. Printed in gold on the frosted glass door was the manager’s name: Vitaly Onegin. Onegin looked up and down the hall before letting them in. His space was cramped. It smelled stale and fit only a desk and a chair. He gestured for them to stand across from him.
“Why are you so scared?” Vanya asked.
“I honor the czar.” He fell into his chair. The back collided with the wall where there was already a rut in the plaster. “It’s dangerous to ask about foreigners.”
“Tell us what you know and we’ll leave,” Yuri said.
“Yes, I can see you are a man…a soldier used to answers.” Onegin pointed to Yuri’s black eye. Then he produced three glasses and a bottle of vodka from his desk drawer. He was still shaking the way he had in the lobby. “A drink?” He paused to steady his hand but it was no use. He spilled as he poured. “Information costs money.”
“We’re not paying you a kopeck,” Yuri said. But Vanya shoved his hands in his pockets and put most of what he had on the desk. All except the rubies, of course. The coins bounced. Onegin scrambled for them and began to talk.
XXIV
Outside the hotel, Dima stood at the head of an alley, waiting and smoking, watching the street. The ruckus of Riga, the clack of the tram, now interspersed with lorries carrying soldiers, set him on edge. God, how he missed the quiet of the sea. Even a storm with waves twice the size of his ship was preferable to a city. Riga in particular was vile, changing the way it was from a port to a military outpost. So much had happened in a few short weeks. All because the czar, who knew nothing about his people, his real people, wanted power. That’s what war came down to—power. Show Dima a leader who cared when his people starved, and Dima would show you a fish that wasn’t slippery.
What Dima hated most was the fact that there was nothing he could do about any of it. He had to keep his opinions to himself or risk being arrested—killed. You never knew who might report you. Friends turned on friends. He’d seen it. And already he knew this war would spare no one. It was only a matter of time before Dima’s ship was seized and forced to haul supplies. The Russian navy had always been pathetic, scrambling for boats. Dima would never fight or sail for the czar, die making the rich richer. He spit on the ground, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. No. He’d earn a little money from these two pathetic soldiers, and then he’d run. Maybe head south, out of Russia.
Dima was reaching for another cigarette when he heard footsteps coming in the otherwise deserted street. He peeked out from the alley. The man coming was short. His face was scarred, likely from pox, and his eyes were dark and large. Most important of all, he had a purse dangling from his belt. It was tucked inside his pants, but the outline was as clear as day. It was large and heavy. The fool.
The man came closer, looking from side to side. Dima could tell he was nervous by the way he kept peering behind him. No, not just nervous. Scared. Dima stepped out of the alley just as the man crossed in front of him. The man gave a yell. “Shut your mouth,” Dima said. He caught him by the arm and hauled him into the alley, pushed him against the wall. The bricks were damp and covered in moss that made them slippery. The man stumbled. Dima held him tighter. “What are you looking for?” Dima asked. “With a purse like that, you’ll get yourself killed if you’re not careful.”
The man grabbed for Dima’s arms, tried to push him away, but Dima was stronger. Still, the man had a head on him. He struck out at Dima’s throat, a fast punch that missed its mark but hit enough to make Dima stagger and lose his grip.
Dima grabbed the knife hidden at his waist. The man had already taken two steps, running back to the street. Dima dove, tackled him onto the scratched dirt and stones. The man went still when he felt the blade on his neck. They always did. And then Dima flipped him over so they were face-to-face. “Take the purse,” the man said.
“What’re you looking for out here? That purse is nothing but a trap.”
“I’m looking for a sailor.”
“This here’s a port. There’re sailors everywhere.”
“I need one in particular. Let me live. I have more money. Not in the purse.” This man wasn’t a fighter but he wasn’t a fool, either. Dima nodded for the man to continue. “A man at the docks told me to find a sailor named Dima, who could lead me to Professor Ivan Davydovich Abramov.”
“Who’s that?” Dima pushed the blade harder into the man’s throat, nicked the skin.
“A man from Kovno.” His voice was pitched higher now. Maybe he felt the blood.
“One man?”
“Two, but you knew that. Didn’t you? You are Dima?” This man was smarter than he looked, Dima decided. Smarts could be as dangerous as strength. “Yes, I’m looking for two men together.”
“Explain yourself.”
“I’m Ilya Dragunovitch. A friend of Vanya’s.”
“You’ve come a long way for this friend.”
“I’ve been sent for him. For his work. I went to his unit, but he wasn’t there. I’m guessing he’s deserted. He’ll need protection, and I can protect him if he comes with me back to Kovno.”
“He makes chronometers?”
Ilya blinked. “No. He’s a professor. A powerful man, Kir Romanovitch, says Vanya has something he needs. They were working on science together. Vanya ran and took the work with him.”
“You’re saying Vanya is a thief?”
“Yes. I’m in Riga to tell him he’s safe. If he’ll come back to Kovno with the work, he’ll be forgiven. His family, too. I have all the papers he needs to be released from his unit, so he can come with me.”
“This Kir has Vanya’s family?” Ilya looked down. “And you call Vanya a friend?”
“They’re safe. In their house, going about their lives. Just a guard on them. And Vanya’ll be forgiven if he cooperates. Kir said that.” Ilya tried to take a breath, but with the blade at his neck he couldn’t manage much. “Kir, he runs the university. You know what that means?”
“He has the Okhrana at his disposal.” Dima looked back at the mouth of the alley. He thought he’d heard a footfall but there was no one. The street crackled with a tram. Dima dragged Ilya to his feet, kept the blade on his neck, and considered what he’d
just learned—the accusation that Vanya had stolen something important. Dima had known criminals and could say with confidence that, whatever his other flaws, Vanya was no thief. “What kind of science is this Kir looking for?”
“I’m supposed to ask for something called equations. They’re numbers.”
“What kind of numbers are worth so much?”
“Kir only said they’re powerful.”
“Old magic?”
“No.” And then: “I don’t know.”
“If they’re working together, why can’t Kir reproduce the numbers himself?”
Ilya shrugged and looked confused. But Dima wasn’t confused. He was beginning to understand perfectly. “What’s the other man have to do with this?”
“Dr. Rozen? Nothing. He’s to marry Professor Abramov’s sister. That’s all.” Ilya dared to lean back from the blade, and Dima pressed it tighter. The nick opened wider and blood trickled over Ilya’s collar. An officer in the street blew a whistle to order a truck to stop. It was followed by a group of marching soldiers. They were preparing to enter the hotel where Vanya and Yuri were looking for their American.
“Are those men there with you?” Dima asked.
“No. I can’t breathe.”
“Why you, if you’re a friend? Why would this powerful man ask you to chase after Vanya?” Dima didn’t adjust the blade.
“Vanya trusts me. They’re Jews. The grandmother’s rich. She pays me to keep them safe. Has for years. I didn’t know Kir knew. Can you help?”
“Help you find Vanya? A friend would ask me to help Vanya escape,” Dima said, and then he shoved Ilya backward. This pathetic, groveling officer was after the young soldier to protect his own hide and, Dima was sure, to make money while he was at it. There was no heart in him.
“I don’t think you understand,” Ilya said.
“Oh. I understand perfectly. You’re a lout.” Still, Dima thought, Ilya had money to pay bribes. If Dima helped this pathetic bastard, he could be paid well, too. Vanya was a stranger to him, a man he’d known only a few hours. And it was risky to get involved with anyone connected to the Okhrana. Even more risky to help a Jew. On the other hand, this Vanya’s grandmother was rich. If Dima played his cards right, he could get paid by both Ilya and Vanya.
“Pay me what you have now, all of it, and I’ll help,” Dima said. Ilya was already reaching for the purse. “Find me at the train station tomorrow morning. Bring more money and you’ll have your professor.”
XXV
Onegin, if you don’t start telling us something useful, I’ll slit your throat,” Yuri said as he pulled a knife from his belt. Onegin’s eyes went wide. Vanya couldn’t believe what he’d just heard, but Onegin seemed more than convinced. Had Miri ever seen this side of her fiancé?
“You missed him by a week,” Onegin said. “A week. His stay was brief, very brief. One night. He left a note for a friend, an Englishman who was supposed to meet him here. But he never came.”
“Aloysius Barker?” Vanya asked. Barker was the photographer noted in the article Eliot had sent. “Hand me the note.”
“I can’t.”
“Do it,” Yuri said. He lunged forward, bringing the blade toward Onegin’s chest, aimed straight at his heart. The manager held his hands up as if there were a gun pointed at his head.
“I burned it. Didn’t want evidence. Besides, it was in English.”
“Evidence of what?”
“Anything.” He shook his head and blinked, hard. A tear slid from the corner of his eye. “Police came for Clay. I don’t know why. Maybe just because he’s American. They dragged him out of here like a criminal. Put him in a wagon bound for the port. He was yelling. Screaming. In English. I understood ‘Brovary.’ I guess he wanted to get to Brovary. There was something else he kept saying.” He sniffled. Vanya slid forward onto the edge of the chair so the wood bit into his thighs. “Something about a line. A middle line. Yes, that was what he kept saying. Middle line.”
“Centerline,” Vanya whispered to himself. He recognized the word from translating Clay’s article. The vocabulary was specific. Onegin couldn’t have invented the story. “Did he board a boat? Clay, was he returned to America? And what about his friend?” Vanya asked.
Onegin made a tsk sound and rubbed his fingers against his thumb. “I heard he never made it to the port. He paid for his release. Bribed whoever needed to be bribed. Must have gone to Brovary. The friend, I told you, never came.”
“Why wouldn’t he stay in Riga?”
“His translator was a friend of mine. He works with the Americans when they stay here. Said Clay complained about the air. Too much soot. It would ruin photographs. But he wasn’t a photographer so it never made sense for him to talk like that. That’s all I know.”
“His equipment?” Vanya asked. “Did he talk about his equipment?”
“He took care of a load of crates just before he was arrested. Translator told me. I have no idea what was in them or where they went.”
Dima burst through the door. He was out of breath. His beard was back to spikes. “The army is taking the hotel. They’re in the lobby,” Dima panted, ignoring Onegin’s startled protests. “Run.”
With the door open, they could hear the click of soldiers’ boots down the hall. If they found Vanya and Yuri, they’d ask for papers, papers they didn’t have. And by now they’d been gone for so long, they wouldn’t be lashed like Evgeny, they’d be hung for deserting outright. “Run!” Yuri said. He dragged Vanya from the chair.
The hall was a blur of tile and gilded woodwork. They turned and turned again. Skipped down stairs. They passed piles of onions and kitchen boys scrubbing and peeling. The back door was wide open. There were no footsteps behind them. Dima stopped so fast that Vanya barreled into him. “Take these,” Dima ordered. He handed both Vanya and Yuri a crate of cabbage. “Look casual, like you’re picking up food for your unit.”
Dima opened the door and walked out first. There was enough light from the kitchen to see the alley was slim. Stone. Yuri followed with Vanya behind him. If they could just make it to the turn, thirty paces, there was a chance they could escape without ever being seen. It was too narrow to walk side by side. They moved in single file. Dima and even Yuri seemed to glide over the cobblestones while Vanya flopped and tripped. How did Yuri navigate so well while Vanya, who’d spent summers training with Baba, seemed to catch every uneven crack? There were voices behind Vanya, but the blood rushing in his ears was so loud he couldn’t make out what they said. He just had to get to the corner, to the shadows.
“I ordered you to stop!” A hand landed on Vanya’s shoulder. Vanya screamed. His heart banged so hard he was sure his ribs would crack. “Soldier, why are you carrying cabbage? Soldier!” Vanya dropped the crate. The heads rolled. “Your papers.” The man holding Vanya was an officer. The medals on his chest were arrayed in perfect rows. His face was scarred by a line running from his forehead down over one eye. Vanya fumbled through his pockets, fingered his cigarette case. Would the silver be enough? If only he hadn’t given so much to Vitaly. The officer snapped his fingers. Vanya showed empty palms.
“I could have guessed.” The officer kicked a cabbage.
“I…” Vanya knew he had to be smart. A good idea was all that would save him, but he was good with numbers and folktales, not excuses. What could he say?
A whistle floated down the alley. Three notes. A signal. Dima? “Who’s there?” the officer asked. “Popov!” He snapped his fingers. “Popov, see who’s there.”
Vanya hadn’t noticed the soldier standing behind the officer. He was large, too large for the alley. He shoved Vanya to make way, and still his belly ground on Vanya’s chest. A cat skittered, and the hulking soldier disappeared around the corner. There was a scuffle. A man grunted. The dull smack of flesh hitting flesh. Then the sound of a weight falling to the ground.
“Popov? Answer me!” the officer yelled. He squinted, trying for a better look, but didn’t dare take
a step forward. He shouted into the darkness behind him for backup. In that split second, Vanya twisted free and ran as fast as he could—until he turned the corner and fell on something. Popov. Yuri heaved Vanya back to his feet and they took off.
XXVI
Vanya and Yuri followed Dima through the twisted back labyrinth of Riga and turned onto a narrow street littered with restaurants for rougher locals. Men’s voices mixed with accordions and spilled out through cracks in warped windows. How far had they run? Vanya couldn’t judge. All he could think about was keeping pace and staying as far away as possible from any other soldiers. Suddenly, Dima swung himself inside a wooden door that looked like it had been repaired dozens of times. Vanya and Yuri followed.
The smell of salt water was the first thing that hit Vanya. Then came the stink of vomit and the cacophony of voices. Women, prostitutes, laughing. This was a sailors’ public house. “Get away from the entrance, dumb bastards,” a man called to them as he pushed through the crowd. He slammed the door shut and turned to face them, went still with the rest of the room. All eyes were on Vanya and Yuri—on their uniforms. “They with you?” the man who’d closed the door asked. Dima nodded and the man broke into a wide smile. He had blue eyes and only one arm. He wore an apron, and Vanya realized he was the barkeep. “Leave it to Dima to drag in stray soldiers. Step back from the window.” Then he lowered his voice. “In here you’re safe.”
“Thanks to you, Pyotrovich.” Dima nodded. He put a hand on Vanya’s shoulder and led him and Yuri past men playing dice and cards, toward a table tucked under the stairs. The curtains over the windows were frayed. The candles on the walls gave off black smoke and the stink of lard but enough light for Vanya to see Yuri for the first time since they’d run from the Hotel Neiburgs. Yuri was winded and sweaty. His black eye looked worse, and dried blood ran from his nose to his lips. In the space of only a few hours, Yuri had transformed from the prim, respected doctor to a man who fit in among all the others in that bar, save for his uniform. Vanya pulled Yuri to the side so Dima wouldn’t hear. “You fought Popov?”
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