by Tom Bradby
“Oh, Father…”
Ruzsky bent down. He put his arm beneath his father’s neck and lifted his head to his chest. He tightened his grip, his body rocking gently. Tears burned his cheeks.
The smell of blood and gunpowder caught in his throat.
“Oh Papa, Papa…”
Ruzsky wept.
“Papa, I’m sorry.”
He had used the same words on the night of Ilusha’s death. It was the last time he had called his father Papa.
“I’m sorry…”
Ruzsky half turned to see Michael standing in the doorway.
“Is Grandfather all right?”
Ruzsky did not respond.
“Is he all right?”
Ruzsky screwed his eyes tight shut and rocked harder.
“Papa, is he all right? Is Grandfather all right?”
The fear in Michael’s voice dragged Ruzsky back to reality. He lowered his father’s head, his face and hands covered with the old man’s blood.
He knelt before his son.
“He’s had an accident,” Ruzsky said. He straightened and nudged Michael gently back toward Ingrid, pulling the study door closed behind him. “Grandfather has had an accident.” Ruzsky wiped his nose, smearing his face with his father’s blood as he tried to compose himself in front of his son. “Your uncle Dmitri and I will try to wake him; can you go with Ingrid while we do that?”
“Is he going to wake up, Father?”
Ruzsky tried to take the boy in his arms, but Michael recoiled, pushing past Ingrid.
“I don’t know,” Ruzsky said. His voice shook. “Perhaps it is time for him to go to another place.”
“The same place they sent Uncle Ilusha?”
Ruzsky tried to still the fear in his son’s eyes, but Michael retreated once more. Ingrid took his hand and led him away.
As he watched them go, Ruzsky realized that the servants were staring at him. He tried to wipe the blood from his face and found that his hand was shaking uncontrollably. “Go to the city police headquarters in Ofitserskaya Ulitsa,” he snapped at the young man who had run to tell them the news. “Ask for Deputy Chief Investigator Pavel Miliutin and tell him to come here with Dr. Sarlov. Do not speak to anyone else.”
The man was almost hopping from one foot to another.
“Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Ruzsky returned to the study and closed the door. He tried to stop his body shaking, but could not. He knelt before his father, clasping both hands in front of him like a supplicant offering a prayer.
Ruzsky straightened the old man’s black tie. He brushed the thick mane of white hair back from his forehead.
Outside, he could hear the murmur of conversation.
Ruzsky looked across at Dmitri. He was sitting on the floor, his head bent and face obscured. His arm rested upon the leather chair where they had once sat to discuss their reports from the Corps des Pages, or been sent by their mother to await punishment.
Ruzsky listened to the sound of the clock. It had always seemed to him that the rhythm of the pendulum altered to fit the mood of the occasion: quick, suspenseful beats back then, and slow, lingering strokes now, marking out his guilt.
Ruzsky placed the flat of his hand against his father’s still-warm cheek. The skin hung from his cheekbones, leaving no sign of the soft smile he had witnessed in the hallway this morning.
Had he known he was saying goodbye?
Had he been hoping his son would stay?
He remembered his father coming up to the attic to help fix the train track. The old man had been reaching out to him, and he had given him nothing of substance in return.
Ruzsky kissed his forehead. He whispered his apology once more, overcome as he did so by a sense of profound hopelessness, of the finality of death and the futility of regret.
“Don’t blame yourself,” Dmitri said.
Ruzsky sat back and wiped his eyes. He did not answer, and they sat together in silence, each unwilling to intrude upon the other’s grief.
Voices rose and fell outside. Once or twice they heard the noise of a sled or automobile from the street. But inside the room, only the sound of the clock marched time onward.
Dmitri came closer and they hugged each other.
When they parted, they sat together, side by side, in front of the old man. “It’s the two of us now,” Dmitri said. His face was puffed up, his eyes red with tears.
Ruzsky did not answer. His eyes had been drawn to a group of photographs on the wall by his father’s desk. There were four of them: his mother, Ilya, Dmitri, and himself.
Ruzsky stared at his own image. In his mind’s eye, this picture had been removed-stored or destroyed-a blank space on the wall where the eldest son had once gazed down upon his father.
But he was here.
They heard a knock, but neither man answered. This was the last time the three of them would be alone together, and neither of them wanted to bring it to a close.
44
P avel slipped quietly into the room. He looked at Ruzsky only long enough to confirm that there was no need for words.
He carried out his work discreetly, without asking questions or catching his partner’s eye. He examined the body, removing the revolver from the old man’s grip and slipping it carefully into his overcoat. He walked around the room, checking the desk and the area beside it.
Sarlov entered and both he and Pavel came and went in silence for half an hour or more. When they had completed their tasks, they stood in front of him. Pavel crouched down with his notebook open. “He had visitors, you know that?”
Ruzsky nodded.
“Vasilyev and two of his men.” Pavel looked into his eyes. “The meeting lasted about ten to fifteen minutes. Your father saw them out and returned to his study. The valet said he seemed subdued, but noticed nothing out of the ordinary. Approximately two minutes later, they heard the shot.”
Ruzsky stared at Pavel. His partner was waiting for a response, but he had none to give.
“With your permission,” Pavel went on, “we will…” He glanced at Sarlov. “If we could take your father’s body down to Ofitserskaya Ulitsa…”
Ruzsky looked to his brother, but receiving no lead from him, turned back to his colleagues and nodded. Neither man moved. “We’ll… arrange it,” Pavel said. “Is there anything else that you would like us to do?”
Ruzsky shook his head.
“Is there anyone you wish us to notify?”
“No.”
Pavel stood, but both he and Sarlov lingered. “I’m sorry, Sandro. If there is anything else… anything at all.”
“I will see you in the office later today.”
Pavel did not respond. His compassion was the more moving for remaining unspoken. He and Sarlov slipped out and pulled the door shut.
Ruzsky opened the window a fraction and looked out at the garden. He could see a snowman Michael had built earlier. He wondered if the old man had helped him. “When did you last see him?”
“Last night,” Dmitri said.
Ruzsky rubbed the condensation from the window. The morning sun disappeared behind a bank of heavy cloud.
Dmitri left the room for a few moments and returned with a yellow carnation. He placed it in the buttonhole of their father’s jacket.
Ever since the death of their mother, the old man had ordered fresh flowers for her bedside table every week, just as she had done when she was alive.
“Do you think they will be happy together?” Dmitri asked. “Wherever they are.”
“Content, perhaps.”
“Is that the best we can hope for? To be content?”
“We were born to a different age.”
Ruzsky bent down and tugged the wing of his father’s collar back inside his morning coat.
There was a soft knock at the door. Pavel and Sarlov slipped in and Ruzsky saw from the expression on their faces that it was time for them to take the body away. Ruzsky straight
ened his father’s coat once more and then stepped back.
Pavel and Sarlov bent to pick up the body.
Ruzsky and his brother watched their father being carried out.
As the door was pulled shut, Dmitri moved to the old man’s desk and picked up the paperweight he had always used-a rock Ruzsky had given him during a family holiday at their aunt’s estate in the Crimea. He pushed it to and fro on the desktop.
Despite the sight and smell of blood, the removal of the body made the old man’s death seem almost an illusion. The voices outside died away as the servants drifted back to their tasks. Pavel and Sarlov left with the ambulance.
The telephone in the hall was silent. Even the wind had faded to a whisper.
Ruzsky thought of the loneliness that must precede suicide; could he not have saved him that? Was it simply for want of another’s support that his father had reached such an impasse? He’d assumed the old man would have been too proud to want to share a dilemma with his eldest son, and yet hadn’t he tried?
As Ruzsky looked out of the window at the lifeless skies, he grew more certain. A liar or cheat could always dream of escape, because he did not fear his conscience, but for an honorable man, sometimes there was only one way out. The old man’s responsibility was to protect the assets of the state-what mistake or threat could have demanded such a sacrifice?
“Did you know he was going to meet Vasilyev this morning?” Ruzsky asked. He was surprised by the strength in his own voice.
“No.”
“Do you have any idea what they could have talked about?”
Dmitri looked at him. “No.”
Ruzsky turned to face his brother.
“I sometimes think,” Dmitri said, “that you believe Father talked to me in a way he never did to you, but it wasn’t so. He would never have confided in me.”
Ruzsky shook his head, but even as he did so he knew that Dmitri was right. “You were an officer in his regiment…”
“But not like he was. Not like you would have been.”
Ruzsky saw the distress in his brother’s eyes. As it had once before, grief diminished him and it broke his heart to see it. “Let us not quarrel,” he said.
The tension on Dmitri’s face eased. “Yes. Let us not quarrel.”
Ruzsky found Michael playing with Ingrid in the attic. The pair sat side by side on the floor, putting together the train track. The boy looked up with a naive but brittle optimism in his eyes. “Is Grandfather awake now?”
Ruzsky sat down. He put the station at Mtsensk by the edge of the track and then assembled the house and village at Petrovo a short distance away from it. “I think Grandfather has gone to be with Uncle Ilusha.” Ruzsky glanced at Ingrid.
“Does that mean we won’t see him again?” Michael asked as he fitted the first locomotive onto the track and then began to hitch carriages behind it.
“Not in the way we are used to.”
Michael concentrated intently on putting together his train.
“I’m sorry, my boy.”
“Will you come and live here, now, Father?”
Ruzsky hesitated. “Yes.”
“With Mama?”
“I will talk to her.”
“I will miss Grandfather.”
Ruzsky did not answer.
“Will you miss him also?”
“Very much.”
“Some of the servants said you didn’t like each other, but you did, didn’t you?”
Ruzsky swallowed hard. “I loved him. And I think, in his way, he loved me.” He pieced together two stretches of track. “He was my father, just as I am yours. It is an unbreakable bond.”
Ingrid reached forward to squeeze Michael’s shoulder.
There was a long silence.
“How did he have an accident?” Michael asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Was he sad?”
Ruzsky shook his head. “No.”
“Then why did he have an accident?”
Ruzsky did not offer an answer, since he had none to give.
Michael put the last carriage on his train and pushed it around to the station at Mtsensk. He unloaded the small wooden passengers and assembled them on the platform with their luggage. One family had been modeled on Ruzsky’s own: two parents with three boys and a small group of servants. There was even a troika waiting for them. “Can we speak to Grandfather?” Michael asked.
“In our dreams,” Ingrid said. “In our dreams, we can talk to him.”
Michael seemed encouraged. His frown eased. He loaded the passengers back onto the train, sorting each group into its regular compartment before storing their luggage.
45
I n the hallway of the Okhrana’s gloomy headquarters, they had clearly been expecting him. Ruzsky neither had to explain who he was nor offer any form of identification. He was led down the corridor to the elevator, almost colliding with a man bringing a box full of papers out of the printing room.
As the elevator began its ascent, Ruzsky reflected upon the bomb that had been thrown at him in Yalta. Had not the intention been to kill the pair of them then-and if so, why had the Okhrana’s many trained assassins not been instructed to try again?
Were they waiting for the right moment? Had it arrived?
Vasilyev was standing by the door to his dark, wood-paneled office, and he offered his hand as Ruzsky entered. “I’m sorry, Sandro,” he said, in his low, smoke-roughened voice, his eyes searching Ruzsky’s own. His handshake was firm. “Please have a seat.” He pointed to the table around which their last meeting had been conducted. “Please.”
Vasilyev retreated behind his desk, silhouetted against the light. Ruzsky noticed for the first time an oil of the bay at Yalta above the mantelpiece. It looked like it had been painted from the window of Godorkin’s office.
“You have been told of my father’s death?”
“Your office informed the government and Colonel Shulgin telephoned me directly. It must have been a very great shock.”
Vasilyev’s insincerity brought a flush of anger to Ruzsky’s cheeks. Beneath the table, he carefully clenched and unclenched one of his fists. He had promised himself he would not allow himself to be provoked.
“Some tea?” Vasilyev leaned forward to tap a service bell upon his desk.
A young boy in a starched linen jacket appeared through a side door. “Tea,” Vasilyev instructed him. “Would you like something stronger?”
“No.”
Vasilyev slipped his hands into his pockets, waiting for the servant to withdraw.
Ruzsky looked out of the window at the fading light that shrouded the city’s rooftops. For the first time, he felt a stranger in the land of his birth.
Vasilyev smiled. It was as if he was able to read Ruzsky’s mind. He picked up a silver case from his desk. “Cigarette?”
Ruzsky shook his head. Vasilyev lit one for himself.
“You came to a meeting at Millionnaya Street,” Ruzsky said.
“Yes. Tragically, it appears that I was the last-”
“What was it about?”
Vasilyev gave another tight smile. Only good manners, his expression suggested, required him to continue the conversation. “I’m afraid, Sandro, that I am not at liberty to-”
“Did you arrange the meeting?”
Vasilyev did not flinch. He raised a hand and scratched his cheek with one manicured finger. “It was your father who requested that I come to the house on Millionnaya Street.”
“Why?”
“He did not say.”
“He must have given some indication.”
“There are many meetings, in many locations.”
“You had frequent contact with him?”
“He ran an important ministry.”
“Would it not have been more usual for him to ask you to go there?”
Vasilyev shrugged. “His request was not unusual.”
“But you knew what the meeting would be about?”
> “I had some idea.”
“But you are unwilling to tell me?”
“I am not at liberty to.”
“The meeting was arranged to discuss the assets of the state.” Ruzsky tried to recall the precise words his father had used in the drawing room that morning. The old man had spoken of Vasilyev’s desire to protect the wealth of the Tsar, but to what, precisely, had he been referring? Not, surely, palaces and jewels and private wealth, which would have been neither man’s concern. “You were discussing how to protect the liquid assets of the state, in the event of revolutionary threat?”
As Vasilyev stared at him, exhaling a thick plume of smoke, the picture began to come into focus. All paper money would be worthless in a time of severe unrest. But there was one asset that would be crucial to the imperial government’s future financial viability.
“You were discussing what to do with the gold reserves,” he said.
Vasilyev did not move, but his head seemed to sink still further onto his chest. His face hardened. “What we were discussing is no concern of yours.”
“It was of concern to my father. So much so that it killed him.”
“On the contrary. It would be naive to imagine a connection between a routine business meeting and the sad personal events that transpired thereafter.”
“If the meeting was routine, then what prevents you enlightening me as to its details?”
“Routine or not, I draw a distinction between a high official of the Tsar and a mere chief investigator in the Petrograd City Police Department.”
Ruzsky’s cheeks burned. “Why was my father present at the meeting we held here yesterday?”
Vasilyev did not answer.
“What interest could he have had in two bodies found on the Neva?”
“You tell me,” Vasilyev said.
“You invited him?”
Vasilyev did not respond, but Ruzsky saw that he was right. “A revolutionary group is assembled. Some personal papers are stolen from the Empress of the Russias. Something is planned for this Friday or Saturday: strikes, or more significant protests, or unrest in the capital. A meeting is convened to discuss the gold reserves, and how best to ensure their safety in the event of law and order breaking down.” Ruzsky stopped. “My father had served this state for a lifetime. And yet within five minutes of that meeting, he was dead. It does not take an investigator to make a connection.”