The White Russian

by Tom Bradby

  Pavel did not answer.

  “He’d been a different person since I came back from Tobolsk,” Ruzsky said. “He’d changed, and I had barely begun to appreciate it, let alone respond.”

  “Don’t punish yourself.”

  “It is inevitable. If I’d taken the hand of friendship, then who knows-”

  “Who knows indeed? He was a strong man. Honorable, as you have said yourself on many an occasion. He knew exactly what he was doing.”

  Ruzsky leaned forward. He looked at the rock on the corner of the desk. It was the most unattractive paperweight imaginable.

  “Have you seen the man outside?” Pavel asked.

  “Yes.”

  “They’re not making any attempt to hide themselves.”

  “Whatever Vasilyev is doing, he wanted my father out of the way.”

  “In case you’ve forgotten, he wants you out of the way as well.”

  Pavel was silent. They both finished their cigarettes and stubbed them out in the large stone ashtray on the corner of the desk. It still had the remnants of Ruzsky’s father’s last cigar.

  “The meeting this morning was about how to protect the wealth of the Tsar from a revolutionary mob,” Ruzsky said.

  “Your father told you that?”

  “Not in so many words.”

  Pavel stared at him. His expression was wary.

  “I’ve started going through his papers. He feared there would come a point when paper money would cease to have any value. He would not have concerned himself with the Tsar’s private possessions; this must have been to do with the Tsar’s gold. The imperial reserves.”

  Pavel shook his head slowly. “But how could that have led to his death?”

  “I think Vasilyev has robbery in mind. My father stood in the way.”

  There was a lengthy silence. “But how would that have led to-”

  Ruzsky thought of the things Vasilyev had implied that afternoon. “I think he was threatened.”

  “But your father was… He was a minister of the Imperial Court. He had many connections. Have you called Colonel Shulgin?”

  “I left an urgent message. He did not come to the telephone.”

  Pavel stared at the light on the desk. “What do you want me to do?”

  “I would ask a favor.”

  The big detective waited.

  “There is no answer at her apartment, nor the Mariinskiy. Could you find her, try to speak to her alone?” Ruzsky ignored the look of quiet despair in his friend’s eyes. “Tell her what has happened to my father. Try to convince her to leave the city. Just for a few days.”

  Pavel stood slowly. He contemplated his friend for a moment more. “I suppose it is too late to persuade you to reconsider?”

  “Reconsider what?”

  Pavel sighed. “I will do what I can, Sandro. Will I find you here tomorrow?”

  “No. I will come to the office.”

  “Very well, then.”

  As Ruzsky listened to his friend’s receding footsteps, he turned toward the window and looked out into the night, thinking of the things he had chosen not to share.

  What was it that Borodin had planned for the Kresty Crossing?

  He needed to have time alone to think.

  Ruzsky sat in the kitchen. He had said good night to Michael long since, and waited until he had slipped reluctantly into sleep. The servants had withdrawn.

  The house was quiet down here; it was where Ruzsky had always felt most comfortable as a child. It was where he had avoided the constrictions of his parents’ world.

  Though his inability to come to terms with the reality of the day’s events still shielded him, that comfort was denied him now.

  He heard Ingrid’s soft footsteps. She had bathed and changed, her hair glossy. She wore a high-necked, rich blue dress that matched the color of her eyes. “Is he still asleep?” Ruzsky asked.

  She nodded.

  “He has fared well, better than I might have expected.”

  “Perhaps he is blessed with only partial understanding. For now, at least.”

  Ruzsky did not respond.

  “Have you had something to eat?” she asked.

  He shook his head.

  “Do you mind if I join you?”

  He gestured at the far side of the wooden table and she took a seat opposite him.

  Ingrid shook out her hair and ran her hands through it, her head tipped forward. Then she looked at him. “If there is anything I can do, Sandro, any way in which I can help, please just tell me how.”

  “When did Dmitri go out?”

  “Shortly before you returned.” Ingrid examined the texture of the table, brushing the palm of her hand against its surface. “He often seeks comfort with her now.” It was said without rancor or bitterness. “She can offer him that, at least.”

  Ruzsky felt his cheeks flushing and tried to conceal his own pang of jealousy. He wondered if Ingrid had any inkling that the same woman tormented them both.

  “She plans to take him away,” she said quietly. “By the end of this week. Do you know that?”

  For a moment, Ruzsky thought she was talking about Maria and Dmitri.

  “Irina,” Ingrid went on. “And her Grand Duke.”

  “Yes. To Nice.”

  They were silent. Ruzsky finished his cigarette and went to find an ashtray in which to stub it out. Failing to locate one, he squashed it against the bottom of an enamel basin and threw it into a wooden bin.

  As Ruzsky sat down again, Ingrid reached forward and put her hand on his. “I’m truly sorry, Sandro.”

  Ruzsky gazed into her deep blue eyes. He did not know whether to withdraw his hand. “He was an extraordinary man,” she said.

  “He was extremely fond of you.”

  “And he adored you,” she responded.

  Ruzsky withdrew his hand slowly. “We had our… difficulties.”

  “But he was always so very proud of you. Of who you are. He could not conceal it.”

  Despite himself, Ruzsky felt a flush of pleasure. “He concealed it for many years.”

  “He talked about you almost constantly over the past few months. He could not hide his excitement at the prospect of your return.”

  Ruzsky tried to imagine this. If Ingrid’s face had not radiated such sincerity, he’d have suspected her of humoring him. “He had changed. I failed to see it.” Ruzsky thought again of that last conversation in the drawing room. “I failed to respond,” he said.

  “Don’t blame yourself. It is the last thing he would have wanted.”

  They were silent. The great gaping void of his suicide hung between them. How could either of them know what he would have wanted, when they had not suspected the imminence of such a catastrophe?

  “Did you see any sign?” Ruzsky whispered.

  Ingrid shook her head.

  “Was his behavior in any way out of the ordinary, these last few days?”

  “He was subdued, quite gentle. But then, that is how I shall remember him.”

  “Did you speak to him this morning?”

  “I saw him in the hall after breakfast. I asked if he was not going to the ministry and he said, no, not today. I thought that was odd, in such times, but he did not appear to wish to converse, so I took Michael upstairs to the attic until we went to the Summer Gardens.” Ingrid tried to smile. “I think Michael hoped we would wake you. One of the servants had told him you were here.”

  “And when you came down again?”

  “The study door was ajar, and I could see a light on. I assumed he was at work. But, as you know, he did not like to be disturbed.”

  “Had he received any callers the previous night?”

  “No.”

  “No telephone calls?”

  “Several, but I did not answer them. Dmitri was dining at his mess; your father took his meal in the study. But he worked late. I needed a glass of water in the middle of the night-at one or two in the morning-and did not wish to trouble the serv
ants, so I came to get it myself. When I passed his study, the light was still on.”

  “You did not look in?”

  Ingrid shook her head.

  “He never made any comment about the work of the Ministry?”

  “Never. Nor about the government, except in the most general terms, and then only to discuss the progress of the war.”

  “And to Dmitri?”

  “I… I do not believe so. It was Dmitri’s great frustration. He said they never talked about anything in depth, merely exchanged platitudes.”

  Ruzsky wondered again where his brother was.

  “Was there anything about the past few days that struck you as out of the ordinary? Any visitors? Any chance remark?”

  Ingrid shook her head. “The city is tense, Sandro. It has affected us all. The servants… everyone.”

  “And you saw signs of tension in my father?”

  “He spoke of his concern.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He asked me at breakfast yesterday, or the day before, if I would like to consider going to Sweden, perhaps, or England, until things were calmer. Funds would be made available in London, he said, for as long a stay as I wished for.”

  “And what did you reply?”

  “I said that I wanted to stay with my husband at this difficult time. And to help look after Michael.”

  “Had he suggested you go abroad before?”

  “No.”

  “Did he give any particular indication as to why he raised the matter then?”

  “No. He said we should discuss it again, perhaps tomorrow.”

  “Did he mention a deadline? Did he mention this weekend, for example, as a time that concerned him?”

  “No.”

  “Did he ever talk about Vasilyev with either you or Dmitri?”

  “No.”

  “Had you ever seen them together before that night at the ballet?”

  “No.”

  “Did Dmitri mention it? They made… odd companions.”

  “Your father was a member of the government, Sandro. Even Dmitri understands that it requires one to deal with a wider circle than the Guards mess.”

  Ruzsky took out a cigarette and tapped it against the silver case before putting it into his mouth and lighting it. He offered the case to Ingrid, but she declined.

  “Will there be a revolution?” she asked.

  “Few seem to doubt it.”

  “When he is sober, Dmitri says many of the soldiers would relish killing their officers.”

  “Not if they’re hanged for it.”

  Ingrid leaned forward. “A German in Millionnaya Street,” she whispered. “I suppose I must fear the mob?”

  “We should all fear the mob.”

  “It is so long since I have seen someone smile. In the street, I mean.”

  “They never have in the winter.”

  It was an evasive response, and they both knew it. Ruzsky saw the fear in her eyes now. And he realized that she had long since stopped looking to Dmitri for protection.

  Ruzsky stood. He failed to find either vodka or wine in the kitchen, so opened the hatch into the cellar. It was dark, but he was able, so long as he moved cautiously, to find his way. He located a bottle on the rack and picked it up.

  Back in the kitchen he saw that it was French champagne. He looked at Ingrid. “It hardly seems appropriate, but…”

  Ingrid watched as he went to get two glasses from the cupboard and opened the bottle. “I was never an expert on vintages,” he said. “Father started to explain, but gave up on me.”

  “I’m glad you reached some kind of understanding, Sandro.”

  Ruzsky sat down. He lifted his glass. “To the future.”

  Ingrid raised her own and looked at him warily across its brim.

  They drank. The temperature in the cellar had ensured that the champagne was chilled.

  “Michael asked me tonight why your father had an accident.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I said that I did not know, but that you would find out.”

  Ruzsky contemplated his champagne for a moment, before downing it. He refilled both glasses.

  “Would you ever leave the city, Sandro?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “It is just that your father was someone whose opinion I trusted.”

  “And his question frightened you?”

  She looked at him, seeking reassurance. “Was that foolish?”

  “No.”

  “Does it frighten you, too?”

  Ruzsky looked out of the low kitchen window to the darkness of the garden. “It is hard to turn your back,” he said.

  “On a life,” she answered. “Of course.”

  And on a love, he thought, though he did not say it.

  Ingrid put her hand over his again. Ruzsky felt drunk. He realized he hadn’t eaten since that morning. It already seemed a lifetime away. He turned his palm upward, so that their fingers interlocked.

  “We’ll be all right,” Ruzsky said, looking into her eyes.

  “I hope so.”

  Gently, Ingrid withdrew her hand. They drained their glasses slowly and in silence. Ingrid stood. “I… will see you tomorrow.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good night, Sandro.”

  “I have a favor to ask,” he said. “I need a day, perhaps two. I need to know that Michael is going to be safe.”

  “Just tell me what you wish me to do.”

  “There is a man outside. I… I am being watched now. I cannot leave the house unless I know you have found somewhere safe.”

  “Where do you wish us to go?”

  “The Hôtel de l’Europe, perhaps. Anywhere but here. Not tonight, but in the morning. So far as I can tell, only one of them is following me, and he will not wish to risk losing sight of his target. If you hide some spare clothes beneath your coat and do not return, it will take them some time to locate you.”

  “Of course, Sandro.”

  Ingrid looked at him with sad, compassionate eyes.

  “Good night,” he said.

  Ruzsky did not watch her go, but he listened to her progress through the house.

  He refilled his champagne glass and lit another cigarette.

  Five minutes later, Ruzsky climbed the stairs from the kitchen. The desk lamp was still on in the study and he switched it off. He had intended not to linger, but that proved impossible. He sat down in his father’s chair. The air was still thick with the pungent aroma of the cleaning fluid he had used to scrub the rug clean.

  He sat still.

  He thought of his brother in the apartment off Sadovaya Ulitsa, and the comfort that she must offer.

  He wondered what his father would do in his circumstances, and realized, with trepidation, that the answer lay in that small patch of scrubbed carpet. Though he had often fought against his father’s certainties, they were many times more attractive than the vacuum he was faced with now.

  The house was quiet.

  Ruzsky stood and moved through the shadows to the telephone in the hallway. He examined it for a moment, before picking up and dialing Maria’s number. Once again, the bell at the other end rang and rang, but there was no answer.

  He replaced the receiver and headed upstairs. He halted on the landing outside his parents’ bedroom. On a small table beside their bed stood a vase of fresh yellow carnations.

  Ruzsky walked through to his father’s dressing room and opened the cupboards to the rows and rows of suits, morning suits, full-dress uniforms, frock coats, mess jackets, and tunics. At the bottom of the cabinet was a line of field boots, handmade walking shoes, dress shoes, and dancing shoes three-deep. He took out one of his father’s dress uniforms and held it up to the moonlight. It had been made by Nordenshtrem, the country’s most prestigious military tailor.

  He replaced the jacket, shut the cupboard, and moved to the window.

  The sled still stood in the shadows.

  Ruzsky l
ooked up and down the street.

  He stepped back again, returned to the landing, and made his way to the top of the house. He found sheets and blankets, checked that Michael was sleeping, bent down to kiss his soft head, and then lay down on the floor beside him.

  The shouts at first appeared distant, but the sound of breaking glass in the street propelled Ruzsky from his sleep. Michael was sitting up in bed.

  The shouts suddenly appeared much closer.

  Ruzsky rolled onto his feet and put on his trousers. “It’s all right,” he told his son as he picked up his revolver.

  He clambered down the stairs, checking again that there was ammunition in the chamber.

  He reached the first floor and his father’s bedroom.

  There was the sound of another window breaking.

  Ruzsky looked out. “Jew lover!” one man shouted, though none of them could have seen him in the window.

  There were about twenty of them in all, a ragtag collection of Black Hundred thugs. One or two carried banners emblazoned with images of the Tsar. Ruzsky could still see the Okhrana agent wrapped up in his sled, though he had moved fifty yards down the street so as not to be directly associated with the harassment. The road was darker; someone had knocked out the gas lamp.

  “Jew lover!” they shouted again. Several of the group had rocks which they were throwing at the windows on the ground floor.

  Ruzsky turned. He saw Michael in the doorway, his face pale. “What are they doing, Papa?” Ingrid was behind him.

  “Stay here,” Ruzsky instructed. He walked down the last flight of stairs to the hall. He was dressed only in trousers and a loose, white shirt, the holster slung over his shoulder. He pulled out his revolver as another missile came crashing through the drawing room window. The valet, Peter, was in the hall. “Have you got a gun?” Ruzsky demanded.

  “No, sir.”

  “Do any of the servants?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  Peter’s face betrayed no fear. “Did my father keep any other guns in the house?”

  “Only his revolver, sir, so far as I’m aware.”

  The shouting from the street was growing louder. Ruzsky saw his son’s face poking through the banisters. “If anything happens to me-if any of them are armed-then bolt the door behind me and call Pavel Miliutin, my deputy at the police department, on Petrograd 446. Do you understand?”