The Third Section (Danilov Quintet 3)

by Jasper Kent

  ‘Listen!’ said Ignatyev suddenly. They all stopped talking. There was no sound to be heard. Dmitry took a breath to speak, but Ignatyev raised a finger to his lips to silence him. Then there was a thud, coming through the ceiling above them.

  ‘Cannonball,’ said Mihailov, confirming what Dmitry had guessed.

  ‘You heard that coming?’ Dmitry asked Ignatyev, the incredulity evident in his voice.

  ‘You get attuned to it.’

  They heard the sound of a second impact in the ground above the casemate. Ignatyev leapt off the bed, and Mihailov and Wieczorek were already pulling on their greatcoats and making for the door. Ignatyev wasn’t far behind them. Dmitry didn’t know many officers who would be so keen to get out into the battle. He followed, as eager as they for action. Tyeplov was close on his heels.

  Outside the settled indolence that had been so evident when they arrived had vanished. The sailor who sat at the door had gone off in search of a more valiant post. Gunners who had been huddling to stave off the cold were now at their positions, looking to pick off the enemy if they tried to advance, hoping to have a lucky shot and disable one or more of the crew members of the big guns. Dmitry rushed to the nearest gap in the wall to see whether an advance was being attempted. Deep, regular blasts came from behind them and to the side, which he knew were their own cannon responding to the combined French and British assault.

  Perhaps twice a minute he would hear somewhere near him the whistle and splat of a cannonball finding its way into the trenches. They were wasted shots. At best they would kill two or three men, or maim them – an awful lot of iron and powder for so little gain, doing nothing to damage the defences themselves. A moment later, Dmitry saw the effect of a cannonball on a man for himself. A ryadovoy had been running through the trenches towards the edge of the bastion, carrying bags of powder and shot to enable the musket men at the front to reload. Dmitry had not had a chance to see the ball as it swiftly sailed through the air, with almost the same speed as it had exited the muzzle of the cannon, and with an inexorable weight behind it.

  It hit the ryadovoy square on the forehead and found little resistance. The man’s skull cracked into a dozen fragments, which exploded through the flesh of his head as the cannonball tried to supplant the grey matter inside. The shot hit the mud behind him as his body fell forward, still clutching the ammunition he had been fetching. Dmitry felt something warm and moist splatter against his cheek. He wiped it away and flicked it from his fingers on to the ground without looking. He heard the whoosh of another shot coming in and then an explosion, throwing a cloud of smoke and mud into the air that obscured Dmitry’s view of the headless, twitching body. He ran back to the trench, knowing that there would be others wounded, but perhaps some with hope of survival. Another blast shook the ground and he reached out to the wall to steady himself, scratching against the compressed earth and feeling a strange sensation of comfort as the dirt penetrated beneath his fingernails.

  The haze thrown up by the explosion quickly began to settle, revealing along the trench the damage that it had caused. Dmitry stiffened as he saw Tyeplov leaning forward, a look of distress on his face, but his friend soon straightened up, and Dmitry felt sure that he was uninjured. The same could not be said of the slumped figure towards whom Tyeplov was directing his concern. Dmitry recognized it as the Pole, Wieczorek. His left arm was missing. Dmitry could see a tangled bloody stump where the ball had caught him, just above the elbow. Wieczorek’s face showed the determined stoicism of a man who knew that such an injury almost certainly meant death. Tyeplov turned his head and looked into Dmitry’s eyes.

  The sound of the Russian guns was louder now – loud enough to drown out the firing of the Allied cannon, but not to stop the sound of their shot landing nearby. Dmitry glanced up at the sky. It seemed for a moment as though the stars were falling, but it was merely shells breaking up early, leaving their fiery traces across the heavens. Then he heard a new sound, a whistling from something large coming in to land, close enough to hint that he himself might be its hapless target. He threw himself face down on the ground and felt it shake as the projectile splashed into the mud.

  Dmitry dragged himself to his feet and looked around. A shell had landed just a little way down the trench and was rolling feebly towards him, like a puppy slowly but eagerly coming to meet its master. He could see the fuse glowing red, but could not guess how long he had until it exploded. When it did it would wreak far more damage that any iron cannonball.

  At that instant, Dmitry realized how little he wanted to die, but at the same time the power to move drained from him. He felt a terror that he had never experienced before. He was immobile, half standing, half crawling, staring at the scintillating fuse, counting the seconds until his death. Then his view was blocked, and he felt his body racked by a sudden collision which could only be the impact of the exploding shell. The blow picked him up and carried him down the trench and then, surprisingly, round the corner that led back to the casemate. He had not been thrown, but was being carried.

  Inside the casemate he was shoved on to the parquet floor and felt a body hurl itself on top of his. He could not see, but he knew simply from the scent of the man – a scent that he had subconsciously absorbed over the past weeks – that it was Tyeplov. Moments later, the explosion shook them both. Dmitry heard a rattle as debris fell through the door and hit the hard wooden floor, but they were too far away for the shell to do them any serious damage.

  Tyeplov stood almost immediately. ‘I’ll go take a look,’ he said, his voice confirming, if Dmitry had held any doubt, who he was. Dmitry rolled on to his back and slid across the floor away from the doorway, pushing himself along with his hands. Eventually he felt the wall behind him and stopped, pulling his knees up to his chest and clutching them there. His whole body shook, not from any blast outside but of its own volition.

  He breathed deeply and tried to let the music come to him, to be the secret friend and comforter that it had been ever since he was a child. He heard fragments of it, but each one was interrupted by an explosion from outside, be it the sound of a Russian cannon or a French shell. The more he tried to hear his music, the louder the detonations became. He rested his head against his knees, but found he could not even cry. He did not know where the fear had come from, nor why it had arrived so suddenly.

  ‘It’s hell out there,’ said Tyeplov, coming back in. Dmitry did not look up. ‘There’s dozens dead and the whole side of the earth-work has slid into the trench. We’re virtually buried. It’ll be hours before they can get to us.’

  Through the on-going barrage of gunfire, Dmitry heard footsteps walking across the floor and sensed Tyeplov sitting down beside him. His very presence was calming. Dmitry felt an arm around his shoulders and he yielded to its pull, lying with his head on Tyeplov’s chest and able to feel his heartbeat. Still the music would not play inside his head, but as Tyeplov’s arms held him tightly, he knew that he could do without it.

  * * *

  It was approaching midnight when Tamara returned to Degtyarny Lane. Vadim was too young to stay up into the small hours, and her parents were too old. They had chatted for quite a while after dinner, but when Valentin had dozed off she had decided it was time to leave. She had lit a cigarette as soon as the front door closed behind her, and now she was on her second.

  She had not raised the subject of her parentage with them, and doubted she ever would again. As Yelena had suggested, if they hadn’t told her anything by now, then it was unlikely that they would in future. Even so, Tamara would have liked to simply talk about it. Aside from work, it had for the last few months been her main preoccupation. She had spent many hours in the archive, once Gribov had allowed her access to it, but to little avail. There had been letters and documents relating to Volkonsky, and even written by him, but they told her no more than she already knew. But she had not got far yet. She had begun with the stratum of papers that roughly corresponded to 1820, the year before her
birth, and had so far reached only the autumn of 1825. Volkonsky had not even begun his payments then. She would continue looking.

  She approached the door and threw her cigarette into the gutter before raising her hand to knock. It was still business hours and Saturday evening was always popular, so the place would be awake. Since Irina’s murder, they had all become a little more cautious. They’d even acquired a man, Isaak, to stand at the door – Yudin had found him somewhere. She didn’t see how he would have prevented Irina’s death, but she supposed the sight of him might have scared her killer away before he even entered the building.

  She heard a sound. Her hand froze, inches from the door. Footsteps approached her from behind, accompanied by hoarse, wheezing breath. She dropped her arm to her side, ready to reach down for the knife which, since Irina’s death, she had carried hidden in her boot. Before she could turn, she felt a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘I wouldn’t go in there, my love.’

  Tamara slapped at the hand, knocking it away from her, and turned. It was an old woman; about the age of Tamara’s mother – her adoptive mother – though she wore it less well. Her hair was long and grey, tied in a ponytail, most of which was hidden under her coat. She was stooped and had to tilt her head upwards to look into Tamara’s face. There were more and more of these beggars on the streets now, as if they sensed Tsar Aleksandr had already lost some of the control his father had exercised.

  ‘Piss off!’ snapped Tamara.

  The woman’s eyes looked up at her calmly. Tamara detected a slight wince in reaction to her words, but she must have been used to that, and far worse.

  ‘It’s not a place for you,’ said the woman. She lifted her hand and rested it on Tamara’s arm, but Tamara again knocked it away.

  ‘That’s for me to decide.’

  ‘What would your mother say, knowing you worked in a place like that?’

  Tamara inhaled deeply through her nose and she felt tears rush to her eyes, though she denied them access. The question was not new to her. It was Larionov who had asked it first, during their third liaison – right in the middle of it, when she had believed that she could never feel more humiliated, and when he had known better. She’d avoided asking herself ever since. The very question gave the lie to everything she was doing. She was searching for her parents, but what would she do if she found them? They’d already had reason enough to give her up to the Lavrovs – what would they think of her now if they discovered what she did for a living? She could give excuses, but she had imagined her parents time and time again, and could guess their reactions; her father’s anger, her mother’s shame.

  ‘Go to hell!’ she spat, and turned back to the door.

  It took her only an instant to regret it. It was not in her nature to be so unnecessarily rude. She looked over her shoulder, back towards the woman, who had not taken her eyes off Tamara. Her face was very still – knowing, like Yelena Vadimovna’s used to be when she had caught Tamara out in a lie.

  ‘She’s not the first to die, you know,’ the woman said.

  Tamara turned slowly, still angry, but her curiosity now piqued. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The girl who was killed on Monday – it’s happened before.’

  ‘When?’

  The woman nodded her head in the direction of the bench on the other side of the street. It seemed a natural enough place to sit and talk. They went over, Tamara walking slower than usual so that the woman’s aged steps could keep up with her.

  ‘When?’ repeated Tamara once they had sat down.

  ‘What’s your name?’ the woman countered.

  Tamara pressed her lips together and tried to remain calm. The old thing probably just wanted conversation, or perhaps there would be an appeal for money at the end of it. But she just might have some information on Irina’s death. Tamara couldn’t ignore the chance. ‘Tamara Valentinovna Komarova,’ she said.

  ‘Tamara? It’ll be your name day soon.’

  It was true enough – 1 May would be the feast of Saint Tamara, Georgia’s first queen. They’d celebrated it when she was young, but not to any great extent now. ‘It’s my birthday today,’ she volunteered, surprising herself with her desire to reveal the fact to a stranger.

  The old woman paused, studying her before speaking. ‘You’d have been called George if you’d been a boy – after the saint.’

  ‘I suppose I would,’ she said. It had never occurred to Tamara to ask – not that there would be any point. How could Valentin and Yelena answer a question as to what her parents might or might not have done? Even to raise the issue would only cause another argument. She reverted to the topic at hand. ‘What do you know about the murder …?’ Her voice tailed off, unable to address the woman by name.

  ‘Natalia.’

  ‘Natalia.’

  ‘Natalia Borisovna Papanova,’ she clarified. ‘Lived in Moscow all my life. Are you married? Children?’

  Tamara failed to hide her irritation at the question. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘The murder.’

  Natalia continued to stare at her, her eyes scanning Tamara’s face as if looking to discover the secrets that Tamara would not reveal in answer to her questions. She quickly gave up. ‘I lived here all my life,’ she repeated. ‘And in all that time, that place’ – she pointed – ‘has been a bawdy house.’

  ‘And there’ve been other murders there?’

  ‘Just one. One here. One I know – knew.’ She gazed into the distance, towards Tverskaya Street, and perhaps into the past. ‘Margarita Kirillovna – that was her name.’ She craned her head up at one of the windows. ‘Had her throat cut; ripped out, they said.’

  Images of Irina, reflected again and again in the mirrors, flashed into Tamara’s mind, and she felt the strange hope that Natalia had never had to witness such a thing. ‘It was the same on Monday,’ she whispered.

  ‘That’s what I heard.’

  ‘When was this?’ Tamara was surprised she had heard nothing of the first murder.

  ‘Just after the French left.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We stayed right through the occupation, me and my dad. He was a cobbler – made shoes for the French, or for the Russians; whoever paid.’

  ‘Occupation?’ Tamara could guess what she meant, but the idea was absurd.

  ‘The French. Bonaparte.’

  Tamara was on her feet. ‘You mean 1812? What the hell could that have to do with this?’

  ‘It’s the same. Just the same – then and now.’

  Clearly the woman was mad – desperate to relive her past. Perhaps there had been a murder all those years ago – more than forty – perhaps not. It had nothing to do with Irina’s death.

  ‘You stupid old cow,’ she shouted, angrier with herself for having been taken in than with Natalia. ‘Who do you think cares about that?’

  ‘They’ll get you next,’ said Natalia. ‘Please, Toma, listen to me.’

  It was obvious the woman was lonely, but Tamara had no time for her. She reached into her bag and pulled out a silver rouble. Handing it to Natalia, ‘I can’t talk to you,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. Take this.’

  The old woman put out her hand and took the money, almost as if it were a reflex action rather than a matter of conscious thought. Tamara turned and went back to the house. She hammered on the door and Isaak’s flat, broad, impassive face peeked at her through the grille before allowing her in. Just as the door closed behind her, Tamara heard a single word shouted across the street.

  ‘Toma!’

  She went to her office, but did not light a candle. She stood in the darkness beside the window, looking out at the bench. Natalia sat there in stillness, except for the movement of her head, which looked at each of the windows of the brothel in turn. After a few moments, a blue-uniformed gendarme ambled past. Despite Yudin’s prohibition on their investigating, they did at least send the occasional patrol to keep an eye on the area. He scarcely glanced at the old woman, but she noticed him. She
stood and walked away as briskly as her aged legs could manage, throwing something into the gutter as she left the street – something that glinted silver in the lamplight.

  Dmitry stared at the casemate ceiling, lit now only by the flickering pink light of the vigil lamp, which had, by the grace of the Virgin whose duty it was to illuminate, managed to remain upright despite the bombardment. Tyeplov was fast asleep, an arm draped over Dmitry’s stomach and the side of his face resting against Dmitry’s bare chest. Dmitry could feel Tyeplov’s dry lips lightly touching his skin. The guns outside were quiet now, and the music had returned, a strange music that Dmitry had never heard before, not inside his head. Joyful – that was the word for it.

  He looked down, but the position in which they were lying meant that he couldn’t see much of the other man. He dared not move, for fear of waking him. Dmitry’s hand rested on the outside of Tyeplov’s thigh, which in turn was stretched across Dmitry’s midriff, his lower leg curling back underneath Dmitry’s bottom. His body was as chiselled as Dmitry had imagined. Even as he slept, the tension in the muscle of his thigh could be felt through his skin. And yet with Dmitry he had been very gentle, coaxing and cajoling him and rarely taking his eyes from Dmitry’s. This was clearly something he had done before – and understood well. It was an agreeable reversal of roles. In their discussion on music, Dmitry had had the pleasure of introducing Tyeplov to experiences with which he himself was long familiar, and to enjoy them anew for experiencing another’s initiation. Now, Dmitry hoped, Tyeplov took the same pleasure in helping Dmitry to enjoy sensations which for him were entirely familiar.

  Dmitry smiled to himself at the comparison – music and sex. For most people, the latter was easily understood, and it would be music that needed explanation and analogy. Dmitry understood sex well enough too, or thought he had, and by now had become bored with it, until today when it had been, it seemed, reinvented. He remembered the first occasion: 16 December 1825 – two days after his father had been arrested and Yudin had gone missing, believed drowned; two days after Dmitry himself had fled across the frozen river and gone into hiding for fear of meeting the same fate as one or the other of them. It had been in Petersburg, with a whore in a brothel overlooking the Kriukov Canal. She had been expensive, but at that time Dmitry had had little hope for the future – little need to save his pennies. He expected arrest at any moment and even if he remained free, he felt that the shame of what he’d allowed to happen, of what he had run away from, made his life valueless. But she had been worth the money. It had been the first and the best. The irony was that it had given Dmitry a touchstone against which all other encounters could be compared, against which all had come up wanting – until now.