The Third Section (Danilov Quintet 3)

by Jasper Kent

  She was not Tamara. The woman she was speaking to, whose back was turned to Dmitry, was Tamara. She had been about five years old when he had last seen her, the child of Yelena and Valentin Lavrov, through the window of their house, but her red hair was unmistakable. It had perhaps darkened slightly, but that could easily be a trick of his memory. There was a lot of it, but it was tied back in a ponytail – more a matter of practicality than aesthetics.

  He walked over to the table, noticing that his limp had become more pronounced, though not out of any conscious effort. The blonde girl looked up as he approached, as did the redhead a moment later.

  ‘Tamara Valentinovna Komarova?’ he asked.

  ‘Indeed,’ she said, rising and offering her hand. ‘You must be Major Danilov. This is my friend, Raisa Styepanovna Tokoryeva.’

  Dmitry sat at the end of the table so that he could easily see them both.

  ‘You’re recently returned from Sevastopol, I hear,’ said Tamara.

  ‘Yes. Stuck it out to the very last, but they got me in the end.’ He lifted his cane briefly, to make it clear what he meant.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Raisa, bluntly. Tamara flashed her a look to say that she shouldn’t ask such things, but Dmitry didn’t mind.

  The story he told was close to the truth, except that he didn’t mention precisely why he had been in the city so long after the rest of the army had evacuated. But the attack by the redcoats was there, his men’s brave battle, their loyal rescue of their commanding officer both from the enemy and from the water, and the final, sodden trudge across the harbour to safety.

  It all sounded as though it had been such fun. In the past, Dmitry had despised the way that soldiers failed to describe the hell that war really was. It seemed a greater cowardice than any displayed on the battlefield; to come and say to those back home that one would gladly go out and do it again instead of admitting that the sound of the guns just made you want to run away and hide and that there were times when you’d trample over the backs of your comrades just to make it to some dark, damp hole where you could press your hands over your ears and pretend it was all far away. The worst was when they told the stories to young men, knowing it would only encourage them. But he knew the ladies loved it, and he felt Raisa’s eyes on his cheek as he spoke, almost as though she were touching him.

  They were interrupted by a waiter, who delivered a bottle of vodka and took their orders. Blini were the speciality of Yegorov’s and that was what each of them chose. When the waiter had gone, Tamara took the opportunity to turn the conversation on to the subject that interested her.

  ‘I’m trying to find out about your father,’ she said.

  ‘So Vasiliy Innokyentievich tells me,’ said Dmitry, pouring vodka into their glasses. He let the sound of his ramming the cork back into the bottle punctuate his final word. ‘Why?’

  ‘He was witness to at least two murders.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘I’ve seen the police records. The first was in 1812, in a house just off Tverskaya Street.’

  ‘I don’t see how I can help. I was only five then.’

  ‘Four or five,’ said Tamara. Yudin had said she was shrewd. He should have asked her the precise date, or kept quiet. ‘And you’d have turned eighteen in 1825. That’s when the second one took place. Right outside the Maly Theatre.’

  Dmitry forced his face to remain relaxed, hoping it revealed nothing. He felt the urge to glance over at Raisa, just to avoid Tamara’s eyes, but he knew it would hint that he was lying.

  He could remember it all so clearly. He’d been there. The dead man’s name was Obukhov. Dmitry could even recall his rank – a captain. There’d been a group of them, led by Aleksei and – Dmitry liked to think – himself. He’d only been a lieutenant then. They’d set out to trap a voordalak, though only he and Aleksei had known it to be such. That had been unfair on the men. Obukhov had died for it. Aleksei had sent most of them away, including Dmitry, and dealt with the police himself. None of it was for Tamara to know.

  ‘Two murders, thirteen years apart. Hardly related,’ he said.

  ‘There were five murders in 1825.’

  ‘Yes, I remember that much.’ Dmitry had thought and spoken quickly. At the time the deaths had caused something of a stir even among those who sought a more natural explanation. If he denied remembering the events at all, Tamara might easily catch him out.

  ‘You were in Moscow?’

  To Dmitry’s relief, the waiter arrived with the blini. Tamara had chosen to have hers with red caviar, while Dmitry and Raisa each had cherries and cream. As soon as they were alone, Tamara repeated her question. ‘You were in Moscow?’

  He nodded, without breaking eye contact. She wasn’t as pretty as Raisa, but no one would deny that she was attractive. Her face was quite square, perhaps a little masculine, and her eyes were of a dark brown that seemed unusual in contrast with the colour of her hair. She was not petite, like Raisa, but well proportioned. She looked as though she was probably quite strong. There was something familiar about her face, particularly the nose and the jawline.

  ‘But your father didn’t speak of it to you?’

  ‘Why should he? Papa reported lots of crimes. It was part of his job.’

  ‘Are you still in touch with him?’

  Dmitry felt a bitter taste in his mouth. It wasn’t her fault – it was a perfectly natural question – but he didn’t need to be reminded of his father’s recent silence. It was time to turn the tables on her.

  ‘He was a friend of your parents, you know,’ he said.

  If she had been walking she would have tripped. Her confidence vanished into the air.

  ‘My parents? Your father?’

  Dmitry tried to press his advantage. ‘That’s right. Well, it was Vadim Fyodorovich that he knew really – that would be your grandfather.’

  This seemed like more comfortable ground for her. ‘He was,’ she said, with infectious enthusiasm. ‘They fought together in the war. I’ve heard all about him – but I’d never have guessed. Aleksei was Aleksei Ivanovich – your father?’

  Dmitry nodded. ‘That’s right. I was too young to really remember Vadim, but Papa told me so much, just like your mama must have.’

  ‘She always speaks of Grandpapa in the war, and his comrades: Vadim, Dmitry, Maks and Aleksei. But Aleksei was never more than a name.’

  ‘He was the only one of the four to survive. Maks was Maksim Sergeivich Lukin and Dmitry was Dmitry Fetyukovich Petrenko. I was named after him when he saved Papa’s life at Austerlitz.’ A thousand stories bombarded Dmitry’s mind, and he wondered which he should tell her first. Then he paused as suddenly a realization hit him. He looked at Tamara’s smiling face, but said no more. He turned instead to Raisa. ‘We must be boring you horribly.’

  She smiled broadly. ‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘Your father must have been quite a man in his day. I can see you’re proud to take after him.’

  ‘He was,’ said Dmitry, then he turned and looked into Tamara’s dark eyes. ‘He was.’

  ‘I’m sure he was,’ she said. ‘I was just hoping he might have said something about these murders.’

  ‘Not a thing,’ he lied. Now more than ever, he would not expose Tamara to the knowledge that Aleksei had shared with him. The voordalak could be consigned to the memories of the past. Even Tyeplov and the Crimea seemed distant now. ‘Why are you so keen to find out?’ he added.

  ‘Murder is murder,’ said Tamara, ‘however long ago it happened.’ She glanced over at Raisa as she spoke and then unaccountably laughed. Dmitry turned back to Raisa and saw why. A large blob of whipped cream adorned the tip of her nose. Dmitry tried not to laugh but smiled broadly as Raisa looked from one to the other, unaware of the cause of their amusement. Tamara rubbed her nose to mimic how Raisa should remove the unwanted item, but still she didn’t catch on. Eventually, Dmitry picked up his napkin and leaned over towards her to wipe the cream away. He was almost touc
hing her face when she took the napkin from him. He felt her fingers briefly come into contact with his.

  ‘Dmitry Alekseevich,’ she said jokingly, smiling into his eyes, ‘you presume too much.’ She began to clean the cream away for herself, but her voice and her eyes had suggested to Dmitry that there might be far more he could presume, given the chance.

  They left soon after. Dmitry paid for the meal and outside hailed a sled and saw them on their way. Moments later he too was snuggled under the furs in the back of a sleigh and was heading for his hotel. He smiled to himself, feeling happier than he had for many years. Raisa’s flirtation was pleasant, if meaningless, but it was nothing to do with how he felt. That was down to something quite different.

  Tamara had no idea. Neither had he until that evening. It should have been obvious, but his father was a clever liar. And when both he and Domnikiia had gone to Siberia and left Tamara in Moscow, they had put everyone off the scent, including Tamara herself, the poor little girl. He laughed. Not a girl any more. It was her face that had given it away. He was surprised no one else had noticed, but who knew Aleksei’s face better than he did? He even remembered Domnikiia’s, just as he had last seen it, on a cold winter’s evening much like this, outside the Lavrovs’ house, as little Tamara waited inside.

  Tamara’s nose was Domnikiia’s; her jaw Aleksei’s. It was strong for a woman, but it suited her. The Lavrovs must know, of course, and they would probably see it in her, even while they raised her as their own. But Tamara had never been their natural child. Her mother had been the woman who had posed merely as her nanny – Domnikiia Semyonovna. Once that fact was established, then, even without other evidence, her father became obvious: Domnikiia’s lover, Aleksei Ivanovich. They had taken their secret with them into exile, and not even told their daughter. Nor had Aleksei told his son, and Dmitry could well understand why. At the time, Dmitry, with a priggishness that can only be found in the young, had been outraged at his father’s betrayal of his wife, Dmitry’s mother, Marfa. To reveal that there was a child would have been foolhardy. But now Marfa was dead and Aleksei was as good as, and until today Dmitry had believed that with regard to family he was alone in the world.

  But now that had changed. Dmitry smiled even more broadly and wrapped himself tighter in the furs, relishing the concept. He even said it out loud, though not so as the driver would be able to hear him. The words sounded wondrous on his lips.

  ‘She’s my sister.’

  CHAPTER XIV

  IT WAS THE most wonderful night of the year, at least to Yudin’s mind; the winter solstice – the longest night. The night he felt most free. If vampires were not such solitary creatures, then today they would throw a party; they would join their brethren on city streets across the world – across the northern hemisphere – and feast on the living, secure in the knowledge that dawn was as far distant as it could ever be. The humans celebrated their festivals, be they pagan or Christian, a few days later, when they first noticed that the days were getting longer and the sun was beginning to rise from its nadir. In Russia, where the misunderstanding of priests was favoured over the calculation of scientists, Christmas followed the solstice by an even greater gap, but no amount of prayer could change the path of the Earth around the Sun and so the shortest day fell, as Yudin could easily predict, just when it should.

  It was a little after four in the afternoon now, and the sky was dark. It would not be light again until past eight the following morning. And Dmitry was in Petersburg, so Yudin had no immediate concern about appearing too young to his friend. Tonight he deserved to indulge himself. Tonight was Yudin’s Christmas.

  He had only just left the Kremlin. He wore a coat and hat, not for warmth – simply to fit in. In his hand he grasped a small black-leather case, in which he carried a selection of instruments that might bring greater enjoyment to the evening. Red Square was full of people, some up to their knees in the snow, but still happy to be in Moscow in the heart of winter. The lamps had been lit so that all could see where they were going as they travelled home from work, or out to visit the shops, or to take tea with friends. Yudin looked to the south and saw Saint Vasiliy’s, and before it the Lobnoye Mesto. That was where one of those deaths had occurred in 1825. Yudin could not guess what had happened back then, but he had no doubt that a voordalak had been involved, and so too had Aleksei.

  It would be tempting to re-create that night’s events, but also foolish. It would quieten down here later, but so close to where he worked there was always the chance that someone glimpsing his face would begin a trail of discovery that would eventually unveil the truth about him. He had been cautious for almost thirty years, and was not going to be stupid now.

  He turned left and passed under the Resurrection Gate, glancing up, but not pausing, to note the mosaic of George slaying the dragon that had been cemented above the archway. Everywhere, there were reminders for Zmyeevich, should he choose to return.

  He made for the station – a good place for anyone in search of the innocent and naive. It was where Raisa had found a new girl to replace Irina Karlovna at the brothel, fresh off the train from Petersburg and looking to start a new life. It served also as a reminder of England; not the station itself – Yudin had left the country of his birth long before Stephenson had come up with his first locomotive. It was the Russian word for it – vokzal – not too dissimilar from ‘Vauxhall’ in south London, an easy ride from his family home in Surrey. Some said there was a connection between the two words. The story relied, as so often, on the assumed stupidity of Tsar Nikolai. He had been in London in the 1840s and seen Vauxhall railway station and – ignorant buffoon that he was renowned to be – assumed that the word meant ‘railway station’. And none of his entourage was brave enough to contradict him. In truth, Nikolai was a long way from being a buffoon, but there were always those, even within Yudin’s own department, who liked to portray him as such.

  They should read their Pushkin. ‘At fêtes and in vokzals, I’ve been flitting like a gentle Zephyrus.’ He wrote that in 1813 and meant by it a sort of public park. And there was one such park at Tsarskoye Selo, which was the destination of Russia’s first ever railway, back in the 1830s. Hence the name. But Yudin remembered the beautiful public gardens in Vauxhall that he’d visited as a boy, so maybe there was a connection. He smiled to himself. He remembered them as being beautiful – he did not remember them and judge them as beautiful; he was no longer capable of that.

  It was then that he saw them – the ideal victims: a man and a woman walking through the snow, and between them, clasping each of their hands, a child, certainly no more than ten years old. The child was so well wrapped up that he couldn’t guess its sex, but that did not matter – it would not be the focus of events. It was the emotions that would be roused in its parents on seeing it suffer as Yudin slowly fed upon it that would most thrill him; would make their blood all the richer when he got to them, the woman first, and then the man. He smiled to himself – that was fanciful. Their blood would not be transformed in any way by their terror, but Yudin’s appreciation of it would be.

  From their dress and the district they were travelling through, Yudin guessed they were not poor. That could mean they had servants – easy enough to deal with. He followed at a safe distance and within a few minutes the family arrived at their house. They went inside. Yudin saw no sign of anyone receiving them at the door, but that was not enough to be certain. Even if there were no staff, there could be other family members in there. But there was a long night ahead and Yudin could afford to wait and watch. He glanced up and down the street, but there was no suitable place to hide. His mind stepped back to 1812 when, though he had not then been a vampire, he had stalked men through these same city streets. Back then, with Moscow deserted, it had been easy to simply hide in a doorway and wait, but today anyone passing would think it suspicious. The best thing to do was to patrol.

  He walked down the street, turning right at the end, circling his prey, look
ing for any other entrance through which he might get at them or by which they might escape. There was nothing; the block was a single edifice of houses, built side by side and back to back. He would enter through the front door, and they would be trapped. He imagined them, sitting happily now beside a warming fire, and then later cowering, pleading. What would they offer him to spare their child? What would he take? How long would he let them believe that he had shown compassion before they witnessed its little body being desecrated and destroyed? He had the whole long night.

  Within minutes he was at the front of the house again, eager now to get in there, to begin turning his imaginings into reality. But he was not so overwhelmed by his desires to forget to take one final circumspect glance up and down the street. It was then that he realized he was not the only hunter abroad in Moscow that night. On the corner at the end of the block stood a figure. It was too far to make out the face, but he was tall and his stature was recognizable enough for Yudin to remember seeing him before, at the other end of this same street and earlier in the evening as well. He couldn’t be sure, but he could soon find out.

  He turned and went back the way he had come till he reached the next junction. Now he was at the opposite corner of the block from where he had last seen the figure. He crossed so as to get a better view of both streets, along one of which he expected to see that same man approaching. He did not have to wait. The figure came into view and then instantly stepped back, catching sight of Yudin.

  Now Yudin began to walk swiftly, but not too swiftly – he did not want to lose the man completely. As prey he needed somewhere crowded, just as when he had been predator he had sought isolation. He turned south-west and headed back towards Lubyanka Square. As he walked, he listened, but the snow dampened the sound of any footsteps. Even so, he felt confident his pursuer would not have given up.