The Third Section (Danilov Quintet 3)

by Jasper Kent

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘A difficult man to find. We have no official record of him. That is to say “we” as the Third Section or any of its predecessors.’

  ‘So he’s never been political.’

  ‘Not that we suspected. I can find no record of his birth, and only a few mentions of him on a number of commercial invoices and legal documents. The earliest is in Petersburg,’ he said, handing her a rental agreement for a building.

  ‘When?’ she asked, without really looking at it.

  ‘1812.’

  She bit her bottom lip and considered. ‘He must have been an adult then. That would make him in his sixties now – at least.’

  ‘Had he lived,’ said Gribov. Tamara felt deflated. Gribov replaced the document in her hand with another. ‘I say he had not been suspected of political activity, but I did find this. It’s from an interview with a Decembrist rebel.’ He pointed to about halfway down the page of small, tight handwriting. Tamara read:

  The prisoner was asked to comment on reports of him being seen on the Great Neva, comforting a man who appeared to have been shot. The prisoner replied that the man had been shot, but had not died, and that his name was Vasiliy Denisovich Makarov. The prisoner was asked if Makarov had been with the rebels and responded that he had been, adding that he had been one of those keenest to bring about the death of Nikolai Pavlovich. The prisoner’s claim of Makarov’s survival contradicts other witness testimony which states he fell beneath the ice. No trace of Makarov, alive or dead, has been found.

  ‘The witnesses were wrong,’ said Tamara. ‘He’s still collecting rent for properties in Saint Petersburg.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Gribov, at his most non-committal.

  ‘Who was the prisoner being interviewed?’ asked Tamara.

  ‘I’m glad you asked that.’ Gribov flicked back through the document and showed her the cover.

  Tamara clicked her tongue in wonder at what she saw.

  15 February 1826

  Commandant’s Office

  Peter and Paul Fortress

  Interview with Colonel Aleksei Ivanovich Danilov

  ‘I never saw this,’ she said.

  ‘It was misfiled,’ he explained.

  ‘I have to read it all.’

  ‘Now?’

  Tamara said nothing. She had already sat down and pulled the lamp towards her. Her eyes began scanning back and forth across the pages.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

  Tamara scarcely noticed him depart. It took her only ten minutes to read the short document, but she read it through again immediately. There was no mention of any of the murders – not even the one that Aleksei had witnessed outside the Maly Theatre, but that would have been more than she could hope for. There was only one further mention of Makarov, when the interrogator asked how Aleksei knew him. Aleksei said that he had only encountered him a few times, at meetings of the Northern Society. It seemed to Tamara like a lie, but the interrogator chose to accept it.

  Aleksei was also asked about his son, Dmitry. Tamara thought back. Dmitry would have been just eighteen then. Aleksei denied that his son had anything to do with the uprising, even though the boy had been in Petersburg at the time. Again the interrogator accepted this. Here there was a note added in the margin: P. M. V. confirms.

  There was no mistaking the initials: Pyetr Mihailovich Volkonsky, the man who had watched over her and paid for her upkeep until his death four years before. For whatever reason, it seemed he had been watching over Dmitry too.

  Overall though, despite there being little useful information in the interview, Tamara sensed that she was beginning to get a feeling for the sort of man Danilov was. She pictured him as looking like Dmitry. He came across as very brave, very clever, and an out-and-out liar. He’d clearly been tortured. She already knew what the Decembrists had suffered, and although the document was not specific, it made a few mentions of pauses in the interview, after which it was hoped Aleksei would be a little more willing to talk. He told them nothing that they couldn’t easily discover by other means. Only that one assertion – that Makarov was not dead – stepped outside of what he could be sure was already known.

  He refused to denounce any of the other rebels, except one, Kakhovsky, who he said had shot Governor Miloradovich. Tamara remembered that Kakhovsky was one of only five Decembrists sentenced to death for their crimes. Aleksei was even asked about the poet Pushkin, but denied his involvement, though with none of the condemnation he had expressed when saying the same thing about his own son.

  She wished she had been there. She’d have done a better job than whoever it was had actually spoken to Aleksei; the rumour was that Tsar Nikolai himself had carried out all the interrogations. She’d have followed up on so many of the answers that just didn’t seem to make sense. Even so, she couldn’t be sure she’d have been smart enough to catch Aleksei out, certainly not on this new question: had Dmitry in fact been a Decembrist, just like his father? She was surprised how little she cared about the answer.

  She left the document on the table from where Gribov had fetched it and went back along the winding, dark route to the surface and to Gribov’s office.

  ‘Thank you very much, Arkadiy Osipovich,’ she said. ‘That was very interesting.’

  ‘I thought you’d like it. But I don’t suppose it helps in the main line of your research.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There was one other name you were interested in.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Natalia Borisovna Papanova – the daughter of a cobbler, you said, I think.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I found a record of her marriage, in 1816, to a man named Bazhenov – Ilya Vladimirovich, also a cobbler. There’s an address.’

  ‘Show me,’ said Tamara, holding out her hand.

  ‘It’s forty years out of date.’

  ‘These people don’t move,’ she said, though she knew less of the life of a cobbler than she did of … a grand duke. Gribov handed over the paper. ‘Thank you again,’ she said.

  Could he have betrayed me? It was the first thought on Yudin’s mind as Dmitry sat down opposite him. They were at Testov’s, where Yudin was finally making good his promise to take Dmitry out to dinner. It was always a useful ruse, as Yudin had discovered over the years – no one expected to see a voordalak in a crowded public place, nobody expected to see one eating fish or drinking wine. He doubted the possibility had ventured into the furthest extremity of Dmitry’s mind, but it was ploys like this that stopped it from getting even that far. But Dmitry might have other, more concrete reasons to suspect Yudin; that was what this dinner was all about. As for the wine, that would pass through Yudin’s body easily enough. The food he would throw up later, when he was alone.

  They had not met since Yudin’s encounter at the church with his former captives. That was the cause of his suspicion of Dmitry. There were two reasons behind it. The first was obvious; that the vampires had gone to seek out Aleksei’s son in Sevastopol. Mihailov said they had been rebuffed, but it could easily have been a lie. The second reason was more subtle: somehow, Zmyeevich had known of Yudin’s whereabouts – his new identity. Not many people could associate Yudin with any of his former aliases. Only two, in fact: Raisa and Dmitry. Raisa was not beyond suspicion – Yudin was no fool – but today it was Dmitry who sat before him.

  ‘I must say, you’re looking very healthy,’ said Dmitry, interrupting his thoughts. It was an accurate observation. Yudin had not starved himself in preparation for this meeting as much as he should. He looked younger than when the two of them had last met. But it was the least of his concerns.

  ‘As do you,’ he replied. ‘Your ankle must be almost healed now.’

  ‘I still feel the occasional twinge. Hence the stick.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll soon be your old self.’

  ‘Old indeed,’ laughed Dmitry. ‘I’ll be fifty next year.’

  ‘Fifty? Really? Lyosha’s lit
tle boy that I dandled on my knee.’ Dmitry grinned, but Yudin instantly regretted saying it. It was not wise to remind Dmitry of just how old he really was. But it did allow him to turn the conversation down his chosen path. ‘By the way, Mitka, there’s something I meant to ask you. Nothing important, just a little strange.’

  ‘Fire away.’

  Yudin did his best to sound hesitant. ‘I came across a letter – in the course of my work – from years ago. Ancient history now, but it referred to someone by a sort of nickname, and I’m trying to find out who the man was, and I’m wondering if it might possibly have been your father.’

  ‘What was the nickname?’

  ‘It’s silly … and a little offensive, to be honest.’ Dmitry looked at him with his head on one side, telling him not to be so delicate. ‘Did you ever hear of anyone,’ continued Yudin, ‘calling him the three-fingered man?’

  Dmitry hesitated for just a moment before replying, but it was enough for Yudin to know that the phrase meant something. ‘Odd you should say that,’ was his reply.

  ‘Odd?’ asked Yudin. ‘Why?’

  ‘Someone used that exact phrase in Sevastopol. An old friend of Papa’s.’

  ‘An old friend?’

  ‘Well, the son of an old friend. What was this letter about?’

  The phrase had come from Mihailov’s lips, not from a letter, but it was easy for Yudin to extemporize. He lowered his voice. ‘The Decembrists.’

  Dmitry nodded sombrely. ‘We were both lucky – luckier than Papa.’

  ‘Lucky thanks to him. Anyway, what was your friend’s name – in Sevastopol?’

  ‘Tyeplov,’ said Dmitry without hesitation.

  So it was true that Tyeplov had spoken to Dmitry – though that much had never been in doubt. The real question was what, if anything, he had told Dmitry about Yudin – whether he had even identified him as the object of their vengeance. He tried a different tack.

  ‘How is Svetlana Nikitichna?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s fine. She’s fine. She asked after you.’

  Now to dangle the bait. ‘You know who she reminds me of?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Raisa Styepanovna.’ There was some superficial resemblance – it was enough to bring her into the conversation; to bring her into Dmitry’s life.

  ‘Really?’

  Yudin nodded. ‘She asked after you, by the way.’ It was almost true. She had told Yudin how she had flirted with Dmitry – how he had, however subtly, responded.

  ‘I only met her once.’

  ‘You made quite an impression.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Dmitry.

  Raisa had evidently judged his reaction well; she knew her business. But Dmitry still had to be played. Yudin laughed a little. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘My dear Mitka – you’re a happily married man.’

  ‘And why shouldn’t I be even happier?’ It was meant as a joke, or at least disguised as one.

  ‘Mitka!’ Yudin’s tone was meant to scold – he’d spent years building up his image with Dmitry as a surrogate father; he could not drop that too willingly.

  ‘I’m sorry, Vasya. I shouldn’t tease you,’ said Dmitry before changing the subject. ‘I still can’t fathom why you never married.’

  ‘I think we both know the answer to that,’ said Yudin softly.

  ‘Because of Mama?’ Dmitry’s response was in the same tone.

  Yudin sighed. ‘It could never be.’ It was astonishing that Dmitry had not the slightest inkling that Yudin had been screwing his mother since her son had been – what? – eleven years old. He thought too much of her to think her capable of it. And that high opinion rubbed off on Yudin.

  ‘Not even after Papa went into exile?’

  ‘They were still married.’

  ‘He took his lover with him.’

  ‘That would not have made it right. We saw things differently, your father and I. As do you and I.’

  ‘Would you despise me, if I were unfaithful to Svetlana?’ asked Dmitry earnestly.

  Yudin gave the appearance of thinking for a moment, but in truth every move was planned in advance. ‘I would forgive you,’ he said. Dmitry smiled. Yudin sat back upright in his chair, his mood now lighter. ‘But anyway,’ he said, ‘I don’t quite think that it would be Raisa Styepanovna who would steal a man like you away from his wife.’

  Dmitry was disappointed. ‘Really? Not that kind of girl, I suppose.’

  Yudin laughed loudly. ‘Oh, quite that kind of girl, I assure you, Mitka. But I don’t think that kind of girl is your kind of girl.’

  ‘I don’t get you.’

  Yudin lowered his voice. ‘Mitka – to call her a courtesan would be to pay her a lavish compliment. For a small fee she will go with any man and let him do whatever he wishes to her.’

  ‘You’re joking!’ Dmitry flushed as he spoke.

  It was hard to discern whether it was out of embarrassment or excitement. Yudin guessed a mixture of the two.

  ‘She works in a house up on Degtyarny Lane.’

  Dmitry looked at him slyly. ‘How do you know all this, Vasya?’

  Yudin made an effort to seem flustered. ‘Let me assure you, Mitka – I have never, would never …’ He petered out, pleased with his understated performance.

  ‘God, no. I know. I’m sorry. I was just teasing.’

  ‘As you know, I work for the government. Since we have these establishments, they must be regulated; yellow tickets to be issued and so forth. But whenever I can, I try to persuade these girls to leave such places – and I pray for their souls every night.’

  ‘I wouldn’t expect any less, Vasya. And thank you – for the warning.’

  Yudin smiled warmly. Dmitry was much like his father, and it was in that very establishment that Aleksei had first met his paramour, Domnikiia. Dmitry would be no different. He would be ashamed for fear that Yudin found out, but he would go there all the same. And Raisa would be ready for him. Dmitry would lay his tortured soul at her feet and, when morning came, Raisa would gather it up and bring it to Yudin to examine.

  They were entering the endgame, the culmination of a plan – not even that, merely a conceit – that had formed in Yudin’s mind long ago as he had gazed for the first time upon the innocent face of a five-year-old boy. Now all that mattered was to ensure that Aleksei found out.

  CHAPTER XVII

  TAMARA HAD ONCE again been summoned to Petersburg, once again at the behest of Grand Duke Konstantin, but she had a few days to prepare for her trip and there was one particular visit she wanted to make before leaving. The address Gribov had given her for Natalia Borisovna was in Zamoskvorechye, at the southern end of Little Ordynka Street. There were half a dozen cobblers’ shops, all huddled together on the eastern side of the road. The address that Gribov had given her was one of them, but the shopkeeper had not heard of Natalia Borisovna, not by her maiden name or her married name; neither had he heard of her husband.

  Tamara tried the other shops without success, but just as she left the final one and was about to give up, a woman came out of the first and ran up to her.

  ‘Is it you that’s looking for Ilya Vladimirovich Bazhenov?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Tamara.

  ‘My husband’s an idiot.’

  ‘You do know him, then?’

  ‘No, but we know Oleg Ilyich Bazhenov.’

  ‘His son?’ asked Tamara. The woman shrugged. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He has a shop in Ordynsky Lane, just there.’ She pointed up the street to where another road cut across it. ‘Number four.’

  Tamara thanked her and walked up in the direction she had been shown. She found number four easily. It was a locksmith’s.

  ‘Oleg Ilyich?’ she enquired of the man who stood behind the counter with a welcoming smile and a dirty leather apron.

  ‘Indeed I am. How may I be of service?’

  ‘I’m looking for your mother. At least
, I think I am.’ He was in his late thirties, which would fit with his mother having married in 1816.

  ‘My … mother?’

  ‘Natalia Borisovna Bazhenova – Papanova before she was married.’

  ‘That’s certainly my mother,’ he replied. ‘What about her?’

  ‘I wanted to talk to her; about 1812.’

  ‘1812?’

  ‘Yes – do you think she’d talk to me about it?’

  ‘You mean about the occupation?’

  ‘Around then.’

  He smiled wistfully, pausing in happy recollection before speaking. ‘We could never get her to stop. I remember all her stories. She used to go on and on when we were children. About the French. About the fires. She and her father lost their home. They had to live in a churchyard.’

  ‘It must have been dreadful.’

  ‘They managed. Anything to beat the French – not like these days. She had a brother who died at Borodino – Fyodor.’ He smiled again. ‘And then there were her two captains.’

  ‘Captains?’

  ‘She rescued them from a fire. One of them was quite badly injured, but she nursed him back to health. I think she was quite taken by him, but she never admitted it – not to him or to us. Petrenko – that was his name.’

  ‘Petrenko.’ It was a name she had heard, not so long ago, on Dmitry’s lips. It was too ridiculous for there to be a connection – and yet she felt certain there was.

  ‘That’s right. Can’t remember the other fellow’s name. She didn’t mention him half as much. Began with a D.’

  Tamara almost hoped she would be wrong, but had to offer the suggestion. ‘Danilov?’

  ‘Danilov!’ He pointed to her as he acknowledged the suggestion, and didn’t notice the shiver that ran down her spine. ‘Captain Petrenko and Captain Danilov. She helped them to get out of town – give the French the slip so they could come back fighting all the stronger. And they did.’

  ‘Did she ever mention a murder around then?’

  ‘Murder? There was a bloody war on.’