by Jasper Kent
She rushed over to him, tucking the cane under her right arm but still pointing the revolver at Yudin. It was a preposterously dangerous way to face such a creature, but she had no option. She put her left arm around her father and tried to heave him out of the water. He braced himself against her shoulder and she hauled him upright, providing the strength which his aged legs could not. He was heavy. Tamara recalled how light the load had been when she carried her mother. Aleksei wore his old age better.
At last he swung his legs over the side and was out of the water. But it had been a strain for both of them. Tamara lowered his body to the floor, so that he could lean against the side of the bath. She hugged his sodden body to her.
Yudin didn’t bother to intervene, knowing that he could wait until both Aleksei and Tamara were exhausted by their struggle for freedom. But still she had to try. She began to heave again, pulling Aleksei across the stone floor. He reached across her and his fingers pressed hard into her shoulder, but then slipped away to scrabble at her chest. He fell back. They had moved just a few inches. Yudin emitted a sneering laugh.
Aleksei still hugged himself to her, his feet paddling at the ground, failing to find any purchase. He moved his hand back across to her shoulder and his thumb became entwined in the thin silver chain of her icon.
Tamara glared up at Yudin. She raised the revolver and aimed it at him.
‘Do you still not realize what I am?’ he asked.
‘You’re the same as Raisa – and I dealt with her.’
As she spoke Aleksei’s fingers found the icon on the end of the chain and pulled it close, towards his weak, failing eyes. It was only then that Tamara realized its significance – both to him and to her. She was four years old, lying in her bed. Her father was leaning over her. Her mother stood a few paces away, looking on. He lifted the icon and its chain from around his own neck and placed it over her head, pulling her red curls up through it so that it finally lay cold around her neck. She had never removed it since – hardly ever.
Today, Aleksei held the icon in his hand again, peering at it. He glanced up at Tamara and then down again. His face became an entanglement of surprise and sorrow, of elation and regret.
‘Toma?’ His voice was still a whisper, but if ever so soft a sound could have expressed joy, then it did now. ‘Toma?’ he said again, looking up into her face, running his hand through her auburn locks, holding them close so he could see them clearly. ‘It is you. It must be you.’
Tamara gazed into her father’s eyes. She had for so long imagined this moment, but had never foreseen that it would be like this, and yet the expression of love that she saw in his face, the feeling that welled in her gut and spread throughout her entire being, were all she had ever imagined and more. Whatever the circumstances, she could not now deny him the truth.
‘Yes, Papa,’ she whispered. ‘Yes, it’s me.’ She felt Aleksei’s arms tighten against her. He tried to speak, but could not, nor did he need to. She understood everything that he wanted to say.
Yudin’s laughter broke into the moment. This time there was no snideness to it. It was broad and hearty and – to all appearances – genuine. ‘Oh, this is why I love you so, Lyosha,’ he said merrily. ‘You’re always so full of surprises. Where did this one spring from?’
‘My mother was Domnikiia Semyonovna,’ said Tamara with pride, the gun still levelled at Yudin. Beside her she felt Aleksei begin to rise to his feet, filled with a new-found strength that she well understood. With only a little help from her, he was upright.
‘Ah, the lovely Dominique,’ Yudin replied. ‘It’s so preposterously obvious. And all this time, ever since you first came to work for me, you’ve been plotting revenge on your father’s behalf.’
Tamara chose to say nothing. It would keep him wary if he believed that there was any plan at all to this. She continued to edge towards the door, leading her father to freedom.
‘It’s another reason for you to tell me, Lyosha,’ continued Yudin. ‘If not for your sake, then for your daughter’s. Just think of what I might do to her.’
Yudin fell silent. There was little to read in Aleksei’s face, but Tamara could guess how his imagination was following the trail along which Yudin’s words had pointed it. There was nothing she could say – no chance that he would ignore her pleas not to worry about her. But then she sensed that Yudin had let the idea hang in the air for too long. He had lost Aleksei’s attention and indeed Yudin’s own eyes were fixed now on neither the father nor the daughter.
And suddenly Tamara realized they were no longer alone. From the doorway came another voice.
‘And whatever Actual State Councillor Yudin might achieve is as nothing compared with what we have planned.’
Even before Tamara looked, she recognized it. Yet the words made no sense.
In the doorway stood Tyeplov, stooping to fit in the enclosed space. But it was not he who had spoken. Beside him stood a familiar figure, small and unassuming, and yet possessing a new-found swagger that Tamara had not seen in him before.
It was Gribov.
‘Tell us, Aleksei Ivanovich,’ he said. ‘It’s what we’re all yearning to hear.’
Yudin gazed at Gribov with consternation. In return, Gribov’s expression was smug.
‘Why should you want to know that?’ asked Yudin.
‘For myself,’ replied Gribov, ‘I don’t. But I think you can guess who does.’
‘Zmyeevich?’ hissed Yudin.
‘Zmyeevich,’ Gribov confirmed. The name meant nothing to Tamara. ‘I am his representative here in Moscow; his human representative. You might like to think of me as the new you.’
‘For how long?’
‘Since long before we met.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you were the most likely person to discover the whereabouts of Aleksandr Pavlovich – but the least likely to share that discovery with your former master.’
‘What about him?’ Yudin nodded towards Tyeplov.
‘Yuri Vladimirovich has always been the creature of Zmyeevich, though perhaps not a constant one. Now he has seen the error of his ways.’
‘So Zmyeevich can hear us, through him?’ asked Yudin.
‘I can,’ said Tyeplov. ‘And I’m intrigued.’ The voice, as far as Tamara could recall it, was Tyeplov’s, but the tone was different; deeper, more confident, as though an older and more terrible man were impersonating Tyeplov, but speaking his own words.
‘Totally under his control?’ asked Yudin.
‘Totally.’
‘And what do you want?’
‘The name and whereabouts of the Romanov, Aleksandr Pavlovich,’ said Tyeplov. ‘Great-great-grandson of the traitor Pyotr.’
‘And if I tell you?’
‘You know nothing.’
‘I was about to make him talk when you arrived,’ said Yudin.
‘Then thank you for making our task so much easier,’ replied Gribov. He stepped forward and peered closely at the bedraggled Aleksei. ‘This is the man?’ he said, turning back to Tyeplov. ‘The man who twice defeated you?’
Tyeplov walked forward. ‘He did not defeat me, he defeated Iuda, my unprofitable servant.’ As they spoke, Tamara noticed that Yudin was hardly listening. His eyes flicked around the room as he desperately tried to formulate a plan. After a moment’s consideration, it seemed he didn’t judge his chances favourably. He began to edge towards the door.
Tyeplov gazed closely into Aleksei’s face. ‘Do you remember me, Danilov?’ he asked.
Aleksei’s voice was hoarse. ‘I remember you chained to the wall of a cave, the sun burning through your body. I gave you your freedom.’
Tyeplov shook his head. ‘Look beyond the body, Danilov. We met not far from here, almost half a century ago. I came to save your country, and you laughed at me.’
‘You had no plans to save Russia, but yes, we laughed. Aleksandr Pavlovich is still laughing, wherever he may be.’
Tyeplov’s eyes flared in
anger, but then he calmed. ‘You will tell me where that is.’
‘Never.’
Tyeplov’s hand smashed down on Tamara’s, sending the cane and the revolver sliding across the floor and knocking her away from her father. In a second she was on her feet, her knife drawn from her boot and in her hand. She knew how little help it would be against a creature like Tyeplov, yet it was all she had. She backed towards the far corner of the cell, taking a few swipes at the voordalak in the futile hope it would persuade him to keep his distance. His solution was simply to grab the blade. Tamara pulled it back rapidly and saw blood oozing from between his fingers, but it was no deterrent whatsoever.
All she could do now was retreat. Behind Tyeplov she could see the rest of the cell. Gribov had retrieved the revolver and was aiming it at Aleksei, who leaned against the wall, still weak. Yudin continued to attempt his slow journey towards freedom, edging step by step closer to the door. It had not escaped Tyeplov. As Yudin passed closest to him, he lashed out with his fist, scarcely looking at what he did. His knuckles connected with Yudin’s nose, cracking the back of his head against the wall. Blood began to spill from both points of impact, and Yudin slumped to the floor. Tyeplov still loomed over Tamara, ever advancing, his teeth bared.
She heard Gribov’s voice. ‘Do you really love your daughter so little, Aleksei Ivanovich? You’d let her die like this, just to keep your paltry secret?’
‘No,’ said Aleksei quietly.
‘Then you’re prepared to tell us?’
The prospect of discovering what he had come for did not seem to distract Tyeplov from his current intent. His fangs descended upon Tamara’s throat, but she felt no pain – merely the warmth of his breath and the odious moistness of his saliva on her skin. He was eking out his performance for Aleksei’s benefit. But his movement did allow Tamara to see what was going on.
Aleksei straightened himself and stood away from the wall. It was the first time she had seen him properly. He was nothing like as tall as Dmitry, but was strongly built, even in his old age, with solid broad shoulders. His square jaw was unmistakably her own. She was surprised that no one other than Dmitry had made the connection.
Aleksei shook his head wearily, his eyes fixed on the floor. ‘No,’ he repeated. When he finally moved, it was with a swiftness of which Tamara would not have thought him capable. In three strides he was halfway across the cell, towards where she and Tyeplov stood locked in their embrace. His arm was raised above him, clutched in it the sharpened cane which his son had devised and his daughter had brought to him. In another two paces he would be able to bring it down on Tyeplov’s back.
The revolver spat a bullet at him, then another. Gribov was no more slowed by age than Aleksei. The first shot caught her father in the left shoulder, the second in his stomach. Tamara saw a plume of blood issuing from his back as the bullet emerged. But neither shot did anything to hinder him. Tamara saw his left hand – its two smallest fingers missing, along with half of another – reach around and grip at Tyeplov’s nose, trying to prise his face away from her throat and brace Aleksei for his attack.
Gribov fired again, but Tamara didn’t see where the bullet hit. Aleksei’s arm came down. The cane penetrated the right side of Tyeplov’s back at a shallow angle, so that path took it across to the left. Aleksei knew precisely where he had been aiming. Tyeplov’s grip on her slackened in an instant. Just as she had witnessed with Ignatyev at the brothel, and Raisa beside the railway, Tyeplov’s mortal remains began to collapse to nothing. He fell slowly sideways, but with the weight of his body gone, the air caught his clothes and resisted their descent. It was like some ballet dancer, throwing himself across the stage, graceful and controlled, and yet, ultimately, there was no control to it. The clothes kept on falling, eventually to hit the ground and to flatten as the dust within was exhaled through every available outlet.
Aleksei took a step away, still grasping the cane, and Tamara got a clear view of Gribov. He held the pistol in both hands to steady it, aimed squarely at Aleksei, and fired again. The bullet hit somewhere in the chest, and Aleksei slumped backwards against the wall, dropping the cane.
Tamara did not know if the screech that spilled from her throat was supposed to be an articulate word or the primitive cry of a vengeful animal. Gribov turned towards her, his face frozen in shock, but the gun followed his eye more slowly – too slowly. She was across the room and upon him in a fraction of a second. The knife that had been of so little use on Tyeplov was still clutched in her hand, and would prove its worth. She stabbed upwards, under his ribcage, pressing herself so close to him that he had no chance to train the gun on her. She felt sure her aim had been true, but she stabbed twice more, desperate that with at least one blow the fine steel blade would penetrate his heart.
She stepped back. Gribov was already dead – only her strength held him upright. She pointed her arm and the blade downwards and he slid off it, his body collapsing in a heap on the floor with a quiet, heavy thud. It was almost a relief to witness the normality of human death, but there was no time to relish the sight of a body that did not instantly decay.
Aleksei and Yudin sat against adjacent walls of the cell. Aleksei was by far the worse for wear, but he was still alive. Yudin was just regaining consciousness. Tamara couldn’t guess how much time she had. She grabbed her father around the chest and, ignoring the pain that it caused him, hauled him across the cell floor and out into the corridor. She slammed the door closed, but there was no key in the lock and no bolt on the outside. It wouldn’t keep Yudin in for long. She looked along the corridor down which she knew she must drag her father if they were to have any chance of survival.
Dmitry blocked their way, his huge frame filling the low, arched tunnel.
There was only one other chance of escape: the seventh door, behind which Yudin had refused to show her. She looked at it. The key was still in the lock. It turned easily, and she began to draw the three heavy iron bolts that gave this door extra strength. She glanced down at Aleksei, propped up against the wall, his breathing shallow. Beyond him Dmitry still stood, as indecisive as he had been when they had spoken earlier. Son looked at father, but father did not see son.
Finally, she pulled the third of the bolts across, and began to heave on the handle. At the same moment, the door to her right opened, and Yudin emerged. She had the chance to run forward into that last, unexplored cell, but she had no idea whether it would lead to freedom or death. And anyway, it was not an option. She would not be separated from her father. She took a step back, towards Aleksei and towards Dmitry.
Yudin stepped out into the corridor, standing framed in the doorway that Tamara had just opened. She had never seen him look so angry – so out of control. She heard footsteps as Dmitry finally made up his mind and began to approach. From behind Yudin there were sounds too – moans that could have been animal or human, accompanied by the clanking of chains. God knew what Yudin kept in there; it was too dark for her to see.
It didn’t matter. She was trapped deep beneath the Kremlin in a tight, low tunnel with a vampire in front of her and another behind. This was the end. She slumped back against the wall and sat beside her father. She felt his hand grip hers.
‘A bit late for the gallant rescue, Dmitry,’ said Yudin, quickly becoming himself again.
At the sound of the name, Aleksei became suddenly alert. He raised his head, causing him to cough, but he brushed the hair away from his eyes to peer at the figure that, even after so many years, he could not mistake for anyone but his son.
Dmitry’s voice would only confirm it. ‘That’s not why I’m here.’
‘Dmitry?’ Aleksei spoke in scarcely more than a whisper. His son showed no interest in responding.
‘Why then?’ asked Yudin.
‘I came to say goodbye.’
‘To your father?’
‘To you.’
The conversation apparently over, Dmitry turned – difficult in the tight corridor – and began to
depart. Yudin stared ahead blankly. Behind him, Tamara thought she glimpsed movement. Then he turned his gaze downwards.
‘Ah, Lyosha. You keep your petty victories over Aleksandr Pavlovich. You can die in the knowledge that he’s safe; he won’t be long behind you anyway. But there’s one thing you must hear before you die.’ As Yudin spoke, Dmitry stopped in his tracks and turned. ‘One thing you really do deserve to know about your beloved son.’
‘No, Vasya,’ said Dmitry firmly. He took three steps forward and was now at a level with Tamara.
‘Why not? You wouldn’t want me to lie to him.’
Dmitry took another step so that he was face to face with Yudin, towering over his father, who stared up at him.
‘Who’d have thought, Lyosha, that the little boy I first met when he was five years old – while you were hiding away with your whore – who’d have thought that one day he’d grow up to be someone of whom I could be so proud; would grow up to be …’
Dmitry raised his arms on either side of him, bracing himself against the close walls almost as though he were Samson about to bring down the Philistine temple. But that was not his plan. He raised up his legs, his whole weight supported on his arms, and kicked forward, his feet landing squarely on Yudin’s chest. Yudin’s words were cut short as he was forced to take a step backwards.
At the same instant, Tamara saw more movement in the cell behind him – human figures creeping forward apprehensively, awaiting their moment. As Yudin stumbled backwards, they pounced. Two of them grabbed his legs and one his arm, dragging him back into their domain, but it was the fourth who most caught Tamara’s attention. It was an old woman, her flesh sunk tight into her cheeks. Between her hands she held a chain, which somehow seemed to be attached to her as well. She flung it around Yudin’s neck and then twisted it behind him with a strength that Tamara could not have supposed she had in her. It would have killed any human in minutes. Judging by the look of triumphant hatred in the old woman’s eyes, Tamara wondered if it might not be effective even on a vampire.