Hour of the Wolf

by Andrius B Tapinas

  The interior of this cabin was strikingly different from the rest of the generally spartan Muromets. Its floors were decorated with rugs; the air was permeated with the smell of exotic incense and soft gramophone music, while a tiny lamp filled the room with a pleasant dim light. However, the main adornment of the cabin was a woman, lying on a wide bed. She was nibbling on a bunch of grapes and gazing out of the port hole, lost in thought. Golytsin’s appearance in the room made the lady turn lazily towards him. Her movement caused the blanket to slip off her body, revealing a small but perfectly formed breast, a fact which did not appear to perturb her at all.

  “So you have fed the free press?” sneered the lady.

  “More than enough,” replied Golytsin, perched on the edge of the bed and detaching his cufflinks. “Damn, how they sometimes make me sick, Emilia.”

  “What? Cufflinks or reporters?”, asked the lady. Even before he answered her, she was down on her knees. The blanket slipped off, exposing to Golytsin what an unmarried woman should not be demonstrating to a strange man.

  “Let me help you,” she purred.

  Golytsin spontaneously put his hands forward, his eyes fixed on the alabaster body, glowing dully in the half-light.

  “Hey, hold your horses, Your Honour,” Emilia gave a husky laugh. “So the rats will do their job, won’t they?”

  “Yes,” the State Advisor nodded. “The Truth will spark a panic that will spread all over the place like wildfire. That boy with his anarchists, what was his name... well... yes, Solomon. So he and his gang are also tearing across the city like wildfire, defacing the walls with such speed that residents cannot keep up with painting over the damage. Besides, the Legionnaires have no time to spare for daubers. The murder has come in so handy that one might think we were the ones to commission it in the first place.” Golytsin sighed. But the sigh was not for some poor soul who had been conveniently murdered in Cholera Cemetery, but rather for Emilia who, having dealt with the cufflinks and helped Golytsin wriggle out of his shirt, now had her slender hand tucked inside his trousers. “A few more days, and by the start of the Summit this city will become a powder keg. And then, my darling, you will be a wick. And you will have to try really hard if you wish... mmmh...”

  “At the moment I will try really hard to take care of this little wick,” murmured Emilia and then went quiet, as her pretty little mouth became occupied with something else.

  The young State Advisor closed his eyes, pushed his fingers through the cascade of her thick black hair and moaned with pleasure. After all, he had earned a little reward: so far everything was going better that expected. The thing that made him feel slightly uneasy though was that operative Skorokhodov not answering his calls. And the fact that the promised drawings had still not been delivered. Could he have run into problems? But why did he...

  “Damn!” Golytsin let out a yell and sat up swiftly, all his pleasures put aside. “An operative with important drawings gone missing... Unsolved murder in Vilnius Cholera Cemetery...” he mumbled. “Damn!” he yelled again and swore.

  Chapter XVI

  Vilnius, before midnight

  23 04 1905

  There was one harsh reality of which frequent travellers of the Moletai Highway, especially traders or devout pilgrims walking to the Kalvarijos Way of the Cross, were well aware. Those who had encountered at the border with the Alliance a grumpy Russian customs officer, going over them with a fine-tooth comb and keeping them there until night came, were better off not rushing to Vilnius the same night. Moletai Highway was pitch dark and the steep slopes of the Neris River, with its surrounding gloomy pinewoods, were a convenient hideout for robbers. Travellers made a more prudent choice if, right after crossing the border, they stopped at The Slomianka Inn at the foot of Verkiai Hill and right below Verkiai Palace, where they could not only sleep but also have a filling supper, to be up with the lark and in Vilnius early the next morning.

  City residents were also fond of Slomianka. On warm evenings they were attracted by the idea of the inn garden, and as the innkeeper would occasionally take the benches out to the river bank, his clients sipping Lipskis or Szopen beer could even observe the boats and barges glide by.

  But tonight the inn – the destination of Legate Antanas Sidabras –appeared to have been abandoned by everyone – there were no locals, no traders in need of temporary shelter, no pilgrims with rosaries swinging across their chests, and no light coming out of its windows. At first glance Slomianka gave the impression that it had not a living soul inside.

  The Legate did not drive up to the inn, but got out of the carriage a short distance away. He snapped off the neck of a portable lantern bottle, and the hissing steam flooded the lantern with yellow light. This did not cause night to turn into day but he could now see where he was going. The sergeants had tried to convince their commander to take a few men with him but Sidabras obstinately refused, maintaining that Rose of the Troubles had unequivocally told him to come by himself. Although, truth be told, a club hung at one of his sides, while his pride and joy – a reliable American Bisley colt – warmed the other.

  The Legate stopped outside the inn to cast a glance towards the river, trying to identify an obscure dark silhouette on the water. Accompanied by the sound of crunching gravel, two bludgers came out from behind the inn, the lower part of their faces concealed by scarves. The men stopped a few steps away from the Legate and put their arms in the air, signalling that they were not armed.

  “You are expected,” spoke one of them in a gravelly voice, gesturing in the direction of the river. “Please follow us.”

  The masked men were about to surround Sidabras on both sides, but the Legate gave a little smile and raised the lantern, indicating his intention to walk behind the two. A short pathway took them to the riverbank, where a rowing boat swayed on the little waves. The first man was soon in the boat grasping the oars, while the other remained on the riverbank.

  “Please,” he mumbled. He sounded like he was not used to such niceties.

  The Legate got into the boat and placed the lantern on his left, keeping his right hand free. The boat was pushed into the water by a kick of the second man’s foot, allowing the oarsman to row to the middle of the Neris with determination. Sidabras could now take a better look at the dark silhouette on the water, and realised it was a smallish barge, the type used for transporting sand, rocks or coal.

  The boat bumped gently against the low side of the barge, which had little metal steps attached to it. A moment later Sidabras was in the barge, while the man in the rowing boat had pushed himself away and disappeared into the dark.

  Left alone, Sidabras remained absolutely still and listened. All was silent but for the night birds tweeting along the riverbank and the gentle splashing of the oars of the retreating boat. The barge was covered with a blanket of darkness, and only a tiny slit in it – a gap under the closed door – let out a bleak sliver of light.

  Sidabras walked to the door and opened it.

  The cabin was lit by gas lamps, while all the windows were meticulously covered. A small table with appetizers and two crystal glasses stood in the middle of the room, while several long-necked bottles chilled in the ice bucket. Motiejus Kairys[24] – the host of the barge and the kingpin of the Vilnius underworld – sat in a soft armchair, grinning from ear to ear.

  Kairys was a short balding man with a beer belly, who resembled a history or geography teacher a great deal more than a well-seasoned criminal. But the little crooked smile he always wore and his sneering, steely dark eyes stood testament to a different side of his nature. There was nothing in common between this man and school. He could kill anyone who dared to stand in his way.

  Besides, he was the owner of an awe-inspiring hand. Many souls, erroneously thinking that Kairys was Motiejus’ surname, had been taught a painful lesson. His left hand ended in a substantial hook, now resting peacefully on the arm of his chair. No one dared to ask where and under what circumstances the robb
er had lost his own hand, and he preferred to keep the old story to himself.

  “Welcome to my modest floating shelter.” Kairys did not get up but waved his hook towards the other armchair. “Can I offer you some wine? White or red?”

  “Why all the cloak and dagger? Why all this melodrama?” Sidabras smirked, lowering himself into the armchair and boldly filling his glass with white. “And why the boat? Have all of your cellars in the Troubles been let out to birthday parties tonight?”

  Motiejus rang the bell. A moment later the barge gave out a hoot, some invisible watermen began to weigh the creaking anchor and the barge slowly proceeded down the river.

  “Perpetuum mobile, perpetual motion,” muttered Kairys. “A man has to move, he is nothing without movement. Just a tree overgrown with moss, sooner or later destroyed by bark beetles.”

  “Nearing the fag-end of your life has made you a philosopher, Motiejus?” Sidabras remarked bitterly. “What an unexpected turn of events. Yes, it is fine,” he added ambiguously, not clear if approving of Kairys’ latest calling, or praising the white wine.

  “With my four years’ worth of schooling I could hardly be called a philosopher.” Kairys liked to stress his lack of education. Few people had heard about his Doctorate of Science from Erfurt University. “Try the king scallops, Legate. Don’t be shy,” he encouraged. “Fresh from Reval today. I bet with your salary you can’t allow yourself to overindulge too frequently.”

  Sidabras ate the seafood nonchalantly. The men of the Legion were especially handsomely rewarded by the Alliance for their honesty and loyalty, so Kairys’ joke merely conjured the hint of a smile on the Legate’s face.

  Kairys popped a large olive in his mouth, deftly using his hook to grab a glass.

  “I have heard Vilnius is expecting crowds of foreign guests,” he said leaning over and refilling both glasses. “Good time for brothels and inns. Only once in a blue moon you can earn money like that.”

  “We will not be restraining the frolics,” Sidabras replied, his voice demonstrating a lack of interest. “But for any attempted robbery or anything even more unpleasant, we will shoot the culprits without warning. Let your people know. And it will be the same in the Troubles this time.”

  “Without warning... violence... shootings...” Motiejus Kairys looked sad. “I’ve heard that first thing they do in America is read you your rights, then put you in the softest of beds and if you give them some... what are they called... dollars, they let you go home straight away. And only then the decision about you being guilty or not is made. While here it is like – we will catch you and then we will shoot you.”

  Sidabras put his glass down and leaned back in the chair.

  “Motiejus, your wine is exquisite and I can see that your olives and scallops have cost you a good fortune. I congratulate you on that. But now it’s time for you to reveal your reasons for wishing to see me.”

  “Legate, you want to make short work of me.” Kairys was known for his ability to stay on top of things. “I want to have a normal human conversation with you – discuss the latest news, the weather, maybe even a lady or two, but no – you are always in a mad rush. It doesn’t look very Christian, does it?” He shook his head sadly. “But what can you do? These must be the times we live in. I only wanted to ask how things were with you. Are you on any new cases at the moment?”

  Sidabras realised that the time for verbal foreplay was over and popped another olive in his mouth with a bored expression on his face.

  “Thanks to you and the city, I will have enough cases till the day I die,” he said. “As soon as we are done with one, we get a cart-load of new ones. But why are you asking? If by any chance you want to confess, you have my full attention.”

  “That would be a pleasure, but you have forgotten your priest’s cassock,” sniggered Kairys. He suddenly appeared to tire of this jousting, and so he added, “I’ve heard someone has lost their soul to God in Cholera Cemetery.”

  To pretend he had no clue would have been stupid; to lay his cards on the table, unwise; so the Legate elected the third option and remained sitting without batting an eyelid.

  “Victim unknown, cruel murder,” Motiejus Kairys clicked his tongue. “And one more thing – people in the Troubles speak about some vanished papers the poor soul had on him.”

  “You should cross over to our side,” Sidabras suggested with a smile. “We worship the ground such geniuses walk on.”

  “You worship the ground, you were saying?” the king of the Vilnius criminal world contemplated the Legate’s last sentence. “Maybe it’s not such a bad idea after all. But what would you say if I gave you this?” and from under the front of his jacket he pulled out a bundle of folded papers and placed them on the table.

  Sidabras stayed calm, while Kairys indicated appreciation of his experienced opponent’s self-control skills with the slightest movement of his head.

  “Yesterday morning the exhausted Orderly turns up. You have heard about him, haven’t you?” Kairys spoke again. “He is dead tired. He says this is the first time he’s been confronted with this problem. He cannot get rid of it as no one wants to get their hands dirty with this crap. So he tells me, “I’ve brought it to you, although I am fully aware of you being decent traders, never dealing in stolen goods.” Kairys’ little eyes stared piercingly at Sidabras. “What could I do? I took it. I leafed through the papers, inspected the scribbles. But my brain is too weak to understand what they mean, I told myself. However, I did save the papers as a memory of Vanechka. Or, I thought, I might pass them over to my friends.”

  On this occasion, Sidabras’ self-control skills suffered a defeat and he involuntarily raised his eyebrows. Kairys slapped his good hand on his knee and burst out laughing.

  “Really? You didn’t know the beggar’s name? I can’t believe it! Take it, Legate, you are welcome.” Kairys pushed the papers over to Sidabras. “It is Vanechka Skorik, 4th category metalworker from Zimmerman’s Cast Iron Foundry. This information you can have free of charge, but I will ask you to pay for the Orderly’s papers. It’s not that I understand a lot about them, but they seem to be pretty important.”

  “Since when did you run short of funds, Motiejus?” wondered Sidabras.

  “And who is speaking about funds here?” the amazement that lit up Motiejus Kairys’ face could almost be called sincere. “Let us agree: I am giving you the papers while you – the Legate of Vilnius – owe me a favour. You will return it to me when the need arises.”

  Previous police superintendants would have proudly rejected such an offer, or even taken the foolish step of arresting the arrogant thug. But no deal of this sort had been offered by the criminal world previously – why ask for a favour when the entire city police force could be bought for money. All you needed was enough roubles. However, the Legionnaires were a different story – they did not take bribes, so you had to negotiate with them. And the mercenaries had nothing against negotiating with the criminals.

  “Fine.” Sidabras wasted no time thinking. “But only if it doesn’t breach our agreement with the city.”

  “Obviously.” Motiejus pushed the bundle over to Sidabras again. “Take it.”

  Sidabras scanned the documents here and there, then took another sip of his wine and looked at Kairys.

  “Listen, Motiejus, maybe you also know who put Vanechka away?”

  “No, I don’t,” the king of criminals said, regaining a sombre expression. “Nobody knows. It has nothing to do with the Troubles. And that is very strange.”

  The Legate nodded pensively.

  Kairys rang the bell again, at which the barge turned round and started floundering up the stream. Both parties had had enough of each other by now and could not wait for the moment when they could go their separate ways. The barge hooted and came to a stop.

  “Thank you for the treats and the entertaining conversation.” The Legate got up and went over to the door without proffering his hand to Motiejus.

 
; He was almost outside when Kairys’ voice caught up with him.

  “You think all I care about is money? Oh how wrong you are. I also care about this city, which would have no chance of survival without the likes of you, and without the likes of me. While we would not survive without this city.”

  The Legate hesitated for a moment, then walked out with a quiet slam of the door.

  Chapter XVII

  Vilnius, 1:00 am

  24 04 1905

  Night-time Vilnius was very diverse. When Antokolis, Tuskulenai and Zverynas were putting out their lights, Steam City became witness to night-shift workers scurrying to work. Mirth City greeted the morning light with long screams and songs that had continued throughout the night, while the Troubles were swarming with invisible shadows working their way through their little dirty jobs.

  The night saw the usually bustling Town Square left abandoned, with its shops closed and their owners spending the night in Mirth City or the Blots. Locals in search of frolics would traverse the square before losing themselves in the generous embraces of the inns and beer houses there. The square was left to its own peaceful solitude, invaded only by the harsh steps of the night guards – previously the Tsar’s police sergeants – the ting-a-ling of the last street trolley and the melancholic toll of St Casimier’s bells.

  With the bells tolling for one in the morning, the lantern at the end of the Town House Square briefly illuminated four figures in short jackets, who had emerged from a dark gateway. The creatures hastily slipped into Saviciaus Street, which many by force of habit still called Andrejevska, and, having scared a cat on its night prowl, pressed themselves into the wall, disappearing in the draping shadows of other buildings.