The Firebird

by Susanna Kearsley

  I took my time with the washing-up, although there weren’t many dishes to deal with. But when I came out again into the sitting room, Rob wasn’t watching TV. He had sat himself down at my desk in the corner, where earlier I had switched on my computer, and with his head propped on one hand he was reading what looked like a digital scan of an old book.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “The Old Scots Navy, by James Grant,” he told me. “I’m getting to know Captain Gordon.”

  “The man Anna left with? You found him?”

  “I did. Mrs. Ogilvie said that his first name was Thomas.”

  “When did she say that?”

  “When she was talking to those English guys,” he told me, “at the bar.”

  I took his word for it. “And?”

  “Captain Thomas Gordon,” he said, clicking back to open up the screen for Wikipedia. “Or Admiral Thomas Gordon, as he later was. That’s him, right?”

  I leaned closer in, to look over Rob’s shoulder at the image of a painted portrait on the screen. It showed an older man than we had seen, white-wigged and softer round the chin than I remembered, but the eyes were still the same, and he was standing with the same square-shouldered confidence. “That’s him.”

  “He used to be a captain in the Old Scots Navy,” Rob said, “and it seems he was acquainted with our friend the Earl of Erroll up at Slains. But after Scotland lost its independence in the Union, there was no Scots Navy anymore. They took the Saltire down and flew the Union Jack instead, and after that Queen Anne died and the military men like Captain Gordon had to swear an oath to say they’d only serve King George. I guess his conscience wouldn’t let him swear that, not when in his heart he thought James Stewart was the rightful king, and so he quit.” Rob turned his head so I could see the crinkles of good humor at the corners of his own eyes. “Guess where he became an admiral?”

  “Where?”

  To answer me, he scrolled down to show me a subheading: Later Career—Russian Navy.

  “You’re joking.”

  “The tsar himself, Peter the Great, hired him on as a captain, and brought him to Russia.”

  I read through the article. “Yes, but it doesn’t say where…?”

  Rob switched screens again to the page of another scanned history book, this one about Scottish soldiers in Russia. He pointed the paragraph out. “To St. Petersburg.”

  “Wow.” It was more than I’d let myself hope for—the link that tied Anna not only to Russia, but also to St. Petersburg. And if the tsar himself had hired Captain Thomas Gordon, and had known him, it was possible that Anna could have met the tsar’s wife: Catherine.

  I looked at the long row of reference tabs open across the top of the computer screen, showing the trail of his search. “You’ve been busy,” I said. “Thanks for doing all this.”

  “Aye, well, I’m only an ordinary constable, not a detective, but I can still find the occasional suspect. If you tell me where the paper is for that,” he nodded briefly at my printer, “I can print you off the whole of it, so you can take it with you.”

  I’d have much rather taken him with me instead. How on earth was I going to manage to find Anna all on my own, without Rob?

  While he printed the pages, he opened a new search window, saying, “It might help to find a few maps, as well, showing the place as it would have looked then…”

  I was glad I was standing behind him, so he couldn’t see me, or know from my face how uncertain I suddenly felt. “Rob, I wish—”

  The imperative ring of my mobile cut in as Rob angled his head to look over his shoulder, his eyes waiting patiently for me to finish my sentence. Except that those eyes were a part of my problem, I thought. When they watched me like that it was hard to remember what I’d meant to say.

  The mobile rang a second time. I dragged my gaze from Rob’s and told him, “That’ll be Sebastian.”

  And it was. “You’re back.” Sebastian sounded pleased. “And how was Belgium?”

  “Lovely, thanks.”

  “And how’s your… friend?”

  “Stop fishing.”

  When I glanced at Rob I caught the glint of something in his eyes I took to be amusement, though in hindsight I decided it was mischief. Rising from the chair, he stretched to his full height and crossed the floor behind me, with a light touch on my back as he went past. He said, “I’m going to take a shower.”

  There was silence on my phone line for a moment, then Sebastian’s voice said, “Well, well, well.”

  I sighed. “You wanted something?”

  “Only to go over your instructions for St. Petersburg.”

  “That sounds very formal.” I smiled. “Is this Mission Impossible, then? Will my phone self-destruct when you finish?”

  “Let’s hope not. How else will I talk to you while you’re in Russia? Now listen,” he said. “Here’s your schedule.”

  I jotted it down while he spoke. It was simple enough. My plane landed in mid-afternoon in St. Petersburg. After that I had only to go to the hotel and rest. Then on Friday, I’d meet with Sebastian’s friend Yuri, who worked at the Hermitage. He would be able to update me on the exhibit, and Wendy Van Hoek. Wendy herself was due to arrive in St. Petersburg Friday evening.

  “There’s supposedly an opening reception on the Sunday,” said Sebastian, “but I’m hoping Yuri can find some more private place to introduce you. Either way, you have till Monday morning to convince her she should sell the Surikov to us, for Vasily. Monday afternoon, you fly back here to share a victory drink.”

  “You have a lot of faith.”

  “In you? Of course. I trained you, after all.”

  That made me smile against the phone. “How are you getting on with Gemma?”

  “She’s very good.”

  “You’re being nice?”

  “You have to ask?”

  “With you? Of course.”

  He laughed and let me score the point, then smoothly hit the ball back to me. “Shouldn’t you be showering?”

  “Good night, Sebastian.”

  “Seriously, Nicola,” he asked me. “Is this somebody whose name I should remember?”

  “He’s a friend,” I said. “That’s all.” And ringing off, I went to pack my suitcase for St. Petersburg. It didn’t take me long. I had my suitcase zipped and standing ready in the entry hall before Rob reappeared. He smelled of soap, his hair still damply curled against his forehead from the shower, and he’d changed into a plain clean T-shirt and a pair of tracksuit bottoms that were evidently what he meant to sleep in.

  “Will ye help me with the bed?”

  “What? Oh. Sure.” I felt as tangled up inside as if I’d been an adolescent, and purposely I kept my eyes away from his the whole time we were pulling off the cushions of the sofa bed and swinging out the mattress. I fetched sheets and blankets and an extra pillow from the airing cupboard, and we made the bed together, one of us on either side. And then I said, a bit too cheerfully, “Good night, then.”

  “Nick?”

  Again too brightly, “Yes?”

  “What do you wish?”

  My gaze did lift to his, then, startled. “Sorry?”

  He sat nonchalantly on the bed’s edge, barefoot. “Earlier, afore your boss called, you were saying that you wished for something.”

  “Oh. Right.” It seemed harmless to say it, since there was no way it could actually happen. “I wish you could come to St. Petersburg with me, that’s all. But you can’t. You need a visa to get into Russia,” I said. “I’ve already got mine, it’s for business and lasts a full year, so I just come and go as I please, but you’d need one for tourists, and even a rushed one takes time. I’d have been there and back before you ever got one.” I forced a smile. “Anyhow. I’ve got a lot more to go on now, haven’t I? Thanks to you.”

  “Anytime.” He stretched out full length on the bed, settling back with his hands linked behind his head, closing his eyes. “You’ll do fine.”


  I didn’t argue that. I only said good night again and crossed to my own room, and closed the door.

  ***

  He was holding me.

  I surfaced in the darkness of my bedroom to the feeling of his head close by my own, his warmth beside me, one leg nudging mine beneath the blankets, and his arm a settled weight across my stomach.

  “Rob.”

  He didn’t move. I lay there for a moment, coming fully into consciousness, and then I let my eyes close while I let myself relax into the strange and unexpected situation. I had never shared a bed with him before. And though I knew he shouldn’t be here with me now, I somehow lacked the will to wake him right away and make him leave.

  He was too warm, his hold too strong and too possessive to be easily dislodged, and I had never felt so perfectly protected, and at peace.

  I wasn’t sure when he’d come in. I hadn’t been aware of it, nor had I thought he’d make a move like this when he’d been acting all this time as though he were no longer interested. But clearly there’d be complications if I let him stay and didn’t wake him; if we both woke up together in the morning, in my bed. I knew I’d have to make a move.

  It would be easier, I thought, for me to simply go and sleep out in the sitting room myself. That way I wouldn’t have to shift him. Taking care, I slowly reached across to lift his arm from where it lay across my stomach.

  Then I stopped, because there wasn’t any arm there.

  My own fingers brushed the fabric of my top, confusingly. My hand moved farther, to where I could feel the warmth of him… and touched the empty blanket. Even more confused, I turned my head against the pillow.

  I was in the bed alone.

  But still I felt the hold of his embrace. I felt it even when I sat up, pushed the blanket off, and stood. I felt it while I eased my bedroom door open and, careful not to make a sound, went tiptoeing across the silent sitting room to see with my own eyes what seemed impossible.

  He lay sleeping as I’d felt him—on his side, with one arm resting on the rumpled sheets, protectively. And looking at his face I felt a swift, insistent tug beneath my heart, as though someone had tied a string around my ribs and pulled it sharply.

  Breathing in, I focused, with my gaze still steady on his sleeping features, and I very, very gently pushed his mind from mine. He didn’t wake.

  I felt the cold, without him. Even after I’d returned to my own bed and burrowed deep within the blankets, I felt cold. And worse was yet to come, I knew. It wasn’t such a hard thing to make Rob let go of me, I thought, but how in heaven, after this, could I let go of him?

  Chapter 22

  Rob glanced down at his watch, then scanned the traffic just ahead of us. “Your flight’s at half-past nine, ye’ve no got time.”

  “It’s barely six o’clock. Besides, it’s on our way. And trust me, it will only take five minutes.” I was ready for his sidelong glance, and met it with full innocence.

  “Five minutes?” he repeated, to be sure.

  I gave a nod. “He said he’d have it ready for me.”

  “When did he say that?”

  “I rang him earlier.”

  “Earlier?” Rob raised an eyebrow. “What is he, nocturnal?”

  “Very nearly. Here,” I said. “Turn left here, and then right just where that other car is turning.”

  I’d grown up here, in this little terraced house in Acton, with its 1920s pseudo-Tudor timbers trying hard to make it look distinguished in a slightly dodgy neighborhood.

  My grandfather answered the door fully dressed, freshly shaven, his thickly white hair brushed back neatly. He always took pride in his clothes and appearance, and even at his age he looked rather dashing. He shot a suspicious look over my shoulder to where Rob stood leaning against the parked car at the curbside. “Who is that boy?”

  Rob had shuttered his thoughts, I knew, at my request. “If he knows what you are,” I’d told Rob, “then he’ll give me a lecture. And that will take more than five minutes.”

  I kept my reply simple. “That’s Rob, Granddad.”

  “Your fancy boss gave you a driver?”

  “He isn’t my driver.”

  “He opened the door for you.”

  “Yes, he’s got very good manners,” I said. “But he’s only a friend.”

  With a final hard stare beneath lowering eyebrows, my grandfather switched his attention from Rob back to me when I asked, “Did you manage to find it?”

  “The book? Yes, yes, I know where it is.”

  I could sense the faintest cautionary nudge about the time from Rob, as I went in the house behind my grandfather, but after all, it had been Rob who’d said last night that it would be a help to me to have an old map I could use for reference.

  And I’d suddenly remembered, just this morning, where I’d find old maps.

  The book was on the table by the fireplace in the sitting room, beside the half-drunk cup of tea and partly finished crossword that was evidence my grandfather had been awake awhile, and on his own. “Is Mum at work?”

  He gave a nod. “The hospital was busy place at three o’clock this morning. Was an accident. They telephoned to call your mother in to the laboratory.”

  My mother was frequently working odd hours. I was sorry I’d missed her, and said so.

  My grandfather shrugged. “She would only have been curious,” he said, “about your driver. She’d ask questions. Is as well that you have only me.” He handed me the book. “Here, take it. Keep it. I don’t want.”

  It was a history of St. Petersburg, in photographs, old drawings, maps, and paintings, with small passages of text. A proper coffee-table book. I could remember when my father had come home with it, excited to have found it in the bookshop round the corner from the school where he was teaching, and he’d given it so proudly to my grandfather. “That’s where you came from, isn’t it? St. Petersburg.”

  My grandfather, accepting the gift graciously, had set it on the table, where it stayed at least a year before he’d put it in the cupboard in the corner. I had never seen him open it.

  My father, loving all things Russian as he did, had never fully noticed that my grandfather had done his best to cut away all ties that might have bound him to his homeland, and the city where he’d suffered the experiments that had forever changed him and embittered him and left him so distrustful.

  I’d never learned the full story of how they’d got out of the Soviet Union—my mother had been ten, and could only remember an overland journey through Finland, she thought, and my grandfather wouldn’t give details—but I knew it hadn’t been easy, though he’d always counted it well worth the cost. He had changed his name, after arriving in London, from Ivan Kirilovich Birkin to John Birkin, which to his ears sounded practically English. A good English name, for a man who was finished with being a Russian.

  He looked at the book in my hands, and said, “I would have got rid of that long ago, but it would have made your mother sad. Is good you need it now. You keep it, Nicola.”

  I thanked him. “It will come in handy.”

  “Why do you want to go back to that place? I don’t know. You should go to Miami. Is warm in Miami.”

  “I’m going for work.”

  “Work.” His face told me just what he thought of my job, but we’d had that discussion enough times he didn’t seem keen to revisit it now. All he asked was, “Are you staying long in St. Petersburg?”

  “Only till Tuesday.”

  “You don’t drink the water.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You don’t forget. It makes you sick, that water.”

  “I promise,” I said. “I won’t drink it. But speaking of drink, shall I bring you back vodka?” The one thing he hadn’t renounced, of his heritage. “What flavor, this time?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe if you can find the black currant. And one without flavor.”

  “All right.”

  When he walked me back out, he again looked at R
ob with suspicion. “He looks,” he said, “like a policeman.”

  “He is a policeman.”

  My grandfather frowned. “Then you don’t bring him back again, Nicola. Is not good, to have a policeman out there where my neighbors can see.” He glared at Rob, who raised his head and met the glare with perfect calm.

  For one unsettling moment, I imagined that I saw a flash of recognition play across my grandfather’s stern features, and thought perhaps that he and Rob were speaking to each other with their thoughts, but then I realized how ridiculous that was.

  “He never talks to me that way,” I’d said to Rob, when we were driving down to Ypres.

  “He likely hears you, though,” had been Rob’s comment.

  I kissed my grandfather good-bye and tried. Good-bye, Granddad.

  I could feel his mind shove mine back, even as his arms embraced me. “Be well, Nicola. Come home safe.”

  And then, as it had always been, the door was closed between us.

  ***

  I was quiet on the drive to Heathrow. I wanted to think it was only because I was tired and a little distracted, and not because Rob would be dropping me off and then leaving, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

  I had thought of and discarded several speeches by the time I realized Rob had parked the car, and since I hadn’t been expecting that, it threw me momentarily off balance so that I could only come around and stand beside him while he took my suitcase from the boot, my mind still searching for the proper words to say.

  I started with, “You didn’t have to park, you know. It costs too much.”

  He set my suitcase on its wheels and reached back into the boot as I carried on, “And anyway, this is the long stay car park, Rob. It’s not—” I broke off when he hefted out a duffle bag and slung it on his shoulder before slamming shut the boot. And then I asked, “What are you doing?”

  “Coming with you.”

  “Rob, you can’t.”

  He took my suitcase in his other hand and motioned me to go ahead. “Try walking and arguing at the same time, or the courtesy coach will be leaving us here.”

  I stayed right where I was. “But you can’t come.”