Field of Mars (14 page)

‘No,' urged Nikolsky. ‘Continue, please. This is a social occasion and we are among friends,' the young man said with a meaningful look towards Sazonov, who was smiling politely. Rodzianko gave him an almost invisible nod, and so Evdaev launched his torpedoes.

‘I say that if we had fully supported our brothers in the first of these Balkan wars, we could have kept the alliance together, and driven our armies straight through Turkey in a single thrust. And had we been in at the start, our dreadnoughts would be moored at the entrance to the Dardanelles at this very moment, and I would be giving Miki and Pippa a villa on the Aegean for a wedding present.'

Meshchersky laughed, Rodzianko applauded. ‘Continue. Nestor, please . . .' Sazonov said solemnly, polite enough to hear him out. Someone clapped him on the back to start him up again.

‘And had we taken that golden opportunity, the Austrians would have backed down because we would have assured them we had no designs on their territory. That would have been the way to placate them.'

Sazonov nodded, smiled, and glanced down at his shoes. There was a chuckle of disbelief at Evdaev's directness, and to buttress his statements Evdaev turned to Rodzianko. ‘Did you not urge such a course? Did you not say we should profit from the war fever?' For a moment everyone held their breath. After all, Rodzianko was a politician, and his opinions on foreign policy were only the opinions of a loud-voiced civilian who represented the vague force of the ‘people', something unknown waiting in the wings.

Before Rodzianko could speak, Sazonov stepped in, trying to cut the argument short, measuring the men's discretion with a glance. ‘Everyone likes an opportunity, Nestor, but I can tell you the Turkish question was carefully considered and it was rejected at the highest levels,' he said quietly, formally. The men nodded gravely. Everyone knew this meant Tsar Nicholas, there was no higher level.

Sazonov glanced at them with his sharp eyes, nodded and then turned to Evdaev. ‘But, yes, Nestor, I agree. It would have been heroic, a glorious stroke, to take Constantinople.' He reached up and grasped Evdaev's forearm, one Roman to another. ‘Pure heroics, pure glory, fraught with danger, of course, and only history will judge if it was not the best thing to do,' the Foreign Minister said with a small bow, and then left the little circle.

‘He's ill,' Ostrov said.

‘He's next,' Meshchersky shot right back, and they all laughed at Sazonov's departing figure.

By the end of the night, Evdaev found himself by the window staring out at the trees blowing in the glow of the streetlamps. It had begun to rain, a slanting downpour that discouraged one from the prospect of simply getting to one's carriage, making it easier to stay at the party. He was thinking about his own plans to leave the city, spend a bit of time at Soroki, but then he would have to return. He would be busy, Sergei had told him; everything must be ready for the turning of the weather in spring.

Weather, he thought. That was the true story of Russia: a nation held prisoner by the thermometer, hostage of the moon, the snow, the flooding river, the infinite reach of the continent. A titanic nation moulded by titanic forces, that engendered a race of titanic men.

Young Nikolsky came up again and they regarded the street, talked about the misery outside, and then fell into a conversation about money.

‘You know, Nestor, I do not know about this Andrianov,' Nikolsky said. Evdaev turned, suddenly alert. He had not been paying that much attention. Money was not something he was overly interested in. Money was always just . . . there. Like water, food, servants, things assumed to be the basics of life. You reached out and it was already waiting for you. For a moment he looked at Nikolsky, before he remembered that they were all connected through a private syndicate, a pool of twenty or so investors that Sergei had set up. He'd nearly forgotten all about it.

‘Well, Sergei . . . he is certainly a very smart fellow, always up on the latest developments.'

‘He is modern, I'll give him that,' Nikolsky said. ‘Exactly, yes. Modern.'

‘Perhaps a little quick to seize on the latest toy, and you know he's happily in bed with every Jewish banker from here to London,' Nikolsky said sourly, giving him a meaningful look.

Across the room there was a little drama; Sukhomlinov, the ageing Minister of War, had collapsed in the corner with his thick head leaning against the panelling. His young wife was fanning his beet-red face. A butler hovered beside them, and from the far room he saw Dr Lemmers walking briskly, having been fetched to attend the crisis.

‘I'm sure that Andrianov's arrangements, this relationship with . . .' Evdaev began.

‘With the Jews?'

‘Yes, I'm sure it's just temporary. These marketplaces, they are changing all the time, so I am given to understand. And he's a great one for opportunities, and you don't want to throw out the good with the bad.'

‘No, no, Nestor. Money is money. Still . . .'

‘In fact they say he's a genius, in that way. A financial genius, don't you agree?'

‘We're all making money right now, that's sure. Perhaps he may be a genius, but I don't trust those fellows. He practically lives with that crowd at the Stock Market. He has offices in there,' Nikolsky said.

‘Oh, really?' Evdaev said. In fact he had often met Andrianov there for their treasonous conversations.

‘But I suppose we cannot complain,' the younger man sighed.

‘No, as long as the roubles come in, the roubles come in. I get a statement every so often . . .' He shrugged.

‘Yes, but after the flood, Nestor, when all this . . .' Nikolsky made a dismissive gesture at the clot of aristocrats bent over the ailing Sukhomlinov. ‘After, when all these Romanovs and Rasputin-lovers have been cleansed away, then we can see what happens to Monsieur Andrianov, eh?' Nikolsky said, his voice fallen to a whisper. Evdaev looked around to him, but Nikolsky was looking across the room where Sukhomlinov was trying to get on his feet.

For a moment Evdaev was struck dumb. He stood there staring at Nikolsky's hard little face, the spiky ginger hair. After a moment the smaller man turned.

‘Yes, after it's done then you won't need Sergei any more, will you, Nestor?' he said, still wearing that thin-lipped smile. The smile of a man who was never happy, but often amused.

Nikolsky waited for a reply, but Evdaev just gaped. Nikolsky reached up and gave him a pat on the shoulder, made only the slightest bow of his head and reached inside his breast pocket for a cigarette case. ‘Now I must retreat to the balcony . . . to take a little fresh air before the ride home. It always helps me sleep,' he said quietly, and walked away.

Still paralysed, Evdaev watched Nikolsky cross the parquet. The room had grown suddenly hot, full of the perfume and powder of aging matrons, the disgusting smell of the remains of the food that had been spread out on the tables. Hollow laughter echoed through the huge empty rooms of the palace. The party was over and it was long past the time to leave. He felt a sudden trickle of cold perspiration race down his spine.

Across the room Nikolsky paused at the balcony doors, allowed a servant to light his cigarette, and stepped out into the cool air. Involuntarily a smile played across his features. He had laid the bait and it had been taken, the Prince's dismayed expression had been all the confirmation he required. There were only two real factions in Russia these days: those who derived sustenance and protection from the Romanov regime and everyone else. The pairing of Andrianov, the modern industrialist, who owed none of his success to the Tzar, and Evdaev, the ultra-traditional aristocrat with autocracy in his blood, had struck Nikolsky the moment he'd first seen them together. They were opposites, but each had what the other wanted, and now they were allies.

The Tsar couldn't hang on to his throne very much longer. Something was going to happen, and if Nikolsky was to survive the debacle he needed to keep a sharp eye on these two unusual companions. He flicked the cigarette away into the darkness of the Gorchakov gardens and made his way back to the ballroom. Across the floor Evdaev was still there, standing almost at attention. When he looked into his eyes there was the same expression—shock, confusion. Fear. Nikolsky smiled.

Evdaev did not know what kind of animal he was.

ELEVEN

The way Ryzhkov had planned it, they slipped around to Sadovaya, hired the best cab he could find so that they would arrive in front of the bindery in something approaching style.

Vera was furious at the entire scheme, keeping up a running commentary of abuse. He tried to settle her down but gave up when she started screaming at him, ‘. . .
this is what you wanted, right? This is what you wanted
. . .' She was grinning, her eyes narrow, teeth bared in something that wasn't quite a smile. ‘I hope you've got some money, Daddy,' she said. She'd brought a half-empty bottle of champagne along, and once they'd climbed into the cab she threw herself against him and poured a long slug into his mouth. He had to drink just to keep her from knocking out his teeth. Then she kissed him, so hard their teeth knocked together.

‘You say you want to go down into the belly of the beast, that's good. You want to
look around
? All right, I'll show you a few things. I'll show you what's truth and what's lies . . . Don't look so sad,' she smiled at him. ‘You're going to like it,' she said, and reached over and grabbed him by the scrotum and gave him a hard squeeze. ‘I'll show you,' she hissed and then jerked away from him. Then she was pulling him out of the cab and through the gate towards the entrance of the Apollo Bindery. ‘This way . . .' she said, dragging him off the pavement to a side-door where there was a kiosk and she pulled the bell and kissed him again.

‘Vera,' he grabbed her by the arm, pulled her close. ‘We have to make this look good, understand?'

‘Oh, yes. It's going to look good, don't worry, darling,' she said. ‘You want to
know
, you want to know about poor little Katya, you feel so sorry for her, so . . .' There was a noise as a bolt was shifted in the door and a large man peered out.

‘Hey, Yuri! We're here for the party! I've brought someone special for Irini and I'm
dying
to see her,' Vera squealed with delight.

Yuri was a hefty fellow who knew how to follow orders. He frowned. ‘You're not welcome here, little bird—'

‘I've got a special prize here, my friend from—' she turned and hesitated for a moment— ‘all the way from
America
! Tell Irini he's loaded! He's a millionaire just from selling paintbrushes!' She laughed again and then threw herself back on to his arm. Ryzhkov smiled as if he didn't know what was going on.

‘Wait a minute,' Yuri said, closing the door.

‘So now you have to keep quiet all night, eh?' Vera whispered, looking up at him with a particularly evil smile.

‘Straighten up,' he said, knowing it wasn't going to happen. The door opened and a woman was there.

Ryzhkov recognized her immediately as the redheaded madam he had first seen at the front door.

‘Well, well, well . . . My little Vera,' the woman said. Close up Madame Hillé was a horror; the face was a mask of paint and powder, the hair a lacquered helmet with feathers and rhinestones.

‘Oh, my darling!' Vera gushed. ‘I've come to apologize and give you a present, I'd like to introduce my special friend, Mr
Smith
. He's come all the way from the land of cowboys and Indians!' The woman gave him a look, extended her hand, and Ryzhkov, left with no choice, bent to kiss it.

‘And this is Irini, my . . . greatest
teacher
,' she laughed and gave his arm an affectionate squeeze, pulling him close and posing beside him. ‘Oh, Irini, I do want to make up! I hope we're not late, we've come for one of your parties—' She was pleading.

‘Well, my sweet-sweet, you're just in the nick of time and fortunately there are a half-dozen seats left; but
where
have you been, anyway?' Madame Hillé had successfully pried Vera away from him and they swept deeper into the building. Behind them Ryzhkov heard the side-door being fastened by the big man.

‘Well, after what happened . . .' Vera said softly, with just a touch of the other woman's shoulder to apologize. ‘Anyway . . . I'm out of the life now, I'm down at the corner. Dancing at the Komet, it's a theatre.'

‘Dancing! That will be a change, eh? I've heard of that place. Very artistic so they say, and oh, my—you do look like you've lost a little weight!' The woman laughed and poked Vera in the ribs. The two of them suddenly squealed with laughter. Maybe it was an old joke. Now the woman grasped Vera and firmly kissed her on both cheeks. Ryzhkov stood there trying to be amiable.

‘She's good, isn't she,' the woman said, addressing Ryzhkov now, grasping him by his arm. A strong grip. Bright red nails. Trying to draw him out, measure him.

‘He doesn't understand a word, but he's a tycoon from American and he's loaded,' Vera said laughing.

‘Oh, well,
well
! Welcome aboard!' Madame Hillé laughed, giving Ryzhkov an appraising look. ‘Take off your coats, we've already started. Tonight you-are-my-special-guests!' she said loudly to Ryzhkov. He smiled and nodded which drew another embrace and a giggle between the two women.

Madame Hillé stepped back and looked at them both. ‘Well, I know what you like,' she said to Vera, who once again was clutching his arm like a newlywed. ‘But,
you
. . .' She fixed her eye on Ryzhkov, still trying to figure him out, shrugged and quickly gave up. ‘Red or Black?' she said to Vera.

‘Oh, I think Black,' she said modestly.

‘Yes, of course. Yuri will take you up.'

Yuri was big. He filled the narrow side-staircase, once the servants' route to the first floor. The music was louder as they got to the landing and there were only dimmed lights. Ryzhkov put a hand out in front of him, trying to find the big man by touch. Then a curtain moved ahead of them and they entered into a large ballroom that had been converted into a kind of theatre. There was a low stage surrounded by booths that were screened for privacy. They reminded Ryzhkov of the wicker sunbathers' shelters he'd seen in France. Little places where you could hide from the wind.