Field of Mars (25 page)

It was a ridiculous designation, the man looked nothing like a heron, nothing like a bird in fact. He looked more like some pathetic urban rodent . . . like a squirrel polluted by contact with the filth of the streets, become threadbare with vermin and infection. Smyrba could wear the smartest wardrobe in Europe, but he would still be a target of Gulka's disgust. Gulka scanned the report of
Heron
's movements; it contained nothing informative; a list of the man's traffic about the city over the last twenty-four hours, a series of vain, self-serving flailings across the capital. Either fawning to superiors or those from whom he anticipated some favour, his sudden impulses—a fine luncheon at the Klava, a dalliance with the Sakhazinskaya twins, both of them failed sopranos. Passing time over tea with an expensive harlot from whom he bought his narcotics.

Gulka took the report and placed it on the board under the column marked
Heron
and returned to his chair. He had built up nine columns on the two cork panels that spanned the corner of the inner chamber, nine animalistic coded designations.

The panel for
Gosling
had been marked with a black ribbon running down its centre. An effete gesture, the General thought. Almost sentimental, but after all, he admitted, he sometimes felt that way; he prided himself on his charitable Russian heart, his generous and empathetic nature.

Prior to Andrianov's scheme, he had known Baron Lavrik, but only peripherally. He had first known him by his signature connected to bids that were continually issued for all manner of government procurement. In the course of routine activities, they had met once or twice; well, perhaps more, but not that Gulka could recall. He had only a dim memory of the man—an older, stooped sort of fellow, almost invisible really, except for his bizarre forked beard.

Now, the photographs had begun to replace the man.

Of course, he knew that Andrianov had ordered Lavrik's murder without consulting with him, or even informing him of the details afterwards. When they had eventually discussed the matter, Gulka had professed to agree with Andrianov's decision—obviously it was better for the Plan for him not to have been in on it. And he had smiled. Gone into his act, pretended that he had no interest, no cares in the world.

It was always better to be underestimated, Gulka believed. The drunken, dissolute, great, happy
Bear
. The only one of Andrianov's juvenile code names that was appropriate.

Of course it was all about Serbia, and the setting of the spark. He knew that Andrianov was frequently travelling to Belgrade; at least three times within the year, even managing to cross the borders during wartime. There had been veiled and not so veiled references to arms sales or promises of arms to be delivered in the future, all manipulations designed to push the Balkans over the boiling point. And all very profitable.

That was Lavrik's part in the scheme. He was the banker. All the money flowed through him in one way or another, and all of it through numbered or anonymous accounts that Lavrik oversaw. Lavrik was their cut-out. But then when suddenly Lavrik had . . . embarrassed himself, he'd become a liability. Andrianov had wanted Lavrik out of the focus; having made that decision, and no longer having any confidence in Gulka's methods, he'd been forced to go outside for his hired killers. He'd undoubtedly assembled them through his Serbian connections.

They were amateurs, little more than thugs who had operated, as near as he could tell, with a knife and something heavy, like a hammer, to break up the bodies of the baron and his daughter and force them into the casks. There had been no strategy to it, an arrangement made, a slippery walk on the ice, a frigid ride in a rowing boat, a bottle for the
dvornik
. It had been ugly, efficient, and . . .

And . . . it hadn't really worked.

The Serbs would have stuck out like rude cousins in the city for the first time in their lives. Therefore, somewhere along the line they had been seen and noticed. There was still a trail, even though they had left the next morning and effectively vanished into the vastness of Europe, gone from his view. But eventually they would return to his sight. And in the world of secrets, the hand of the Okhrana could stretch across continents and time to work its revenge.

Yes, Andrianov had kept a secret from him, Gulka thought. The idea was tinged with bitterness. Gulka had risen to a position in the realms of power where any betrayal, the keeping of a secret, the utterance of a slur, even a duplicitous look, would earn the guilty party an ‘accidental' death. But in this case one had to weigh the consequences. One had to take things into account. It was like a game where you were either being used, or using. Betrayal was certain, but you never knew when it would come. Sergei Andrianov's foolishness had slowed him down and shifted the advantage; he'd only been able to pursue the Serbs
after
the murders were reported to the St Petersburg police. It had cost him eight hours. And he was hampered because even he had to be discreet in his pursuit.

He knew what Andrianov had told him, the general outline of the Plan, the identity of
Eagle
, and the desired solution to Russia's problems. In theory the organizers were a troika, combining their talents and resources, but Sergei was the creator and had always been the principal financier—the first among equals. In the last months Gulka had constantly researched Andrianov's activities. He took his clues from things Andrianov had told him directly and from other leads that he had been able to ferret out using his own resources—and he had discovered more. Much more. In addition to his legitimate businesses Andrianov had a plethora of schemes going, deals on the side and various speculative affairs. Gulka harvested every scrap of information; it was like trying to draw a detailed map of a cloud.

Ultimately Sergei would fail because ultimately Sergei was a braggart. A quiet braggart, a very composed man. Dignified until the point where he felt safe. Then he'd suddenly erupt and describe for you how smart and vicious he was. Who better to listen than the big dumb bear. Yes, Sergei, no Sergei, what a wonderful idea, Sergei.

But . . . behind his subservient pose Gulka knew more.

He knew where the money was going, because he could follow it through the banking system via his agents in the Ministry of Finance. His control of the St Petersburg police was absolute, and, of course, there were the daily reports of the thousands of Okhrana agents, from the Internal, External, and Foreign branches that were available for his perusal. He could direct all these resources as he wished, and indeed this was his function within Sergei's plan. So . . . for now he would play along, enjoy the food, count the money, and be the big, dumb bear, smiling dumbly up at his master.

A buzzer sounded, and he unlocked the door, moved through the little
Red
room, checked the peephole, unlocked the door and rolled in the tea cart that had been left in the corridor, then re-locked everything behind himself, until he could pour a glass of strong tea and settle back into the comfort of his chair.

Andrianov must be feeling quite comfortable, quite satisfied with himself. He had eliminated the pervert, Lavrik, thus repairing what had been a mistake that had threatened to ruin everything. Moreover, Andrianov had done it in a way that insulated him and the rest of the Guard against discovery. Now he would be turning his attention to other details of the Plan.

It would come in the summer, Gulka thought. Perhaps as early as the spring, as soon as the roads were judged good enough to travel. Knowing the exact nature of the spark, its timing and location, was crucial. Andrianov had showed the limits of his trust, and Gulka was certain that the moment Andrianov thought he wasn't needed that he would try and jettison him. Perhaps Evdaev was in on it, too. Once he was on the throne, and all powerful, then Gulka would be
his
chained bear. Either of the two men might turn on him, he thought. Was Evdaev capable of action independent from Sergei? It was hard to imagine.

Spring would be precarious. As the weather began to change, that's when he would monitor Andrianov's movements most carefully, how his money changed hands, his travelling arrangements. He wouldn't go down for Sergei Andrianov, Gulka knew that much. If anyone swung at the end of a rope, it wasn't going to be him. He would learn the identity of the Serbian killers soon enough. He had his own connections in Belgrade, he had money and a bolthole set up in Stockholm, and he would have a fast car warmed up on the big day, and another to change to on the road to the border.

Alternatively he would use the identity of the Serbian killers to lever Andrianov into submission. When it became practical he'd have them picked up one by one and bribe or torture them into informing on each other, then he'd run them back to their paymaster, until he had evidence to arrest Andrianov for instigation of murder, and even, if it came to that, to include him in plotting with Evdaev to topple the Tsar. And if someone should strike at him, he could make sure that the evidence would come out and bring down his attackers. He would strike back, yes . . . even from the grave. A slow smile crept across his face.

He would be ready.

Through any frustration that they could throw at him, he'd be ready. Oh, it was bad enough to be having a failure like Lavrik jeopardize the entire scheme, but what was more troubling was that, even after his precautions and everything he had done to quash enquiries, one rogue Okhrana investigator had somehow attached himself to the case.

He had devoted an entire cork-panelled wall to the activities of this low-level man from the Internal Agency. He had retraced his movements through sheaves of daily, weekly and monthly reports that the more-than-thorough officer had penned and submitted. He had followed his requests for actions, approvals, for equipment and additional funds to pursue the investigation, and Gulka, while giving the man enough rope, had quietly done all he could to delay, obfuscate and otherwise thwart his pursuit.

He had told Andrianov only the minimum, purposely keeping the man blissfully unaware, allowing him to enjoy his vacation with his mistress in France, even as the sewage was starting to seep through the flooring. Sergei was turning berry-brown in the French sunshine, secure that Lavrik's murder had ended any danger. Dead, he was no longer vulnerable should anyone come looking. The cut-out had worked, just as Sergei had known.

But in reality, he knew nothing.

All of Andrianov's cunning, his savagery, and his hired killers hadn't stopped the activities of a single officer. Oh, it was nothing dramatic, nothing but a string of routine requests—for information, legal permissions, search and seizure protocols—all of it coming from the station at 17 Pushkinskaya.

The investigating officer must have an unusually ethical nature, Gulka thought. Or maybe he too had sensed an opportunity, maybe he had been blackmailing Lavrik as well, and now his personal money tree had been chopped down? Anything was possible.

But it didn't feel like that . . . Not from the formal paper requests, or the subsequent reports that had been filed.

He rubbed his heavy hands over his stubbly hair, trying to concentrate. Perhaps he should get out and meet this very special man, this unique Okhrana agent. Take the measure of the enemy, then, at the right moment he could simply be re-assigned. Or, even better, promoted to a position where he would be out of the way.

That would end things.

Gulka stood, the fatigue coming on him suddenly now that he was ready to make a decision. He walked over to the cork panel and looked at the photographs of the rogue Okhrana investigator—a man who was now fast becoming his worst threat. Someone to either be finessed or killed before the summer was out.

He smiled.

In a way he was proud. He couldn't help being proud . . . yes, here was a real hero of the Third Branch, actually the kind of agent the service needed. A man of quality and persistence. Perhaps after everything cleared, after the dust had settled from the collapse of the House of Romanov, this rare man could be brought back into the service. It would be tricky. He might not be able to spare the man's life. But perhaps if he could be shuffled far enough from the centre of things, he'd always remain in the dark, never knowing how close he had come to uncovering the plans of the Sacred Guard.

Gulka stared more intently at the images: the first was a standard service identity photograph, updated every three years. It was a stiff portrait, a man staring simply ahead, eyes and expression neutral, neck unnaturally stiff. Neither innocent nor guilty.

Beside it was a series of photographs, taken by a camera with a special lens, looking down from an upstairs window in a rented apartment across the street from 17 Pushkinskaya Street, the front from which the man's section operated. These showed a different side of his enemy—a shabbily dressed man, neglectful of his appearance, yet perfectly achieving a mask of anonymity—all of it provided by his simple overcoat, a fedora jammed down over his ears, a scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. A cigar raised halfway to his lips . . . blurred with motion as he waited to cross the icy street.

A great investigator, Gulka nodded with an almost invisible smile. A very special man, whose life, death, or salvation was his to command: a pathetic policeman who had unknowingly elevated himself to become the most dangerous man in all of Russia: Chief Inspector Velimir Antonovich Zezulin.

TWENTY-TWO

‘We must have surprised them.' The manager looked as if he were going to collapse from the excitement. ‘I thought I heard noises, as I was unlocking the door. At first I thought, well, frankly I thought it was birds,
pigeons
outside the doors, but then, you see, I realized, once inside . . . from the smell.'

The St Petersburg Police Commander glanced around the large showroom. There was, indeed, a low cloud of smoke, a smell of burned metal that still lingered, caused by the thieves when they had attempted to cut their way through the thick door of the safe that was walled into the back of Khrisloff's, the famously exclusive house of jewellers. During the night there had been a robbery, and upon arriving, the commander had immediately been presented with a list of the stolen items.