The Jewel of St Petersburg (68 page)

“I can only do so much. When you remove a dam from the river, you cannot tell it not to flow. But”—he lifted his head from the pillow and kissed her slender throat above him on the bed—“I will do what I can. To protect you.”

She moved her hips in rhythm to his as she lay astride him, her breasts soft as satin as they brushed over his chest, and a low sigh punctuated her words. “I don’t need protection.” She pressed her lips hard on his mouth, and her tongue sought his as if she would starve without it.

Forty-one

A
SOUND LIKE THE HAMMER OF THOR POUNDED THROUGH the city of Petrograd and rattled the windows like bones in a grave. It startled Valentina from her book and woke Lydia, who scurried in her nightdress into her mother’s bed with wide excited eyes. Valentina could feel her daughter’s heart fluttering as she held her close. She looked at the clock. It was nine forty-five in the evening of October 24, 1917.

“Is it thunder, Mama?”

“No, my love. It sounds like a gun.”

Lydia’s eyes grew large as plates. “A big one.”

“Yes, a very big one. I think it’s a ship’s gun.”

“Which ship?”

“I don’t know.” But her blood froze in her veins. She was certain what it was: a signal for the revolution to start.

Arkin could have told her. It was the
Aurora
.

I
T WAS FOUR O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING AND VALENTINA stood under the freezing night sky, watching her world burn. There were no stars, no comets, nothing spectacular to mark the event. But somewhere in the distance above the roofs of the city, a fire was burning a hole in the darkness and its glow stripped away any last shred of hope in her heart that Russia could pull itself back from the brink.

What did it mean? For Jens. For her daughter. For her parents. Their world had gone. The ground beneath her feet was shifting, and her hand gripped onto the wrought-iron gates of her house as if their flimsy metal could stop the universe from crashing down on her.

Jens, are you here in the city? Did you hear the ship’s gun?

She was convinced he was still alive, still breathing in the same night air she was breathing. Why Arkin wouldn’t put a bullet in the brain of the man who had crippled him, she had no idea, but nothing would convince her he was dead. Nothing. She tightened her grip on the icy metal of the gate. It was the way his thoughts seemed to seep in to her mind. She would be stirring kasha in a saucepan, morning porridge for breakfast, and suddenly she would hear him sigh and know he was picturing the way she tucked her hair behind her ear and clenched the tip of her tongue between her teeth when she was concentrating. She would swing around from the stove, but he was never there. Or when she was angry with the urchins downstairs for kicking a ball through a window when glass was impossible to obtain, she heard Jens thinking at that exact moment that the country’s children were illiterate and that the first thing the revolution must bring about was free and compulsory education for all.

She clung to his thoughts. As each one slipped into her mind, she wrapped it carefully as one would a precious object in cotton-wool, collected them the way a lepidopterist collects butterflies. She took them out to listen to again and again while she lay in their bed at night, holding his pillow. Now she watched the fire push back the darkness of the city but her own darkness remained, solid and absolute.

“You’ll not find him in those flames.” The voice came at her out of the night.

“Liev?”

Liev Popkov’s huge form stepped out of the shadows into a pool of lamplight so she could see it was him. Bigger than ever. A patch covered the empty eye socket and black corkscrew curls spilled down over the scar on his forehead. She was pleased to see him. That surprised her.

“No horses now?” He gestured toward the stables where he used to play cards with Jens, and it occurred to Valentina for the first time that he must miss his friend.

“No, I sold them.”

Without even asking, whole families had moved into her stables as soon as they were empty, sleeping in the stalls, wrapped up in straw at night and eating oats from the tubs. She didn’t object. She didn’t care. She wanted to feel something for them, but she couldn’t. People like these were the reason she had lost her husband. Lost her sister. These were the ones Arkin was fighting for.
Don’t you see what you’re doing
? she wanted to shout at them.
Don’t you see that you’re destroying all that is good about Russia, as well as all that is bad?

Quickly she drew Popkov out of the light. “You have news?”

“Yes.”

“About Jens?”

“No.”

She made no sound, not even the faintest gasp, though disappointment was cracking her bones. “Who then?”

He gave a chuckle and she wanted to seize his beard and shake it. “Who?” she asked again.

“A man called Erikov. I’ve heard he has Comrade Lenin’s ear.”

“What’s that to me?”

“His name is Viktor Erikov.”

Her heart stopped. “Viktor Erikov?”

“Arkin has changed his name. That’s why we couldn’t find the murdering bastard.”

“Why would he do that?”

The big shadow shifted. “Because of your family. Because the name of Arkin was too close to Minister Ivanov. He’s putting distance between them.”

She nodded. “Do you know where he is?”

“Not yet. But I will.”

“You’ll tell me?”

“Da.
It will probably get you killed, but I will tell you. Stay indoors till then.”

“Where are the revolutionaries?”

“Everywhere. The bloody Bolsheviks have occupied the railway stations and taken over the telephone exchange. They’ve even stormed the State Bank. They mean business, so stay indoors.”

“Thank you, Liev.”

A shrug and he turned to leave.

“Liev.” She held on to his arm. It felt like rock. “I’m sorry about your eye. Take care of yourself.”

He growled something inaudible, a deep rumble in his granite chest, and loped away into the night.

S
TAY HERE, LYDIA. KEEP THE DOOR LOCKED. DO NOT OPEN it to anyone.”

“What if I want the lavatory, Mama?”

“Use the bucket.”

The dainty nose wrinkled in distaste.

“I mean it, Lydia.”

“Where are you going?”

“To find Papa.”

The small heart-shaped face beamed back at her. “Can I come?”

“No. You must be good. Papa will only come back if you are good.”

“I’ll be good, Mama.”

Her daughter put on her angel face, but Valentina wasn’t fooled. “I mean it. Don’t unlock the door. Promise me.”

“I promise.”

She kissed her daughter’s wild hair and made herself believe her.

V
ALENTINA!”

She stood in Dr. Fedorin’s doorway but glanced warily over her shoulder. The city was quiet now. Like a wolf sleeping after a good night’s kill. But that didn’t mean it wouldn’t kill again.

Fedorin pulled her into his house and shut the door quickly. “You shouldn’t be out on the streets today, Valentina. It’s too dangerous.”

“I just came to find out what you’d heard.”

“My dear girl, the city has exploded in our faces. The Bolshevik revolution is tearing Petrograd apart, and their Red Guard is arresting anyone and everyone who isn’t one of their own. Factory bosses, bankers, and politicians of every kind are—” He stopped as he saw her lips turn white.

“My father is one of those politicians.”

He shook his head in despair. “Don’t go to him, my dear.”

“I have to. What about you?”

“Don’t worry, I’m safe. I’m a doctor. They are going to need me. I see you have your nurse’s uniform on, so that should help to keep you safe, too.”

She opened the door in a hurry. “That’s what I’m counting on.”

I
T HAD GONE WELL. BETTER THAN ARKIN DREAMED OF. Kerensky’s government had rolled over like a dead sheep and allowed the Reds to seize power. But—he smiled to himself as he considered Kerensky’s stupidity—tonight would come as a shock. Tonight at the Winter Palace they would all be arrested. Kerensky’s cabinet would be locked in the cells of the Peter and Paul Fortress before the day was finished. He walked around and around his office to ease the ache in his leg and waited for the next prisoners to be brought in.

His mind turned to Friis. Every day he thought of the engineer. And of the Ivanova girl. They were thorns in his flesh that he couldn’t cut out, however sharp his blade. He drew on his cigarette, drowning his lungs in smoke but unable to drown the image of the pair of them that was lodged in his mind, the memory of them running through the rain together, arms linked, unable to keep their eyes off each other.

She’d been right. Valentina Ivanova knew exactly what she was doing. He did think of her every day, just as she’d said he would, but the irony was that if he didn’t have a crippled knee he would probably be dead by now. Valentina had saved his life. He would have been forced into uniform long ago and packed off to the front in the useless war against Germany. He would have been cannon fodder, mown down on a battlefield somewhere, and Valentina would have been free of him. Except for the child,
his
child, she would always have that part of him. If it was his. He could never be sure of that, could he?

He wiped a hand across his face and stifled the familiar drag in his guts whenever he thought of the child. He was tired. No sleep. Too many fears about tonight and about the knives that would be aimed at his back by his fellow comrades the moment he held a degree of power in his hands.

He sat down at his desk and snapped at the soldier outside his door, “Next prisoner!”