The People's Will (24 page)

‘Iuda?’ interjected Konstantin.

‘Cain,’ clarified Mihail.

Aleksandr nodded. ‘You know why Cain was so interested in my uncle?’

‘Because of Zmyeevich. He believes Pyotr the Great betrayed him. He believes that if he can persuade one of Pyotr’s descendants to drink his blood and die with that blood in their veins then they will become, like him, a
voordalak
, and be sway to his will.’ Mihail felt momentarily foolish, just as when he had first spoken the word ‘
voordalak
’ in front of his schoolfriends, and they had laughed at his beliefs.

No laughter came from either of those present.

‘You can imagine what that would mean if the Romanov in question were tsar,’ said Aleksandr grimly.

Mihail nodded. ‘That was the genius of what my grandfather and your uncle planned. Once Zmyeevich had tried to wield his influence on Aleksandr – tried and failed – he had no power over any other Romanov of that generation. While Aleksandr lived, Zmyeevich was powerless against any other Romanov, and yet Aleksandr himself – Fyodor Kuzmich – was a nobody.’

‘Fyodor Kuzmich died almost twenty years ago,’ announced the tsar.

Mihail had guessed as much. ‘He outlived my grandfather, then.’

‘From what my father told me, Aleksandr regarded Aleksei as a friend.’

‘Tsar Nikolai knew, then?’

‘Volkonsky told him, but every tsar has known of Zmyeevich. Since the days of Pyotr the knowledge has been passed down. Every tsarevich must be told by his father.’ He paused and his face grew sallow. ‘It is a duty I have had to perform twice.’

Mihail understood. The current tsarevich, Aleksandr Aleksandrovich, was not the tsar’s eldest son. The first tsarevich, Nikolai Aleksandrovich, had died aged just twenty-one. ‘And your other brothers? They know too?’

‘Just Kostya.’

Mihail swallowed. How was he meant to put the next question? ‘And have you … heard from Zmyeevich?’

The tsar stood and walked across the room, his hands clasped behind his back once again. He stood in front of a tall mirror and gazed at Mihail in its reflection, as if to prove that Zmyeevich had not taken him already.

‘I have seen with his eyes,’ he said.

‘What?’ It was evidently news to Konstantin.

‘For the past few months I have seen things that I should not see. I have looked down at my hands and they have not been mine. They are old, and there is a ring shaped like a dragon.’

‘You should have told me,’ said Konstantin.

‘It was just as Papa said it would be, though he never experienced it himself. Aleksandr spared him that.’

‘But Zmyeevich has attempted nothing more?’ asked Mihail.

‘He has not approached me directly, nor sent his emissary.’

‘Cain, you mean?’

‘Cain must be dead by now, but Zmyeevich will have found another.’

‘No,’ explained Mihail. ‘Cain is not dead. He has become like Zmyeevich, though they’re no longer allies.’ He paused, unsure how they would take the news. ‘I believe that they are both here, in Petersburg.’

‘Here?’

‘Cain is Zmyeevich’s captive.’

‘Why hold him captive? Why not kill him?’

‘I think Cain has knowledge that Zmyeevich wants. It’s unlikely he’d kill him – he had the chance and didn’t take it.’ Mihail chose not to mention Dmitry. After the awe with which they had
spoken of Aleksei, Mihail could not bring himself to reveal the fate of his son.

‘How can we help?’ asked Aleksandr, returning to his chair.

‘I really don’t know, not until I have more information. Perhaps you’re in a better position to find out than I am.’

‘This is not your battle,’ said Konstantin.

‘You’re right,’ Mihail answered without hesitation, ‘it’s not. But to the degree our interests coincide we can help one another.’

‘Your interests are not in saving your emperor?’ It was hard to tell whether Aleksandr was more astonished or amused.

‘I’m interested in only one thing: Iuda – Cain. All I ask is that you leave him for me to deal with. Do what you will with Zmyeevich.’

Aleksandr glanced at his brother, who replied with a shrug. The tsar considered for a moment.

‘We’ll see how things develop.’

‘How shall I contact you?’ asked Mihail.

Aleksandr thought for a moment. ‘If you need either of us, go to Fontanka 16. You know where that is?’

Mihail eyed his father ruefully and received an apologetic smile in response.

‘Ask for Colonel Mrovinskiy,’ Aleksandr continued. ‘He’s the man who escorted you here. He’ll convey your messages – or arrange a meeting.’

Aleksandr stood, as did Konstantin a moment later. Mihail took it that their conversation was at an end. He rose to his feet. ‘Just one more thing,’ he said. ‘What do you know about Ascalon?’

The two brothers exchanged glances. Evidently the word meant something to them. It was Konstantin who chose to explain.

‘It’s a part of the story that no one has ever understood – it may not even be true, but it’s been passed down through the family since Pyotr.’

‘Go on,’ insisted Mihail.

‘It dates back to Senate Square in 1712 – just a field then – when Zmyeevich drank Pyotr’s blood, and then Pyotr refused to drink his, and Zmyeevich fled. Well, the story also goes that Pyotr took something from him – took Ascalon – and it’s for that Zmyeevich hated him most.’

‘So you have it – it was passed down?’

Konstantin shook his head. ‘What Pyotr did with it, I’ve no idea. The whole thing may be nothing more than myth. It’s said that he hid it – buried it. We don’t know what it is, how big it is – nothing.’

‘Buried it? Where?’

‘Where else would he bury it,’ explained the tsar, ‘but in his new capital?’

‘In Petersburg?’

Aleksandr nodded. ‘We don’t know the street or the building, but somewhere, perhaps somewhere that you or I walk every day, Ascalon lies waiting.’

News travelled fast. It had been only hours since Iuda had tapped out his message, and now Luka stood before him. Who he might have bribed to gain access to a prisoner in the Peter and Paul Fortress, Iuda did not care to ask. The door slammed shut behind them, locking them in together. Luka walked over and embraced him.

‘It’s good to see you, Vasya.’

‘You too, Luka,’ Iuda replied, patting him on the back. They separated and Iuda held him by the shoulders, eyeing him up and down. ‘You look well.’

‘I wish I could say the same for you,’ said Luka. ‘It must be hell in here.’

Iuda could not tell how he looked, but he knew he was hungry, so it would not be good. His skin would be wrinkled and dry and his muscles withered. His hair would not have changed colour, but the human eye was happy to see blond as grey when it matched the tone of the skin. It was probably for the best. He had known Luka for over two decades, long enough for the question of his eternal youth to be whispered insidiously by Luka’s subconscious.

‘No worse for me than for any other comrade,’ he said.

Luka nodded. It was hard for Iuda to look at him and not think of Lyosha. The grandson was only a shadow of the grandfather, and yet Iuda feared him, just as Pelias feared Jason – as Pharaoh feared Moses. Luka was the last descendant of Lyosha; the last
living descendant – Dmitry did not count. If Luka should ever make contact with his mother and discover the truth about Iuda, then his attitude might be very different.

That was why Iuda had befriended him. After his escape from the cells beneath the Kremlin Iuda had headed for Petersburg. And once in Petersburg he had sought out Luka. He knew the details; Tamara had been an employee of the Third Section and so all the information about her children – the two who died and the one who survived – was on file. Iuda, under yet another alias – though he’d grown to like the Christian name of Vasiliy – made his move. It was a variation upon a theme that had worked well in the past, not least when he inveigled his way into the lives of Lyosha’s wife and son, Marfa and Dmitry, so many years before. He worked on Luka’s adoptive father first, making a few business deals, then became a friend of the family. Then as the father was away more and more often, thanks to Iuda, he took a special interest in the son, Luka.

It was once Luka had gone to study in Moscow at the Agricultural Academy that he’d shown an interest in politics. He fell under the sway of the radical Sergey Gennadiyevich Nyechayev. Luka didn’t speak of it directly, but his occasional references to the lot of the peasants and the need for democracy were enough for Iuda to pick up on. Iuda displayed a little sympathy for the cause and Luka displayed a little more and soon each understood the other; the only hope for Russia lay in the overthrow of the tsar.

Even after Nyechayev had murdered one of Luka’s fellow students, the improbably named Ivan Ivanovich Ivanov, Luka’s faith in the cause had not been shaken, though he had turned against Nyechayev. Iuda had affected a greater degree of disillusionment, only to draw Luka in more. Before the war against Turkey both of them had been on the peripheries of various underground groups, but the war had changed a great number of things. Many of the revolutionaries, staunch Slavophiles, had gone to the Balkans to protect Serbs and Bulgarians from their Ottoman oppressors. It had thinned out their numbers, but those who returned knew better how to kill. Iuda had marched with the army – though for reasons of his own – while Luka had remained in the motherland. The three years of Iuda’s imprisonment had
weakened his ties with the revolutionaries, but for Luka it seemed that time had only drawn him closer to their centre.

Today, Nyechayev was Iuda’s fellow prisoner, somewhere in one of the fortress’s many cells. Messages from and to him travelled through the pipes. He’d been so bold as to ask the People’s Will if they could organize an escape, but the reply was curt, pointing out that they had more important things to do. Perhaps Iuda should ask Luka for a similar favour. In his case they might at least give it a try, but in practical terms it was still an absurd idea – and an unnecessary one. Iuda would walk out when he wanted to.

‘I heard you were in Petersburg,’ Luka told him, ‘but I’d no idea you’d been arrested. Have they interrogated you?’

‘Not yet,’ said Iuda, ‘but it will come.’ His mind was already racing. How had Luka known he was in the city?

‘Do you think you’ll be able to stand it?’

‘I can only try. Fortunately, I know very little.’

‘You know me.’

‘Your name will never escape my lips.’

Luka shook his head. ‘You don’t know what they’re capable of.’

‘If it came to it …’ Iuda paused, feigning uncertainty. ‘You could smuggle something in for me; something that would mean I could not speak.’

‘No.’ Luka spoke firmly. ‘I’d rather die myself.’

Iuda mentally noted the offer. He changed the subject. ‘You said you knew I was in the city? How on earth could you?’

‘Through a mutual friend.’ Luka grinned. ‘Another of your “projects”, if I might so describe myself.’

Iuda smiled back. ‘You’re no project.’

‘You know what I mean. I know how you picked me out, in the hope of making something of me. You did just the same with Mihail Konstantinovich.’

‘Mihail Konstantinovich?’ Iuda’s ignorance of the name was genuine.

‘Mihail Konstantinovich Lukin. There’s no need to pretend, Vasya. He came to visit me.’

‘And what did he say?’ Iuda’s mind stepped through the possibilities. He had encountered a Lukin recently – one of the soldiers in Geok Tepe; a lieutenant. The name had been familiar, but any
connection to the long-dead Maksim Sergeivich Lukin seemed unlikely. But if this was the same man who had been there in Turkmenistan then there was only one conclusion to be drawn – that he was working for Dmitry, and therefore, inescapably, for Zmyeevich.

‘He told me about how he knew you – how you kept an eye on him after his father died. He said how the two of you had planned to meet here in Petersburg. But he said there was no trace of you. Naturally he presumed you’d come to see me.’

Iuda nodded. It all reeked of Dmitry – he had learned from how Iuda had approached him and Marfa. Who else would know that, and use it to play upon Luka’s trust?

‘And did Mihail mention anyone else – any other “mutual friends” of ours?’

‘No, no one. You’re not forgotten though. There are still members of the Executive Committee who remember you and trust you. How do you think your message got to me so swiftly?’

It was true – there were far too many people who could connect him to Luka. Iuda tried to remember faces and names. It could be any one of them – almost anyone.

‘So how much did you tell Mihail about me?’ he asked.

‘Nothing – nothing that he didn’t already know.’

Iuda tutted. A clever interrogator could easily make it seem as though he already knew what he’d wheedled out of his subject.

‘Did I do wrong?’ asked Luka.

‘Luka, I’ve never heard of anyone called Mihail Konstantinovich Lukin in my entire life.’

‘My God!’ Luka’s hand went to his mouth. ‘So he’s … one of them?’

‘We can only presume so. Did he ask anything specific?’ Iuda tried to remain calm. It would do no good to puncture the façade of congeniality that he’d created for Luka’s benefit.

‘Whether I’d seen you. Where you usually stayed in the city. He said he’d tried your club – I didn’t know you had one.’

‘He asked where I stay? And did you tell him?’

‘I’m not stupid, Vasya. I remember what you told me.’

‘Have you been there recently?’

‘Not for six months – no one had been there.’

‘Were you followed?’

There was a flash of anger in Luka’s eyes, but it quickly subsided. ‘I’m not stupid,’ he repeated.

Iuda reached up and touched the young man’s cheek, the manacles he still wore forcing him to raise both hands. ‘Of course you’re not, Luka, but I worry about you – I always have.’

Luka smiled. ‘I know you do. But it’s you we should be concerned for. We’ve got to get you out of here. What did they arrest you for?’

‘Do they need a reason? They’re just fishing.’

‘You think you’ll be released soon?’

Iuda was sure of it, but he wasn’t going to tell Luka his plans.