The People's Will (53 page)

KIBALCHICH WAS SMOKING
a cigarette. It was forbidden anywhere near the tunnel, and therefore even in the living room – a rule that Kibalchich himself insisted upon, knowing full well how easy it could be to set off the nitroglycerin. In the shop itself it was allowed. Mihail had declined the offer to partake, but he enjoyed the smell of the fumes; it reminded him of his mother. There were two smells he associated with Tamara; one pleasant, the other foul. Both had the same cause.

The pleasant one was what he experienced now, the smoke in the air, whether it wafted from the tip or was expelled from Kibalchich’s mouth and nose. Mihail breathed it in deeply, enjoying the way it tugged at his throat and lungs, a pale echo of the sensation he remembered from the few occasions when he had taken in the smoke directly from a cigarette. It had never become a habit for him, in no small part because of that other smell: the smell of his mother when she was
not
smoking; the stale, dirty stink that clung to her clothes, her hair and even her body. When she lit a cigarette the scent of the fresher smoke managed to hide the underlying stench, but added to it as well. Mihail always knew that it was there. When Tamara coughed he knew that her lungs were as filthy as her clothes. When she coughed blood he understood that such stains could not be washed away.

That same stale stench clung to Kibalchich most of the time, but it was only noticeable when he and Mihail were close – when they were together in the tunnel. Up here it was masked by the aroma of cheese, but when a cigarette was lit, its smell obscured everything.

Kibalchich was on his second now. There’d been scarcely a pause between stubbing out the first and lighting a new one. Mihail noticed how his hand shook. He’d seen the same in his mother, but only until those first clouds of smoke hit her lungs.

‘Nervous?’ he asked.

‘Of course not!’ Kibalchich snapped.

‘You seem on edge.’ It was not just Kibalchich. Sofia and Bogdanovich were the same.

‘Excited.’ It sounded like bravado.

‘Anything come up at the meeting yesterday?’

Kibalchich looked at him suspiciously. ‘Why should it?’

He seemed terrified, but Mihail did not press it. ‘Was Dusya there?’ he asked.

‘She was. But don’t worry. She’s all right.’

Mihail looked at him, puzzled, wondering why she might not have been all right. They fell into silence for a while. Kibalchich continued to smoke, but seemed to become calmer.

‘You’re happy to be here tomorrow?’ he asked at length, holding a lungful of smoke and then expelling it through his nostrils.

‘One of us has to be,’ Mihail replied.

‘So why did Sofia choose you?’

Mihail could guess. He didn’t want to hurt Kibalchich’s feelings, but the reason was obvious. ‘You’re a man of thought, Nikolai, not of action. I’m a soldier, remember. I’ve done this sort of thing with enemy shells raining down above me. If you were here, you might suddenly see something – a rat nibbling at a bit of cheese – and you’d have an idea. You’d start wondering – I don’t know – whether rats could be trained to carry explosives, or whether cheese would be the best foodstuff for men travelling to the moon. And lo and behold, the tsar would have paraded past and you’d have missed your moment.’

‘Frolenko’s the one who’s actually on the switch,’ protested Kibalchich, but with little enthusiasm. He flicked his cigarette butt to the floor and stubbed it out with a twisting motion of his foot.

‘True. But you know what I mean.’

‘So when that rocket goes to the moon, it’ll be a man like you on board, and a man like me sitting and watching, hoping his calculations were correct.’

‘Getting distracted by rats eating cheese,’ Mihail added.

Kibalchich laughed. ‘And you get all the fame?’

‘You want the fame for this?’ Mihail nodded in the direction of the tunnel.

‘I don’t know what I want from this – but no, it’s not fame.’

‘I think you’re going to be disappointed,’ said Mihail, ‘whatever happens.’

They were interrupted by footsteps on the stairs and then the ringing of the bell as the opening door caught it. The scenario had been discussed and practised many times. Neither Mihail nor Kibalchich turned to see who had entered. They peered intently at the truckles of cheese on the shelves, occasionally taking a sniff. What else was there that customers in a cheese shop would do?

‘This one has a little more pepperiness to it, don’t you think, Nikolai?’ Mihail said.

Kibalchich nodded in agreement. Mihail desperately tried to avoid catching his eye, knowing that it risked sending them both into fits of laughter, despite his comrade’s nervousness. He ran his fingers across the rind of the sample in front of him and then sniffed them, rubbing them together to release more of the aroma. The silence was discomfiting, but neither of them could do anything about it. Perhaps this would be his opportunity to get away.

Bogdanovich emerged through the door from the storeroom, appearing smooth and unruffled. He was far better at this sort of thing than most of them, certainly better than Mihail or Kibalchich; that’s why he’d been chosen for the role of shopkeeper.

‘You two gentlemen still all right?’ he asked as he passed Mihail and Kibalchich, turning his head a little towards them.

‘Still trying to decide,’ said Kibalchich. ‘You have quite a choice.’

Bogdanovich carried on towards the newcomer, still out of Mihail’s line of sight.

‘And how can I help you, sir?’ he asked.

‘Are you Yevdokim Kobozev?’ said a gruff, familiar voice that Mihail could not quite place. He turned to take a glance. It was Mrovinskiy, the colonel through whom Mihail arranged his meetings with Konstantin, though today he was not wearing his uniform. He did not look in Mihail’s direction.

‘Indeed I am,’ replied Bogdanovich. ‘I take it that my reputation precedes me.’

‘I don’t think anyone would be proud of the reputation that put us on to
you
.’

Mihail and Kibalchich both turned to look. Bogdanovich had managed to maintain his calm exterior, but it seemed impossible that this did not mean the end for operations at the cheese shop.

‘From what I hear,’ Mrovinskiy continued, ‘anyone swallowing a mouthful of cheese from here is likely to spend the next few evenings in the latrine, crapping their guts out.’

For the smallest fraction of a second an expression of relief appeared on Bogdanovich’s face, followed immediately by one of professional indignation. His cheeks reddened. He spoke through gritted teeth.

‘I would ask you then, sir, to get out of my shop and take your custom elsewhere.’

‘I think not,’ replied Mrovinskiy. He presented Bogdanovich with his papers, explaining himself at the same time. ‘My name is Mrovinskiy – from the Department of Sanitary Engineering. I’m here to perform an inspection.’

He stepped back towards the door and opened it, signalling up to the street. Two men thudded heavily down the steps to join him. They moved quickly. Mrovinskiy thrust the door to the storeroom open and one of his men went through. Another went across and into the living room, emerging moments later with Anna Vasilyevna.

‘Who’s this?’ Mrovinskiy barked.

Bogdanovich didn’t waver in his performance. ‘This is my wife. We run the shop together.’

‘Anyone else?’ asked Mrovinskiy.

‘No, sir,’ said one of the men, with a little more of a clipped, military tone than might have been expected from a sanitation official.

‘Begin the inspection.’

The men started to search the shelves, removing truckles and looking behind them. One took a pencil and began to poke at the cheese with it to see if there was anything hidden within. To Mihail it seemed obvious that the quality of the shop’s hygiene
was not the true goal of the search, but he had the advantage of knowing who Mrovinskiy was. On the other hand, given how much was already known about what the shop was being used for, it was hard to understand why such artifice was needed. Why else, though, would Mrovinskiy be there?

Having finished with the shop and the storeroom the inspectors moved on to the living quarters. Mihail glanced through and saw that all was in order. The usual planks were covering the entrance to the tunnel and a barrel had been pushed in front of them. On top of that was a cheese. Mihailov and Frolenko had been in there, but there was now no sign of them. They must have hidden in the tunnel. One of them would have the revolver clutched in his hand. If they were discovered he would shoot, first to kill whoever it was that had uncovered the tunnel and then at the parcel which still lay there, filled with nitroglycerin, destroying everyone in the place. If it came to it, Mihail would have to shout a warning, even though that in itself might be enough to trigger the suicidal act; best for now to remain silent. He wondered if any of his comrades had cyanide-filled nuts poised between their teeth, preparing to bite down if discovered.

‘Bit of a stink in here,’ observed Mrovinskiy. The stench from the broken sewer still lingered, even though Mihail and the others had grown used to it.

‘An inevitable consequence of the trade we ply,’ explained Bogdanovich, raising his hand to indicate the cheeses surrounding them. It seemed to satisfy Mrovinskiy, though a genuine health inspector might have shown far more interest in the precise nature of the odour.

One of the men lifted the large round cheese off the barrel and the other tipped it away from the wall behind. Mrovinskiy peered at the vertical slats of wood that were all that protected them from their undoing. Mihail saw Anna Vasilyevna glancing desperately towards Bogdanovich, but thankfully no one noticed. Bogdanovich himself remained perfectly calm.

‘What are these?’ Mrovinskiy asked.

‘It’s the damp,’ explained Bogdanovich. ‘That whole section of the wall is sodden. You’d be able to smell the mildew if it wasn’t for the cheese.’

Mihail looked back towards Mrovinskiy, who must have guessed the true reason for the planks but was evidently keen not to discover anything untoward. Again Mihail could only wonder why he had come at all. It was a game of bluff which one side was bound soon to lose.

Assistance came from an unexpected source. At that moment the cat leapt down from one of the shelves and began to rub herself against Mrovinskiy’s legs. He bent down and held his curled finger to her nose, allowing her to rub her whiskers against it. Mrovinskiy nodded at his subordinates to move the barrel back into place. Mihail felt the urge to laugh at the amateurishness of it, but he was relieved. Bombs did not need to be exploded; poison did not need to be swallowed. Mihail tried not to relax, or give any hint as to a change of his mood – any suggestion that the inspectors were getting colder or warmer. Mrovinskiy’s attention was still occupied by the cat. He reached under her belly to pick her up, but stopped when he felt the unusual bulges within.

‘She’s been careless with her affections,’ said Anna Vasilyevna lightly. ‘We don’t know who the father is.’

Mrovinskiy smiled and stroked the cat, who straightened her tail and curled her back in response. He stood upright and took a last brief glance around the room before returning to the shop. Mihail and Kibalchich had moved over to the main door now, eager not to appear interested in what was going on. Mrovinskiy’s eyes passed briefly across Mihail’s face, but he was as good an actor as Bogdanovich and showed no hint of recognition.

‘This all seems in order, Mr Kobozev,’ said Mrovinskiy. ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you. Obviously someone has made a malicious report. Your sanitation certificate will be in the post.’

He opened the door as if to leave and for the first time looked Mihail in the face.

‘After you,’ he said, indicating the exit with an open hand.

At last Mihail understood the single, simple reason for the entire charade: himself. He had been looking for an opportunity to get away from the others and now he was being presented with it.

‘Thank you,’ he said. He stepped through the door and trotted lightly up the steps to the street, looking back when he reached it. If Kibalchich left too then his freedom would mean nothing;
he needed to be alone. Mrovinskiy seemed to have anticipated the problem, and was engaging Kibalchich in conversation. Mihail did not wait to hear more. He pressed on down the street, with no doubt as to where he was heading. Mrovinskiy’s involvement could mean only one thing: Mihail had been summoned.

‘Cain has been to see me.’

Mihail nodded. It came as little surprise. Iuda was Zmyeevich’s enemy, as was Aleksandr. At some point one of them would attempt to form an alliance. Mihail’s plans assumed it – relied upon it. The only new information was that Iuda had evidently recovered from his ordeal at Saint Isaac’s. But if Iuda’s visit was predictable, the tsar’s reaction to that visit was quite unknown. On it hinged everything.

‘You should have kept him here for me,’ said Mihail. ‘It would have been my pleasure to kill him for you.’

‘I would not have shared that pleasure.’ The tsar spoke with slow caution.

Mihail looked up. Aleksandr’s face was inscrutable. He turned towards his father, but his gaze was not met. Konstantin rubbed his forehead and hid his eyes.

‘Explain,’ said Mihail.

‘This is nothing personal,’ Aleksandr was at pains to point out, ‘but you must understand that our enemy – my family’s –
Russia
’s enemy – is Zmyeevich. When Cain acted for him, he too was our enemy. But now …’

‘What did Cain say?’

‘He said that you … that you had saved my son. Is that true?’

‘I’ve saved him from Zmyeevich’s power. I can’t save him from death.’

‘Why did you do that?’ asked Aleksandr.

‘For God’s sake, Sasha,’ Konstantin interrupted. ‘What kind of question is that? Why do you think he did it?’

‘Do you love your tsar that much, Mihail?’ asked Aleksandr. Mihail paused. It would be easy to say yes, but it would not be true. ‘I love my grandfather,’ he said instead. ‘It’s what he would have done – what he did.’

‘Aleksei loved his tsar.’

‘My grandfather was the same as me.’ Mihail did not know how he knew it, but he believed it. ‘If he loved Aleksandr Pavlovich it was as his friend, not as his tsar.’ The difference was that Mihail had no friends.