The People's Will (54 page)

‘I hardly think it matters,’ said Konstantin. ‘It’s what Mihail has done that counts.’

Aleksandr nodded sombrely. ‘And what he can yet do.’ Konstantin looked away again.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Mihail.

Aleksandr’s answer was obvious enough – almost too obvious given the tone of what he had said. ‘I’m talking about the terrorists. When do they plan to attack?’

‘Tomorrow,’ said Mihail. ‘As you return from the Manège. They’ll explode the mine under Malaya Sadovaya Street as your coach travels along it.’

‘Tomorrow?’ said Konstantin. ‘1 March 1881. It will go down as a historic day for Russia.’

Aleksandr gave half a smile. ‘Yes. Yes indeed.’

‘Not if we can stop it,’ said Mihail.

‘Not that,’ said Konstantin. ‘Tell him, Sasha.’

The tsar took a deep breath. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘
before
I go to the Manège, I shall sign documents establishing the beginnings of a constitution – two assemblies with powers to make law; elected, after a fashion.’ Tears formed in his eyes as he spoke – he was proud of what he had planned. ‘Konstantin, Loris-Melikov and I have been working on it for months. It won’t quite be England, thank God, but it’s a step. That’s all one can do – make small steps. This is what Aleksandr Pavlovich would have done, if it hadn’t been for the war.’

Mihail tried to take it in. It seemed like very little, but in a sense it was revolutionary. Even when the serfs had been emancipated it had been done at His Majesty’s command. He was still the unfettered autocrat, enforcing his will upon the nation. This, by the sound of it, would be different. If what Aleksandr implied was true, then he would no longer be the sole source of authority in Russia. It was hard to believe. Perhaps Mihail should go and tell Sofia Lvovna and the others that their plans were no longer necessary, that they would get what they wanted without the need
for bloodshed. It would be a slower transition than they desired, but a peaceful one. He tried to picture the joy on their faces as he explained it to them, but it was laughable to imagine that they would welcome the news. They no longer sought liberty; they were too far gone. For them the means had supplanted the ends and the tsar’s death had become an end in itself; the goal towards which they struggled and for which they would lay down their own lives and the lives of others. For them reform was as much to be feared as for the reactionaries in the tsar’s own circle. Neither would flourish if the people were appeased.

‘And if you die tomorrow?’ asked Mihail. ‘Will the tsarevich enact your plans?’

Konstantin emitted a short, sharp laugh which Mihail took as a ‘no’.

‘I shall not die tomorrow,’ said the tsar. ‘I shall change the route of the carriage, as I have done before. After the changing of the guard I’ll visit my cousin the Grand Duchess Yekaterina Mihailovna. I’ll be nowhere near their mine.’

‘Even so,’ said Mihail, ‘I plan to go back there, presuming Mrovinskiy hasn’t had everyone arrested.’

‘Why?’

‘Because of Cain.’

‘Ah. I think this is where we came in.’

‘Indeed.’

‘He told me of what you have already done for my family; of how much more you can do.’

Aleksandr turned away as he spoke, walking towards his desk. Mihail looked at his father, but still his gaze was not returned.

‘You said that before.’

‘He told me that you are now the focus of Zmyeevich’s attention, but that this is not a permanent state of affairs.’

‘It will protect your son – all your children – as long as they live.’

‘I have grandchildren. I have a grandson Nikolai. He will be tsar one day. He will need protecting from the curse on his family’s blood.’

‘I can’t help him,’ said Mihail. He doubted he would even if he were able.

‘Zmyeevich’s blood is still in you?’ Aleksandr still had his back to Mihail.

‘I believe so.’ Mihail had read Iuda’s notes, but he could only guess.

‘In that case you can help him a great deal.’

‘How?’

The tsar turned swiftly, raising his arm to shoulder level as he did so. Mihail found himself looking directly down the barrel of the tsar’s revolver and saw his knuckle tighten around the trigger.

Clearly Aleksandr understood everything. ‘You can die,’ he said simply.

It was almost midnight now, on the last day of February. Already the signs of winter were fading. The ice on the Neva was no longer a solid, flat, white sheet. Gaps had appeared in the middle where its waters flowed freely, eating away at the ice that lingered. There was still snow on the ground, but it was mostly old. During the days it melted a little and soon no more would fall to replace it. In just over a week it would be the vernal equinox, and after that there would be more day than night. It would happen throughout the northern hemisphere, but here in midsummer daylight would last for almost nineteen hours. For a
voordalak
Saint Petersburg was a winter retreat – nineteen hours of darkness were more than enough to hunt – but in summer it was too bright.

It was time to be leaving the city, but there was still one thing that remained for Iuda to do. It was no great matter, merely the salvation of the Romanov dynasty. Most of the work had already been done. All that was required was for Lukin to die. But on that issue time pressed. The time in which Zmyeevich’s blood would remain in his body was impossible to calculate. It was almost a certainty that it lingered now, but in a week, two weeks – who could tell?

And so Lukin had to be found. There was one obvious source of information; someone who had a greater interest even than Iuda in ensuring Lukin’s death. The information should have come by now. He’d been standing here on the Admiralty Quay gazing out over the river for half an hour and he felt uncomfortable. It was too close to where Zmyeevich had stayed – to where Zmyeevich
knew him to have stayed. He’d chosen the spot at which he waited with escape in mind. The Admiralty was at his back, but ahead was the expanse of the river. The ice was still strong enough to take his weight in most parts, though even then it might be better to escape beneath the water – as he had done before.

But all that assumed that Zmyeevich came alone. What if Dmitry had returned to him? Between them the two might easily capture Iuda, and this time Zmyeevich was sure to make certain of his death. But it seemed improbable. Dmitry – fool though he was – was not fool enough to go back to Zmyeevich. If he did, it was unlikely he would ever have the strength to leave him again.

Along the quayside, at the corner of the Admiralty, a figure appeared. It was neither Zmyeevich nor Dmitry; that was clear enough. The man approached and soon Iuda could see it was who he had been expecting. Moments later they were side by side.

‘Colonel Mrovinskiy,’ said Iuda.

Mrovinskiy did not acknowledge the greeting.

‘You have the information I requested?’ Iuda continued.

‘I’ve consulted with His Majesty. I have what you want.’

‘Well?’

‘Lukin will be in the shop in Malaya Sadovaya Street tomorrow – or beneath it,’ Mrovinskiy said.

‘At what time?’

The colonel shrugged. ‘At whatever time he chooses to go there. His Majesty’s coach is scheduled to pass by between one and two.’

‘You’re certain of this?’

‘It comes direct from the tsar. What more do you want?’

‘Very well,’ said Iuda. ‘You can go now.’

As Iuda had intended, Mrovinskiy hovered uncomfortably. He didn’t want to seem to be obeying Iuda’s instruction, but neither did he have any reason to remain. He stood for a few seconds then clicked his heels and walked away. Iuda waited until he had disappeared, then began to move.

To have Lukin down there in the cellars would be ideal. It would be dark and safe for Iuda, and Lukin would have far greater concerns. What mattered most was that thanks to Dmitry’s excavations, Iuda had an alternative way in.

It was still hours until dawn, but Iuda had already eaten. He
would go there and prepare himself, get some rest, but first there was one visit to be made. The journey took him away from his final destination on Nevsky Prospekt and to the south-east, into the huddled, small, cheap apartments that provided accommodation for the city’s burgeoning industrial workforce. As far as he could make out, half of them were occupied by revolutionaries, not just from the People’s Will but from a dozen other organizations with similar aims, whose hatred for the tsar was surpassed only by their hatred for one another.

The
dvornik
scarcely looked up as Iuda went by, despite the late hour. He climbed the steps quickly up to the third floor and then rapped softly on the door – just like Susanna used to knock on his bedroom door, so many years ago.

There was no response. He knocked louder, but still there was nothing. It was a pity, but it would make little difference to his plans. He took out a scrap of paper and wrote a short note which he slipped under the door. If it was read before tomorrow, all the better; if not, he could manage very well alone.

He made his way back across town, to the east. He felt wary of the direct route, along Nevsky Prospekt, past the Hôtel d’Europe where, if anywhere, Zmyeevich might be on the lookout for him. He could head south and come to Nevsky Prospekt from the other direction, but that would involve going through Aleksandrinsky Square with its unpleasant bright lights.

In the end he chose to take Surovskaya Lane, bringing him out on to Nevsky Prospekt close to the hotel. He walked in the opposite direction and soon the gap between the buildings appeared. He turned off into the little square that housed the blue and white stucco façade and dainty cupola of the Armenian Church of Saint Yekaterina. It was no coincidence that Iuda had chosen rooms in a hotel so close to this building, nor that the tunnel had been dug nearby; Dmitry had been careful in his choice of location. For anyone interested in the fate of Ascalon, this church was at the heart of the city.

Iuda had no key. It had been with his possessions in the cellar beneath Senate Square, and he’d had no chance to retrieve it as he fled – nor had he foreseen the need. It did not matter. He began to climb one of the great neoclassical columns of the portico, the
third from the right, and was soon clawing his way over the triangular bas-relief on the pediment. Then he was up on to the tower that supported the diminutive dome. This was nothing to match the grandeur of Saint Isaac’s, but then Iuda had played no part in its design. That did not mean that the entire building had not been laid out with just as much guile and to a far more singular end than the Orthodox cathedral.

Iuda smashed one of the arched glass windows of the tower and slipped inside, remembering how years before he had done much the same to get into the Peter and Paul Cathedral, only a couple of versts away. On both occasions his business had concerned the death of a Romanov; then with Tsar Nikolai, to confirm it – now with Lukin, to ensure it.

The tower did not open on to the nave. Inside there was a false dome, suspended lower than the one outside. Iuda remembered the way down. A flight of steps led to a gallery at the western end of the building. From there it was easy to climb down into the nave. The decoration was sparse compared with an Orthodox church – certainly when set against Saint Isaac’s. Even so they’d still managed to find room for that ubiquitous image – George killing the dragon. Here it was a separate painting rather than being etched on to the fabric of the building itself, but the message was clear. It was a message repeated throughout the city – throughout Russia. Iuda headed towards the altar and then to a side chapel, where a door he knew well stood waiting. It too was locked, but that would not stop him for long. He took a step back and prised up the flagstone on which he had been standing. It was too heavy to be lifted by a single human, and why would they bother? It had lain there for over a century, or at least so they thought. In truth it had been disturbed just once, by Iuda, in 1872 when he had hidden two keys there.

He raised the stone to the vertical and then looked beneath. There they were, just as he had left them. He picked them up and dropped the slab back into place. The only risk now was if they had changed the lock, but the key turned smoothly and easily. Iuda locked the door behind him and descended. Beneath was a maze of corridors and passageways, but he knew the route. He found his way to a long, eastbound corridor, its entrance blocked
by an iron gate, much like the one that opened on to the crypt beneath Saint George’s in Esher. This time he used the second key and though it fitted, it was harder to turn. No one had been this way for many years – he was probably the last. Finally the lock gave way and the grille swung open. Iuda went through, again locking it behind him. The tunnel stretched out ahead of him, under the buildings and under Sadovaya Street. He walked on until the way was blocked by stone and rubble. The roof had collapsed. It had not been like that when he was last here. It might have taken a man hours or even days to clear a path through, but for Iuda it was a matter of minutes. Soon there was enough of a gap for him to squeeze through and continue along the passageway. It ended with another gate.

Beyond that the two small cellars stood on either side, with similar gates standing open. The corridor continued a little further, ending in a wooden ladder which led up to the cheese shop above. There would be someone there even now, on guard, so he knew he must be quiet. The same key should fit this lock as the last one, and so it did, offering similar resistance but again yielding eventually. He had merely wanted to test it. For now there was no need to go any further.

He locked the gate again and crept a little way back up the corridor, behind the pile of rubble, settling down in the darkness to await Lukin’s arrival.

ALEKSANDR DID NOT
fire his pistol. He had, he explained, merely been demonstrating what a different man in the same circumstances might have done. It was a display of magnanimity.

Mihail wasn’t so sure. Konstantin had backed his brother up, but that was to be expected. Mihail trusted neither of them. Aleksandr had explained what Iuda had told him, how killing Mihail might save the whole Romanov dynasty, by making him Zmyeevich’s one and only Romanov offspring. He’d said that Iuda had wanted to do the killing himself. But then he had lowered the gun and laughed – said he would never allow such a fate to befall even a bastard Romanov. But when Mihail announced that he needed to confront Iuda and asked Aleksandr to help lure him down into the cellars beneath Malaya Sadovaya Street, His Majesty had agreed with little hesitation. He evidently thought that such a confrontation would be decisive, but was it Mihail or Iuda whose prospects he favoured?