The Third Section (22 page)

It was unthinkable, and yet it was the one, simple conclusion that made sense of all that Yudin had observed in the new tsar’s blood. If Aleksandr I were alive somewhere, then any power that Zmyeevich might be able to exert over the Romanovs could be focused only on him. He wondered if Zmyeevich had worked that much out. It didn’t matter. Even if Zmyeevich were to track Aleksandr down and complete the process of making him a
voordalak
, it would be of little benefit. Power in Russia had passed to his brother Nikolai and now to his nephew Aleksandr II. Aleksandr I had made himself invincible by becoming inconsequential. Yudin laughed out loud at the genius of it.

Gribov turned and glanced at him, but said nothing. They were walking along the deep, dark corridor that led to the Kremlin’s archives. It was a convenience that had played no small part in Yudin’s choice of office – the fact that it gave him access to a network of tunnels and passages beneath the citadel that would have made Daedalus himself proud. He could find his way almost anywhere – and never have to venture into the daylight. It would have tested even his patience to await the safety of darkness before making that short journey, but he would have managed it. What was a few hours compared to the years during
which
Aleksei and Aleksandr and God knew who else had been laughing at him?

And it was the ‘who else’ that mattered most. If others were in on the subterfuge – and they must have been – then they might still know where Aleksandr was. He would be seventy-seven now. He could die at any moment, or live for another decade or more. It was a margin of uncertainty that Yudin could not endure.

They had arrived at the entrance to the library. Gribov opened the door and stepped inside. In the distance, through the forest of shelves, he glimpsed a single, glowing lamp. He’d also noted that Gribov did not need to unlock the door.

‘There’s someone in here?’ he asked.

‘Madame Komarova,’ replied Gribov.

Yudin grunted. He would be interested to learn what she was up to, but it wasn’t the matter that most demanded his attention. ‘I want everything on the last days of Aleksandr Pavlovich,’ he said.

Gribov led him over to the right of the cavernous chamber, through the mess of papers and books to an area that appeared much tidier than the rest.

‘Papers relating to the imperial household are better organized than most,’ Gribov explained. ‘Even so …’

Yudin followed the direction that Gribov’s hand indicated and found himself facing a huge bookcase, taller than either of them and three times as wide as it was tall. Books, papers and files lay in disorganized heaps.

‘Is this all?’ he asked.

Gribov didn’t catch his sarcasm. ‘These shelves cover his reign. There’s more on his youth, if you’re interested.’

‘This will do.’

‘I could stay and assist.’

That was the last thing Yudin wanted. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘I’ll manage. But stay down here. I’ll call if I need you.’

Gribov departed, and within seconds had vanished into the shadows. Aleksandr had become tsar at the age of twenty-three. The shelves in front of Yudin represented his entire adult life – at least in the eyes of those who had fallen for Aleksei’s trickery. Thankfully, Yudin needed only to concern himself with the final
weeks
of that life; somewhere, he presumed, around the right-hand end of the bottom shelf. He got down on his hands and knees and looked, pulling out several volumes, pamphlets and files and placing them on the floor beside him. When he was done, he carried them to a table and read them in the glowing lamplight.

There were a number of letters from Aleksandr himself, and from his wife, Yelizaveta Alekseevna, but they were lacking in the sort of detail that Yudin required. There was a copy of an account published only the previous year by a Scottish doctor named Robert Lee – a Fellow of the Royal Society, just as Yudin had once been, under the name Cain. They had not met. Nor did it appear that Lee had met Aleksandr for more than one short encounter, weeks before his death. Everything else in his journal was second-hand gossip; enough to please a British audience.

Baron Korff’s official rendering of events was far more detailed, but again written long after they had taken place. Its purpose was clear: to remove any lingering doubt as to whether Nikolai had had the right to succeed his brother. To that end, it did not dwell too much on the details of Aleksandr’s passing.

The most useful items were two diaries, written by Aleksandr’s two personal physicians, Doctors Wylie and Tarasov. How the documents had found their way here was hard to guess, but they provided much detail of the tsar’s final hours, in little of which Yudin placed any trust. That they had been rewritten to fit the official story of events was obvious, not least because both clearly asserted that His Majesty had died on 19 November 1825, which Yudin knew to be untrue. It was conceivable that the two doctors were themselves victims of the charade, but Yudin felt it unlikely.

He had never expected to find anything so direct as an account of how Aleksandr had cheated death, but after a few hours he had pieced together all he needed – a list of those present at Aleksandr’s passing, at least some of whom would have been required to assist in the deception: the tsaritsa, Baron Diebich, Dr Wylie, Dr Tarasov and Prince Volkonsky. And, of course, Aleksei. And therein lay another reason to doubt the journals of Wylie and Tarasov – neither of them made any mention of Aleksei’s presence in the tsar’s retinue during the entire length of the stay
in
Taganrog, or during their excursions to the Crimea. If they had managed to expurgate that from their memoirs, what else might they have missed out?

Yudin looked at the list again. It was disappointing. The tsaritsa had died within a year of her husband. That was suspicious in itself. Might her death too have been a pretence, so that she could rejoin the man she loved? Yudin doubted it, but whether she was with Aleksandr or rotting in her grave, she would be of no help with the current problem. Volkonsky was also dead – since 1852. As far as Yudin could recall, Diebich was dead too. As to the doctors, he didn’t know.

It took him only a little more searching to find the information he needed – he was, in this library, surrounded by information. He’d been correct – Diebich had succumbed to cholera in 1831. Wylie had lasted longer, dying only the previous year at the age of eighty-five. That left only Tarasov and Danilov still around to reveal to Yudin the secrets of so many years before. They were both old men now. Yudin knew Aleksei’s location; four thousand versts away in Siberia. He had no idea where Tarasov was, though it was unlikely to be as remote.

But before Yudin could act, a little more research into both men was required.

Tamara saw a figure flitting among the shadows. She had heard voices earlier, but now there was silence. She looked at her pocket watch. It was heavy and would be considered ungainly for a woman. It had been Vitya’s, and one of only two possessions that never left her. The other was a small, oval icon of Christ which hung around her neck on a silver chain. She’d had it since before she could remember. When she looked into the Saviour’s kind eyes, it made her think of her real father, but she could not recall why. Vitya’s watch told her it was almost midnight. She should have been at Degtyarny Lane keeping an eye on things, but they could manage without her. She was far happier here.

She saw the movement again and realized it could only be Gribov. He was here late too, but she was pleased he was. She rose and went over to him. By the time he had reached the point at which she had seen him, he had moved on. A moment later, she
caught
sight of him again. It seemed wrong to shout in the dark, studious library, and so it took her several minutes to finally catch up with him.

‘Arkadiy Osipovich,’ she said softly.

He turned and his face broke into a slight smile. ‘Still here?’ he asked. ‘I take it your studies are bearing fruit.’

She smiled back. ‘To a degree,’ she said cautiously. ‘They’ve led me on to another matter.’

‘Indeed?’

‘I take it we have records on all those involved in the Decembrist Uprising.’

‘Naturally. To gather and collate information on men of their kind is the raison d’être of this department. Such documents receive the utmost attention.’

‘Can you show me?’

He led the way, holding his lantern out in front of him, but moving with a swiftness that suggested he could have found his way about the place even if blindfolded.

‘Here we are,’ he said.

Tamara peered at the shelves as Gribov held up the light for her. They seemed to be well ordered, with the name of each man written on the spine of his file. She flicked through them, softly reading the names out loud. ‘Grigoriev, Gusev, Demidov, Dmitriev. Oh!’

‘A problem?’ asked Gribov.

‘It seems to be missing.’ The shelf was not tightly packed, so there was no obvious gap where the file should have been. Tamara began scanning around, almost at random.

‘Which name were you looking for?’

‘Danilov,’ she said.

Gribov went to the end of the bookcase and examined the manifest that was pinned there. ‘We certainly have a Danilov listed.’

‘Then where is it?’ snapped Tamara, regretting that her irritation was being vented on Gribov.

‘I have it.’ The voice was not Gribov’s – it was deep and slow and calm, but still familiar. Both Tamara and Gribov turned to where the voice had come from. There was another block of
shelves
directly beside them, but the flicker of lamplight spilled from behind. Tamara peered round and caught sight of the man who had spoken, sitting at a table with the file in front of him.

It was Yudin.

‘Who’s for a game of noses?’

Dmitry turned his head. It was Volgin, a naval
podporuchik
. He had just come into the mess and was waving a pack of cards.

‘I’m up for it,’ said Dmitry quickly. Anything to distract him from his thoughts. It had been over a month since his encounter with Wieczorek and Mihailov in the casemate – and his earlier and quite different encounter with Tyeplov. Wieczorek was dead, and Dmitry had not seen Mihailov, or heard of any death that might be attributed to him. He had not seen Tyeplov either, and that was the concern that filled his mind.

‘Kids’ game,’ said another voice.

Volgin slapped the deck lightly against the man’s nose, imitating the game itself. ‘What do you want to play then?’

‘Preferans,’ came the definite reply.

‘Count me in,’ said a captain, strolling over from the bar.

‘Major Danilov?’ asked Volgin.

‘Why not?’ said Dmitry. Preferans would be far less of a distraction, but he had no desire to make an issue of it. He pulled his chair up to the table. The other two players introduced themselves – Ilyin and Manin.

Volgin dealt, while Ilyin found a piece of paper and scribbled a
puljka
on it for them to score with. He laid it on the table so that each triangle aligned neatly with the corresponding player. Dmitry won the bidding with seven in clubs and stuck with clubs as trumps. All three of his opponents opted to defend. He picked up the two cards of the talon; ten of clubs and ace of diamonds – the latter bearing the duty stamp, showing a pelican with its wings spread over its nest, a reminder that the tax went to fund the imperial orphanages. He discarded two low spades.

Just as he was picking up the cards of his first trick, the table shook as a shell came in somewhere close.

‘That one was from the ships,’ said Volgin. The others nodded.
The
sound of cannon continued. Dmitry played his hand, but couldn’t concentrate. He made the contract, but it was obvious to everyone that he should have got overtricks. Ilyin noted down his score on the
puljka
. Next it was Dmitry’s deal. No one chose to bid, and so the hand was played as a pass-out, with each player trying to win the fewest tricks.

‘I was talking to a chap the other day,’ said Volgin as they played, ‘who thinks we should all go home.’

‘Good idea,’ said Manin. Dmitry felt the table shake, and thought another shell had exploded, but looked up to see it was only that Manin was banging his hand upon it, to emphasize his agreement. Dmitry threw a card almost at random, and won a trick that he hadn’t intended.

‘Says each side should send a man home,’ continued Volgin, ‘then another and another, till there’s only two left – one of them, one of us.’

‘Single combat,’ said Ilyin.

‘That’s how wars start,’ said Manin, ‘not how they end.’

‘It’d save lives,’ suggested Volgin.

‘They’d cheat,’ said Dmitry.

‘Not if they won,’ replied Ilyin.

‘Then we’d cheat.’ Dmitry’s final comment seemed to settle it. They finished the hand. Dmitry was happy to have taken only one trick, though he knew he’d been lucky. Ilyin had taken none, with the remainder split between the other two. Ilyin dealt.

‘Six diamonds,’ was Manin’s opening bid.

Volgin followed with ‘Seven spades.’

Dmitry considered his hand. The sound of a large, distant explosion filled the room, but this time the floor did not shake. Dmitry felt reckless. ‘Eight no trump.’

He heard a sharp intake of breath from behind him. He hadn’t seen who had entered the room, but it was the height of rudeness to comment on a player’s hand, even in a non-verbal form such as that.