The Third Section (32 page)

‘I don’t know yet. It depends on Dmitry. I’d like you to be there when he meets Tamara.’

‘Why?’

‘To tell me what they say.’

‘I thought the idea was that they would both relay it straight back to you.’

‘They will,’ said Yudin, ‘and both will lie.’

‘So you need me to tell you the truth?’

Yudin smiled. ‘No, I just need there to be an odd number of participants, so that I can take the majority view.’ He doubted she would lie to him, but it was better to treat everyone with equal mistrust, and, certainly in the case of Raisa, to make her aware of how little faith he put in her.

‘You really do look terrible,’ she said.

‘If you want to drink, go. Your beauty matters.’

Raisa did not wait to be told twice. She turned and set off down the stairs. Yudin’s eyes followed her until she had gone.
It
was a difficult balance for him to maintain. To Dmitry, who had known him longest, he must appear old, but different people knew him at different ages, and he could not satisfy them all. He could not even know with any certainty how they perceived him.

He opened the drawer at the side of his desk and pulled out the heavy package, unwrapping the brown paper to reveal the block of polished crystal. Iceland Spar, they called it, and as the name suggested, it could only be found in one place on the planet. Having it shipped through the naval blockade in the Baltic had been tricky, but Yudin had friends among the British. He held up the crystal and inspected one of the documents on his desk through it, smiling at what he saw.

There were two images; two sets of lettering separated by about the width of a single character. It was like the double vision of a drunk, but this was reality, not a failing of the senses. The phenomenon was well enough understood. An ordinary block of glass affected what was seen through it – diffracted the light – so that the image observed was slightly displaced. But light, it seemed, was made of two different types – two polarities – and travelling through Iceland Spar, each was diffracted to a differing degree; hence the two images.

But what, Yudin wondered, if the material could be used in place of the glass of a mirror? The light would be split as it entered the mirror and then those split images would be further separated as the light departed. Might one of those reflections make it through the defences of the observer’s mind and reveal the
voordalak
’s true self? Might Raisa at last be able to gaze upon her own beauty? All of his experiments suggested it, and now there was just a little more work to be done before he would know for sure.

He licked his lips at the prospect, and realized in an instant that Raisa had been right. He was thirsty. He only needed a little blood – not enough to rejuvenate him, but sufficient to sustain him. He put the crystal lovingly back into the drawer and went over to the stairs that Raisa had descended, following the path down and closing the door behind him. At the junction that led to their coffins, he turned left and was soon in the short low
corridor
lined with six doors, leading to the cells he had shown Tamara.

The seventh door, at the end, was open, its heavy bolts drawn back. Raisa had already gone in. As he approached, he heard a voice. It was not Raisa’s; this was weaker, older, and utterly terrified. And the words it spoke would not have come from Raisa’s lips.

‘No more. Please, God. No more.’

The cold did nothing to help the pain in Dmitry’s ankle. He had soon given up walking and travelled everywhere in the city by sleigh. He had been in Moscow for over a week, and already it had lost its charm for him, though he knew that the city itself was unchanged. It could only be something in him that made this once vibrant town seem dull and mundane. If he had thought the fault lay in Moscow itself he wouldn’t have bothered to stay, instead making straight for Petersburg, but he knew he would find it even worse there.

Was it war that had changed him? He doubted it. Sevastopol was not the only action he had been engaged in, though it was certainly the bloodiest. This was the first major wound he had received, but, to be honest, he was rather enjoying that side of things. The combination of a military uniform, a stick and a pronounced limp had an effect on all those he encountered that was entirely favourable to him.

But the thing that had affected Dmitry’s whole outlook on life was not that he had come through the war with a limp, but that he had come through it at all. He had survived. When he had arrived in the Crimea he had not been afraid to die but he had, he knew, been afraid to live. Tyeplov had changed all that. Thanks to him, Dmitry had done things he would never have dreamed himself capable of. He had slept with a man. He had slept with a vampire! He had little desire to repeat either experience, certainly not the latter, but the fact that he had dared to made him feel he might dare do anything. It was Tyeplov who had taught him that. His motivation? If Tyeplov was to be believed it was for the sake of Aleksei, but if Tyeplov thought that Dmitry would now feel somehow indebted to him, he was a fool. It didn’t matter.
Tyeplov
was thousands of versts away, feeding on the invaders of Sevastopol, who little knew what awaited them within the city.

And there was someone else who wanted to know about Dmitry’s father – this Tamara Valentinovna. That was who he had now come to meet, at Yegorov’s restaurant. Yudin had told him they would be joined by a friend of Tamara’s, so he knew to look out for two women. He saw them as soon as he handed over his coat and hat at the door – one with her back to him, the other facing.

Even if Dmitry had not been looking out for them, his eyes would have fixed on this woman as he entered the room – more of a girl than a woman. She could not have been much over twenty. Her natural blonde hair was coiled into tight, artificial curls which bounced as she spoke. Her blue eyes blazed, and yet behind them Dmitry sensed there was very little – or very little that she cared to give to the world. He stood still and watched her for a moment. He was sure she was aware of him, but she did not once look in his direction.

She was not Tamara. The woman she was speaking to, whose back was turned to Dmitry, was Tamara. She had been about five years old when he had last seen her, the child of Yelena and Valentin Lavrov, through the window of their house, but her red hair was unmistakable. It had perhaps darkened slightly, but that could easily be a trick of his memory. There was a lot of it, but it was tied back in a ponytail – more a matter of practicality than aesthetics.

He walked over to the table, noticing that his limp had become more pronounced, though not out of any conscious effort. The blonde girl looked up as he approached, as did the redhead a moment later.

‘Tamara Valentinovna Komarova?’ he asked.

‘Indeed,’ she said, rising and offering her hand. ‘You must be Major Danilov. This is my friend, Raisa Styepanovna Tokoryeva.’

Dmitry sat at the end of the table so that he could easily see them both.

‘You’re recently returned from Sevastopol, I hear,’ said Tamara.

‘Yes. Stuck it out to the very last, but they got me in the end.’ He lifted his cane briefly, to make it clear what he meant.

‘What happened?’ asked Raisa, bluntly. Tamara flashed her a look to say that she shouldn’t ask such things, but Dmitry didn’t mind.

The story he told was close to the truth, except that he didn’t mention precisely why he had been in the city so long after the rest of the army had evacuated. But the attack by the redcoats was there, his men’s brave battle, their loyal rescue of their commanding officer both from the enemy and from the water, and the final, sodden trudge across the harbour to safety.

It all sounded as though it had been such fun. In the past, Dmitry had despised the way that soldiers failed to describe the hell that war really was. It seemed a greater cowardice than any displayed on the battlefield; to come and say to those back home that one would gladly go out and do it again instead of admitting that the sound of the guns just made you want to run away and hide and that there were times when you’d trample over the backs of your comrades just to make it to some dark, damp hole where you could press your hands over your ears and pretend it was all far away. The worst was when they told the stories to young men, knowing it would only encourage them. But he knew the ladies loved it, and he felt Raisa’s eyes on his cheek as he spoke, almost as though she were touching him.

They were interrupted by a waiter, who delivered a bottle of vodka and took their orders. Blini were the speciality of Yegorov’s and that was what each of them chose. When the waiter had gone, Tamara took the opportunity to turn the conversation on to the subject that interested her.

‘I’m trying to find out about your father,’ she said.

‘So Vasiliy Innokyentievich tells me,’ said Dmitry, pouring vodka into their glasses. He let the sound of his ramming the cork back into the bottle punctuate his final word. ‘Why?’

‘He was witness to at least two murders.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘I’ve seen the police records. The first was in 1812, in a house just off Tverskaya Street.’

‘I don’t see how I can help. I was only five then.’

‘Four or five,’ said Tamara. Yudin had said she was shrewd. He should have asked her the precise date, or kept quiet. ‘And you’d
have
turned eighteen in 1825. That’s when the second one took place. Right outside the Maly Theatre.’

Dmitry forced his face to remain relaxed, hoping it revealed nothing. He felt the urge to glance over at Raisa, just to avoid Tamara’s eyes, but he knew it would hint that he was lying.

He could remember it all so clearly. He’d been there. The dead man’s name was Obukhov. Dmitry could even recall his rank – a captain. There’d been a group of them, led by Aleksei and – Dmitry liked to think – himself. He’d only been a lieutenant then. They’d set out to trap a
voordalak
, though only he and Aleksei had known it to be such. That had been unfair on the men. Obukhov had died for it. Aleksei had sent most of them away, including Dmitry, and dealt with the police himself. None of it was for Tamara to know.

‘Two murders, thirteen years apart. Hardly related,’ he said.

‘There were five murders in 1825.’

‘Yes, I remember that much.’ Dmitry had thought and spoken quickly. At the time the deaths had caused something of a stir even among those who sought a more natural explanation. If he denied remembering the events at all, Tamara might easily catch him out.

‘You were in Moscow?’

To Dmitry’s relief, the waiter arrived with the blini. Tamara had chosen to have hers with red caviar, while Dmitry and Raisa each had cherries and cream. As soon as they were alone, Tamara repeated her question. ‘You were in Moscow?’

He nodded, without breaking eye contact. She wasn’t as pretty as Raisa, but no one would deny that she was attractive. Her face was quite square, perhaps a little masculine, and her eyes were of a dark brown that seemed unusual in contrast with the colour of her hair. She was not petite, like Raisa, but well proportioned. She looked as though she was probably quite strong. There was something familiar about her face, particularly the nose and the jawline.

‘But your father didn’t speak of it to you?’

‘Why should he? Papa reported lots of crimes. It was part of his job.’

‘Are you still in touch with him?’

Dmitry felt a bitter taste in his mouth. It wasn’t her fault – it was a perfectly natural question – but he didn’t need to be reminded of his father’s recent silence. It was time to turn the tables on her.

‘He was a friend of your parents, you know,’ he said.

If she had been walking she would have tripped. Her confidence vanished into the air.

‘My parents? Your father?’

Dmitry tried to press his advantage. ‘That’s right. Well, it was Vadim Fyodorovich that he knew really – that would be your grandfather.’

This seemed like more comfortable ground for her. ‘He was,’ she said, with infectious enthusiasm. ‘They fought together in the war. I’ve heard all about him – but I’d never have guessed. Aleksei was Aleksei Ivanovich – your father?’

Dmitry nodded. ‘That’s right. I was too young to really remember Vadim, but Papa told me so much, just like your mama must have.’

‘She always speaks of Grandpapa in the war, and his comrades: Vadim, Dmitry, Maks and Aleksei. But Aleksei was never more than a name.’

‘He was the only one of the four to survive. Maks was Maksim Sergeivich Lukin and Dmitry was Dmitry Fetyukovich Petrenko. I was named after him when he saved Papa’s life at Austerlitz.’ A thousand stories bombarded Dmitry’s mind, and he wondered which he should tell her first. Then he paused as suddenly a realization hit him. He looked at Tamara’s smiling face, but said no more. He turned instead to Raisa. ‘We must be boring you horribly.’

She smiled broadly. ‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘Your father must have been quite a man in his day. I can see you’re proud to take after him.’

‘He was,’ said Dmitry, then he turned and looked into Tamara’s dark eyes. ‘He was.’

‘I’m sure he was,’ she said. ‘I was just hoping he might have said something about these murders.’

‘Not a thing,’ he lied. Now more than ever, he would not expose Tamara to the knowledge that Aleksei had shared with him. The
voordalak
could be consigned to the memories of the past. Even Tyeplov and the Crimea seemed distant now. ‘Why are you so keen to find out?’ he added.