To Kill a Tsar (26 page)

‘Is there something wrong, Ivan Fedorovich?’

‘You don’t understand the risks I’m taking,’ said Tarakanov sullenly.

Mikhailov smiled. ‘And I’m grateful for your efforts on behalf of the party. So – just a few minutes, if you please?’

They waited until the door closed behind him and they could hear the squeak of his shoes on the polished parquet in the hall. Mikhailov slid impatiently to the edge of the divan. ‘Well, do they know?’

‘Not yet. They have some papers,’ said the Director, pulling at his beard.

‘What papers?’

‘A rough plan of the palace, with markings.’

‘They don’t suspect?’

‘I don’t think so. The special investigator spends most of his time at the “Preliminary” with the prisoners.’

‘Has anyone given anything away?’

‘No. No.’ Rising to his feet, the Director began to shuffle restlessly about the room with his wine glass, picking up small objects, peering at the councillor’s pictures. He looked tired and distracted, Mikhailov thought, the loneliness, the strain of living with the enemy, the constant fear of discovery, was obviously taking its toll.

‘How did the police find Kviatkovsky’s flat?’

‘Evgenia Figner,’ replied the Director, bending to look at a small silver icon that was hanging beside the mantelpiece. ‘The city police arrested a student with copies of the party’s manifesto and she told them she had been given them by Evgenia.’ Evgenia had given her real name, he explained. A foolish mistake. All the police needed to do was check it against their register of addresses.

‘That was careless,’ said Mikhailov. ‘It almost led to the arrest of Olga and Anna too.’

‘Yes. Anna.’

‘Is there something wrong?’

The Director settled on the divan beside him, his knee bouncing nervously, turning the empty wine glass in his hand. ‘Do you know of an Englishman called Hadfield?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is he a member of the party?’

‘No.’

‘The special investigator thinks he may be. I’ve just written his name on a new file. He made the mistake of visiting Anna’s house. Major Barclay questioned him but let him go.’

‘Oh?’

‘And he may know the Volkonsky woman too.’

Mikhailov reached over to the wine bottle and poured the Director a little more. ‘Are they going to question him again?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps. Do you trust him?’

‘No.’

‘Do you trust her?’

‘Anna? Of course. But there is madness in love.’

‘Love?’

‘Nothing. A foolish thought,’ said Mikhailov irritably.

‘I must go,’ said the Director, and throwing his head back he gulped down the claret. ‘What a waste.’

‘Post a note at the flat in Troitsky Lane when you have more.’

The Director nodded, pushing his spectacles up his nose. At the door he turned to Mikhailov again. ‘How long now, Alexander?’ There was an unmistakable weariness in his voice.

‘Five weeks, my friend. Have courage. We’ll be ready in five weeks.’

F
or all its dangers, Anna’s new life in the city as an illegal was more fulfilled than the one she had known in the village. To her neighbours at 11 Podolskaya Street, she was the house maid Elizaveta Terenteva, who had moved from Kiev to live and work for her cousin and her lodgers. Under this guise she helped her comrades with a printing press they had brought piece by piece to the apartment. They could only use it when they were sure no one could hear its thump and squeak. More often than not they were obliged to ink the type and print by hand, pressing the paper down with a brush. The work was tedious and slow but Anna took pleasure in the lively companionship of the other women, the sharp humour of Olga Liubatovich and the warmth and sensitivity of a new comrade – Praskovia Ivanovskaia. Nikolai Morozov lived in the apartment as a ‘lodger’ too but he was too grand for inky fingers and spent most of the day shaping and reshaping the party’s programme for power. ‘So this is your new society is it?’ Olga teased. ‘Where the women still do all the work?’

At three o’clock each day, they would sit together for soup and a meat course and talk of small things. If the conversation turned to policy, Anna would listen but play no part. Her comrades did not ask her about the night she had spent away from the apartment and she did not speak of Hadfield. But Olga had drawn her aside to remind her pointedly they were ‘illegals’ and if the police caught one they would probably catch all. It was a heated exchange, Anna demanding to know what she was being accused of, her friend refusing to say. The atmosphere in the apartment was poisonous, until Praskovia
lost patience with both of them and insisted on reconciliation ‘for the sake of the revolution’.

Two days later, Alexander Mikhailov came to see her and it was apparent as soon as he stepped across the threshold that he was out of sorts. She noticed the same chilliness in his manner she had met on the night she rejected his advances. After examining the first copies of the new leaflet without enthusiasm, he turned to her.

‘I have a job for you.’ He corrected himself: ‘The executive committee has a job for you.’

‘Of course. I’m an agent of the executive committee.’

Olga looked uncomfortable. ‘I’ll make some tea,’ she said, a note of forced bonhomie in her voice.

‘It’s a pick-up from Nikolaevsky Station. You’ll need to take two men from the new workers’ section. Their details are here.’ Mikhailov handed Anna a piece of paper. ‘Meet the 7.30 from Moscow in two days time. 18 December.’

‘What am I picking up?’

‘You don’t need to know that,’ he replied sharply. ‘The delivery address is on the paper – Vasilievsky Island – the 11th Line. I’m sure you won’t have any difficulty finding it.’

Anna frowned, the colour rising in her face. ‘Is there something you want to say to me?’

‘If you mean the doctor, that is a matter for the executive committee, not me.’

‘It isn’t anyone’s concern.’

Mikhailov stared at her for a moment and she returned his gaze without flinching.

‘Do you deny you’ve seen him?’

‘No. Why should I? We agreed he would be useful.’

Mikhailov laughed unpleasantly: ‘I see.’

‘This is none of your business,’ she said.

‘But it is a matter for the executive committee. When you’ve delivered the cases come to my apartment.’

‘Why?’

‘To answer to the committee.’

A torn yellow copy of The People’s Will’s programme lay in the middle of the iron table between them like sacred text. Collegiate Councillor Dobrshinsky was as familiar with its words as the prisoner with the tousled red hair and intense gaze opposite him. He had studied it carefully and spent many hours listening to Goldenberg speak of the ‘new order’ it would help to shape, of freedom, democracy, an end to the old autocracy. He was speaking of it now, almost gabbling, leaning across the table with his hands together.

‘. . . if the government – the tsar – decides to yield to the people then I know the party will give up its violence . . .’

Dobrshinsky was always conscious of the peculiar intimacy of their exchanges across the narrow table, within the four grey walls of the cell at ‘the Preliminary’.

Goldenberg began speaking again, of a free vote, free speech, freedom of the press, freedom for labour to organise, things he had spoken of many times already. But the impression the special investigator had formed was of a man who knew nothing of freedom and would always be a prisoner of his past.

When he had finished, Dobrshinsky said quietly: ‘You and I want many of the same things, and there are people close to the emperor who wish to introduce reforms. But there will be no progress until there is an end to violence.’

‘Who wants reform?’ Goldenberg asked.

‘Senior figures, ministers, but they cannot be seen to give in to terrorism. You do see that, don’t you?’

Goldenberg frowned and was on the point of replying, but the special investigator leant forward and raised his hand to stop him. ‘You can play an important part, Grigory Davidovich, you can help your comrades and the people. It will take vision
and courage but you can end the violence. You can help save Russia.’

Goldenberg sucked his teeth sceptically. ‘Why should I trust you?’

‘Because we have more in common than you think,’ said Dobrshinsky, leaning forward earnestly. ‘We are both from Kiev – my family came from Poland, so we are outsiders, but educated men. You must see – terrorism will only make the lot of the people harder, believe me, it is killing hope of reform. Russia needs progressive people like your comrades to help shape the future.’

‘The party cannot lay down its arms until the tsar has made it known he will establish an elected assembly,’ Goldenberg replied mechanically. ‘Only then can I help you.’

Dobrshinsky stared at him impassively for a moment then, placing his fingers on the manifesto, drew it slowly back across the table. ‘A pity. Without leadership, nothing will change,’ and he rose to his feet.

‘But there is more we can speak of,’ said Goldenberg. ‘I may be able to help you interpret the programme.’

‘You’ve done that. I understand you perfectly,’ replied the collegiate councillor. ‘What I propose . . . but it is perhaps too much to ask of one man.’

‘But you will speak to me again?’ Goldenberg’s voice sounded a little shrill.

‘It is a matter of trust, Grigory Davidovich. Of course, I don’t blame you. I’m only sorry I can’t persuade you to trust me because you are one of the few people who can change things for the better.’ Dobrshinsky turned to rap at the door.

‘But we must talk again, Anton Frankzevich,’ said Goldenberg, rising from his stool. ‘There are things – there is more we should speak of . . .’

The cell door opened and a guard stepped into view.

‘It is possible to find a way . . .’

‘You think so?’ Dobrshinsky asked. In a moment the door would clang shut behind him and Goldenberg would be alone in his cell again.

‘We must talk soon,’ said Goldenberg, ‘please. For the good of the country.’ He was standing at the table still, an anxious hand to his face.

Dobrshinsky smiled at him: ‘We will.’

The comrades from the workers’ section were waiting for Anna at a coffee shop close to the station. Alexei and Pavel were in their early twenties, labourers at a textiles plant on Vasilievsky, and this was their first assignment for the party. They were on edge.

‘The courier will meet us at the guards’ van. I’ll sign for the trunks then we take a carriage to the Haymarket, and that’s where you leave me. There shouldn’t be a problem if the courier’s papers are in order,’ Anna said with a confident smile. ‘If we’re stopped, remember you’re being paid to help Miss Terenteva with her cases. Leave the rest to me.’

The station concourse at the Nikolaevsky was bustling with travellers. If they were quick and efficient they would pass unnoticed in the crowd. There were gendarmes at the entrances to the station and on the platforms but they were more occupied with travellers than those who were there to meet them. The 7.30 from Moscow arrived ten minutes late in a hissing cloud of soot and steam, snow thick on the carriage roofs, the windows opaque with ice. Within seconds the platform was heaving with the gentlemen and ladies of first class, junior officers and chief clerks from second, peasants and porters and screaming children, a ragged tide of humanity surging into the station, relieved to be at the end of their journey. Head bent a little, Anna pushed forward towards the guard’s van, her companions at her back, anxious to make the contact, pick up the bags and leave before the platform was empty.

A harassed-looking guard was trying to organise the unloading of the larger pieces from the van, an impatient ring of porters and uniformed flunkies shuffling towards him. Where could he be? She was to look for a young man in the uniform of the engineering school. She was about to press forward into the tightening circle when someone jogged her elbow.

‘Elizaveta?’ He was a tall man with a thin face, neatly trimmed beard and spectacles, smartly dressed in a navy blue cap and velvet cloak that was fastened at the neck with a gold clasp.

‘Konstantin, at your service.’ He held out his hand with a relieved smile.

‘Have you got the bags?’ she asked brusquely. ‘No? Well, we haven’t any time to waste.’

Anna watched with exasperation as the student and workers edged towards the guards’ van. Next time she would use the station porters like everyone else. Not only were they less conspicuous, but for a few kopeks more they were prepared to use their elbows. Most of the passengers had picked up their luggage and left by the time the trunks were delivered to her feet.

‘Thank you, Konstantin. Now go, leave us at once.’

‘Is that all?’ he asked, a little hurt.

‘Yes. Go or people will ask what a rich student is doing in the company of a maid and two workers.’ She turned her back on him and began walking towards the concourse. She could hear Alexei and Pavel lumbering along the platform behind her.

She waited for them to catch up at the platform gate: ‘Keep moving across the station, whatever you do. Only stop if I tell you to, is that clear? If a gendarme wants to speak to us, leave it to me.’

Pavel nodded. Alexei was biting his lip. She gave his arm a reassuring pat. ‘It will be all right, you’ll see. Just look as if you know what you’re doing.’

And on to the station concourse she led them, weaving her way through the crowd, alive to every movement, every suggestion of danger. She could see gendarmes at the entrance to the ticket office and the platform gates but it was the ones she could not see that concerned her most, the plain-clothes policemen, the informers and agents of the Third Section.

‘Hey, watch out!’ she heard someone shout, and she turned quickly. Alexei had driven the corner of his heavy trunk against a man’s leg. The civil servant – to judge from his uniform – was bent double, rubbing his shin. Instead of muttering an apology and moving smartly on, Alexei had put the trunk down and was watching him with a guilty face.

‘Hey, you!’ Anna shouted. ‘What are you doing with my bags? I’ve a cab outside and it’s costing me money.’