To Kill a Tsar (33 page)

Crack. Another shot. Then another, and more shouting. Anna knew it was her duty now to leave and warn the rest of the party, but her step faltered as the crash of rifle fire reverberated in the street. The gendarmes were now firing through the door of the flat.

It was still dark, the streets almost empty, more so than was customary at that hour. A mad collective fear gripped the city, rumours of attacks to come – bombs in stations and cathedrals
and galleries – and the authorities were encouraging people to stay at home. It was harder to move freely, with police and soldiers patrolling the prospekts and at every major junction. She had lost the anonymity of the crowd. Anxious to avoid the main thoroughfares, Anna hurried along alleys and through open yards, pausing every few minutes to check no one was following her. By the time she reached Troitsky Lane it was after seven o’clock and the city was beginning to stir. Stopping a little short of the mansion, she turned into an open doorway and waited in the shadows. Only when she was satisfied she was still alone did she step up to the house, and – after glancing up to find a parasol in Mikhailov’s window – she tugged the doorbell.

The gaslights were burning low in his drawing room and the maid had lit the fire. Even at that hour, Mikhailov was immaculately dressed in a dark suit and burgundy tie. He listened to Anna without emotion, his face expressing not a flicker of surprise or regret. All of them had felt downcast since the tsar’s escape – all of them but Mikhailov – even this calamity he had taken in his stride. Every day that had passed since had brought worse news, of supporters arrested, a small press seized, safe apartments raided. But nothing seemed to ruffle Mikhailov’s smooth feathers.

‘That’s the fifth address in four days,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘I thought we’d dealt with the problem.’

Anna stiffened a little. ‘You mean you executed the wrong man?’

‘Of course not,’ he replied, his lips twitching a little in a sardonic smile. ‘Would you like something to drink?’

He walked to the corner of the room and began busying himself with the samovar. ‘It’s strange we’ve had no warning from the Director. I think it’s time I spoke to him, don’t you?’ He poured a little hot water into his silver pot then spooned in some tea. ‘These raids have damaged the party. We won’t be able to make another attempt for a while. Some sugar?’

‘No thank you.’

Mikhailov walked over to where she was sitting, the glass of tea almost lost in his large hand. He stood in front of her, square and solid like a country squire, gazing thoughtfully into the fire: ‘The tsar has appointed Loris-Melikov as minister of the interior in charge of security. He’s a wily old Armenian bird. Things will be harder. We’re going to have to plan more thoroughly. We’ve been taking too many risks.’

He placed the glass on a small table beside Anna and turned back to the samovar. ‘Too many risks.’

His words made her uncomfortable. Was he trying to suggest Frederick was a risk? Life lived in the shadows meant every word was to be doubted, every action a conspiracy, one had to be ever vigilant, ever watchful. Spies, informers, curious neighbours, frightened comrades – it was hard to prevent suspicion creeping like a cancer into every corner of your life.

‘You were careful, weren’t you?’ Mikhailov had stepped over to the window and was gazing into the lane.

‘Yes. Of course,’ she replied hotly. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Perhaps.’ He took a step away and began peering round the drape.

‘What is it?’

‘I wonder who Viktor has befriended.’

‘Your dvornik?’

‘Yes.’ For a few seconds more he stood glancing up and down Troitsky and across at the mansion block opposite. Anna was on the point of rising to join him at the window when he turned abruptly to her: ‘Grab your coat.’

‘What is it?’

‘Do as I say.’ Reaching over to the desk drawer, he removed a revolver and slipped rounds and some powder in his jacket pocket. Then he stepped over to the drape again and carefully lifted the dainty pink parasol from the window. ‘Ready?’

‘What about your papers?’

He drew a small leather case from beneath the desk. ‘Here,’ he said, slapping the revolver against it. ‘I am always prepared for unwelcome visitors.’ He took his heavy black coat and a high hat from the hall and led Anna out on to the landing. ‘It may be nothing,’ he said in a low voice as they walked swiftly down the stairs, ‘but I think I’ve seen Viktor’s new friend before. Round-shouldered, hand constantly at his mouth, he looks like one of the agents who followed me from the Haymarket a few months ago. Best not to take chances.’

At the bottom of the stairs, Mikhailov paused at a window overlooking the yard, then beckoned Anna to follow him into the servants’ corridor. But instead of leading her to the rear entrance, he took a key from his pocket and opened the dvornik’s door.

‘What if he brings the gendarmes?’

‘He won’t bring them here. He doesn’t know I have a key.’

The room was a windowless box, the only furniture a low bed, a rough plank table and chairs. On the wall above the bed a small dark icon of Virgin and Child, and a number of prayer cards, one bearing the face of the tsar. Snatching up a rag from the table, Mikhailov wiped one of the rustic chairs and sat down. ‘This place stinks of cabbage.’

They sat in silence for half an hour, Mikhailov with his eyes closed, arms folded complacently across his chest; Anna fidgeting anxiously in a chair by the stove. At last they heard the dvornik coughing like a sick horse as he shuffled along the corridor. Rising quickly from the table with a lightness of step surprising in such a large man, Mikhailov took a position to the left of the door. A moment later, the rattle of the key in the lock and it swung open to reveal Viktor in his padded winter kaftan and fur hat.

‘What . . .’ His jaw dropped at the sight of Anna beside his stove.

‘Come in and close the door,’ she hissed at him. ‘I’ve a message for you.’

The old man pulled a face, his little eyes almost disappearing beneath his brow, in two minds whether to do as he was bidden. Then, judging himself a match for a petite young woman, he took a step inside.

‘Hello, my friend . . .’ said Mikhailov, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder. The dvornik flinched as if from a blow, and his face creased with fear: ‘Alexander Dmitrievich . . .’

‘The same. Now, Viktor . . .’ Mikhailov turned the old man’s bent shoulders firmly about so they were facing each other. ‘Who was that ugly fellow you were speaking to in the lane?’

‘He was . . . he was very interested in you, Your Honour,’ the dvornik stammered. ‘He said you were a—’ The sentence died in his throat.

‘Does he have friends with him?’

‘I saw one, Your Honour. He said more . . .’

‘. . . are coming?’

‘Yes, Your Honour.’

‘Then we have no time to waste,’ said Mikhailov, turning to address Anna. Pulling the revolver from his coat pocket, he broke it open. ‘You’re going to stay here in your room, Viktor, aren’t you?’ Snap. The cylinder clicked back into place. The dvornik nodded vigorously, his eyes fixed on the gun, his right hand pulling anxiously at his beard. ‘You won’t disappoint me?’ Mikhailov asked quietly, and he placed a firm hand on the old man’s shoulder again.

‘No, Your Honour. No.’

‘Good fellow. And you haven’t seen us, have you?’

‘No, Your Honour.’

The yard was empty and there was only one set of footprints in the snow.

‘You must leave first. Keep walking, whatever happens. Do you understand?’ There was an iciness in Mikhailov’s voice, in
his heavy-lidded eyes, a subtle change that left her in no doubt as to his intention.

‘Yes. I understand.’

‘Go then,’ he said, and stepped away from the door.

She walked quickly, her gaze fixed on the wicket in the old carriage gate, silently repeating a small prayer – ‘Please God there is no one, please God’ – a tight knot of fear in her stomach. Crisp fresh snow beneath her feet, her breath a little short, yes, please God it would end well. But there was someone. A shadow at the gate. Caught by the morning sun streaming through cracks in the planking. He must have heard her footsteps and was ready. Her only hope was that he would take her for a maid. She pulled her scarf a little higher and, with her heart in her mouth, stepped through the wicket into the lane. She was aware of him only feet from her but turned the opposite way. Before she had gone more than a few steps he was at her heels.

‘Hey, miss.’ He spoke with rough authority like an army sergeant. ‘Stop there.’

But Anna ignored him and walked briskly on as Mikhailov had instructed her to do. She began to pray again: frantic, inarticulate, a jumble of feelings and words.

‘Stop!’ He clutched at her sleeve, then her shoulder. ‘Now!’

She pulled away but he held her and she was forced to turn, his face close, a beard streaked with grey, and beneath his navy blue cap, rheumy brown eyes. Older than his voice.

‘Let go of me! Who are you? Help, someone!’ She tried to turn from him.

‘Police.’

Out of the corner of her eye she saw him pull a revolver from his pocket.

‘Stop. Now.’ He rammed the barrel into her side. As she crumpled in pain, he grabbed her shoulder again, dragging her to the wall: ‘Bitch.’

Furious, she lashed out, striking him in the throat.

‘Bitch.’ Instead of trying to turn her, he pushed her face to the wall, forcing his body against hers. And she whimpered in pain. He was breaking her neck.

‘Stop fighting, bitch.’

She could smell his stale tobacco breath, his body hard against hers. And then the crack of the revolver. For two, three seconds, she was deaf and blind and she sank to her knees. His body lay in the snow beside her, a plume of blood about his shattered head, mouth open, the eyes of a fish, and her face wet with his blood. She was shaking uncontrollably, gasping, but Mikhailov was dragging her to her feet, pulling her away.

‘Oh, God. I knew . . .’

‘There is no God. Now come on or they’ll take us,’ he said and shook her. ‘There’s a place a few streets from here.’

Experience taught it was best at such times to lay low, but for once Mikhailov felt obliged to ignore good practice. At dusk he went in search of the Director. He smiled at the relief on Irena Dmitrievna Dubrovina’s face as she let him quietly out of her apartment. She had been reluctant to take him into her home. It was impossible, too dangerous, she had told him. Not only was it possible, it was imperative, he had replied, and quickly too before the police caught them on her doorstep. Poor Madame Dubrovina. She had almost collapsed when she heard from a neighbour that an agent had been shot in broad daylight a few streets away. She had dismissed the servants, drawn the blinds and taken to her bed chamber. But that had suited them well enough. Anna had bathed then soaked the blood from her coat, and now she was sleeping in a fine French bed with thick cotton sheets, a fire in the grate. What had come over her in the street? Mikhailov was surprised by her weakness. It was something new. Was her resolve weakening?
Mikhailov pondered this question for some while. It troubled him as he slid to and fro on the seat of the badly driven droshky, and it was still troubling him when its grumpy driver deposited him at last in a snowy street close to the Director’s flat.

The Director rented his rooms in a large house divided and sub-divided many times, home to tradespeople, the better sort of prostitute and civil servants of the lowest class. In such a place it was easy for a stranger to climb dark stairs unmarked by the occupants. Nikolai lived alone on the fourth floor, between a tailor and a junior bank clerk.

Mikhailov was quite sure he would be alone. It was impossible for a man in his delicate position to be anything but alone. ‘I’ve been expecting you,’ the Director muttered, and he stepped away from the door to let him pass.

‘I don’t like coming here. It’s not safe,’ Mikhailov replied.

He sat on the edge of the Director’s narrow bed and watched him pour a glass of black tea from the chipped pot on the table. His hand was trembling, his eyes bloodshot. The tiny bed-sitting room was thick with dust, the windows almost opaque, and there were dirty plates on the table. Newspapers and books were roughly piled on the floor against one wall, leaving space for no more than the low bed, two wooden chairs, the table and an unemptied chamber pot.

‘Doesn’t the maid clean for you?’

The Director shook his head: ‘It’s too risky, especially now. They suspect, you know.’

‘You?’

‘They know they’ve got an informer in the police or the Third Section.’

‘How can you be sure?’

The Director pulled a face, then pushed his little round glasses up his nose with a grubby index finger. ‘Dobrshinsky isn’t prepared to trust anyone outside his inner circle. He
won’t tell us anything. There’s a poisonous atmosphere at headquarters.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m just doing as I’m told and keeping my head down.’ He got to his feet a little unsteadily. ‘I need a drink,’ he said and walked round the table and out of the room, returning a minute later with a small bottle of vodka and two cloudy glasses.

‘Drink?’

Mikhailov shook his head. ‘There have been five raids in as many days. There was an agent at my apartment . . .’

‘Was it you who killed him?’

‘Who’s helping them? Is it one of our prisoners?’

‘Weren’t you listening?’ the Director asked tetchily. ‘I don’t know. One of the prisoners may have been broken, of course. Dobrshinsky is handling everything personally. Nothing is committed to paper.’

‘And you don’t have any idea who he’s spoken to?’

‘The only person I know for sure he’s spoken to is the English doctor,’ the Director said with a dismissive wave. He sat down opposite Mikhailov and poured himself a glass of vodka: ‘But what can he tell them?’

Mikhailov frowned. ‘When?’

‘About two weeks ago. He visited Dobrshinsky’s home. That’s all I know. There’s no report of their conversation – at least, if there is, I haven’t seen it.’

Mikhailov leant forward a little, his large hands clasped together, his eyes glittering in the candlelight. ‘I think perhaps I will have that drink, my friend.’