Field of Mars (28 page)

She let go of his lip, pulled away only an inch.

‘No, you cannot go where I go,' she breathed.

TWENTY-FIVE

In less than a week, Tomlinovich had learned enough from the Lavrik documents, that he felt ready to have Vera and Larissa brought in for questioning. Despite Ryzhkov's attempts to set conditions for both of the women, there was no argument allowed, and because they still didn't trust him they kept him in the dark. He could only assume that Fauré was bringing them in because he had come up with possible suspects for Mr X and needed verification from witnesses.

He spent the next few days like a man in a trance, collating dead files at 17 Pushkinskaya, having dozy conversations with Zezulin about nothing. Going about his sham Okhrana business, outwardly the investigator of old, but inside dreading what he was going to have to put Vera through.

He delayed everything to the last moment; went to his barber where the talk was about the Greeks and what great fighters they were, the glory of the Spartans, the conditions of the mountain passes, too hot or too cold, the nature of betrayal and why it seemed to thrive amongst the Balkan peoples, if the Treaty of Bucharest really meant a new era of peace or if the creation of Albania complete with a grafted-on royal family, would make any difference. Wonderment over the British suffragists and their violence, over the deaths of Isadora Duncan's poor children, over the severity of the winter, the prospects for war in the new years. ‘The world is going over the precipice in a basket of its own shit,' one of the barbers said and Ryzhkov had to agree.

In the cold, short afternoon he left work early, had dinner in a cheap restaurant, and then, screwing up his courage, went to the Komet.

. . . my raga, my saga, my feeling for the sea-a-a

. . . my party, my corner, my scratching at my flea-a-a

 

In the corner Vera and the Komet girls were going over the same chant, a ragged chorus of sopranos. Izov watching, Ryzhkov sitting against the wall peering into the rehearsal room. He had become a trusted customer and Izov regularly consulted him about business affairs when he stopped in for coffee or a konyak. They discussed finance and the international situation. The Stock Market was bouncing all over the map with speculation after the fragile peace in the Balkans. It all served to explain, Izov said, why he'd had been forced to increase the price of coffee by three kopeks.

‘In the morning it's worth it.'

‘Hey, those little birds, they sound pretty good, eh?' Izov remarked on his way back into the kitchen. Ryzhkov went to the entrance to the studio, stood there and watched the singers as the Professor coaxed them through the song again.

‘Yes, they're getting better,' he agreed. Izov laughed as if he couldn't believe it, waving his towel at him. ‘So, remember and tell all your friends—a new show each Friday! Don't forget monsieur.'

‘No, I won't,' Ryzhkov called back. He wouldn't. Even with Fauré's demands hanging over him, she was the only bright spot. Vera had insisted that if he would only relax, everything would work out. It was part of her newest preoccupation, some sort of esoteric Eastern philosophy that had begun to sweep through the ranks of the city's artists.

‘—Well, you may scoff, but I know that when I stop
thinking
that's when I do some of my best work.' And when he looked at her, she lifted her chin into the air, poked him in the chest with one black fingernail. ‘Say
nothing
,' she warned.

He tried to follow her advice. Sat in the smoky atmosphere and made sporadic conversation with Izov, who would put in a comment and then fly away to deal with another customer. He finally got a minute with her alone. ‘I need to talk to you,' he managed to say, dreading every word of it.

‘Fine, but not now, I have a long rehearsal for this dog that Dmitri is trying to turn into an eagle.'

‘Vera . . .'

‘What?' She made a little grab his sleeve, frowned. ‘What?'

‘In another day or two, or soon anyway, I'm not sure when exactly . . . anyone who was there that night has to come in for questions.'

‘Ahh . . .' She gave him a hard look, and then suddenly smiled. It was a tight smile with no happiness. Almost a grimace. He could see her fighting not to cry. ‘And when it all happens because of the way things have . . .' He stopped. Sighed. ‘When they bring you in, I can't be involved,' he said quietly.

She gave a little laugh. ‘Oh, you can't be involved. Now you are no longer involved?'

‘Look, I'm not even supposed to tell you, and they're not going to let me be there. So, I won't be in the room to—'

‘To what, to help me? To protect me? Yes, you do a fine job at that, don't you?'

‘Vera . . .'

‘I'm so lucky. A boyfriend who's a real protector. I have to go to work now.' She turned and headed for the dressing-rooms.

‘Another, Monsieur Ryzhkov?' Izov called to him as she left and he turned slowly in the room. A stage-door lover with no destination.

‘Why not,' he said. Why not drink it all.

A man had come in and was loudly talking about how the government was heading for a crisis. The Tsar was about to sack all the ministers. Furthermore, he had it, yes, on good authority, that soon there was to be a renewed war with Japan. ‘The heathens want all of Siberia! After that they're going to conquer all of China, and then—'

Izov brought him a fourth dizzying konyak, it was something new he had acquired from Riga. He took a sip of the eye-watering potion and let the conversations fade. Larissa came out and gave him a wink, Kushner a tight little nod. They were off to some revolutionary meeting. There was a time when he would have waited and followed them, discovered the address, stood in the rain for hours and, with numbed fingers, noted the carriage numbers, descriptions, and times of everyone entering and leaving.

But not tonight.

Across the room a second hysteric joined in. There was a new crisis! In order to comfort the population and quieten the strikes that were breaking out lately, the Tsar had promised to lower the tax on vodka, but, because the prime minister was worried about the finances Tsar Nicholas was about to fire the prime minister. ‘Any day now . . .' the second man assured them. ‘Any day, now. You wait and see!'

The world was insane. Sitting there he almost laughed, suddenly aware of the absurdity surrounding him. Everything was going crazy, he thought. The empire
was
crumbling, just like Kostya had been predicting. War and revolution were in the air and he found himself engulfed in a wave of foreboding, filled with a sudden sense of impending disaster. Let go, he told himself. Why be the only sane person in the asylum? Do what she said—think of nothing, nothing at all . . .

He finished his drink as another pair of rumourmongers waltzed through the door of the Komet, and abruptly made up his mind to get out before he was sick all over the floor or struck somebody.

‘Nothing more for you, Monsieur Ryzhkov?' came Izov's plea behind him.

‘Nothing, no . . .' he said, waving the man off, walking surprisingly steadily towards the door. Vera was backstage somewhere, and wouldn't talk to him anyway even if he forced his way back there, to what? To apologize? To beg? Suddenly the atmosphere in the room was too close. He couldn't wait any longer. He had to get out, get out into the cold air where he didn't have to listen to or think about any more theories about how the world as they all knew it was about to end.

From the beginning Tomlinovich had separated Vera and Larissa, turned them against each other, pressed them to confirm every detail of each other's story. And it started to fall apart right away, even before they were shown the books of police photographs or the lists of names. Fauré had given him a free rein; short of thumb-screws he could do whatever he needed to get statements identifying the second man in the Iron Room. To demonstrate his power, Tomlinovich engineered it so that the questioning took all night. A messenger was sent to the Komet to tell Izov. Tomlinovich shrugged and said he hoped it would not be a problem.

Pyotr sat in the adjacent office, his head against the wall, smoking endlessly and listening as it all crumbled around her. At the beginning he felt like a traitor for listening in, but then even that changed. Everything changed.

Because what they found out was Vera's big secret, the one she'd kept even from him.

‘Everything you've told us is a lie! We know that he came to you! To you! You never mentioned that, did you? You never told us that you're the one that got the girl in the first place, right? You knew him. You planned it with him!'

For a long moment there was nothing. Then Tomlinovich's voice. He would start quiet and build a staircase until he was yelling at her. Through the glass he saw Sinazyorksy bringing Larissa some food. He wondered for how long she'd held out, how big the deal was, what they had dealt for or threatened her with. Through the wall he could hear Vera crying.

‘We know you went out and picked her up. Where did he first meet you, in the bindery? No . . .'

He unlocked his body, stood, poised, trying to hear her answer. Their voices would come in and out, get too quiet for him to hear through the walls, then they'd flare up again when Tomlinovich lost his temper.

‘—Don't tell me that! Don't try to sell me rubbish! People saw you. You're responsible!'

He paced across the room, not wanting to hear her answer.

Her voice when it came was angry.
‘I've told you everything. If I say yes, will this be over now?'

‘It's over when we tell you. You know this fellow don't you? Where does he live? How much did he pay you? Tell me something good . . . Say it, Say it!'
Tomlinovich demanded through the wall, over and over and over again.

He didn't want to hear it, but he did anyway.

‘Yes.'

‘“Yes,” what?'

‘Yes, I asked her if she wanted to work . . . he asked me . . . so I asked her . . .'

‘So he could kill her, right?'

The answer came in fragments. ‘
. . . doing this for years, all her life . . . I was going to be there . . . It was extra money . . . wasn't scared, so I wasn't . . . what do you think a whore does?'
She ended it by shrieking at Tomlinovich.
‘No . . . I didn't know . . . I didn't know . . .'
Then he heard her sobbing again.

‘You're going to have to be a good girl, you're going to have to prove yourself, you're going to look through some pictures, help us get him. You see that, don't you?'

Her reply was too quiet for him to hear, but after a long moment the door opened and Tomlinovich went out, crossed the big room to where they were keeping Larissa. Through the opened door he saw her stand and try to slap him, but he just put out a heavy hand and pushed her down into the chair again. A few minutes later Sinazyorksy came out and locked her inside.

When Tomlinovich saw him standing there he waddled over. They met there at the door of the office. The big man stopped a pace or two away, a little out of reach, stared at him for a long moment with a little smile. Ryzhkov tried to make his face into a mask but it was impossible now.

‘It's funny, isn't it, Ryzhkov.'

‘Funny?' It wasn't the word he would have chosen. ‘Yes, funny. Funny in the way life works out. You try and do a colleague a favour, you trust someone, you have the best of intentions but . . .' The big man shrugged, looked over to the little room where they were keeping Vera. ‘So, now we've got this little one for murder, too. Now we can use her any way we want. And we've got big plans.' The smile grew larger.

‘Yes . . . now we've got both of you.' Tomlinovich pointed one pudgy finger at Ryzhkov's chest. ‘Bang . . .' he said.

Then he went back into the room to torture Vera some more.

TWENTY-SIX

‘I give you Mr X.'

Fauré's voice echoed in his mind as Ryzhkov watched the man, the goal of all their work. He seemed happy enough, strolling down the still-snowy prospekt, the air sharp as a knife. Pausing to eye the merchandise on display at Eliseff's. Lingering there for a few moments, pondering a purchase? Waiting for someone? Pirouetting from leg to leg. A sharp little customer, Ryzhkov thought. A paladin of the modern age, cheerfully absorbing all the pleasures the great capital of Petersburg could bestow on a perfect winter Sunday. The day was brisk with clear skies, people had flocked to the Nevsky to see and be seen. Above the throng a triangle of geese flew across the rooftops, surely the very last to leave for the south.

‘Count Ivo Smyrba. He holds the post of Attaché for the Kingdom of Bulgaria. In essence, this Smyrba is a business agent. We know that he was manipulating the pervert Lavrik in order to facilitate the cabal's interests here in Russia.'

Now a smile crossed Smyrba's face. He nodded at someone, tipped his hat. Fished in his pocket for a cigarette. Ryzhkov caught a glimpse of Hokhodiev as he passed them, and then paused in front of a bird-seller's stall up ahead. Ryzhkov followed Smyrba down the Nevsky, ambling along past the crowded Gostiny Dvor market, matching Smyrba's pace. He thought he knew where the man was going and then, yes, ahead of him Smyrba stopped at the corner, and when the gendarme blew his whistle, crossed the Nevsky at the Kazan Cathedral and headed for the bridge.

It turned out that Tomlinovich had got a lot out of Vera.

She finally admitted she'd met Smyrba at Madame Hillé's. They had talked on a few occasions, although she claimed to remember nothing of the conversations. Probably because she did scenes he'd asked her about procuring a child for his friend. He'd only had to bring the idea up a couple of times before they'd set a date. She'd been happy to take the money, she said. Such things were normal. That was her not-so-pretty bedtime story.