The People's Will (17 page)

He’d tried to rest, lying on the thin mattress and letting the hours pass. The food they’d brought him had been unrecognizable as such, but he’d forced it down, not knowing when he might get more. The army had been good training for that. He wondered what would become of him. He tried to think of the best outcome – tried to believe in it, not because believing would make it true, but because expecting the worst would drive him to despair. Tamara had told him how they worked here – the first task was to break a man’s will.

He’d not had a weapon; that was in his favour. He’d had a sword at his side, but so did any officer in uniform. And he was a hero of Geok Tepe – he still had the wound to show it. His hand was almost healed now, but it was still bandaged, and beneath the linen the scar looked worse than it felt. He’d still need a story to tell them. He could say that he’d been so overcome with joy at being close to the grand duke that he’d felt the urge to rush to him and thank him for his family’s support of the army. Perhaps that was taking it too far; he would be more convincing if he was petitioning for better rations for the men. Neither made absolute sense – Konstantin’s power lay in the navy, not the army – but it was the best he had. He spent the day inventing further details for his story, but no one came to question him.

He still had the note, and the sapphire. He could do nothing with the gemstone, but he wondered whether he should try to get rid of the letter from his mother. It undermined his story, but if they found it, they might take it to the grand duke and Mihail’s ends would be achieved after all. But more than that, he couldn’t bring himself to destroy the last communication from his mother to his father, however brief it might be.

He heard the rattle of keys in the door, and then it opened. A sentry looked in, then withdrew. He heard a voice outside.

‘I’ll be perfectly safe. It’s imperative that I speak to him alone.’

Mihail turned his chair away and stared at the wall, not wanting to appear too eager to begin his interrogation. The door slammed and there was a moment’s silence, followed by a slight cough. Mihail turned.

It was Grand Duke Konstantin Nikolayevich – his father. Mihail leapt to his feet, turning as he did, knocking the chair to the floor. He tried to speak, but was tongue-tied. He could not tell whether it was down to coming face to face with his father for the first time, or to being in the presence of so high-ranking a Romanov. He reached into his pocket for the note.

‘You … you must read this,’ he stammered.

Konstantin shook his head. ‘No, I have no need to read anything. Do you think I cannot see your mother in your eyes? Do you think I cannot see myself in … in everything about you? I know you are my son.’

He opened his arms in preparation to embrace Mihail, but the gesture was not a comfortable one. Mihail hung back. However unconventional his upbringing might have been, he was still a Russian, and a Russian did not embrace a grand duke, even if he was his bastard son. In an instant Mihail understood how little he really cared for his absent father; he was interested in him, he might grow to like him, but there was no aching gap in his heart that would now be filled. He suspected Konstantin felt the same.

His father chuckled and offered Mihail his hand. Mihail grasped it firmly and shook.

‘It seems we’re very much alike already,’ said Konstantin. ‘But tell me. Tell me everything. I don’t even know your name.’

Mihail picked up the chair and offered it to Konstantin, who sat down. Mihail himself sat on the mattress, leaning against the wall. Too late he realized that he should not sit without permission, but his father didn’t complain. He looked up at the man, now in his early fifties, and managed to see a little of himself, but still he felt a greater sense of excitement than affection. He took a deep breath – there was much to tell.

‘My name,’ he began, ‘is Mihail Konstantinovich Lukin.’

‘Mihail.’ Konstantin thought about it for a moment. ‘After the archangel.’

‘Actually, no.’ Tamara had always been quite clear about it. ‘After Mihail Maleinos.’

Konstantin chuckled again. ‘The protector of the Romanovs? That was good of her. And Lukin, where does that come from? Has she married again?’

The name Lukin meant so much: the name of the family that had cared for Tamara and Mihail when they had arrived in Saratov; the name of Aleksei’s closest friend. But there was no need for Konstantin to hear of it.

‘Lukin’s not my real name. And no, she never remarried.’

Konstantin guessed the implication of those last words. ‘You mean …?’

Mihail spoke quickly, avoiding his father’s eyes. ‘She died. The end of last year.’

Konstantin stood and paced the room. ‘I see. I wish you’d come to me sooner.’

‘It’s not easy.’

‘I know. I know. And why have you come now? You want something? Money?’

Mihail shook his head. ‘Nothing like that. I still have this, look.’ He slipped off his boot and from inside took the pink sapphire. He handed it to Konstantin, who lifted his spectacles from his nose to peer deeply at the stone.

‘I remember,’ he said softly. ‘Did she have to break the necklace up?’

‘When would she have worn it?’

Konstantin nodded wistfully. ‘That’s just what she said.’ He handed the sapphire back and returned to the present. ‘You can have money. She could have had. Anna Vasilyevna and the children have a dacha to themselves in Pavlovsk.’

Mihail had heard rumours enough to know who Anna Vasilyevna was. He knew that Tamara had not been his father’s only lover.

‘Really, no,’ he insisted. ‘I still have money – and a career, in the army.’

Konstantin nodded. ‘A lieutenant, I see,’ he said, gesturing at Mihail’s uniform, ‘in the grenadiers.’

‘Grand Duke Pyetr Nikolayevich Battalion. I was at Geok Tepe.’

‘A great victory. General Skobyelev has made a name for himself.’ Konstantin’s voice hinted that this was not a good thing for the general to have done. There was a pause. It was surprising how quickly father and son had run out of things to say. Mihail broke the silence.

‘What I wanted from you – other than to meet you, of course – was some information.’

‘You only have to ask.’

‘I was wondering if you knew the whereabouts of my half-brother.’

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to be a little more specific than that, you know. You have more than one half-brother. Two of them are grand dukes.’

Mihail knew that he was being teased, but he noted the small number of grand dukes. It was common knowledge that Konstantin had sired four legitimate sons – along with God knew how many other bastards – but the youngest of them had died a few years before, aged just sixteen. The eldest, Nikolai Konstantinovich, was still alive, but had been banished to some distant corner of the empire after a scandal. Technically he was still a grand duke, but in his father’s mind he had evidently been stripped of the title, if not of existence itself.

‘I meant on my mother’s side,’ replied Mihail. ‘He’s called Luka; Luka Miroslavich Novikov.’

‘I know. I know,’ said Konstantin soothingly, sensing his attempt to play the fool had been misplaced. ‘Your mother told me of him. I hoped to keep a watchful eye over him, but I’m afraid I failed.’

‘He’s dead?’ It would be a surprise, given what Iuda and Dmitry had said.

‘No. No.’ Konstantin reached into his pocket and brought out a folded piece of paper. ‘As soon as I saw you yesterday, I thought you’d ask. Here’s his address.’

Mihail looked at the paper. He did not know Petersburg well enough for it to mean anything to him, but he would easily find it.

‘I don’t suppose you even know what he looks like,’ said Konstantin.

Mihail shook his head. Konstantin reached into his pocket
again and handed over a photograph. Mihail could not see much of himself in Luka, but recognized a little of Tamara. The man was in his thirties, his hair longer than was popular at the time, but well kempt. He had a moustache, but no beard. He was handsome. The real oddity was that Konstantin should have a photograph of him – but the style and pose of the picture gave away its origin. It was taken from the files of the Ohrana.

‘He’s a criminal?’ asked Mihail.

‘A suspect – nothing has ever been proved.’

‘Suspected of what?’

‘Have you heard of the People’s Will?’

Mihail nodded.

‘It was they who tried to blow up my brother’s train; they who exploded a bomb at the Winter Palace.’ Konstantin’s voice rose with suppressed anger. ‘A dozen guardsmen died; ordinary men – the very people they’re supposed to be fighting for.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Mihail quietly.

‘They want us to react, but we won’t. We’ll give them liberty – we have done already – but we won’t let them take it.’

‘And Luka’s one of them?’

‘He knows people who are – the police aren’t sure about
him
.’

‘I’m guessing you don’t want me to see him.’

‘He’s your brother,’ said Konstantin. ‘I wouldn’t stop you. But be circumspect. They have as many spies as we do – even in here.’ He glanced around with an air that hinted of paranoia.

‘Here?’

Konstantin nodded gravely. ‘Just yesterday they arrested one – a clerk named Kletochnikov. No wonder we’d made so few arrests; he’d been warning them, just in time.’

‘There are others?’

‘Who knows? Perhaps your brother can tell you.’ He paused for a moment, then changed the subject. ‘Why did she go so suddenly?’

It was obvious he meant Tamara. ‘It was nothing to do with you,’ Mihail explained. ‘Family stuff.’

‘Did she ever find her parents?’ Konstantin asked. ‘She told me she was looking.’

‘She did.’ Mihail felt warm just to speak of it, to be reminded of
his mother’s happiness, however short-lived it had been, however tragic the circumstances. ‘Though she didn’t know them for long.’

‘And that’s why she went away?’

Mihail nodded. It was time to test the water regarding another matter on which Konstantin might have information. ‘I mentioned earlier my name isn’t really Lukin,’ he said. ‘I get my true name from my grandfather. It’s Danilov. He was Aleksei Ivanovich Danilov.’ Konstantin looked blank. ‘He was a colonel under Aleksandr Pavlovich.’

‘Against Bonaparte?’

‘And later. But then he was exiled – after 14 December.’

‘Ah! And then he came back after my brother’s pardon. That would explain it.’

‘You’ve not heard of him?’

Konstantin shook his head. ‘I’m sorry.’

Mihail felt anger welling inside him. After everything his grandfather had done to protect the Romanovs, with all the secrets he could have revealed to save himself from exile, still he’d remained loyal. At the time it had been necessary, but now, so many years on, he was forgotten, regarded as no different from any of the others who had genuinely stood against Nikolai. It was a disgrace, but Mihail was in no position to say anything.

Konstantin stood. ‘I must go. But we’ll talk again later.’

‘You’re leaving me here?’

Konstantin looked shocked. ‘Goodness, no. You’ll be released in a few hours. You understand …? There has to be a gap.’

Mihail nodded.

‘Where are you staying?’ asked Konstantin.

Mihail gave the address of his hotel.

‘I’ll be in touch,’ said his father. He walked over to the door and was about to rouse the guard, but then he turned. ‘What was it you wanted me to read – when I came in?’

Mihail reached into his pocket for the note. ‘It’s what I was trying to give you on the coach,’ he explained, offering it to his father.

Konstantin read it – presumably several times, given how long he took. Then he looked up at Mihail. ‘You think that’s a fair summary – of her feelings? “Many affectionate memories”?’

Mihail nodded. ‘Did you really feel any different?’ he asked.

Konstantin cocked his head to one side, thinking. ‘And did she love you, as a son?’ he asked.

Mihail believed she did, but all the time he had known her, her capacity to love had never been as great as her capacity to hate. But that was not down to Konstantin, and he did not need to be concerned with it.

‘I know she did.’

Konstantin gave half a smile. ‘That’s all an absent father can really ask.’

He turned and left.

It was a step in the right direction; a step away from Zmyeevich. Three weeks before Iuda had been in a gaol built to hold a
voordalak
. Now his cell was constructed merely to hold a man. Getting out should not prove too much of a problem.

His escape from Dmitry and Zmyeevich had progressed just as he had envisaged. There was nothing much of real value in that cellar beneath Senate Square – he’d moved everything to a far more fitting residence, still within the capital. He’d put the mirror there to do precisely what it had done. It didn’t really matter whether he opened the cupboard, or some other vampire did. If it had been him he could simply have closed his eyes and waited until Zmyeevich and Dmitry came over to look. He doubted it would produce in either of them the devastating breakdown it had in Raisa, but it had caused a moment’s disorientation – and that was enough.

It had taken him a long time to understand why a vampire showed no reflection in a mirror – to realize that in fact a mirror reflected the monster’s true, monstrous image and that the mind of human and vampire alike was forced to block it out, preferring to see nothing. It had taken him longer still to work out how a mirror might be constructed to trick such a mind into perceiving the reality that it so feared. And even then it had been time-consuming and expensive to import and assemble so much of the necessary crystal: Iceland Spar. None of the final stages of the work could be done by him, for fear that he might catch even the briefest glimpse of his own reflection. But after he had watched
Raisa’s reaction to seeing her own true face, he had known it would be worth the effort. And so it had proved.

He still had no idea what Zmyeevich and Dmitry had seen in the looking glass. He had never dared look upon his own reflection. Perhaps one day.

It was in the fast waters of the Neva that things had gone awry. Iuda had known that his quickest route out of the water was to run into the bridge, and had tried to steer himself to that end. Dmitry should have been dragged on between the piers. That the current should carry him along exactly the route that Iuda had taken was pure bad luck. It was bad luck too for that patrol to be at just that place at just that time. In the end though, perhaps they had saved his life. He hadn’t expected Dmitry’s attack; why had Dmitry tried to kill him, then, after so much effort to keep him alive?