The People's Will (26 page)

‘I too,’ added Zhelyabov.

There were general nods of the head from those who knew the man. Only Dusya dared object.

‘Can we be sure it
was
Chernetskiy who sent the message?’ she asked. ‘A prisoner tapping against a pipe has no face.’

‘He used a codeword that we recognized, Dusya,’ Sofia explained. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘What was the codeword?’ Dusya asked.

‘“Susanna”.’

Dusya nodded meekly and returned her eyes to the floor.

‘So what do we do?’ asked the chairman, though he could already guess the decision of the committee.

‘We should question Luka,’ said Kibalchich firmly.

‘And let him tell us more lies?’ countered Sofia. ‘We can’t even risk him guessing we’re on to him. We must be swift and brutal.’

‘Sofia’s right,’ agreed Zhelyabov. ‘Luka doesn’t know our exact plans for the tsar, but he knows all of us. If we deal with him now we may be able to cut out the rot. If he thinks we’re about to act, he might have us arrested en masse.’

‘What do you think, Dusya?’ asked the chairman gently.

‘I can’t question your reasoning,’ she replied. ‘And we can’t allow sentiment to turn us from our course. If Luka is guilty, he must die. If he is innocent, he would understand the sacrifice he has made.’

The chairman almost sniggered at the perversity of her logic; these people had managed to delude themselves quite thoroughly.

‘There’s only one thing to do then,’ announced Sofia. ‘We vote.’

The chairman could not prevent it. ‘Very well,’ he agreed. There was nothing like democracy to wash the blood from one’s hands.

There was only one place to be in Petersburg on that morning, Sunday 1 February: at the funeral of Fyodor Mihailovich Dostoyevsky. He was to be interred at the Tihvin Cemetery at the Aleksandr Nevsky Monastery, alongside Glinka and Krylov and other great Russians, but none so great as him.

Mihail followed the path beside the Yekaterininsky Canal and then turned on to Nevsky Prospekt, named after the monastery to which it led. The road was densely packed, the rich in carriages, the poor on foot – all heading in the same direction; all to pay honour to the same man.

As he walked, Mihail considered his encounters of the day
before; one with his father and his uncle, another – two others – with his brother. Speaking to the tsar Mihail had realized what he should always have known: that it was impossible to surgically isolate his search for vengeance against Iuda from Zmyeevich’s vendetta against the Romanovs. Zmyeevich and Iuda might no longer be allies, but their lives were intertwined. Mihail would gladly help the tsar in his fight against Zmyeevich, as long as their two fights were the same.

But there was always another possibility. Aleksandr and Iuda were both enemies of Zmyeevich, and might each not think that his enemy’s enemy was his friend? Then where would Mihail be? Would he be able to take on Aleksandr and even perhaps his own father if they sided with Iuda? He would have to, though he prayed events wouldn’t come to that. And yet the Romanovs would always do what was best for their dynasty.

He was equally torn over Luka. At their second meeting yesterday he had been on the brink of revealing the truth of their relationship – that they were half-brothers – but had funked it at the last moment. Seeing Dmitry out on the street below had been a shock, but it was probably to the good. Now wasn’t the time to tell Luka. It would have been easier if Mihail hadn’t lied in the first place. Luka naturally had greater loyalty to Iuda than he would have to a brother he didn’t even know existed. But Mihail needed to discover where Iuda was – and in that he’d succeeded. Why Dmitry should have had him locked in the fortress was beyond Mihail’s understanding, but he would be safe there for now.

And Luka would come round eventually, however much his politics made him fearful of all those around him, and however much he insisted that the ties of blood meant nothing to him. A brother could not be separated from a brother. All it would take was time, and they had plenty of that.

Mihail’s pursuit of Dmitry had been short-lived. By the time he had got to the street the
voordalak
had gone. Mihail had chosen a direction at random, and then another at the next junction, but he wasn’t in luck. He wondered what Dmitry had been doing there. Perhaps he’d come to visit Luka but had learned of Mihail’s presence from the
dvornik
and changed his mind. It certainly went
to prove that there was a connection between him and Luka. It was another thing he would talk to his brother about when the time was right, revealing to him not just a long-lost brother but an uncle to boot; though not an uncle to be proud of.

And there was one other benefit to Dmitry’s visit the previous day. Mihail now knew that there was something hidden in that apartment. It might be papers, or explosives, or both. And Mihail knew pretty much exactly where it was. He’d seen Luka’s furtive glance at the picture on the wall, wondering if his secret would be revealed. Soon Mihail would find an opportunity to see just what lay behind. Brotherly love was not strong enough to stop him in that.

After the Nikolaievsky Vokzal, the station where Mihail had first arrived in the city, Nevsky Prospekt kinked slightly to the right before heading directly to the monastery. From here Mihail, and those around him, could see the folly of their journey. Not far ahead, the road was packed. Those in carriages had no hope of progress; those on foot might squeeze forward a little further, but would have to fight their way through to get anywhere close to the ceremony, the speeches and the burial itself. There must have been tens of thousands trying to say their farewells to the great novelist. Mihail felt a little pride at being Russian. In what other nation would a man of words instil such affection in the common people?

But Mihail knew he did not need to push his way through the throng in order to mourn – that could be done anywhere. He turned round and headed back towards the centre of town. The crowds quickly thinned as he made his way up Nevsky Prospekt, finally slipping between the Winter Palace and the Admiralty to gaze out on the great white expanse of the frozen Neva. Across the ice the fortress could be clearly seen, the spire of the Peter and Paul Cathedral looming inside it. Somewhere in there, in a deep, dark cell, unlit by the winter sun, lurked his enemy. It was safe enough to leave him there for now, but soon Mihail would have to act.

He turned left and strolled along the quayside. He had been in Petersburg for less than a week, but he was beginning to gain some sense of familiarity with it. Tamara had told him much
about the place, and every street he walked down, every river or canal he crossed, he had only to associate with the name that was already lodged in his mind. Soon he found himself on the edge of Senate Square, the place where his grandfather’s life had changed for ever – both his grandfathers’ lives.

He looked out across the ice again and tried to imagine the precise spot at which Aleksei had shot Iuda, and then cradled him, and then realized that he would not die but become undead. It was close to there too that he had been arrested, to be sent into exile in Siberia for thirty years. It had ruined Tamara’s life, but she had forgiven him for it. Mihail saw the man with better perspective – saw his flaws as well as his patriotism – and knew how both existed in Mihail himself, much as he might fight them. It was what he’d been telling Luka the previous day. They were both sons of Tamara and grandsons of Aleksei. Mihail was the lucky one; he was aware of it, but in the end Luka would not be able to elude his destiny.

Mihail looked at his injured hand. There was no need for a bandage any more and there was only a slight scar, which would heal. It still hurt when he flexed his fingers, but like the scar the pain would fade. He was luckier than Aleksei, who had lost two of his fingers when only a little older than Mihail, and then later the tip of a third. He turned inland and tramped across Senate Square. It had snowed recently and his were among the first footsteps to break through the glistering whiteness of what lay before him. Soon he was at the foot of the statue of Pyotr – the Bronze Horseman, as Pushkin had unintentionally named it.

‘Not going to the funeral?’

The question was posed in French. Mihail turned. An old man had emerged from the far side of the statue, where he had been hidden from view behind the Thunder Stone. The word ‘old’ was inadequate. Even ‘wizened’ did not quite do him justice. He was bent forward and moved his feet by only the smallest amount on each step, though he carried no stick. A thick, woolly
ushanka
was pulled down tight over his head, hiding whatever hair he might have had. He was clean-shaven but for a long moustache of purest white, scarcely paler than the wrinkled skin that sucked into his hollow cheeks. He was almost too old –
like a younger man in stage make-up, though close up Mihail could see that his flesh was quite real. He was certainly eighty – possibly ninety.

‘It’s too busy,’ Mihail replied, sticking with French. Given the age of the man, he might have grown up at a time when that was the first language of the aristocracy. ‘Fyodor Mihailovich will be buried well enough without me.’ The old man gave a short laugh. ‘How about you?’ Mihail asked.

‘I’ve stood by enough graves in my time.’

‘A soldier?’

‘For a while.’

Mihail wasn’t in uniform, and didn’t feel the need to point out his own, so far insignificant military career. ‘Were you here?’ he asked instead, on a whim. ‘When it all happened?’

‘Here?’

‘14 December 1825.’

The man shook his head with a tight, rapid motion. ‘No, I was somewhere else. But I heard tell of it.’ Mihail wondered whether, even now, the old soldier was lying to hide his part in a rebellion against his tsar. ‘Three thousand men standing against Nikolai Pavlovich,’ the man continued. ‘But they didn’t have a chance. Nikolai was strong. Just like him, up there.’ He nodded towards the statue of Pyotr, mounted on horseback.

‘He was a great man,’ said Mihail, instantly regretting the platitude.

‘Funny way to pose him though – pretending he’s Saint George.’

Mihail turned. No one other than his mother had ever mentioned the similarity before. ‘How do you mean?’ he asked, happy to let the old man share his memories, and curious too.

‘Don’t you see it? Victorious; on horseback; with the vanquished serpent at his feet. Just like in all those icons. Of course, you see them more in Moscow than round here. And have you noticed how they always show the dragon’s tail just curling around the horse’s leg, as if he’s about to topple George from it, even as he raises Ascalon high in the air to deliver—’

Mihail’s heart pounded. ‘Ascalon?’ he interrupted.

‘Ascalon. Nobody remembers. It was George’s sword. Like Arthur’s Excalibur or Beowulf’s Hrunting. Though some say it
was a lance, not a sword, but I don’t suppose that made too much difference to the dragon, eh?’ He emitted a wheezy laugh.

‘I suppose not,’ muttered Mihail, deep in thought. At last he had a meaning for the word, though it was hard to see how it was connected to Iuda or Zmyeevich. And yet it had come about from a discussion of the statue of Pyotr. It was too much for coincidence.

‘I can tell you’ve had enough of me,’ said the old man. Mihail tried to object, but the man raised his hand. ‘Anyway, I’m starting to feel the cold. It’s been pleasant talking to you.’

Mihail murmured a goodbye and watched as the old man hobbled across the square in the direction of Saint Isaac’s, his shadow a long black streak across the snow. Mihail watched him for a little while, then turned back to the statue, pondering what, if anything, he had discovered.

Luka looked at the note once again.

My dearest Luka,

Meet me at two o’clock on the corner of Nevsky and Kalashnikovsky Prospekts. It is urgent. Tell no one; your life may depend on it.

With my undying love,

Dusya

It was a quarter past now. It was a stupid place to meet, but Dusya had probably not considered the masses that would be attracted to the monastery by Dostoyevsky’s funeral. They were close here and the crowds were thick; still slowly trudging along Nevsky Prospekt. Luka tried to examine every face, in search of Dusya, but she was small and might easily get lost among the jostling bodies.

He had seen one face that he knew – the ugly, flat nose of Rysakov, or was it Glazov? One name was genuine, the other an alias, but Luka couldn’t remember which. They might both be fake, such was the need for security. They hadn’t spoken much recently; Rysakov had been given some covert assignment by the Executive Committee and secrecy was deemed essential; an
honour for one so young, only nineteen. It wasn’t so surprising to see him there, hoping to pay homage to the great novelist. The revolutionary movement had always been in two minds about Dostoyevsky. Without question they saw him as a writer of genius, a man who understood the heart of the Russian people; and they knew of his younger days as a radical, of how he’d even stood in front of a firing squad for his beliefs, only to be reprieved and exiled to Siberia. But he’d become a reactionary, loving God and, worse, loving his tsar more than he did his fellow man. And he’d grown to hate revolutionaries.

Devils – that’s what he called them; made it the title of a novel. It was only a slight exaggeration. Luka had been there, at the Agricultural College in Moscow in 1869. He’d been a follower of Nyechayev, but only on the periphery. Their fellow student, Ivanov, had seen through Nyechayev sooner than anyone else and questioned his authority – and his honesty. Nyechayev and a few of his cronies – not Luka – had murdered him for it. Dostoyevsky had turned it into fiction, but all who read it knew the truth. But it was an exceptional case, not the general rule. Nyechayev was a charlatan – there were a few in the movement, but they were rare. The People’s Will was prepared to kill – but it would only be for the good of the people.

Even Dostoyevsky had come to see it, if the rumours were true. His next novel had been planned to follow on from
The Brothers Karamazov
, where the pious Alyosha would leave the monastery and himself become a revolutionary. But Fyodor Mihailovich would not have kept things simple. Who could say whether Alyosha’s new calling would be for good or ill? Only one man knew, and soon he would be in the embrace of Russia’s soil.