The People's Will (35 page)

‘Good morning, sir,’ he then said to Mihail. ‘And what might I interest you in?’ There was not a flicker of recognition in his eyes.

‘As it happens, I was looking for something French,’ replied Mihail. On his journey there he had not considered the possibility of putting on a show like this; his knowledge of the subject would rapidly dry up.

‘Soft or hard, sir? Or perhaps blue?’

Mihail rubbed his chin and narrowed his eyes to gaze at the range of cheeses in front of him, without the slightest idea what country they might hail from. With relief he heard the door close behind him and footsteps ascending, but he was wise enough not to turn and check they were alone. The shopkeeper, however, had a clear view.

‘You don’t know much about cheese, do you?’ he said.

Mihail grinned. ‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Neither do I, really. They call me Yevdokim Yermolayevich Kobozev – at least they do when I’m in here. Truth be told, it’s Bogdanovich. This is my “wife”, Anna Vasilyevna.’ He indicated the woman. She nodded at Mihail. He conceded a smile, noting that this revolutionary shared a name and patronymic with his father’s mistress. Whatever the other inequalities, names were common property to rich and poor in Russia. She turned and went to the window, lighting the candle in front of the icon with a match.

‘If it’s lit, the place is clear,’ explained Bogdanovich. ‘If not, just walk on by. The chairman’s idea.’

‘You certainly take security seriously,’ said Mihail.

‘That’s nothing.’ He glanced at Mihail’s cheek. Mihail could feel that there was a bruise forming there. ‘Did we do that?’ Bogdanovich asked, with a hint of concern.

‘Afraid so.’

‘Sorry. It must hurt. You should slap a bit of Brie on it.’

‘Does that help?’

Bogdanovich laughed. ‘God knows. It’s the sort of stuff I tell customers; seems to keep them happy. We’d be ruined if an
ohranik
came in who was a real expert.’

He led Mihail to a door at the back of the shop and opened it, but didn’t go inside. ‘That’s just a storeroom,’ he explained. ‘Some of the barrels really contain cheese, but we also keep the earth in here until we can shift it somewhere else. Through here is where the real action happens.’

They went across the shop to another door, which this time they went through. The room was smaller than the shop itself, and furnished with a table and a few chairs. On the table a ledger lay, with similar books on the shelves behind. Next to it stood a samovar and a parcel wrapped in newspaper. On one of the chairs a cat lay curled in sleep. On their arrival it looked up and then leapt on to the table, sniffing at the parcel. Bogdanovich shooed it away. The high windows did not let in much light, but afforded glimpses of feet passing on the pavement above. Beneath was the only unusual feature of the place: a gaping hole in the wall, two-thirds of Mihail’s height, leading out in the direction of the street. Mihail considered making a joke about them having trouble with
mice, but guessed they’d have heard it from every newcomer who came down here.

Bogdanovich leaned forward and called softly, his hands cupped around his mouth. ‘Nikolai!’

The next instant the head and shoulders of a man popped out of the tunnel and into the room. The face was familiar, not least from the pince-nez perched on its nose. Mihail had seen it at Luka’s flat and again at his interrogation. The man didn’t bother to emerge fully, but held his hand outstretched from where he was. Mihail took it.

‘I’m Kibalchich,’ he said. ‘Nikolai Ivanovich.’ Mihail recognized his voice as that of the man who had asked the technical questions. ‘I’m very much hoping you’re going to be able to help us with a few problems.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

‘Come on in,’ said Kibalchich, before disappearing again.

Mihail bent forward and followed. The tunnel was surprisingly well lit. A string of electric light bulbs – of the Edison or Swan type – trailed along its low ceiling, fastened to the regular wooden struts, giving enough light to see to the end where Kibalchich was crouched, not very far away. The whole place stank. In the shop Mihail had put it down to the cheese, but here it was stronger, and fouler.

‘Very impressive,’ he said.

‘The lighting?’ replied Kibalchich, with a hint of pride in his voice.

Mihail nodded.

‘A little bit of showing off, I’m afraid. We don’t use them most of the time; the batteries wouldn’t last. Generally it’s just oil lamps.’

‘I’m surprised you’ve room for any batteries at all,’ said Mihail.

‘Ah! That’s what you’re supposed to think.’

Kibalchich reached out in front of him and for the first time Mihail noticed that the floor at that point was not mud, but a sheet of wood. Kibalchich levered it up to reveal a narrow vertical shaft. It was not a rough structure like the one they were in, but lined with brick.

‘We thought it was a well at first,’ explained Kibalchich, ‘but it turns out there was someone here before us.’

He sat with his legs dangling in the hole and then pushed himself forward. Now he stood in it with the floor at the height of his chest and began to descend more slowly. Evidently there was a ladder beneath him. Mihail gave him a few seconds to get to the bottom and then followed.

The passageway below was far more spacious than that above and far better built, reminding him of the change at Geok Tepe from roughly hewn tunnels to the stonework of the corridors that led to Iuda’s prison cell. Here the floor was paved with flagstones and the walls were of brick, curving to an arched roof that supported the weight of the earth above. The ladder and the shaft upwards were at the end of the corridor. Kibalchich was already making his way in the opposite direction, which Mihail judged went out under the street, but at an angle.

The path ended with three archways, one at the end of the corridor and one to either side. In each hung a rusty iron gate, but only the one on the end was closed. Beyond it there was no further light. Mihail could just make out a pile of collapsed stonework, but nothing more.

‘That one’s locked,’ said Kibalchich. ‘We could get through, but what would be the point? We’re not here for archaeology.’

He went through the doorway on the right. It led to a small cellar, constructed in the same style as the corridor outside and full of clutter. A figure whom Mihail could recognize even from behind was unpacking one of the crates.

‘He’s here,’ said Kibalchich.

Dusya turned and smiled at him. He reciprocated. There was nothing in her face to indicate what had happened between them the previous night. ‘You got my invitation then?’ she said. The hint of something in her voice could have been genuine or purely his imagination.

‘This is where we keep the majority of the batteries,’ Kibalchich explained, casting a hand across the room. ‘Most are like this one’ – he indicated a Leclanché cell on the workbench – ‘but we have lead-acid accumulators too. I’ll show you what we’ve got and then we’ll go back up and look at the tunnel.’

‘Security first,’ said Dusya, her coldness contrasting with Kibalchich’s enthusiasm. Mihail looked at her plaintively. She gave
him the slightest shake of her head and pressed a finger briefly to her lips, so that only Mihail would see. Her need for reticence was not clear; perhaps she was in truth far more diffident about her liaisons than she’d made out. But that was not important. The simple act of secrecy itself was enough to make Mihail feel close to her.

‘Of course,’ said Kibalchich. ‘First a quick observation test. In the living room up there, what was on the table?’

‘Ledger. Samovar. Parcel.’ Mihail reeled off the items quickly. ‘And a cat,’ he added after a brief pause.

Kibalchich smirked. ‘Very good. And most of those items are just what they seem. The parcel, however, contains nitroglycerin – without any stabilizer. Just inside the entrance of the tunnel there’s a revolver.’

‘A dangerous combination,’ Mihail observed.

‘But a necessary one,’ Kibalchich countered. ‘If there’s a raid at least they won’t take us alive – and we’ll take a few of them with us.’

‘Who makes the call?’ Mihail asked.

‘Whoever’s nearest.’ Kibalchich saw the expression on Mihail’s face. ‘Terrible waste, I know.’ He picked up a saucer and offered it to Mihail. In it sat half a dozen hazelnuts, still in their shells. ‘Care for one?’ he asked.

‘No thanks.’

‘Good answer.’

He put down the saucer and picked up a single nut, turning it around in his fingers until he had it in the orientation he wanted. He pointed to it. ‘See there – that little blemish?’

‘Just about.’

‘That’s where we drilled it. Then we scrape out the kernel, fill up the shell and seal the hole with a bit of clay. Ingenious, eh?’

‘Fill it with what?’ asked Mihail, bewildered.

‘Prussic acid,’ Kibalchich happily explained. ‘Cyanide.’

‘And why do you do that?’ Mihail asked, though he could hazard a guess.

‘Again, it’s if we’re caught. It’s not something you’ll need every day, but there are times – you know – if you’re carrying a gun, or a bomb. Just keep one of these under your tongue or in your
cheek and when they arrest you all you have to do is bite on it. It’s better than being tortured and hanged.’

‘Be quick about it though,’ interjected Dusya. ‘They know about them. They’ll try to stop you.’

Mihail shot her a look of distaste that he hoped she could tell was in jest.

‘We wouldn’t want you to suffer,’ she said, hiding a smirk.

‘Take one,’ said Kibalchich.

Mihail complied, slipping the nut into his pocket.

‘I’d say take two but it would be … superfluous. Though some of us like to have one under the tongue when we’re digging the tunnel. If there’s a cave-in and you’re buried it’ll be – well – quicker.’

‘You think of everything,’ said Mihail.

‘You haven’t heard the half of it,’ replied Dusya.

Both men looked at her, puzzled, before Kibalchich’s face revealed an understanding of what she meant.

‘Oh yes. One last thing,’ he explained. ‘We’ll need an obituary. Yours, I mean.’

‘What?’

‘We have our own newspaper – underground, of course. And if one of the heroes of the revolution dies we like to print something of the life that has led to such an act of noble sacrifice. But by then, of course, it’s too late. We don’t need anything now, but have a think.’

Mihail smiled ruefully. They really had thought of everything. Kibalchich was momentarily thoughtful, but quickly returned to his more familiar enthusiasm, which seemed almost as if projected to hide his fear.

‘But that’s enough of that,’ he said. ‘Let me show you our problem.’

Back in the corridor, he gestured towards the other cellar. ‘That’s just used for storage,’ he said, then led Mihail back along the corridor and up the ladder to the tunnel. The stench was stronger again, and Mihail recognized it as sewage rather than cheese. They walked along it a little way. It was low and tight, and neither of them was able to stand upright. Mihail was reminded of Dmitry, stooped in the tunnels beneath Geok Tepe.

‘Not much room down here,’ he said. ‘That chap who interrogated me – what’s his name? – I bet he’s not too comfy down here.’

‘Chairman Shklovskiy, you mean?’

Mihail nodded, pleased to have discovered Dmitry’s alias so easily.

‘He doesn’t come down here much,’ Kibalchich continued. ‘Not since we uncovered those cellars. But you’re right – it’s a bit cramped for him.’

It wasn’t long before the tunnel came to an end. Mihail recalled the width of the road above. As far as he could reckon they’d barely got beyond the pavement. From the mud wall ahead of them a curved wooden surface protruded. In the centre of it was an ugly mound of dirty rags, mixed with some sort of glue. The smell was strongest here, and a little dark fluid still dripped from the bottom of the rags.

‘A sewer?’ Mihail asked.

Kibalchich nodded. ‘Pickaxe went right through it.’

‘What’s the plan?’

‘We can’t go around. If we go over we’ll be up in the street. So we have to go under.’

‘Tricky,’ said Mihail.

‘Why?’ Dusya had come up behind them.

‘Because we’ll have to dig away the earth supporting the sewer,’ explained Mihail. ‘It might snap.’

‘That’s what we’re worried about,’ agreed Kibalchich. ‘Do you think it can be done?’

‘Why don’t you just use one of the cellars down there?’

‘Too deep. We’d have to dig up and that’s harder than digging across, especially since that brickwork might be structural to the street. And at that angle it would be difficult to judge when the carriage went over.’

‘Carriage?’

‘You don’t need to know,’ said Dusya, sternly. ‘It’s this tunnel we want you to fix. Can you do it?’

Mihail shrugged. ‘Get me a pencil and paper. I’ll work it out.’

They headed back to the shop. Kibalchich fetched some paper from a drawer and Mihail began his calculations.

‘How far does it need to go?’ he asked.

‘Twenty feet should get us to the middle of the street.’

‘And that’s where the carriage will be?’ Mihail asked, following on from what Kibalchich had said earlier.

‘That’s no business of yours.’ It was Bogdanovich who spoke, echoing Dusya’s words. ‘Not yet at least.’

Mihail returned to his work. The question had not needed answering. He’d been here before, or somewhere very like it. This was on a smaller scale, but the basic plan both here and in Geok Tepe was the same. First you dig a tunnel, then you lay your dynamite, then you blow it up. There the intent had been to bring down a city wall. It didn’t take a genius to guess what the plan was here.

KIBALCHICH COULD HAVE
worked it out for himself, but he lacked the confidence. His understanding of mathematics and engineering was far greater than Mihail’s, but having done all the calculations he couldn’t look at his numbers and then look at the tunnel and say to himself, ‘That feels about right.’ Mihail had more experience to fall back on, and had never been allowed the luxury of doubting himself; there had always been an impatient officer at his shoulder, demanding he get on with it.