The People's Will (39 page)

‘Mihail Konstantinovich Lukin – that’s your name, isn’t it?’ he said, peering closely at Mihail. ‘My father had a friend called Lukin. He was killed by Iuda – well, killed by Iuda in the way that we all were; me, Raisa, Papa. He causes it to happen, but he keeps his hands clean. Anyway – Maks died a long, long time ago. You’re not a relative, are you?’

Mihail said nothing.

‘No, I don’t think you are,’ Dmitry continued. ‘Not of Uncle Maks, anyway.’

‘No,’ said Mihail, ‘not of Uncle Maks.’ He guessed where Dmitry was leading, and did not mind.

‘I remember,’ said Dmitry, speaking more loudly, as if this were an entirely new topic, ‘sitting in a restaurant in Moscow, many years ago – eating blini, as I recall. And I looked into the eyes of the woman opposite me – brown eyes, just like yours. She had red hair too, like yours, but brighter, more vibrant. Anyway, I looked at her and in an instant I just knew that she was my sister – a sister I hadn’t even known existed until that moment.’

Mihail kept his silence, trying not to show any reaction.

‘Tamara – that was her name.’ Dmitry looked Mihail square in the eye. ‘How
is
your mother?’

‘How’s yours?’ asked Mihail, brutally.

Dmitry burst into loud, mocking laughter. ‘Touché, Mihail. That would really hurt, if I cared any more about my mother than I do about yours.’

‘You cared about your father.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘You didn’t want him to know what you had become.’

‘I didn’t want him to hear it from Iuda’s lips.’

‘So why are you pursuing him now?’ asked Mihail. ‘Aleksei is long dead.’

‘Does it really matter? Your reasons for finding Iuda are so much better, so much more noble, more human. You do it out of pure hatred.’

‘I don’t deny it.’

‘And that’s why you’ll succeed. For my part …’ Dmitry suddenly stopped, as though he had forgotten what he was going to say. He looked confused; deflated. Then he spoke with sudden resolve. ‘I’m going away.’

‘Away?’

‘From Russia. From Europe. To some undiscovered country. There’s a new world out there. America. Africa. Australia. America, I think.’

Mihail was astounded. ‘Why?’ he asked.

‘It’s a nice long way away,’ Dmitry said simply.

‘From Iuda?’

Dmitry’s mood changed again. ‘I’m quite indifferent to Iuda. But we need what he has. That’s why we hate him.’

It was a bizarre contradiction, but it seemed like a chink in the armour.

‘And what does he have?’ Mihail asked.

‘He has our blood,’ said Dmitry.

‘Your blood?’

‘Yes!’

‘
Your
blood?’ Mihail switched from the plural to the singular form of ‘your’.

‘No.’ Dmitry shook his head irritably.

Again, it made little sense, except somewhere deep in Dmitry’s mind. ‘And what about Ascalon?’ Mihail asked.

Dmitry looked up at him eagerly. ‘Does he have it? Do you know where it is?’

‘You think he has it?’

Dmitry paled suddenly. His eyes flickered across every corner
of the cellar. ‘He’s coming,’ he said. ‘You must go.’

‘Who’s coming?’

‘Zmyeevich. He mustn’t find you here.’

Mihail was unsurprised by the revelation; he’d always suspected it to be the explanation of the ‘we’ that Dmitry had used. He was more puzzled by Dmitry’s strange clairvoyance. ‘How do you know?’ he asked.

‘Just go!’ screamed Dmitry. As he spoke he rose up from his coffin and flung himself towards Mihail. Mihail flinched and tried to back away, but found only the wall behind him. Instinctively his finger tightened on the trigger of the crossbow and the bolt was released. For a moment he felt a pang of sorrow – he had not intended to kill Dmitry, or at least not yet decided to. It didn’t matter. He had not been aiming and the bolt embedded itself in Dmitry’s arm. His hand went to it and he pulled it out with little effort.

‘Go,’ he shouted again.

Dmitry’s conviction was compelling, his terror infectious. Mihail stood in momentary confusion, then turned and fled, fumbling to load another bolt into the
arbalyet
as his feet carried him involuntarily across the floor. It was only when he was in the dark tunnel that he realized he had left his lamp behind, but he dared not go back. He knew that Zmyeevich might already have entered that same passageway from the other end and if so he was trapped. He hadn’t realized that he and Dmitry had talked for so long, and that above it was now dark enough for Zmyeevich to make his way through the streets and back to his bed.

He stumbled and fell. He was at the stairs. He heard the bolt spill on to the floor, but made no attempt to find it. He scrambled up the hard stone steps, his free hand waving the crossbow in front of him, even though it was no longer loaded, ever turning to the right with the spiral of the steps. Soon he was in the upper corridor and moments later at the door. His fingers fumbled for the catch and eventually found it. He stepped out into the cathedral.

He was back outside the Nevsky Chapel. A monk was kneeling in prayer. He turned at the sound of Mihail’s arrival, but did not notice where he had come from. Mihail breathed deeply, and
quickly hid the bow in his bag. There was no sign of Zmyeevich. Mihail walked briskly into the main body of the cathedral and then out on to Senate Square.

It was only then that he realized his fears had been groundless. It was still daylight. Zmyeevich could no more have been returning to the cathedral than Mihail could have flown to the moon – Kibalchich’s rocket notwithstanding. Dmitry had been mistaken. But then Dmitry had begun to behave very strangely indeed. It was a weakness that Mihail would exploit, if he got the chance.

‘Oh, it’s you!’ Colonel Mrovinskiy’s tone was of surprise rather than disdain.

‘Yes,’ replied Mihail. ‘Expecting someone else?’

‘You want to see him?’

‘As soon as possible.’

‘It won’t take long; he’s in town – they both are. Meet me in an hour in Palace Square.’

Mihail was there ten minutes early. He stared up at the angel that topped the monument to Aleksandr I, designed like Saint Isaac’s by Auguste de Montferrand, in this case in honour of the present tsar’s uncle. Mihail stopped himself; that was an odd way to put it. Mihail’s own great-uncle would be a more direct way to describe him, though it was still difficult to see him that way, even after meeting Konstantin. Mihail’s uncle on his mother’s side was a more pressing concern. He’d tried to piece together what he had learned.

It was no great revelation that Dmitry and Zmyeevich were working hand in glove. It had always been a likelihood; Mihail remembered when he had first raised the possibility to Tamara. Both vampires had reason to hate Iuda; that would be enough to draw them together. Mihail shared that common purpose, and so it might be that he too would inadvertently join that alliance. But he would be wary of Zmyeevich, even more so than of Dmitry. Dmitry had not harmed him in that chamber beneath the cathedral, but it meant nothing. Dmitry’s behaviour had been erratic; bordering on madness. Mihail tried to fathom a reason for it, but there was no explanation. He knew that he could not count on his safety next time – and yet there had to be a next time.

He saw Mrovinskiy emerge from the Winter Palace before the colonel caught sight of him. He strode over and Mrovinskiy stopped and waited. They entered by the door through which Mrovinskiy had come and he led Mihail along a narrow back corridor that seemed to run for half the length of the building. They turned left and up a flight of stairs and the passage opened up into a hall that was filled with scaffolding. No men were at work, but Mihail could see that the whole room was being repainted – in places the wall was being rebuilt.

‘This is thanks to the bomb last year,’ said Mrovinskiy. ‘Eleven good men dead – others maimed. I hope your friends are pleased with themselves.’

Mihail felt the urge to protest, but there was little point. He noted that his activities were known of in these circles. Konstantin and even Aleksandr might understand the reasons for what he was doing, but others did not, and without their protection he could easily suffer whatever punishment befell any other member of the People’s Will. He did not relish following in Aleksei’s footsteps and spending the next thirty years of his life in exile – or worse.

At last they came to a room on the far side of the palace, overlooking the Neva. Mrovinskiy left Mihail there alone. He wandered nervously, looking first out across the frozen river and then examining the artwork – if that was the word for the panoply of erotica that bedecked the walls. One particular painting caught his eye: a young woman reclined on a bed, the top of her head towards the viewer so that her face couldn’t be seen, the curls of her hair falling across her neck and shoulder, her breasts splayed by the force of gravity, but still pert. A hunched, muscular figure bent over her, leering at those breasts. He pushed her legs up close to her, bent double, with a hand on her buttock as he entered her, though the details of that were not visible. The dark hue of his skin contrasted with the milkiness of hers. His nose was sharp and pointed, as was the angle of his eyebrows, all aimed at the object of his desire. The oddest thing about him was his ears – pointed like a bat’s. For a moment Mihail thought of the woman as Dusya; there was some resemblance in the blonde curls of her hair, but Dusya’s body was more petite. Perhaps Sofia would have
made a more fitting model, although Mihail could not find it in him to see her as an object of man’s desire. For no good reason, the male figure made him think of Iuda, and he tried to push the thought from his mind.

‘Engaging, isn’t it?’

Mihail turned. It was Konstantin.

‘It has a certain … curiosity to it,’ said Mihail, returning his attention to the picture.

‘It’s by Zichi – the Hungarian. It’s called “The Witch and the Devil”.’

‘Her identity is the less obvious.’

Konstantin chuckled.

Mihail turned to him. ‘I can’t say I share your tastes.’

‘My tastes? Good Lord, no. This is Sasha’s private study.’

‘It must be distracting.’

Konstantin had no time to either confirm or deny the suggestion; at that moment the tsar himself entered.

‘Your Majesty,’ said Mihail, bowing. Aleksandr gave a brief nod of acknowledgement.

‘You have news?’

‘I do. Zmyeevich is in Petersburg; I’m sure of it.’

‘You’ve seen him?’

‘No, but I’ve spoken to someone who has.’

‘You know where he’s made his nest?’

‘No.’ Mihail realized only at the last moment that he should lie about it. Aleksandr’s concern – that of the whole Romanov dynasty – was with Zmyeevich. If Mihail told him of that chamber beneath Senate Square he would rush in there with a squad of specially armed men, intent on dealing with Zmyeevich once and for all – and would very likely succeed. But it could send Iuda scurrying in fear, and Mihail might lose track of him for years, if not for ever. Aleksandr might have some desire to assist Mihail in his quest, but for him it was a side issue. ‘But I’m working on it,’ he added.

Aleksandr eyed him, but if he doubted Mihail’s word there was little he could do.

‘Can we help in that?’

‘Not as yet. Your help with Iuda would be of greater value.’

‘You’ve found him?’ asked Konstantin.

‘I had. He was in the Peter and Paul Fortress, but not any more. I’d like to know who ordered his release.’

‘We’ll look into it. What name was he using?’ said Konstantin. At the same time Mihail noticed Aleksandr nervously straightening his moustache with his fingers. It would seem that he already knew plenty of what Iuda had been up to.

‘He had rooms at the Hôtel d’Europe under the name Vasiliy Grigoryevich Chernetskiy, but he has other aliases.’

Konstantin noted it down. ‘
Had
rooms?’ he asked.

‘I don’t think he’ll go back there, but it may be worth asking a few questions. Has Zmyeevich tried to make contact in any way?’

‘No,’ said the tsar guardedly, ‘but I have some idea of his plans.’

‘What?’ This was evidently news to Konstantin.

‘How?’ asked Mihail.

‘You forget – I can see parts of his mind.’

‘So what is his plan?’ asked Konstantin.

‘I think he’s given up on me,’ explained the tsar.

‘After a hundred and seventy years? I very much doubt it.’

‘Given up on me, not on us. He thinks he stands a better chance with my son.’

‘Does he?’ asked Mihail.

The tsar remained silent. Konstantin filled the gap with ‘Of course not,’ but there was little enthusiasm to it.

‘But if that’s his plan,’ said Mihail, ‘then his only interest in you would be to see your death.’

Aleksandr paused. His face was grey. His brother took a step towards him, but Aleksandr waved him back. At last he spoke, but it seemed to have nothing to do with the matter at hand.

‘Fifteen years ago I visited Paris. I was the guest of the emperor, Napoleon III. He was not to remain emperor for very long. It was just a year since my son Niks died. A year too since Lincoln was murdered, after he’d freed
his
slaves. I was walking in the Tuileries Gardens. There was a gypsy there and she read my palm. She was very honest – perhaps she didn’t understand who I was. She told me that she foresaw seven attempts to murder me, that six times my life would hang by a thread and that the seventh attempt would be the last.’

Mihail said nothing. He began to count the number of times they had attempted to kill Aleksandr, but the tsar provided the answer for him.

‘So far there have been six plots – shootings, bombings – but all with the intent of seeing me dead.’

‘The next attempt will come soon,’ announced Mihail. ‘They’re digging a tunnel underneath Malaya Sadovaya Street.’ Even as he spoke, he was realizing the full meaning of what he had witnessed there. ‘They’re going to fill it with nitroglycerin and blow you up as you ride over.’

‘Then that,’ replied the tsar, ‘will be seven.’

Iuda looked down into the cathedral, in precisely the opposite direction to most of those who came to view its architectural splendour. They would strain their necks to look up at the dome from the floor below, whereas he was perched among the gilded angels that ringed the lower reaches of Saint Isaac’s central tower, and could look down and see all who came and all who departed. He had arrived here soon after dark on Sunday evening, mingling with the congregation who came for vespers before slipping up one of the many staircases that were hidden within the church’s thick stone walls. The people had left and then the priest had left and all had become silent.