The People's Will (51 page)

Iuda smiled. ‘I still have some property there. An estate in Essex. A house on Piccadilly.’

‘And in which have you hidden Ascalon?’

Iuda laughed. ‘Who says it’s in either? England may not be Russia, but it’s big enough to hide a little fragment of stained wood – and more.’

‘More?’

Iuda’s mood suddenly darkened. ‘I think you should go now, Dmitry.’

Dmitry felt suddenly alone. He realized he had been enjoying himself. Talking to Iuda was not like talking to Zmyeevich. In neither case could he say he was regarded as an equal, but unlike Zmyeevich, Iuda was a show-off and he saw Dmitry as a worthy audience. It made him better company. Dmitry doubted if he would ever be able to kill him, however much the latent spirit of Raisa begged it.

‘Why?’ Dmitry asked. ‘Couldn’t I come back later?’

‘I won’t be here later.’ Iuda paused and looked down at him.

‘Mitka, you’re a danger to me, you know that. Even if you don’t want to, you’ll tell Zmyeevich what you know. You don’t even need to tell him. He knows your mind. He knows you’re here. He knows
I’m
here.’

‘What if I refuse to leave?’

Iuda gave a curt smile. ‘Goodbye, Mitka.’ He turned and walked away, not towards the steps by which Dmitry had entered, but along the tunnel of the sewer. Dmitry could listen to his footsteps long after his figure had become enfolded in the darkness, but soon even they faded beyond the limits of perception.

He was alone.

Mihail walked swiftly along the dark streets. He looked around. He was somewhere to the north-west of the city, on Vasilievskiy
Island, but he couldn’t tell precisely where. He couldn’t recall how he had got here. All was quiet. It was late and cold and few souls had the desire to be out. But some would, and it was those – one of those – that Mihail sought.

There was a noise ahead, coming from a side street. Mihail froze, surprised that he had been able to perceive so slight a sound, but pleased by it too. He pressed himself against the wall, becoming a part of it, his arms spread wide, following the line of the brickwork. He prayed that he wouldn’t be seen, but at the same time knew that there was no need for prayer. The sound grew louder; footsteps in the snow – two pairs of them. He only needed one, but the other would prove little hindrance.

They turned the corner and came towards him, unaware of the figure that stood in perfect stillness against the wall and watched them. They were workmen and they were sober, which indicated they were heading out to whichever factory employed them, not returning home. They didn’t speak. They walked past Mihail – inches from him – and still didn’t get any hint that he was there. Mihail felt pleased – proud even – at his ability to become invisible, but he didn’t dwell on the emotion.

One man was half a pace behind the other, and Mihail struck. It was a heavy blow with his fist to the back of the man’s head. Mihail felt the skull fracture and compress under his knuckles. A cosh would not have done as good a job. The man crumpled silently. He might be dead already, but he certainly would not survive even a few hours unconscious in the freezing Petersburg night. His friend sensed that something had happened and began to turn, but Mihail was ready for him. He took only a moment to relish the expression of horror in the man’s eyes before clamping one hand over his mouth and pushing his head firmly backwards, though not so firmly as to break his neck – the victim had to be alive.

With his free hand Mihail ripped away the thick scarf that kept the man’s throat warm and cosy in the night air. Beneath it was a high collar, but Mihail easily tore that away too, revealing pale, taut skin. He didn’t delay. He bared his fangs and thrust his head forward, enjoying the slight popping sensation as the skin first resisted and then yielded to their sharp points. Then he enjoyed
even more the warmth of the blood that flowed into him, nourished him.

He would get used to this.

Mihail awoke and sat upright in a single instant. He was cold, but covered in sweat. He forced himself to salivate and smacked his lips, trying to cleanse his mouth of the repellent taste, but the flavour had gone already, left as part of his dream. But the fear lingered. It was not the first time he had seen through Zmyeevich’s eyes in the days since he had drunk the monster’s blood, but it was the most vivid.

And yet he couldn’t be sure even of that. Had Mihail genuinely perceived what Zmyeevich perceived as he stalked his prey through the night streets, or was it as simple as a dream – a creation of Mihail’s own mind, reacting to the awful knowledge of whose blood he had consumed? Either way, it was a price worth paying for the victory Mihail had won over the vampire. And there might be further benefits too if Mihail could learn to control this second sight, and thereby discover Zmyeevich’s secrets.

Mihail looked around him and quickly remembered where he was. He had slept at the cheese shop, in the living room. In the far corner Kibalchich was asleep in a chair. They were adhering to Sofia’s rule that no one should be alone, and it made sense that the two men who best understood the engineering of what was being done should stay closest to it.

In truth there was little more that needed to be done. Kibalchich had fetched dynamite from its hiding place, wrapped in sailcloth and then sunk into the Neva where it could easily be retrieved using a rope attached to a tree on the bank. It was perfectly dry, but even if it had got damp its explosive potential would have been undiminished. Mihail laid it in place and ran the wires back along the tunnel. Then he and Kibalchich had sealed up the chamber where the dynamite had been placed, first with wooden boards, then piling loose earth in behind. In the end the tunnel was only a little shorter than it had been. The shaft down to the cellars below was still easily accessible – that was important, at least for Mihail. The only clue that there was anything beyond was the two thin wires emerging from the compacted dirt. He
carried them back, feeding them through his hands to avoid any chance of twisting, and left them just inside the tunnel entrance where they would be hidden even if someone entered the living quarters of the shop. He set up the switch, but connected only one of the wires.

In the army he would have used a magneto, but this approach, described to him by Kibalchich, was just as effective and could produce sufficient electromotive force to ignite the blasting caps from just a single Leclanché cell. The trick was to wire in a Rumkorff coil. The switch was held closed for just a few seconds, allowing the current to stabilize. Then it would be released, the circuit would be broken and the sudden drop in current would induce much higher tension in the other half of the coil, enough to cause detonation. The added benefit was that if the operator were to be interrupted or even shot, he would still release the switch and would in death complete his task.

Through the drawing of straws that task had fallen to Frolenko. They’d moved the table over to the wall on the street side so that he could stand on it and peep through the top of the window to watch as His Majesty’s carriage rolled past. It would mean that he could both time the moment of his action and see its result, though it might do him better to throw himself to the floor at that point, to avoid the shards of window glass that would be impelled towards him. After that he’d have a good chance of escape. There would be confusion and it would take a few seconds to connect the bomb with the cheese shop, especially as all in his entourage clustered around the body of the dying tsar.

None of it would come to pass.

Aleksandr knew already. He’d known even before Mihail had told him, thanks to the Ohrana and his wily Minister of the Interior, Loris-Melikov. The tsar would continue with his Sunday routine of travelling by coach to see the changing of the guard at the Manège, but the route would not take him down Malaya Sadovaya Street, not until the People’s Will had been smashed, and that would only happen when they had gathered enough information to arrest every member they could. Mihail doubted it would be very long.

But the People’s Will knew none of this. Their greatest fear
was discovery. With the arrest of Zhelyabov and the absence of Shklovskiy, Sofia Lvovna was completely in charge, and she had become obsessed with security. On cold reflection Mihail realized it was unlikely that she suspected him individually, but she was wise to be circumspect. There was no opportunity for them to leave and no excuse for it. Food was brought in for them – and even if it hadn’t been, there was plenty of cheese.

Mihail checked that Kibalchich was still sleeping, then climbed down to take another look at the lower cellars – the ones that Dmitry had so conveniently unearthed. He went back to the ancient dank corridor and along to where it ended at those three rusty gates. Only one remained locked. No one had attempted to open it up or explore further. What would be the point? Beyond, it was clear to see that the stone roof had collapsed and the pathway was impenetrable. Somewhere it must connect to one of the buildings above, but it had long fallen into disuse.

Of the two chambers, the first was still used as a workshop, but was filled with clutter. There were over thirty Leclanché cells there, along with wires, picks, shovels, incandescent bulbs, Rumkorff coils and everything else that a sapper might need to send a city wall crumbling to its foundations. All of it was surplus to requirements. The other chamber was tidier, but still a number of accumulator cells and reels of wire were stacked up against one wall. It too had an iron gate, but this one had been unlocked, assuming it had ever been locked – there was no sign of a key. Inside it was featureless, but for a simple alcove, about a foot high and at eye level, set into the wall. It was empty, but on the stonework above it was an inscription, written in an alphabet that Mihail could not comprehend.

No one else could make out the language, neither did they seem to care. Their minds were set on the explosion to come. It was late on Friday now; still a day and a half until the tsar’s carriage was due to roll past, though Mihail knew it never would. And even if for some reason the tsar did change his plans and come this way, he would be in little danger. How difficult would it be for Mihail
simply to reverse two wires and render the entire trap ineffective? Wiser not to do it yet, though. Kibalchich could come down at any time and check that everything was in order. Sabotage was best performed at the last minute.

Even so, it would be preferable to get out and warn the tsar. More than that, Mihail had his own trap to spring – and this place was perfect for it. It would take only a little preparation, and he himself would be the bait, but bait would only lure its victim if the victim knew of its existence. That was why Mihail sought the opportunity to break free and speak to the tsar. There was no doubt that Aleksandr would help; Mihail had saved him, in a far greater way than by warning him of the plot against him. Mihail had drunk Zmyeevich’s blood. It might mean that he would be haunted for ever by those terrible dreams, but it had made the tsarevich immune. There was nothing that His Majesty wouldn’t do for Mihail when he heard the boastful but utterly irrefutable words, ‘Your Majesty, I have saved your dynasty.’

‘Your Majesty, I have saved your dynasty.’

‘I find that very hard to believe,’ Aleksandr replied.

‘I assure you, I’m speaking the truth.’

‘An assurance from a creature such as you, Cain, means nothing.’

Iuda considered. He looked around him. Once again he was trapped like an animal in the zoo, in a cage that protruded into the tsar’s more comfortable portion of the room. It was not a position of power, but at least Aleksandr had agreed to see him – that demonstrated he still regarded Zmyeevich as a threat.

‘What proof can I offer?’ Iuda asked. ‘Your family’s happy survival for another century?’

‘That would be a start. You would still be around to receive payment.’

‘You would not be around to give it.’

‘My descendants would honour my word,’ said the tsar.

‘I wouldn’t trust
you
to honour your own word.’

‘I am a Romanov.’

‘Ha! So your word is as good as Pyotr’s was to Zmyeevich.’

‘So it seems neither of us trusts the other,’ said Aleksandr.

‘Then neither of us can benefit.’

‘I must contradict you. You say you have saved my dynasty – if that is true, then I have already benefited.’

Iuda smiled in acknowledgement of the tsar’s trap. ‘I overstated my position,’ he said. ‘I have it in my power to save your dynasty.’

‘How?’

‘I have found the bastard we require.’

Aleksandr sat down, rubbing his moustache. ‘Whose child?’

‘The child of your brother, Konstantin.’

‘He’ll never agree.’

‘He need never know.’

Aleksandr considered, remaining silent for several seconds. Iuda tried to follow his thought processes, but he was a difficult man to fathom. When he spoke, it revealed a concern for the practical rather than the moral considerations. ‘You propose to go to Pavlovsk and just kidnap the child?’

‘It is not one of his acknowledged sons,’ Iuda explained.