The People's Will (52 page)

‘Who is it then?’ snapped Aleksandr.

‘His name is Lukin – Mihail Konstantinovich Lukin.’ As he spoke Iuda looked for any flicker of expression in the tsar’s face that might indicate he was aware of Lukin’s existence, but he saw none.

‘How do you know he’s Kostya’s boy?’

‘I know he’s a Romanov, and what’s more Zmyeevich knows it too.’

‘How?’

Iuda decided that it was best to come clean. ‘Because he has already drunk Zmyeevich’s blood. In doing so he has saved your son Aleksandr Aleksandrovich. It will take only a little more effort for your whole family to be saved.’

‘By killing him?’

‘By killing him.’

‘And why should we need you to do it? There are dozens of men in this very building who would kill at a single word from me. Better still, I could do the thing myself.’

‘Would they know how? Would you?’ asked Iuda. ‘Would you know how to deal with him, once dead? Would you be able to find him before Zmyeevich’s blood left his body? Would you
know how to determine whether or not it had? Would you be able to feed him more of the blood, if necessary? Would you—’

Aleksandr halted him with a wave of the hand. ‘You’ve made your point,’ he said. ‘And then what – how would you prove what you’d done?’

‘I’d bring him to you. It would be easy to demonstrate that he was a
voordalak
.’ Iuda imagined the moment even as he spoke. There was another side to this that had nothing to do with the Romanovs. Iuda would have in his power the vampire offspring of Zmyeevich – a creature who shared the great vampire’s mind. What power might it give Iuda over his former ally? But that was for another day. ‘Then you would give me payment.’

‘But at that point you’d have done your work. Why should I need to pay you?’

A lesser man than Aleksandr would not have made the case against his own trustworthiness, but the tsar knew very well that Iuda would have got that far already.

‘And at that point I would take Lukin and present him to your brother. I’m not sure just how deep the rift it caused between you would be, but hardly worth it for the little I ask.’

Aleksandr considered. ‘Very well,’ he said at length. ‘Do what you will with him. Then bring him here and show him to me.’

He turned to leave, but there was something else he needed to be told; there was no point in dealing with a dead man. ‘One more thing,’ shouted Iuda. ‘As a sign of my good faith.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t take your coach along Malaya Sadovaya Street this Sunday. They’ve dug a tunnel under it and they plan to blow you to kingdom come.’

Aleksandr gave a knowing smile. ‘I’m well aware of that,’ he said.

‘I see,’ said Iuda. ‘Then you probably know something else that should mean you won’t shed too many tears over the fate we have planned for Mihail Konstantinovich.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘He’s helping to dig it.’

Why, Dmitry wondered, did he continue? This was no question of, with Shakespeare still on his mind, ‘
Bitj ili nye bitj
.’ Dmitry did not seek death, nor did he know whether a
voordalak
was capable of suicide. The question was less profound. He knew he must get away from Zmyeevich, just as Iuda had told him, so why did he remain here in Petersburg? Why did he continue to pose as Shklovskiy? Did the success or failure of these fools, the life or death of Aleksandr, really matter at all to his existence? It did not – but it mattered to Zmyeevich and the fact that Dmitry continued to play his role simply demonstrated just how deeply in thrall to Zmyeevich he was.

‘You’ve done well in my absence, Sofia Lvovna,’ he said.

‘We were unable to communicate with you. I think I made the decisions that you would have.’

It was a small meeting – just the inner circle of the Executive Committee, those that hadn’t already been arrested: Sofia, Bogdanovich, Kibalchich, Rysakov. The only surprising face was Dusya’s; she’d never seemed anything more than a foot soldier in the organization. But when generals were dropping – or being arrested – left, right and centre there would be many a battlefield promotion. Her new-found status would be a boon to Iuda.

‘Is everything ready for Sunday?’ Dmitry asked.

Sofia nodded. ‘Aleksandr will not escape.’

What did it matter now? Not to the few gathered here, but to Zmyeevich? Aleksandr Aleksandrovich was lost to him, thanks to Mihail, so what would be achieved by his father’s death? Was that to be just the start? Would Zmyeevich go on to engineer the death of the new tsar, so that the boy Nikolai could take the throne, under Zmyeevich’s control? The people here would gladly help with the first step of that, though they didn’t expect there would be any need to remove a second tyrant once the first was eliminated; the people would see to that – so the theory went. On the other hand, might Zmyeevich use this threat to the current tsar’s life as one final inducement to persuade him to become a vampire? Dmitry did not care, but Zmyeevich cared on his behalf.

‘Any news of Zhelyabov?’ Dmitry asked, still feigning interest.

‘Were you expecting any?’ Sofia’s tone was a little pointed.

‘I think we’d know by now if he’d talked,’ Dmitry replied.

‘And how would we know that?’

‘Because if he had talked, none of us would be here to discuss it. We’d all be under arrest.’ It was straightforward reasoning and Sofia should have understood too. Dmitry suspected that there was something more to her question.

‘Perhaps he’s only told them what they know already,’ said Sofia.

‘By other means,’ added Dusya.

Dmitry noticed how he had become the focus of everyone in the room. True enough, he was the chairman of the committee, but that role had never previously drawn such attention. He chose to play the innocent.

‘Andrei’s clever like that,’ he said, nodding. ‘But eventually they’ll realize he’s not giving them anything new – and then we’ll have to act fast.’

‘I’m sure you’ll be the first to know,’ said Dusya.

‘Just as you were the first to learn of his arrest,’ added Rysakov, ‘long before the rest of us – before it even happened.’

Dmitry grinned. It was now abundantly clear what this meeting was all about. He glanced at Sofia and saw she had a revolver trained on him. Kibalchich had moved to lean against the door, blocking it as an escape route. All eyes were on Dmitry.

‘Go on then,’ he smiled. ‘Tell me what you’ve got.’

‘Not yet,’ said Sofia. She nodded to Rysakov who walked over to Dmitry, caressing a coil of rope in his hands. He went behind the chair and flipped a strand of the rope over Dmitry’s head and across his chest before tying it tightly. Dmitry’s arms were pinned to his sides and to the back of the chair. He gave the vague impression of struggling against his bonds, but he didn’t try too hard. That was best left as a surprise.

‘Now we can hear the evidence against you,’ said Sofia. ‘Dusya?’

Dusya stood. ‘I saw you,’ she said simply. ‘I saw you outside Trigoni’s apartment. The gendarme spoke to you before they went in to make the arrests. You’d gone before they came out.’

It was all a fabrication, and Dmitry could guess that it came at Iuda’s behest. There was no point in denying it – they had clearly made up their minds and anyway he had no desire to remain with
them a moment longer. But even so, he’d rather his denunciation was based on the truth than a lie.

He turned to Dusya. ‘Are you sure it was you who saw me, or was it Vasiliy Grigoryevich Chernetskiy?’

‘Vasiliy Grigoryevich is a prisoner of the tsar, as you well know,’ snapped Sofia. ‘And even if he were free, I’d happily take his word over yours.’ The gun in her hand trembled, but didn’t falter in its aim towards his heart.

‘Vasiliy Grigoryevich was released three weeks ago,’ countered Dmitry, ‘on the personal orders of the tsar.’

‘Rubbish!’ said Dusya. ‘But if anyone would know, you would, wouldn’t you, Colonel Otrepyev? You’re the man who put him there.’

Dmitry shrugged. ‘That I won’t deny.’

‘You admit it?’ asked Bogdanovich.

‘I admit it. Otrepyev and I are one and the same.’

‘Do they know about the tunnel?’ asked Sofia.

‘They?’

‘The Ohrana – or whoever you’re working for.’

‘I work for no one,’ said Dmitry, wishing it were true. ‘Certainly not for you.’

‘Then you’re an enemy of the people.’

Dmitry laughed. ‘The people? The people whose will you claim to represent? When it comes to it, you’ll find out just how little you understand the people.’

Sofia shook her head and smiled. ‘It’s a shame you won’t live to see it,’ she snarled, ‘but it will happen. A brave few of us will begin it. We’ll kill the despot and yes, the people will be shocked, and saddened, but they’ll pause to think and then they’ll understand what has happened and the chance they’ve been given. And they’ll grab that chance with both hands and they’ll follow us. They will take the reins of power and we will guide them to a new future – free from hunger, free from tyranny. Free from monsters like you.’

Dmitry’s nostrils flared. He breathed deeply. For the first time in many years he felt passionate. She knew nothing, none of them did, but he would tell them.

‘You brave few? Brave? Your brave plan is to skulk in tunnels
like rats. You’ll wait for Aleksandr to come past so that you can kill him without having to face him. Then you expect the people to rise up and do the real work for you, and if they fail, you’ll stay hidden and let them take the blame. Brave?’

‘What would you have us do?’

‘Act like men, if you can. Stand up and shout what you believe, like we did on the
quatorze
, on 14 December 1825. Three thousand stood in Senate Square to end Nikolai’s tyranny before it could even begin. Three thousand faced canister and grapeshot as the tsar ordered his men to fire upon their comrades.’

Dmitry knew that he was forgetting so much: forgetting that he was a vampire and should not care about such things; forgetting the fact that he himself had walked away from the square before the guns had begun to spit death. But he had not been a vampire back then. He was talking with the voice of the man he should have grown to be instead of the creature into which he had descended, and he enjoyed the deception, not least because he was deceiving himself.

‘They failed,’ sneered Sofia.

‘As you will fail. But at best, your failure will be forgotten. All the
people
will remember is the tsar’s bleeding corpse, ripped to tatters by your bomb. He will be a hero and his son – fool that he is – will bask in their mourning. If you go down in history at all it will be as cowards, as killers, as assassins. But we’ll be remembered. We who stood up to be counted, we who faced our oppressor and looked him in the eye even as he cut us down, we will inspire the future. We will have the streets and squares named after us. You will achieve nothing but death because you understand nothing but death. We deal in hope while you wallow in terror. We are Bonaparte – you are Robespierre.’

Sofia laughed, quite genuinely. ‘You are Bonaparte?’ she shrieked. ‘You are mad! The Decembrists achieved nothing. They demanded nothing but an easier life. They stood for themselves, not the people. And yet you talk like you were one of them. Did you stand there in your mother’s arms, suckling at her teat as the guns opened fire? Did you toddle up to Nikolai, tug at his coat and mewl at him until he granted a constitution? You’re living a fantasy. You yearn for a past that never existed, like all who
oppose change. You say we understand nothing but death? You’ll understand it soon enough.’ She raised the pistol to eye level.

Dmitry breathed deeply. He did not know where his words had come from. However rambling and idealistic they were, he was proud of them. But he feared – he knew – that his predictable, pathetic self would return to him before long, and so he relished the moment all he could.

‘I was there,’ he said slowly. ‘I was eighteen years old. I stood on Senate Square with my father and we faced the guns together.’ Lies! Lies! All lies! Whose was the voice in his head that screamed? Zmyeevich’s? His own? He did not care, as long as he could ignore it for just a few seconds more.

‘Quite, quite mad,’ said Sofia, a hint of sympathy in her voice.

Dmitry stood, spreading his arms to rip through the rope around him. The flimsy wooden chair collapsed under the strain and Dmitry hurled its fragments across the room. Sofia’s jaw hung open in limp surprise, but she held the gun steady. Dmitry took a step forward and it went off. The bullet hit him somewhere in the chest, passing right through, but he scarcely noticed it.

‘My God!’ whispered Sofia.

Dmitry took another step. Bogdanovich and Rysakov threw themselves forward and grabbed Dmitry’s arms, but he cast them easily aside. Kibalchich looked on with detached fascination. Dusya failed to hide an appreciative smile. Had Iuda told her that Dmitry was a vampire when he had told her to denounce him? Had she come with a more appropriate weapon than a revolver? It seemed not. Iuda did not want Dmitry to die – he merely wanted to demonstrate his power.

Sofia raised her aim a little higher and fired twice more. She was a good shot. The bullets hit Dmitry’s face barely an inch apart. He felt blood on his cheeks and heard a gurgling, snorting noise when he tried to breathe through his nose. Sofia dropped the gun and raised her hands to her face, covering her silent scream. Only Dusya failed to show any shock. She grinned salaciously, relishing the moment.

Dmitry could have killed them all there and then. Perhaps five minutes later he would have, but it would be an ignoble way to end his fine speech, wallowing in the death he had just condemned.
He made for the door, against which Kibalchich still leaned. Even his veneer of detachment could not disguise his horror, but he had not lost his presence of mind. As Dmitry reached forward to drag Kibalchich out of his way, the young man stepped aside, opening the door with one hand and almost offering Dmitry an exit with the other. It seemed to mock Dmitry’s oratory, but he chose not to punish it.

Moments later he was out of the room, down the stairs and running through the cool, dark night. He slowed to walking pace and laughed loudly, but soon fell into silence. His mind began to fill with unwanted intruders: the true memories of what had happened in Senate Square, a hunger for blood, and the presence of Zmyeevich, probing his thoughts, commanding his will. He knew that those first two interlopers would never be far from him, but Zmyeevich could be escaped. There was nothing in Petersburg for him now. Nothing in Russia, nor even in Europe. But it was a big world and Dmitry would travel across it until he was far away – far from Zmyeevich. He would seek out a new world, or a new continent at least. And when he set foot on it he would make it his home. He would live in a land that was what Russia should have been. And he would be free.