The White Russian (47 page)

As the elevator began its ascent, Ruzsky reflected upon the bomb that had been thrown at him in Yalta. Had not the intention been to kill the pair of them then-and if so, why had the Okhrana’s many trained assassins not been instructed to try again?

Were they waiting for the right moment? Had it arrived?

Vasilyev was standing by the door to his dark, wood-paneled office, and he offered his hand as Ruzsky entered. “I’m sorry, Sandro,” he said, in his low, smoke-roughened voice, his eyes searching Ruzsky’s own. His handshake was firm. “Please have a seat.” He pointed to the table around which their last meeting had been conducted. “Please.”

Vasilyev retreated behind his desk, silhouetted against the light. Ruzsky noticed for the first time an oil of the bay at Yalta above the mantelpiece. It looked like it had been painted from the window of Godorkin’s office.

“You have been told of my father’s death?”

“Your office informed the government and Colonel Shulgin telephoned me directly. It must have been a very great shock.”

Vasilyev’s insincerity brought a flush of anger to Ruzsky’s cheeks. Beneath the table, he carefully clenched and unclenched one of his fists. He had promised himself he would not allow himself to be provoked.

“Some tea?” Vasilyev leaned forward to tap a service bell upon his desk.

A young boy in a starched linen jacket appeared through a side door. “Tea,” Vasilyev instructed him. “Would you like something stronger?”

“No.”

Vasilyev slipped his hands into his pockets, waiting for the servant to withdraw.

Ruzsky looked out of the window at the fading light that shrouded the city’s rooftops. For the first time, he felt a stranger in the land of his birth.

Vasilyev smiled. It was as if he was able to read Ruzsky’s mind. He picked up a silver case from his desk. “Cigarette?”

Ruzsky shook his head. Vasilyev lit one for himself.

“You came to a meeting at Millionnaya Street,” Ruzsky said.

“Yes. Tragically, it appears that I was the last-”

“What was it about?”

Vasilyev gave another tight smile. Only good manners, his expression suggested, required him to continue the conversation. “I’m afraid, Sandro, that I am not at liberty to-”

“Did you arrange the meeting?”

Vasilyev did not flinch. He raised a hand and scratched his cheek with one manicured finger. “It was your father who requested that I come to the house on Millionnaya Street.”

“Why?”

“He did not say.”

“He must have given some indication.”

“There are many meetings, in many locations.”

“You had frequent contact with him?”

“He ran an important ministry.”

“Would it not have been more usual for him to ask you to go there?”

Vasilyev shrugged. “His request was not unusual.”

“But you knew what the meeting would be about?”

“I had some idea.”

“But you are unwilling to tell me?”

“I am not at liberty to.”

“The meeting was arranged to discuss the assets of the state.” Ruzsky tried to recall the precise words his father had used in the drawing room that morning. The old man had spoken of Vasilyev’s desire to protect the wealth of the Tsar, but to what, precisely, had he been referring? Not, surely, palaces and jewels and private wealth, which would have been neither man’s concern. “You were discussing how to protect the liquid assets of the state, in the event of revolutionary threat?”

As Vasilyev stared at him, exhaling a thick plume of smoke, the picture began to come into focus. All paper money would be worthless in a time of severe unrest. But there was one asset that would be crucial to the imperial government’s future financial viability.

“You were discussing what to do with the gold reserves,” he said.

Vasilyev did not move, but his head seemed to sink still further onto his chest. His face hardened. “What we were discussing is no concern of yours.”

“It was of concern to my father. So much so that it killed him.”

“On the contrary. It would be naive to imagine a connection between a routine business meeting and the sad personal events that transpired thereafter.”

“If the meeting was routine, then what prevents you enlightening me as to its details?”

“Routine or not, I draw a distinction between a high official of the Tsar and a mere chief investigator in the Petrograd City Police Department.”

Ruzsky’s cheeks burned. “Why was my father present at the meeting we held here yesterday?”

Vasilyev did not answer.

“What interest could he have had in two bodies found on the Neva?”

“You tell me,” Vasilyev said.

“You invited him?”

Vasilyev did not respond, but Ruzsky saw that he was right. “A revolutionary group is assembled. Some personal papers are stolen from the Empress of the Russias. Something is planned for this Friday or Saturday: strikes, or more significant protests, or unrest in the capital. A meeting is convened to discuss the gold reserves, and how best to ensure their safety in the event of law and order breaking down.” Ruzsky stopped. “My father had served this state for a lifetime. And yet within five minutes of that meeting, he was dead. It does not take an investigator to make a connection.”

“A connection?” Vasilyev enunciated the words slowly and with the utmost precision. “I am not certain you understand, Sandro, as your father most certainly did, the true nature of our predicament.”

“Our predicament?”

The young man came back, carrying a silver tray. Vasilyev poured a cup of tea and offered it to Ruzsky, who shook his head. “These are challenging times,” Vasilyev went on. He moved to the window and looked out at the dull afternoon light as he sipped his tea. “When our home catches fire, we must look to see what we can save. Is that not so, Sandro?”

Ruzsky faced him, stilled by Vasilyev’s change in tone.

“The bigger the fire, the greater the danger. But for each man, a different notion of what is precious: For one a painting, or some symbol of great wealth. But for another… a son, perhaps a grandson.”

The words hung in the air. Vasilyev did not look around. “For a third, the woman he loves.”

The chief of the Okhrana turned and smiled, holding the cup of tea to his lips. “Always choices to be made, Sandro. Isn’t that so?”

“You think we’ll disappear?”

Vasilyev took a sip of his tea, then put down the cup on the edge of his desk. “My advice to you is to save what you can before the house burns down.”

“Did you make the same threat to him?”

Vasilyev shook his head. It was not a denial, but an expression of surprise at his naïveté.

“My father’s opposition to you sealed his fate.”

“Goodbye, Sandro.”

“You told him what you would do to us if he did not agree?”

“I have a feeling we will not meet again.”

Outside, Ruzsky leaned back against the stone wall and breathed in the cold winter air.

He was not ten yards from the entrance to the Okhrana’s headquarters and yet all was quiet. A tram had stopped, its dull yellow light a hazy beacon against the black trees behind. A man got off and disappeared down the street, then the bell rang and it continued on its way.

Ruzsky took out and lit a cigarette. His hand shook violently.

He could see the dome of St. Isaac’s in the distance and, closer, the spire of the St. Peter and St. Paul Cathedral, but this was no longer his city; it was alien and remote.

The old man’s love had sealed his own fate and, if it had not done so already, old Russia was dying with him.

Then Ruzsky thought of Michael sitting alone in his room in Millionnaya Street and he began to run. “Hey!” he yelled at a droshky driver on the far side of the street. “Hey!”

R uzsky burst through the front door of Millionnaya Street. Ingrid was in the hallway. “Sandro,” she said, alarm on her face.

“Where is he?”

“In his room, but…”

Ruzsky had already reached the stairs.

“She is up there,” Ingrid hissed.

Ruzsky stopped, looking at his brother’s wife for a moment, then turned and pounded up toward the attic.

Michael sat on his bed, looking at a book. Irina was in the center of the room, packing his clothes into a leather case. Ruzsky steadied himself against the door.

Irina stopped what she was doing. Her narrow face softened for the first time in his presence for many years. “I’m so very sorry, Sandro,” she said.

She did not know whether to come to him, so remained where she was, awkwardly folding one of Michael’s white cotton shirts.

They were silent. Michael watched them both.

Irina was wearing an overcoat, her long, slender hands concealed in black leather gloves. A new jewel at her throat sparkled even in the dull light of the single electric lamp. Her hair was glossy and her foxlike face made up with meticulous care. It was a far cry from the radical student he had married and he saw the recognition of that fact in her eyes, also. “What are you doing?” Ruzsky asked.

She did not answer.

Ruzsky felt his son’s eyes boring into him. He kissed his forehead, sat by his side, and draped an arm around his shoulder. “Where did you find this?” he asked, turning to the book’s hand-drawn front cover.

“Uncle Dmitri gave it to me.”

Ruzsky looked at the pictures and the neatly inscribed verse. The story recounted the preparations for the fictional wedding of Tsar Dmitri I. It had been drawn and written in the era before their father and mother had discouraged Dmitri’s precocious artistic talents.

“I’m sorry I was not here,” Irina said.

Ruzsky did not respond. He pulled his son closer to him.

“He was a strong man.”

Strong rode high in Irina’s lexicon of approval. Strong was everything. But her failing was that she drew no distinction between the strength of the hero and the villain. “What are you doing?” he asked again.

“Sandro…”

Ruzsky leaned forward, uncoupling his arm from his son’s shoulder. “Where are you going?”

Irina inclined her head toward the room opposite. She wished to talk to him out of Michael’s earshot.

Ruzsky hugged his son. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he whispered. “It will be all right.”

He followed his wife through to Ilya and Dmitri’s room, their footsteps echoing on the wooden floorboards. Irina shut the door and stood close to him in the half-darkness.

Ruzsky listened to the sound of her breathing.

He wondered if she would take him in her arms and what his own response would be.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Truly sorry.”

Ruzsky did not answer.

“You know how he felt, don’t you?” Irina asked him. “Whatever may have been said?”

Ruzsky wished Irina to take him in her arms now and wondered momentarily if it was too late for them. He thought of Michael sitting alone on his bunk next door.

“Irina-”

“It is not healthy for him here, Sandro, don’t you see that?”

“I can’t be without him.”

“I cannot leave him here, Sandro.”

Ruzsky looked at his wife. Even in the twilight, he could tell that she was shielding something from him. “You’re going away,” he whispered.

“No-”

“You were going to take Michael away from me.”

“This is no place for him, Sandro, don’t you see that?”

“This is his home.”

“It would not be for long. Just for a few months. Until the situation here-”

“You plan to take him from Russia?” Ruzsky shook his head incredulously. “To Nice? To the Grand Duke’s promenade?”

“Sandro-”

“My father’s body is barely cold and you would rob me of our son?”

“Be reasonable. What is left for him here?”

“This is his home.”

“But who will care for him?”

“I-”

“You’re never here. You’re always at work.”

“Ingrid is-”

“Ingrid is not his mother,” she said crisply. “I am.”

They faced each other in silence.

“Think of what happened to your father,” Irina whispered.

“What do you mean?”

“Do you think he was alone in feeling that way? Look about you. The tension is in every face. Look in the mirror; you will see it in your own. Old Russia -our Russia -is on the brink of catastrophe. The dogs in the streets know it.”

Ruzsky could not think straight; she was right, but if he let her go, he was certain it would be the last he would ever see of his son. “It’s out of the question.”

“I’m his mother, Sandro. It’s not your right to decide-”

“No. I won’t countenance it.”

“I’m his mother.”

“You’re an adulteress and, unless I am mistaken, society will grant you no rights whatsoever.”

He had uttered harsh words more violently than he meant to. Even in the darkness, he heard her sharp intake of breath.

“Please leave this house,” he said.

Irina did not move. Her silence was meant to admonish him. “It was not just your father’s loss,” she whispered, “that you were not your father’s son.”

“Please leave.”

Irina hesitated a moment more, before turning and retreating rapidly down the stairs. Ruzsky walked across to the far side of the attic. He saw that Michael had heard every word of their exchange.

“Will I be staying with you now?” Michael asked.

Ruzsky hesitated. He could see on his son’s face the answer he wished to hear. “Yes,” he said. “Yes.”

As soon as Irina had gone, Ruzsky lifted the receiver in the hall and placed a call to Maria’s apartment. It rang and rang, but there was no answer.

He tried the Mariinskiy Theatre.

“I would like to speak to Maria Popova.”