The White Russian (55 page)

“It was supposed to be delivered today?”

“That is correct.”

“You set a deadline?”

“No. The American was quite specific; he wanted the material on the streets late this evening or early tomorrow morning. Not before, not after.”

“Why?”

“No reason was given.”

Pavel and Ruzsky looked at each other. “They must have given you some indication?”

The editor shook his head.

“But you accepted their demand?”

“We accepted nothing.” The man leaned forward. “We promised what we needed to in order to be able to gain access to the material. Naturally, once it was in our hands, the question of its distribution was for us alone.”

Ruzsky got to his feet. “Thank you for your time,” he said.

They stopped in the lobby to light cigarettes. “Vasilyev has been behind this from the start,” Ruzsky said. “He put Ella up to the theft. Then he must have claimed that his intelligence was that a group of revolutionaries wished to publish it…”

Ruzsky began walking again. “Let’s go back to the office,” Ruzsky said.

A nother crowd of protesters was streaming past the entrance to the city police headquarters. The demonstrations seemed to Ruzsky to be getting bigger, but quieter. This one was led by a group of Tartar waiters carrying a banner demanding “fair tips” and he would have laughed, but there was nothing amusing about the hunger he saw in every face.

Ruzsky glanced over his shoulder at the automobile that had pulled up behind them. Vasilyev’s men were also momentarily distracted by the protest.

The last stragglers passed by and Ruzsky and Pavel crossed the road. A constable stood between two men in handcuffs in front of the incident desk.

Ruzsky climbed the stairs fast, pulling away from Pavel. In the central area of the Criminal Investigation Division, he passed Maretsky, who stood at his own window, watching the march.

Another pile of papers had accumulated upon Ruzsky’s desk, on top of which was a note from Veresov, headed Bodies on the Neva.

Veresov had found no match for the fingerprints on the dagger in their files, so, whoever the killer was, he did not have a criminal record. Perhaps it was his imagination, but it seemed to Ruzsky that the present uncertainty was seeping into every corner of the city. No one was concentrating.

He poked his head around Maretsky’s door, ignoring the sporadic shouts from below. “What about the knife?”

The little man turned around, his porcine eyes examining Ruzsky as though he were a complete stranger. “I’m sorry?”

“The knife. The murder weapon.”

“Oh. Professor Egorov will be back soon,” he said.

“I thought you said he was due to return several days ago?”

“He has been delayed.”

Maretsky faced the street again and Ruzsky returned to his office, closing the door quietly behind him. He picked up the telephone. “Could you put me through to the university?” he asked.

There was a long wait.

“Porter’s lodge,” a voice answered.

“Might I speak to or leave a message for Professor Egorov.”

“Professor Egorov?”

“Yes.”

“We have no Professor Egorov.”

Ruzsky stared at Pavel, who stopped riffling through his own paperwork.

“Are you there?” the voice asked.

“Yes. You’re sure?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you,” Ruzsky said.

The professor was sitting behind his desk, staring at his hands. He looked up as Ruzsky returned, and closed his eyes.

Ruzsky took a seat opposite and waited for an explanation.

“I admire you, Ruzsky,” Maretsky said quietly, opening his eyes. “You’re honest. And you don’t judge people.”

“That’s not true.”

“You don’t judge me.”

Ruzsky looked at Maretsky with compassion. “Who am I to judge anyone?”

“Anton is a good man.”

Ruzsky did not see what the professor was getting at.

“He has tried to protect us. But they know everything that we do, so it is hard for him.”

“I don’t see-”

“We have to be careful what information we bring into the building, don’t you see that?”

Ruzsky inclined his head.

“I gave the knife to a colleague. His name is not Egorov. I will take you to see him.” Maretsky stood and put on his coat.

They crossed the bridge from Palace Embankment to Vasilevsky Island, where the cab turned left and slithered down toward the Twelve Colleges building at the far end of the street. Ruzsky made a point of not looking around to check whether they were still being followed, but Maretsky could not restrain himself. “It’s all right, old man,” Pavel told him jovially, but Ruzsky could sense the tension in his voice, too.

There were two black automobiles on their tail now.

They were not far from Ruzsky’s dilapidated rooms here, but their surroundings could not have been more different. Built to house the government of Peter the Great at the foundation of St. Petersburg, the beautiful red and white buildings of the Twelve Colleges had long ago been taken over by the university. Like so much of the landscape of the city, they had been designed to project the power and majesty of the Russian Empire.

As the three of them climbed down from the droshky, the Okhrana’s vehicles pulled up on the other side of the street. The still-falling snow blurred the day’s journey into night.

Maretsky led them through the stone archway and up to a long, cavernous corridor. They passed a handful of students wrapped up against the cold.

Maretsky stopped, knocked once on a door to their right, and, upon receiving a reply, opened it to usher them in.

Professor Egorov’s alter ego was a tub of a man, with a drooping white mustache and steady, pale blue eyes. His dusty rooms gave the impression of someone rarely troubled by a world beyond its four walls, and for a moment, Ruzsky envied him the tranquillity of his environment.

The professor knew immediately who he was. He emerged from behind his desk and produced the murder weapon from a drawer. He handed it to Ruzsky. “It’s Persian. The date suggests it was inscribed during the period of conflict over northern Azerbaijan, which lasted through 1812 and 1813.”

“What does it say?” Ruzsky asked.

“It bears the name of a Russian general.”

“Which one?”

The professor did not relish the question. “Nicholas Nikolaevich Ruzsky. Your great-grandfather, I assume. Or a generation before?” He shook his head. “It belongs to your father?”

“Sandro,” Pavel called as Ruzsky marched down the outer corridor. But Ruzsky was no longer listening. He moved rapidly away, eager for the cold night air to clear his head.

“Sandro, wait,” Pavel called again, his voice echoing in the hallway. Ruzsky did not stop.

S now swirled around the entrance to the house in Millionnaya Street. The light above its door cast thin slivers of light into the night. Ruzsky had to knock three times before there was an answer.

As Peter opened the door, Ruzsky was swept into the hall by a gust of air that scattered snow halfway up the stairs.

“It’s a terrible night,” Peter told him.

“Is my brother here?”

“I believe so, yes sir.”

Ruzsky removed his sheepskin hat and overcoat, dusted off the snow, and handed them to the young servant. He began to climb the stairs.

The upper part of the house was in darkness.

Ruzsky moved slowly through the shadows. He tried the room on the first floor where Ingrid and his brother were officially quartered, but it was empty.

He checked all the other bedrooms on the same level, including his father’s, but there was no sign of anyone.

He returned to the center of the landing. “Dmitri?” He walked up the stairs to the second floor. “Dmitri?”

He moved to the wooden steps that led to the attic, and began to climb them.

“Dmitri?”

He checked his own room-now Michael’s-but it was empty, as was the one opposite. Ruzsky glanced at the soldier at the end of Ilusha’s bed and the elephant on the shelf above it.

As he emerged, he sensed movement and spun around. Peter was at the bottom of the stairs. “Your brother has just gone out, sir. He said you would know where to find him. ‘Where this began,’ he said.” The servant held up a small key. “He asked me to give you this.”

Downstairs, Ruzsky walked to the far wall of his father’s study, took down the painting, and slipped the key into the lock of the safe.

Alongside his mother’s jewelry, he found large bundles of banknotes, some in rubles, some sterling, some United States dollars. At the back of the safe was an envelope marked with the imperial seal and his father’s name and the instruction By hand.

Ruzsky returned to the desk and opened the envelope. He pulled out a thin sheaf of papers. Wrapped around them was a note with the imperial eagle at its head.

Nikolasha, I enclose just some of what they have to offer. Vasilyev says he has been unable to recover the rest and may not be able to do so before the weekend. The possibility of their publication then is still, therefore, significant. I feel that we must do as he suggests; perhaps not all of the gold reserves, but a significant proportion should be moved to the vault out here. He will need you to sign the order. We are considering all other options, but His Majesty will not consider recalling any further battalions.

Vasilyev says the movement of the gold should begin before this information is broadcast in the city. The atmosphere here alternates between panic and denial, so I suggest, my old friend, that we act upon our own initiative -S.

Inside was a series of neat, handwritten notes that each began with the same instruction in the left-hand corner: For immediate transfer.

Ruzsky put the first down on the desk. Povroskoe was a remote village in the Russian interior. It had been home to the peasant priest Grigory Rasputin, who also went by the name Novy. Tsarskoe Selo meant the Alexander Palace and, by implication, the Empress.

They were messages for transcription by the telegraph office from the Empress of the Russias to a peasant priest.

Ruzsky stared at the neat, careful hand.

He turned to the last note. This was an actual telegram, complete with the stamp of the Povroskoe office.

Ruzsky sat back in his father’s chair.

He understood all too well the tension he had seen in Shulgin’s face. The rule of the Romanovs could not possibly survive the publication of such material.

He put the documents back into the safe, locked it, and put the key in his pocket.

Lights from the upper floors of the Winter Palace blazed defiantly into the gloom as Ruzsky stared out at the frozen Neva.

He saw a dark figure in the center of the ice.

He hesitated for only a moment, before stepping out and walking purposefully toward his brother, blocking his old fear from his mind. The marine police had placed no warning flags here, or none that he could see.

Dmitri wore a long, dark blue regimental overcoat and a sheepskin hat. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets.

They stared at each other through the falling snow.

“Don’t try to stop me, Sandro.”

Ruzsky did not respond.

“Father is dead. You are absolved of your responsibilities.”

“It’s not about responsibility. It’s about love.”

The word hung between them. Dmitri’s expression softened. He took off his hat. “Did you open the safe?”

“Yes.”

“You understand, then?”

“I do now.” Ruzsky wiped the snow from his eyes and face.

Dmitri lowered his head. He stared at his hat, flakes gathering upon his hair. Ruzsky thought he looked handsome in the darkness, and young-something like the boy he remembered.

“I could have warned him,” Dmitri said, a terrible guilt etched into his face just as it had been in Maria’s last night. “I knew they planned to steal the gold. I knew they had to trick Father to do it.”

“How could you know what threats they would make?” Ruzsky answered. “Or how far Vasilyev would go?”

Ruzsky could not take his eyes from his brother. He felt not anger, but an overpowering compassion. What he saw in Dmitri’s eyes now was a more confused and tortured version of what he had seen in Maria’s the previous night; it was a swirling mixture of love, loss, and regret. But it was guilt, above all, that swam to the surface. He had put his love of Maria and his desire to become the man he thought she wanted him to be above everything. Dmitri had watched his father walking into a trap and done nothing to prevent it closing around him, and it was tearing him apart.

Ruzsky thought of his brother’s fear on the evening of Ilusha’s death as they awaited the summons to their father’s study. He thought of the way they had held each other for comfort and strength. “Dmitri,” he said quietly, “let us go home.”

“I know how they must have threatened him,” Dmitri answered. “I know what happened at that meeting. Father wanted to countermand the order and cancel the movement of the gold and I know how Vasilyev threatened him. You saw the way Father looked at Michael. You know what was in his mind every time he even glanced in his direction.”