Thirteen Years Later (19 page)

But whatever Domnikiia’s thoughts might be, it was easier to avoid the issue. He would explain Tamara’s presence by saying she had had a nightmare – even if she had no memory of it herself.

Nightmare or no nightmare, it was not Toma who lay awake that night until the first orange light of dawn glowed behind the curtains and the birds struck up their announcement of the new day. Kyesha had not come. Moscow was a big city. There were many places towards which he might have been heading, and why should he know where Aleksei was living anyway?

The dawn meant he would not be arriving here, whatever his ultimate intentions; not until nightfall at any rate. If he was a
voordalak
, then in some dark cellar of the city he would be
settling down to rest. The knowledge brought comfort to Aleksei, and he finally allowed himself to fall into a troubled sleep.

Dawn came to the Dardanelles an hour later than it did to Moscow. It did so just as
R
zbunarea
steered quietly out of the Aegean and into the strait. Its passenger hovered at the top of the ladder that led down to the hold. He had wanted to see them pass this place. An oddly mundane desire for a man of his stature, whose journey would change the face of Europe, but he was, nonetheless, a man with a sense of history. He gazed out at the coast of Asia Minor stretching away to the south. Somewhere there had stood Troy. Even he was not old enough to know where, but he was wise enough to know its existence was no myth.

The route that the ship was taking, at least for now, was that of Jason. Ultimately, their destinations were different, but Jason’s goal of Colchis had not been so far from where
R
zbunarea
was headed. Jason’s quest had been to bring back the Golden Fleece. That – unlike Troy – was surely a myth, certainly as far as its magical properties went. And it had been guarded by a serpent. If that were true, the passenger of
R
zbunarea
would surely have known about it. He glanced down at the golden beast that entwined his finger and smiled to himself. He was in danger of believing his own propaganda. But he, like Jason, would bring a great treasure back with him when he returned this way.

He gazed to the east, into the mouth of the strait, set against the backdrop of the morning twilight. He could sense to within a second of arc where the sun was. Normally, he would not have cut it so fine, but he had wanted to see the strait.

It was at the very moment the first sliver of the sun’s disc appeared on the horizon that he slipped once more below deck.

‘You must have been up and out very early.’

For the briefest of moments, the terrifying thought crossed Aleksei’s mind that Kyesha had found him, accompanied by the far more astonishing concept that if Kyesha could be out and
about at this time of day, he could not be a vampire. Both ideas were quashed in an instant as Aleksei recognized the voice as one so familiar to him – that of his own son.

He turned and saw Dmitry sitting in the hallway of the hotel reading a pamphlet.

‘Well, you know me,’ said Aleksei, smiling. It wasn’t the smartest thing to say. Dmitry did know him, and knew therefore that early rising – certainly at his own volition – was not an obvious feature of his character. Perhaps Dmitry would take it as ironic. He had awoken particularly late this morning, due to not sleeping the previous night, and then spent an hour playing with Toma. After that he had come straight to the hotel to collect his mail and change his clothes. ‘How long have you been waiting?’

‘Almost four hours,’ said Dmitry.

‘You only just missed me,’ Aleksei lied, hoping the hotel’s patron had not over-elaborated his story to Dmitry. ‘You should have left a note.’

‘That’s what I did yesterday.’

Aleksei had not come to the hotel at all the previous day. ‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve been busy.’

‘Me too. But I had to see you. I’ve been so excited since Monday.’

‘I think we’d better walk,’ said Aleksei, glancing pointedly over to the hotel keeper, who was unconvincingly pretending not to listen to their conversation. Dmitry nodded and stood up. Aleksei led the way out on to the street. They turned south, away from the centre of the city.

‘I was as surprised as you are,’ said Aleksei.

‘You can’t have been! I mean, no one’s more loyal to the tsar than you.’

‘I’m loyal to Russia. That’s what we all have in common.’

‘Well, I see that now. I always thought you saw them as one and the same thing,’ said Dmitry.

Aleksei knew that he would have to lie to his son. He had lied before – to those he loved as well as those he despised – but this
time was different. Each word he said against the tsar would be a lie that only made Dmitry admire his father more. What would become of that admiration if the truth were ever revealed?

‘Aleksandr has changed over the years,’ replied Aleksei. That was true enough, and for the worse, in Aleksei’s opinion. It was the war that had caused it all, most agreed on that. In the first decade of his rule, leading up to Bonaparte’s invasion, Aleksandr had had plans drawn up both for government reform and emancipation of the serfs. It had been his minister, Speransky, who had done the real work, but Aleksandr had been behind him. But with war, priorities had changed and Speransky had fallen from favour. And after the war, Aleksandr had suddenly begun to see himself as a peacemaker – he’d found an almost evangelical zeal for it – and seemed to forget the need for change at home. He was happier to be seen as a figure on the world stage, a wise older brother settling the disputes of his fellow kings, kaisers and emperors. And if he would not act as a force for transformation at home, others would, and the transformation would consume him. Aleksei could easily list the tsar’s faults, but he could not share the rebels’ ideas of how to address them.

‘I should have known from the way you talk about Paris – and about Uncle Maks.’ Dmitry wasn’t really listening to what Aleksei said. He was carried away by what he believed his father to be. It almost made things worse – there was nothing now that Aleksei could say to disabuse his son, short of a full confession, and he wasn’t going to risk that. ‘Does Mama know?’ asked Dmitry, coming to a sudden standstill.

Aleksei almost burst out laughing. ‘God, no!’ he said. ‘Believe me, between a man and his wife, there are some things best left secret.’

‘Really? It’s just that . . . No. I see what you mean. But what would she think if she knew?’

‘In politics, women follow their husbands,’ said Aleksei. For him it was not a prescription of what should be, but a description of what was, not just in Russia but everywhere – even America.
It would certainly be the case with Marfa. Maks had once told Aleksei to read a book on the subject by an Englishwoman called Mary Wollstonecraft, but he never had. It was an issue over which Maks would have disagreed with the current leadership of the Society. ‘“Woman cannot be the subject of political rights; she is even barred from attending open sessions of the legislature.”’ Muraviev had written that.

‘And their sons,’ said Dmitry with a smile. No, thought Aleksei, not if it came to it. Marfa would stick with her husband.

‘How long have you been with the Society?’ asked Aleksei.

‘Oh, not long. Two years. Ryleev may have graduated from the Cadet Corps, but he’s not been forgotten. I bet you’ve been there from the start though.’

‘Not quite but . . .’ Aleksei paused. ‘Look, Mitka, I don’t think we should be talking like this. The Society is founded on secrecy – survives on it. We can’t make exceptions, even between father and son.’ Again, it wasn’t a lie, but Aleksei knew that he would have to plan very carefully before prising his son from the clutches of the revolutionaries. To rush in now could ruin everything.

Dmitry nodded earnestly. ‘You’re right, of course, you’re right.’ There was a lot in him that reminded Aleksei of Maks, but the humourlessness so often found when the young discovered politics was a trait he’d never known in Maksim Sergeivich. Dmitry would grow out of it. ‘Though you know they’re trying to blame the murders on us?’

There was only one murder Aleksei had heard of recently. ‘That bloke up in Tverskaya? What’s he got to do with the Society?’

‘It’s more the Poles people are trying to pin it on. But it’s the new one that’s really got them talking.’

‘Another one? When?’

‘They found him yesterday morning. His throat ripped out just like before. Some people are saying it’s part of a Masonic ritual – that points the finger at us too; at some of us.’

‘Bollocks,’ said Aleksei, a little too vehemently. Though what did he know? He had no doubt about the nature, even the identity,
of the killer. But Freemasonry? Did they allow vampires to join? ‘What’s so ritualistic about having your throat cut?’ he asked.

‘It’s part of the punishment – you know that.’

‘And did he have his tongue ripped out and buried in the sand?’ Aleksei despised and ridiculed it all in equal measure. In a way he regretted that the Union of Welfare had dropped the Masonic trappings of the Union of Salvation from which it had evolved. It was much easier to have an opponent that could be laughed at.

‘No,’ Dmitry conceded, ‘but the place they found him was obviously ritualistic – if not specifically Masonic.’

‘The place?’ asked Aleksei, but even as he spoke, he understood what his son was saying. He’d been at the very spot, only two days before.

‘They found him in the Lobnoye Mesto, Papa,’ said Dmitry. ‘At Golgotha.’

As Aleksei had noted the previous night, the midpoint of the Stone Bridge provided a fine vista of the area around it. But to see is to be seen, and any man standing at that position, even though the crescent moon was on the point of setting in the west, could not avoid being observed.

So although Kyesha had arrived early, and stood on the bridge staring down at the water that flowed below and occasionally glancing around, Aleksei had arrived earlier. Again, history was repeating itself. In 1812, on a Wednesday night, Aleksei had hidden away on the south bank of the river and watched as two of his friends met with two of his enemies – though he had not yet known them so to be. It had been that very evening, thirteen years and one month ago, that he had discovered the truth, by following the Oprichnik Matfei and seeing him feast on the body of a French soldier. Matfei had died that night by Aleksei’s hand, as had another of them: Varfolomei. Tonight he would prove beyond his own doubt that Kyesha was a
voordalak
– a doubt which had already vanished to almost nothing.

The news he had heard from Dmitry of the body at the Lobnoye
Mesto – the body of a Kremlin guard whose colleagues had last seen him striding over from the Saviour’s Gate claiming he had seen a flickering light – had convinced Aleksei of Kyesha’s guilt. He had spoken to the guard, however briefly, and could almost pinpoint the moment at which his life was extinguished, along with the flame of his lantern. He should have begun tailing Kyesha that night, but now he would make amends. And when he caught up with the monster, he had ways of dealing with him.