To Kill a Tsar (14 page)

‘Do you know how he found Popov?’

The Director shrugged: ‘A chance to make a little money for vodka. He’d worked for the police for a while. Saw Popov at the Baird Works and followed him. But there’s something else . . .’ He edged a little closer. ‘Dobrshinsky’s going to bring in a woman called Volkonsky for questioning. ’

Mikhailov frowned thoughtfully: ‘She doesn’t know a great deal. Some names . . .’

‘You, Goldenberg, Morozov, Kviatkovsky . . . here are the people they are most interested in . . .’ The man reached into his pocket and handed him a small square of paper.

Mikhailov glanced down the list of names: ‘Who is this Madame Romanko?’

‘Kharkov has sent her records through – early twenties, brown hair, blue eyes, attractive – meets the description of the woman seen leaving the Volkonsky mansion in your company. Don’t you know her? They suspect she may have been in the square with Soloviev when he missed.’

For a moment Mikhailov stared at the paper, then turned to his companion with a small smile: ‘Thank you, Nikolai. Thank you again.’

They spoke for a few minutes more only, the Director casting anxious glances around the church. Mikhailov told him of the conference that was to be held at Voronezh and of the new alliance he hoped to forge there: ‘But you, my friend, must stay here in Petersburg. It’s most important.’

The Director nodded.

‘And Dobrshinsky?’

‘He’s not popular. But he’s clever. He’s brought in new people – the major from the Gendarme Corps who was there when Popov shot himself.’

‘And your position – is it secure?’

‘Oh yes,’ said the Director with a little laugh. ‘Quite secure. I’m a good conservative. And the bits you feed me go down well.’

‘Good,’ said Mikhailov, getting to his feet. ‘And now I must go. Next time we must meet somewhere different. I’ll send word the usual way.’ Turning his back on his companion, he walked over to the bank of flickering candles and stood with his hands together waiting for the clunk of the closing door.

The city’s clocks were striking nine when Mikhailov stepped into the street once more. It was a ‘white’ Petersburg night when the sun hovers low on the horizon but does not set and the delicate pink and blue of early evening meets the dawn. A fresh breeze was blowing off the river and the city breathed easy again after the heat of the day. The streets about Nevsky were alive still with prosperous couples promenading in their summer finery, groups of inebriated students weaving noisily up and down the pavements, streetwalkers with an eye to Sunday business and the constant rattle and squeak of the horse-drawn trams and carriages. Mikhailov slipped in and out of the crowd unnoticed until he reached the cab rank in front of the Imperial Public Library. No matter the lateness of the hour, there was a task he wished to perform. It was going to put him
to no small amount of trouble but it was quite impossible to ignore.

It was half past ten by the time he stepped on to the narrow wooden platform at the village of Alexandrovskaya. The schoolroom and adjoining house were set back a little from the main street, just five minutes from the station. Mikhailov walked slowly down the dusty lane, glancing left and right as if searching for a house. A sick-looking dog trotted hopefully towards him but there was no sign of its master or any other living soul, only the flicker of candlelight in windows and the distant rattle of a nightjar. The modest three-room schoolhouse was built of wood in the traditional manner and looked very like the rest of the village, if better cared for, with a coat of fresh green paint and a neat little garden, a honeysuckle twisting up the wall. From the lane he could see the smoky yellow glow of an oil lamp in the window. Anna was awake.

‘Who is it?’ she asked at the door.

‘It’s me. Alexander.’

‘Why are you here?’ But before he could answer, the door opened abruptly and she stood away from it to let him pass quickly inside: ‘Are they chasing you?’

‘I have important news.’

‘What’s happened?’ Her voice was taut with anxiety.

‘It’s all right. Don’t worry.’ He settled himself on her couch. ‘First, is there any tea?’

She stood staring at him. She must have been preparing to go to bed because the top of her white cotton blouse was hanging open, her hair loose about her shoulders, her feet bare.

‘The water’s still hot,’ she said reluctantly.

Mikhailov watched as she busied herself with the tea, admiring the curve of her bottom and thighs as she bent to light the samovar flame. Yes, other men would find Anna attractive, not a fashionable beauty, her nose a little broad, her
brow a little dark and heavy, but handsome nonetheless, with a neat figure and striking blue eyes. Above all, there was lively but graceful purpose in her every gesture and movement that even a man who did not share her view of the world might recognise and admire.

‘You’ve put the picture on the wall, I see,’ he said.

‘Yes, do you like it there?’ she asked, without turning to face him. Her voice was calmer. It was a little watercolour of folk dancing he had given her, young Ukrainian men in traditional Cossack dress, twisting wildly to fiddle and flute. It was hanging close to the stove along with a cheap icon of the Virgin that the priest had left for her when she took the position. It was a simply furnished room with a few functional sticks of furniture, an old wooden table and four kitchen chairs, a basic range for cooking and heat, and drawn across the windows, smoke stained cotton curtains. The only piece that would be at home in a bourgeois drawing room was the couch Anna had bought for herself.

‘Well?’ she asked, a little coolly.

He held his breath for a moment as she leant forward to give him the glass of tea. Her eyes were darker blue in the dim lamplight. He watched her over the top of his glass as she turned to sit at the table.

‘I’ve been to see a friend I call “the Director”. It’s a joke we share. A code name, I suppose. His job is to guide the movement. I found him a year or so ago and helped him to his . . .’ he paused for a moment, searching for a discreet euphemism, ‘a special position.’

He sipped at his tea before continuing: ‘The Director says Madame Volkonsky will be arrested and questioned. She will give them some names, of course . . . no, sit down, please.’

Anna was half out of her chair: ‘Have you spoken to Vera and Evgenia?’

‘They’ve left for Voronezh. They’re safe for now. And you must go too. First thing tomorrow.’

‘But I don’t think Madame Volkonsky knows my name.’

‘My dear Anna,’ he said. He placed the glass on the floor at his feet then leant back with his arms folded across his chest and stared at her.

‘Well?’ She lifted her right hand to her lips nervously. ‘Why have you come?’

‘The most extraordinary coincidence. The police are looking for a mysterious woman with brilliant blue eyes, a fine figure, brown hair. Someone who seems to know me, someone very like you, but who goes by the name of Madame Romanko.’

‘Oh?’ said Anna, rising quickly to her feet. She turned her back on him and went over to the samovar, but not before he had noticed with amusement the colour rising in her neck and cheeks. After a few seconds’ silence she turned back to the table, careful to avoid his eye.

‘You know, I like you, Anna.’

She looked up at him and gave him an uncertain smile, her shoulders narrowing insecurely.

‘You and I are dedicated to the revolution, to sacrifice . . .’ Mikhailov eased himself on to the edge of the couch. ‘And we share that burden . . .’

‘Yes.’

He slowly got to his feet and walked over to the window, lifting the smoky curtain to one side to stare into the blue summer night. Then turning abruptly to face her again: ‘Are you married?’

‘That’s my concern.’ Her voice rang with cool defiance, but her face was pink with indignation and embarrassment.

‘Have you left him?’

She paused to consider whether she should answer, then reluctantly: ‘He left me two years ago.’

‘Anna,’ he said breathily, taking a step towards her.

‘Please,’ she said, her hand hovering above her lap as if hoping to push what she knew to be coming away. ‘Please.’

‘I’ve fallen in love with you.’ He edged closer to the table: ‘No, sit please, don’t move.’ He held his hand close as if to restrain her.

‘Please, Alexander, we’re comrades . . .’

‘Marriage is nothing. A prison. But love – we can help each other. Comrades, yes, and lovers,’ and he bent down a little and touched her arm.

She shrank from him. ‘I don’t love you . . . this, this is damaging the revolution. There is no place for . . .’

Mikhailov bent swiftly, reaching for her cheek with trembling fingers, so close, the smell of her, her breasts beneath the cotton blouse: ‘I love you . . .’ His voice was barely more than a whisper. And he touched her hair, the back of her head, trying to draw her closer, but she pulled herself free.

‘No!’ She jumped to her feet, her chair crashing to the floor. ‘We’re comrades!’ she said angrily from the other side of the table. ‘Comrades, that’s all. I think you should go.’

Mikhailov’s face felt hot. He was struggling to hold his temper. He never lost his temper. Who did she think he was? He turned away from her and threw himself down on to the couch. ‘Is it the Englishman?’

‘No!’ she said indignantly. ‘No. It’s you.’ She was still standing at the table, arms wrapped anxiously around herself. ‘Go, please.’

‘This English doctor can’t be trusted. He isn’t one of us, you know that?’ Mikhailov said coldly.

‘It’s nothing to do with him. Now go. Please.’

‘Tell him not to come to the clinic. It’s too dangerous.’

‘Look, I’m sorry, I’ve hurt you, but . . .’

‘Don’t be ridiculous! You haven’t hurt me. I only care about what is best for our cause, best for the people. And you should think of that too.’

‘I do,’ she said quietly.

Silent seconds ticked by as they stared at each other. The
walls of the room seemed to press upon them in the flickering light of the lamp like the sides of a box. In the end, it was Anna who looked away and down at the table.

‘Before you go,’ she said coolly, ‘I want to remind you that we agreed the doctor could be of use to us. He has connections. We agreed that. And he has already proved his worth. There was a body in the street today . . .’

‘I know,’ said Mikhailov. ‘The Director told me.’

‘The Director? But why did he think the death of a beggar in Peski worth mentioning?’ There was an intense frown on her face.

‘Because he was a police informer.’

‘Dr Hadfield was sure he was murdered by someone who knew what they were doing. Did you kill him?’

‘This is getting us nowhere,’ he said coldly. ‘The security of the movement is my concern.’ Getting quickly to his feet, he stepped up to the table and, placing his chubby hands upon it, he leant across until he was only an arm’s length from her: ‘Leave first thing tomorrow. I will see you in Voronezh. And think about what I’ve said. In the next few weeks we will make brave decisions that will change this country for ever. You will play your part, I know.’ He stared at her for a silent few seconds, his face hard with certainty. Anna did not flinch. Turning at last, he snatched his hat from the table and walked to the door, only glancing back as he opened it to where she stood in the shadow. It closed with a quiet click and she was alone.

F
or a time, news of Madame Volkonsky’s arrest helped set the seal on further contact with the clinic and the women who worked there. In the days that followed her detention a sharp knock on the door or raised voices in the street sent a chill down Frederick Hadfield’s spine and he would wait with bated breath for the police to burst into the room.

But life went on as always, his hospital duties consuming more of his time, his list of well-to-do patients longer by the day. He had been treated with new respect at the Nikolaevsky since the closure of Department 10. Colleagues were grateful for the opportunity to share their problems with him, even when he was manifestly unqualified to solve them. And it proved to be a welcome distraction, a chance to make new friends and cement relations with old ones. A week passed, then two, and fear of arrest and the pain it would cause his family slipped away to be replaced by a dull ache that pressed heavier on his spirit. At empty moments of the day and at night, he was unable to free himself from thoughts of Anna, her small rough hands, the frown lines on her brow, the ice blue sparkle of her eyes, the timbre of her voice and their awkward parting. Of course, it had been foolish to press her about her friendship with this ‘Alexander’ and downright impertinent to wring from her the admission that she was married. It was apparent from the embarrassed silence that had followed the revelation that she deeply regretted it and was in no mood to confide more. A hasty and confused goodbye, and a feeling on his part at least that their paths were unlikely to cross again. But he had a duty to the
clinic. If he dropped his Sunday commitment it would be evident to Anna he was more interested in her than his patients and that was something he did not want to admit, even to himself.

So on a hot July Sunday Hadfield took a cab to the dusty square in front of St Boris and St Gleb once more. Gazing through the tangle of scaffolding, it seemed to him that not a brick had been added to the church in the month since his last visit. The filthy streets were oppressive with the stench of human waste familiar to those tied by poverty or duty to the city in summer. In the waiting room of the clinic, the dvornik was patrolling the crowded benches as before, grumbling officiously about the noise and the mess the children were making of his floor. ‘Can I help you?’ A well built middle-aged woman in a starched white headscarf and pinafore bustled up to him.

‘Dr Hadfield. I work here sometimes.’

‘Oh?’ She looked puzzled. ‘I wasn’t told you were coming.’

‘Is Miss Kovalenko here?’

‘No.’ Miss Kovalenko was not at the clinic. Miss Kovalenko was visiting her mother near Kharkov. Miss Kovalenko’s mother was very ill. No one was sure when she would return or if she was intending to do so.