Zugzwang (19 page)

‘I want you to find out about something that may have happened in Kazan in 1889.'

‘This is beginning to sound a little vague,' he said sarcastically.

‘I want to be quite clear about this, Lychev. I've made up my mind. I will co-operate with you only if you help me find out about this episode in Kazan.'

‘You are wasting time, Spethmann,' he hissed with angry irritation. ‘I need to know Yastrebov's real name and I need to know now.'

‘I talked to Catherine,' I said. ‘She told me his name.'

Lychev could not conceal his excitement. I imagined him sitting forward at his desk, leaning into the telephone. ‘She told you Yastrebov's name?'

‘And an address Yastrebov was told to go to on arrival in the city. I'll tell you both when you have something for me from Kazan.'

‘Tell me now, damn you,' he said.

I said nothing. The silence continued.

Eventually, he said, ‘All right. Kazan – what may have happened there?'

‘A murder,' I said.

‘Who was the victim?'

‘Peter Zinnurov's mother.'

There was a long silence, but even so I could tell he was intrigued. ‘And do we know the murderer?'

‘Peter Zinnurov.'

Another silence, though briefer. ‘Where did you come by this information?'

‘If there was a murder,' I said, ‘there will be a police report, correct?'

‘If
there was a murder.'

‘All you have to do is check the records from Kazan.'

‘Have you any idea how difficult that is going to be?'

‘That's your problem,' I said.

He muttered an oath. ‘When did this murder occur? What date?'

Anna had been very precise. She was thirteen and two months when she made the trip. From her records I knew her birthday to be 16 June. ‘August,' I said. ‘More than likely during the second half of the month.'

‘Meet me at seven o'clock this evening in the St George's Gallery,' he said.

I put down the receiver and walked out to the street. The day was bright and clear.

There were no police at the office building, no detectives asking questions about Semevsky. A uniformed doorman greeted me formally as I entered. Another Okhrana agent, a replacement spy? It was impossible to know. I took the stairs to the third floor.

‘Just a minute,' Minna said into the telephone she had been about to put down as I entered, ‘he's here now.' Covering the mouthpiece, she said, ‘It's Kopelzon.'

I went into my office while Minna put the call through. I thanked him for dinner.

‘It was my pleasure,' he said warmly; he was in an expansive mood after his night of revelry.

I did not need to ask but did so anyway, ‘Did the night continue enjoyable?'

‘Very enjoyable,' he said. ‘The young lady proved most charming.'

‘I can imagine,' I said. ‘Did your other friend also enjoy himself?'

‘Which one?'

‘The one I mistook for Rozental.'

‘Ah yes. He was most flattered, though I have to say he was just as surprised as I. Do you really think there's a resemblance? You're the only one.'

‘It must have been a trick of the light,' I said. ‘He seemed worried about something.'

‘No,' Kopelzon replied with a faintly exaggerated airiness. ‘He's often like that. Excitable.'

‘Have you seen Rozental?' I asked.

‘Actually, that's why I called you. I saw him at the hotel. He's definitely over the worst.'

‘I seriously doubt that, Reuven,' I said. ‘When he left me last night he was highly disturbed.'

‘So you said. But I can assure you, Otto, he's fine now.'

‘I'm seeing him later today –'

‘He doesn't want to continue the treatment,' Kopelzon said quickly. ‘Don't feel bad. It's not a comment on your expertise. It's just that he feels perfectly well and, to be honest, he really needs to concentrate on preparing for the tournament.'

‘You are jeopardising Rozental's mental well-being,' I said frostily.

‘It was his decision, Otto,' Kopelzon replied evenly. ‘I had nothing to do with it, but, I have to say, I really didn't think when I brought him to you that you'd dredge up these things from his past. All this stuff about his grandparents – you were making him even worse.'

‘What did you think a psychoanalyst would talk to him about?'

‘Otto, you just have to accept that some people can't be
helped. As long as Rozental plays and plays well, what does it matter what's going on in that mad head of his?'

‘That's precisely the point: I doubt very much whether he will play well. In my view, he should withdraw.'

‘No!' Kopelzon snapped. ‘I've told you – he's perfectly fine.'

‘All so you can boast that a Polish Jew takes coffee with the tsar and tsarina at the Peterhof?'

He breathed out with annoyance. ‘You may not think it important, others do.'

A harsh silence followed. Struggling to affect an amiable tone, he eventually said, ‘Speaking of chess, you owe me a move.'

Spethmann–Kopelzon
After 40 … Qb6. Should White play 41 e5 in
an attempt to break through Black's defences?

Our games were always competitive but they had never been spiteful. I went to the table and quickly brought the position up to date. Here I would take my anger out on Kopelzon. An aggressive move, something to tear open his position and demolish his defences at a stroke. 41 e5 was the
move. This would be his punishment. I stretched out my hand to take the pawn forward one square.

But then I saw his reply – 41 … Qd4+. After the king moved, say to h5, he would play 42 … Qxd3, and if then 43 exd6 he would play 43 … Qe2+ and my king would hardly be able to escape perpetual check. My move wouldn't work.

‘Come on, Otto. What's keeping you? Are you losing your nerve?'

I had to find something else. But what?

‘Otto? I'm getting this feeling you know you can't win.'

‘41 Kh5,' I said.

The pause that followed suggested he had expected me to make the pawn move. After a moment he said, ‘41 … Kf8.' He sounded as though he was trying to hide his disappointment.

Again I thought about playing e5. Much later, long after our game had concluded, I analysed this line. It turned out it would have brought me victory but at the time I did not trust myself. So I played 42 Kh6, confident that the queen check at e3 would bring Black no advantage. Now it was my opponent who asked for time to consider his next move.

We tried to end the call on a friendly note but it was a strain, for both of us.

Shortly after three o'clock I left the office by the back entrance, avoiding the new doorman. Once among the crowds on the Nevsky, I started west. As far as I could tell I was not being followed. I continued past the Stroganov Palace and almost as far as Admiralty Prospect. I ducked into an alley and concealed myself in a doorway for some ten minutes. Judging the coast to be clear, I emerged and once more set off, this time taking side streets and alleys to the Moika Canal. Near the Yusupov Palace I found a taxi. I got to the Hay Market a little after four. It was quiet. A few peasants were selling leftover vegetables from their carts and some drunken horse-dealers were arguing over their animals. I entered the covered market, passing a swineherd with his squealing piglets, and made my way to the stall where I had last seen Gregory Petrov. It was meatless and, apart from the butcher who was clearing up at the end of his day, deserted.

‘I'm looking for Grischuk,' I said to the butcher.

His look was dully belligerent. ‘I don't know any Grischuk,' he said.

‘I am Otto Spethmann,' I said.

The butcher cast a lazy look around, continued with his sweeping for a moment or two, then said, ‘Wait here.'

He returned a minute later. ‘Were you followed?'

‘No,' I said.

‘You're sure?'

‘I'm sure.'

After another quick glance to confirm that I was alone, he beckoned me forward and led me to a storeroom. Inside, on a simple wooden chair, sat my patient. He was more exhausted than I had ever seen him. His eyes were small and red, his cheeks sunken, his skin grey. The starched collar of his shirt was limp and rimmed with dirt. His suit, usually so immaculate, was crumpled and stained. There was about him a faintly faecal odour.

‘I hope I haven't put you out, Spethmann, dragging you all the way over here,' he said when the butcher was gone. ‘But I had to talk to someone.' He uttered these last words as though admitting something shameful.

‘You haven't put me out at all,' I said. ‘What can I do for you?'

He buried his head in his hands and mumbled, ‘Is everything all right with you? You haven't had any more trouble with Lychev and the police?'

‘Thank you for asking,' I said, ‘but we're here to talk about you. Has something happened?'

‘You mean, has something worse than usual happened? Is my life even more hellish?' He looked up at me blearily. ‘You can't tell anyone about any of this.'

‘Of course not.'

He had said he needed to talk to someone, but that did not mean he got straight to the point. Instead he treated me to a polemic on the growing anger of the workers in the factories and naval yards, and the crisis with Berlin. He talked about his stomach, which he feared was getting flabby, and his children's pet cat which had gone missing. His wife's mother was in poor health. I listened without interrupting him or seeking to lead him. He would get to where he needed to arrive when he was ready.

He took out a silver cigarette box. I declined his offer of a
cigarette. He lit one, drawing the smoke deeply into his lungs, and ran a hand through his uncombed hair.

‘Have you ever heard of a man named Sverdlov?' he asked.

‘I read something in the newspapers – wasn't he arrested recently?'

‘Yes,' he said, swallowing more smoke. ‘An important comrade. He had been sentenced to ten years' exile but he escaped in January. He made his way across Russia and arrived in St Petersburg a week ago. I found him somewhere to stay in the apartment of a friend, someone not connected with the Party and in whom the police have no interest. He was going to rest for a few days before continuing to Krakow to join Lenin.'

He stubbed out the cigarette and lit another. He pinched a stained trouser leg from his thigh as though it were unpleasantly damp. Perhaps it was.

‘Somehow the police found out where Sverdlov was hiding,' he continued. ‘They raided the apartment and arrested him. He's on his way back to Siberia. It was King – the spy. He's betrayed us yet again.'

Petrov scratched at his unshaven chin and neck and tore at the stud in his collar as though he were being choked. Loosening his tie, he threw his head back and gazed at the ceiling.

‘I don't know if I can keep going,' he said.

‘Because of the constant risk of betrayal?'

‘Because of everything.' His hand trembled as he brought the cigarette again to his lips. ‘The Party leadership has ordered an investigation. They want to know how and why Sverdlov was arrested,' he said slowly. ‘Only three other people knew where I had hidden Sverdlov. They will be interrogated by the Party's security department. Believe me, you do not want to cross those people. By comparison, the Okhrana are gentlemen.'

‘Are you saying you are one of those under suspicion?'

‘I was one of those who knew where Sverdlov was hiding. I have to be investigated. But if I'm the traitor then the Party might as well give up now. I'm Lenin's deputy in Russia. I'm the leader of the Bolshevik delegation in the Duma.' He shook his head at the absurdity of it all, then sighed with exhaustion. ‘Anyway, it seems the Party's security department have their man.' He looked at me with rheumy eyes. ‘A friend of mine, a good friend – Delyanov. No one suspected him. He's a bit of a plodder but he was a good comrade. The Party was all he lived for, or so he led us to believe.'

‘What will happen to Delyanov?'

‘He's still denying everything but there seems little doubt. And when the case against him is proved …'

He blew a smoke ring and let the conclusion of his sentence hang in the air with it.

‘Are you saying he will be murdered?'

Petrov threw me an aggressive glance. ‘Have you ever done anything, Spethmann, of which you were deeply ashamed?'

‘Yes.'

‘I mean, utterly, profoundly ashamed? Ashamed to the depths of your soul?'

‘Yes.'

‘How did you live with yourself afterwards?'

‘There is always guilt. But we can resolve to avoid repeating the act that gave rise to the shame.'

‘It's that easy?'

‘On the contrary.'

He ran his hand over his moustache and mouth. ‘What if you cannot avoid repeating the act?'