Zugzwang (28 page)

My joints were stiff and my shoulders and lower back ached. I moved like an old man. I almost fainted as I pulled the valise from under the bed, and again as I struggled into my shirt.

As I dressed, I realised I would never see Kopelzon again. I would never hear his music, with all its passion, grace and waywardness; and its unique promise – that escape from human thraldom was almost within reach. Now I knew otherwise, for the discrepancy between the man and his playing had been brutally exposed; the promise was worthless. Kopelzon's playing claimed for its author the best of human instincts, but the actions of the man were in no way commensurate with these. The illusion was gone. I began to cry.

As I pushed the valise back under the bed, I noticed a box and pulled it out. It contained the clothes I had been wearing on the night of the explosion. They were blasted and torn. The right leg of my trousers was entirely shredded. My coat was scorched and spotted with blood. I felt in the pockets. There was something hard and heavy – the gun the man hiding in the bedroom had let fall. I had not handled a weapon of any kind in many years – I had not hunted since before Catherine was born – but I had never been afraid of guns. I inspected it
carefully; it was a German Mauser. I released and emptied the magazine and, after clearing the breach, carefully counted the bullets before reinserting the magazine into the housing. I pushed the gun into the waistband of my trousers, knotted my tie, took a deep breath and went to the door.

The room was small and low-ceilinged and the floorboards dusty and bare. It was empty but for a number of rude wooden chairs set around a simple table on which, among several newspapers, stood an empty bottle of Georgian wine and two dirty glasses. There were plates of unfinished
bitky
, pickled mushrooms and boiled potatoes.

Gregory Petrov leaned back in his chair, looking grey and strained. Lychev was on his feet. I had interrupted them in the middle of an angry disagreement. Lychev turned away, not wanting me to see his discomposure. Petrov assembled a smile.

‘So you finally decided to get up, Spethmann,' he said jovially. ‘Not before time. Your train leaves tonight.'

Though obviously exhausted, he was beautifully turned out in a cream-coloured linen suit, dark-blue cotton shirt and handmade shoes; not the dress typically associated with a tribune of the people and particularly incongruous in these surroundings. But Petrov was never less than his own man. He opened a silver case and offered me a Turkish cigarette. I shook my head. He lit one for himself and one for Catherine.

‘You have your tickets, Mr Spirodovich?' he asked.

I took the papers from my pocket and examined them.

‘You are a resident of St Petersburg, Mr Spirodovich,' he said. ‘You are an engineer and you are travelling to Paris to consult with the firm of Lajannière & Philibot about the proposed construction of a new bridge across the Neva.'

‘They're forgeries,' Lychev said, ‘but of the best quality. You will have no problems at the border.'

‘And to make your long journey as agreeable as possible,' Petrov said with a grin, ‘we've also arranged for your lovely wife Zinaida to travel with you.'

Anna's photograph in the travel document was not flattering. An older woman, strained and tired.

‘Where is Anna?'

Petrov stood up. ‘Patience, Spethmann. The police are looking for you and, with equal zeal, Zinnurov is looking for Anna. The Mountain's affection for his daughter is truly astonishing. The arrangements have been made with great care. Don't mess them up.'

He collected his hat and coat and glanced towards Catherine. ‘The metal workers have called a strike,' he said by way of explanation. Catherine gathered her things.

‘You're going?' I asked.

‘Catherine is now my secretary,' Petrov answered for her. Turning to address Lychev, he said sternly, ‘Your orders are very specific, Lychev. See that you carry them out.'

The two men glared at each other. Struggling to contain his annoyance, Petrov turned to me and held out his hand. ‘I don't know if we will see each other again, Spethmann, so I'll just say good luck.'

‘Why are you helping me?' I said. ‘I'm not one of your organisation. I don't approve of what you do or stand for, or the fact that you've recruited my daughter.'

‘I don't approve of you either,' he replied with a grin. ‘But you helped me and I know how to repay my debts.'

‘I'm not sure I ever did help,' I said. ‘I tried, but you would never allow me.'

‘As for Catherine,' he went on. ‘I have the impression she makes her own decisions.'

He smiled again and squeezed my hand. Catherine came up to kiss me.

‘I'll see you at the station tonight,' she said.

When we were alone, Lychev said, ‘You should rest.' He looked utterly miserable as he dropped into one of the chairs at the table. I had never seen him like this. He studied one of the newspapers, tossed it aside in disgust and picked up another.

‘Did you find out why Gan had Gulko killed? Why did he order the murder of a newspaper editor who had nothing to do with the plot?'

‘Catherine got Yastrebov a job at a restaurant –'

‘Leinner's – yes, I know.'

‘By chance one night a newspaperman was among the diners – Gulko. Yastrebov probably didn't know who he was so it's likely another of the waiters or diners pointed Gulko out. In any case Yastrebov, who had started to have second thoughts, approached Gulko and told him the fascinating story of how he'd become involved in a plot to kill the tsar. Perhaps Gulko believed him, perhaps not – it's entirely possible he thought Yastrebov a fantasist. Unfortunately for him, Gan, who was keeping an eye on the plotters to make sure they were doing what they were supposed to do, couldn't take the chance. He had Yastrebov killed that night and the following morning Gulko was assassinated as he crossed Politseisky Bridge on his way to work. The rest you know.'

Lychev's tone made it clear he wanted me to leave him.

‘May I take this paper?' I said, picking up the
Petersburgskiye Vedomosti
.

‘Help yourself,' he said morosely.

I would have gone back to my room had I not noticed the headline: ‘The King is Dead!' I glanced at the other papers.
Vecha
and
The Orator
had identical headlines: ‘Checkmate'.

My first thought was that something had happened to Rozental but, taking up
The Orator
, I saw that the story had nothing to do with chess. The previous afternoon the body of Oleg Ivanovich Delyanov had been pulled from the Neva. The veteran Bolshevik had been shot in the back of the head and his body bore the marks of torture. A chess piece had been found on a string around his neck – a king.

‘You found your traitor, I see.'

Lychev made a facetious grunt. ‘So the newspapers say.'

His tone put me on alert. ‘Are you saying they've got it wrong?'

‘Why do people turn traitor?' Lychev asked rhetorically. ‘There is always a motive, there is always something they get in return, tangible or otherwise. If you have a taste for luxury, the Okhrana can give you money. If you have an embarrassing past, it can keep your secrets secret. If you are a nobody, it can give you a sense of importance. If you have enemies, it can wreak revenge on your behalf. But Delyanov was a modest man, not highly intelligent but well enough liked. He always seemed to me indifferent to possessions and money. His clothes were old and patched. He had a wife, a fat old woman on whom he doted. He never had mistresses, he didn't go to prostitutes. Most of all, he believed in the workers' struggle. He lived for the revolution.'

‘You don't believe Delyanov was King?'

‘Where is his motive?' Lychev said. ‘I don't see it.'

‘Why didn't you prevent Delyanov's murder, if you thought he was innocent?'

‘The Party made its decision.'

‘You say “the Party” as though it's an entity.'

‘It is.'

‘But it's made up of individuals. Individuals made the decision, not the entity.'

He looked at me with contempt. ‘This is Party business. It has nothing to do with you, Spethmann.'

‘My daughter is now part of your organisation,' I said, ‘an organisation so rife with treachery that its members torture and kill each other. That makes it something to do with me.'

Lychev picked up the bottle, emptied the last remaining drops into a glass and knocked it back.

‘If Delyanov isn't King, who is?' I said.

He shook his head. ‘It could be any one of fifty people – an underground worker, a trade union leader, a member of the Central Committee.'

Lychev grabbed the bottle again and, turning it upside down over his glass, started to shake it as if it were wilfully withholding its contents. He tossed the empty bottle across the room. It hit the floorboards but did not break. Neither of us spoke for some long moments.

‘Why were you and Petrov arguing?' I said.

Lychev got up and went to the window.

‘What orders did he give you?'

He hesitated a moment, then, with his back still to me, said, ‘He was reminding me of the Central Committee's decision to allow the assassination to go ahead.'

‘But the plot has already fallen apart,' I said. ‘They needed Rozental to win, and he isn't going to.'

‘Gan has been planning this for months. He and Zinnurov have been preparing the ground for years. They are on the verge of seizing power. Do you really think they would have staked so much on the outcome of a chess tournament? Don't be ridiculous.'

‘Then how do they propose to do it?'

‘Last night we found out that a certain chess player has had the honour of being invited to a very special occasion.'

‘Rozental?'

‘Precisely. He was the only player to receive the invitation. Not even Lasker was invited.'

‘What is the occasion?'

‘A recital to be given by your friend Kopelzon at the Mariinsky Theatre tonight. The tsar and tsarina will be present. The double will take Rozental's place and do the deed, and by morning Bolsheviks will be hanging from the lampposts the length of the Nevsky. But don't worry, Spethmann. You'll be in Paris with your lover.'

I looked at my watch. It was coming up to two o'clock. I went to the door.

‘What do you think you're doing?' I heard Lychev call after me.

I ignored him and started down the mouldy wooden staircase. Lychev hurried after me and grabbed me by the arm.

‘Petrov left strict instructions you are not to leave this house until it is time to go to the station,' he said.

I shook him off and continued down the stairs. I emerged into a squalid, narrow street. Drying clothes hung on lines strung from the windows above. There was a horrible, fetid stink from the open drains. I had no idea where I was. I started walking.

‘Spethmann, wait!'

I turned back to see Lychev at the entrance to the building. He strode towards me.

‘What are you doing?' he said.

‘I'm going to stop Medem.'

‘And how do you propose to do that?'

‘I'll go to the police and tell them everything.'

Lychev began to shake with laughter. ‘Obviously I haven't
made the situation clear. You are wanted for murder, Spethmann. You'll be arrested the minute you go to the police – that's if they don't shoot you. And let's say for some reason they don't, that they've run out of ammunition or been overtaken by conscience, to whom do you think the police will report? To Colonel Gan.'

‘I have to try. I have to do something. It won't just be Bolsheviks hanging from the lamp-posts. There must be a way,' I said angrily and turned to go.

Lychev grabbed my arm.

‘There is,' he said.

Lychev drove past St Petersburg Metals. Workers were pouring from the factory gates. It was too early to be the end of their shift. I saw some men unfurl a huge banner with the legend: ‘Freedom and Bread!' Further along we passed men, women and children forming up with more banners and placards, proclaiming the Metal Workers' Union to be on strike.

‘Petrov's called a strike,' Lychev explained. ‘This is his own union, this is where he started. He joined when he was fourteen. By the time he was sixteen he was one of the local leaders. Have you ever heard him speak in public?'

‘I tend to avoid political meetings,' I said.

‘You don't know what you've missed. Gregory Petrov is electrifying. When you listen to him, the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. You shiver and you think: I will go to the ends of the earth for this man.'

Lychev had to make a detour to avoid getting caught up in the procession. It was after three by the time we got to Alexandrovski Bridge; scattered advance parties of strikers and their families were already crossing it. They were chanting
‘Bread and Freedom!'
and the name of their hero, Gregory Petrov.

‘Are you still interested in what happened in Kazan?' Lychev said out of the blue as we were crawling across the bridge. ‘Before I had to disappear, I received a full report from my former colleagues there.'

‘Go on,' I said.

‘You remember there was an unexplained killing?'

‘Of the intruder?'

‘It turns out the intruder was not bent on robbery, but on revenge.'

‘Revenge on whom?'

‘There were two men in the house, though neither lived there. It belonged to the mother of one of them. His name was Oleg Yuratev. The file, or rather files, on Yuratev are large.'

We weaved in and out of the traffic. We passed a captain of gendarmes trying to turn back the marchers.

‘Yuratev's grandfather was a serf. His son, Yuratev's father, was conscripted into the army, though not before impregnating a young woman – Irina – in his village. The rumour-mongers and gossips claimed there had been no legal marriage. The child did not see his father until the soldier returned home at the conclusion of the Crimean War, by which time he was almost ten. By all accounts, he was precociously intelligent and already beyond his mother's control. His father soon disappeared again and his mother turned to drink and probably also to occasional prostitution. Apparently, a local priest took an interest in young Oleg and saw that he got an education. But he had a hard time at university – he was a peasant, after all, and illegitimate.'