by Ian Hocking
A moment later, Pasha said, ‘You can turn around now.’
She did. She saw by the lantern light what her glasses had shown her. The Count was dead. He lay sideways, still tied to his chair. Much of his blood lay about him in an oily melt. The barrel of the brass telescope, which occupied the greater part of the observatory’s volume, had been dented and split open. Elsewhere, almanacs had been ripped from the shelves and scattered. The worktable had been upset and their tools spilled. Leather cases holding precision parts—screws, levers, tubing—were ripped and gutted. On one shelf, Saskia saw the glow of the radium pocket watch that the Countess had once owned. She took it.
Pasha crouched by his father and held the lantern near his face. As he sobbed, he removed the bearskin helmet and placed it on an unrolled chart.
‘What happened here?’ he said, without turning. ‘You claimed you’d been at the observatory this evening.’
Saskia worked through the possibilities. The Count looked as though he had died some hours before. It was likely that Kamo had tortured him while Soso looked on. The information they desired was, in all probability, the location of the monies from the Tiflis heist. But that made little sense if Saskia Beta had been present. Surely, she, too, had known its location.
‘I honestly don’t know.’
Pasha looked at her. His eyes streamed tears. But even as his body expressed its grief, Saskia could feel the mind coming to an assessment. This Pasha was more than worlds different from the Pasha who had died in her company.
‘What do you think, Ms Tucholsky?’ he said. His mouth was downturned and trembling.
‘This will not be easy to explain.’
The Hussar stared at her for a moment longer. His physiology showed signs that he was preparing to attack her. Instead, he looked down at the star maps, and then his forehead dropped to the shoulder of the dead Count and he wept.
Saskia watched him for a minute. In that time, she considered all those dead, all those in fear, and all those grey lives extended into a cold, waking hell beneath the amber eyes of Soso.
‘I can show you who killed him,’ she said, quietly, ‘and who broke into the Great Palace tonight.’
Pasha pressed his sleeve against his eyes.
‘Why would I believe you?’
‘You don’t need to believe me.’
Saskia blinked. She had made a mistake in her reasoning. Soso and Kamo had not tortured the Count to discover the whereabouts of the money. She already knew that because Saskia Beta knew. The Count had been killed for the secret of his contacts: the remaining participants in the game of double-cross he had been playing since his sojourn in Switzerland. To Soso, that would be equally valuable.
‘Pasha,’ she said, ‘you once told me that a man must voice his desires if he is to come to hold the object of them.’
‘If I did, I don’t remember. Speak plainly.’
‘What is your chief desire at this moment?’
‘To bury my father.’
‘And justice?’ she asked.
‘Yes, the true kind,’ he said. ‘The impersonal; the fair. I will not have revenge, if that’s what you want me to say.’
He truly is noble, she thought. Title or no title.
‘The murderers fly to Finland,’ she said, investing her voice with a passion it rarely contained. ‘Tonight. We can stop them.’
‘What revenge could you have?’ he said. ‘Why do this? Did you love my father? We all thought you laughed at him.’
‘Because …’ she began. There was no true end to that sentence. ‘Because I can.’
‘Enough,’ he said, standing. His sword remained against the wall. He did not reach for it, but his hands were loose by his sides. ‘You will come with me, and answer for your whereabouts tonight.’
Saskia stepped backwards into the night.
‘Good bye, Pasha.’
‘No,’ he said, leaping for the door.
Saskia watched from the wood while Pasha raged through the long grass around the observatory, his night vision stained by the lantern, swinging his sword and calling her name. He saddened her. He looked like the boy he was, perhaps dressed as a Hussar for a fancy dress ball, playing at soldier.
As the minutes drew on, Pasha staggered with fatigue and sheathed his sword. He searched for her with the lamp alone. Silently, she ascended a tree and held her breath. Pasha had lost his enthusiasm for the search. He returned to the observatory.
Saskia considered. Soso and Kamo would be bound for Finland. Her priority was to give chase. But without Pasha, or help from someone like him, that would be almost impossible.
‘Ego, do I have a field kit hidden somewhere, or a cache containing items like these glasses, and certificates of conduct?’
‘Yes.’
‘Will you tell me where it is?’
‘Certainly not.’
Saskia dropped from the tree and left Pasha in the observatory beneath the pale scintillations. She thought of Mount Tupungato in the far Andes, whose name meant “a place to observe the stars” in the Quechua language. Somewhere, she was certain, Kamo was looking up at the Runaway Star. She leaned into the growing wind and hurried down to the river. There, she found two Hacker motorboats. If she hurried, she could make the last train to Helsinki.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Within the hour, Saskia found herself in the perfect dark that occluded the west side of the Finland Station, not far from its Royal Pavilion. The motor boat had been a wise choice of vehicle. There were many soldiers on the roads. Their activity had disturbed the habits of nightwalkers such as footpads and prostitutes, as well as curious onlookers fresh from the theatres. The first architects of St Petersburg had intended the waterways to serve in lieu of roads, and Saskia had taken the motorboat east along the Karpovka to the Neva, and then to the mainland Vyborsky District with no great trouble beyond some shouts from the St Sampson Bridge. Along the way, she saw emergency lanterns hung outside government buildings.
Now, she heard the night train to Helsinki disgorge vapour with a monstrous sigh. If she turned, she would see the mist spill across the extreme of the platform, beyond a fence. The train would leave the station in four minutes. Saskia intended to catch it by vaulting the fence, running alongside, and snagging a handle using a bundle of three crooked walking sticks, which she had stolen for the purpose from the hospital to the west of the station.
It was a poor plan. She might be able to board the train as it left the station. She might even succeed in overcoming the guard in the baggage compartment. But the train and its passengers would receive the closest attention at the border. Her attack on the baggage guard, or whatever method of incapacitance came to mind when the moment presented itself, would be noticed.
She stamped her feet to warm them.
‘Ego,’ she whispered, ‘I need to get aboard that train and remain on it until Helsinki.’
‘That,’ said Ego, ‘will be exceptionally difficult.’
‘Any suggestions?’
‘No.’
‘And there was me thinking we’d made friends.’
Ego did not reply.
Saskia hugged herself against the cold. She still wore Pasha’s cape, but the air was damp and the warmth of her brisk walk from the hospital waiting room had left her.
Doors were slammed along the length of the train. Saskia swore. She prepared to release the cloak, which would encumber her dash. She held the three walking sticks in her left hand. One should be able to bear her weight, even if the train tugged her more violently than she anticipated. Three was for certainty. She looked at the fence. It was too high for a clean jump. She would need to vault it, putting her weight on a post. To be thorough, she should walk over and test the strength of the post, but she had no more time remaining. In less than twenty seconds, she would need to burst from the darkness and board the train.
She closed her eyes and rehearsed the plan once more. Her window was ten seconds plus or minus two. She had to run al
ongside the train until it was far enough from the station to be obscured by the dark; only then could she approach the rear, with its vestibule and other prominent holds, and climb aboard. The speed would be too great for her hand grip to bear. The walking sticks would serve in lieu.
Saskia heard the platform guard blow his whistle. She prepared herself. The train, snorting, began to pull out. She watched the locomotive and the first carriage slide past her. Eight carriages to go.
‘Ms Tucholsky!’ called a man.
Saskia recognised the voice. For a moment, she looked at the train, and decided to let it pass. The brute-force approach had never appealed much anyway. She moved to the edge of the pavilion and peered around the corner, dazzled by the smoke-scattered light of the platform. There was a dozen people. Two of them might have been Tsarist agents. Pasha was standing half way along. He wore a long coat and a workman’s cap. As she watched, wondering why he did not wear his uniform, the smoke obscured his despondent face, then his form entirely.
She dropped the walking sticks and hurried along the platform before the smoke dissipated. Her eyes were closed. She found Pasha by dead reckoning, took his hand, and led him to a quiet place on the platform near its southern extreme and beneath a basket of flowers.
‘What are you doing here?’ she said.
As Pasha’s mouth widened into a smile, Saskia felt an answering relief at her core. The loss of his trust had wounded her more deeply than she realised. Now, at the prospect of its return, she felt overwhelmed.
Pasha took an oilskin diary from his pocket.
‘Father once said that nothing is unknown to Plato,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I found this beneath Plato’s bust in the observatory. It tells me that our friend has not been at home for many months. People wanted to see him there, and you know he doesn’t like crowds.’
It took her several seconds to understand that Pasha was telling her Lenin had left Finland. She had almost caught the wrong train. She threw her arms around Pasha’s neck.
‘Follow my lead,’ she whispered. ‘Hug me back.’
They were both bundled against the cold, but she held him until their warmths met.
‘I haven’t fallen asleep,’ she said into his collar. ‘I’m thinking.’
‘What about?’
‘Where can our friend be?’
Saskia felt more than heard Pasha chuckle. ‘The same place every Russian goes for some peace, quiet and sedition.’
So Lenin was in Switzerland. Soso and Kamo would take the money there. Behind her cold reception of this information, she noted that her mistake resulted from rash analysis. Kamo had always claimed that the money was destined for Tampere, Finland, but what did Kamo know of Lenin’s whereabouts? He knew only what he was told, and he was given information by a person even more paranoid than himself: Soso. In future, she must be more thorough in her analysis.
‘How do you know this?’ she asked, releasing him. She checked the platform with a glance. It was empty. But she maintained a concern about the two gentlemen she had identified as potential agents. St Petersburg was being locked down following the Summer Palace burglary. It made sense that the train station would be surveilled. They continued to hold hands.
Pasha swallowed. His effort to avoid tears made his mouth thin. He leaned towards her and said, ‘I must say one thing about my father, Ms Tucholsky. I had no idea about his connection to the socialists. I knew he was a free thinker, but that was the extent of my knowledge. To think how well the Tsar treated him, and us, as a family. His Majesty sent me a personal note of congratulation on my appointment to the Imperial Guard. What can I make of all this?’
‘You read his diary already? We parted less than an hour ago.’
Pasha gave her a disappointed look. ‘Ms Tucholsky, you are talking to the only person to have turned down a mathematics fellowship at the Menshikov Lyceum. Father’s code is complex but systematic. After a few minutes, I had it. Should you like to know it?’
‘Later, perhaps. We need to leave.’
‘Of course.’
He offered his arm. She took it and they moved with particular slowness into the station building.
‘And as for your role,’ he continued, ‘in the … difficulties experienced between my father and my mother, I am afraid that I have misjudged you. I know now that your course is a true one by your own compass—though not mine.’
‘I’d like to see what your father wrote about me. It could be important.’
‘Perhaps that is something you should read for yourself,’ said Pasha, ‘as we travel to Geneva.’
‘We?’
Pasha’s reply faded from his face. He looked to the right of Saskia and smiled coldly at a group of three men who were moving to intercept them. Saskia kept her expression neutral. The middle of the three was an officer of the Protection Department’s Security Section. That was obvious from his demeanour and the practised relaxation in his approach. He was flanked by two monolithic creatures dressed in the blue frock-coats and parade helmets—complete with horse hair in a sultan spike—of the Special Corps of Gendarmes. Saskia understood that she and Pasha were trapped. The gendarmes were physically fit, armed, and experienced. She had already surveyed the hall. Its muted lighting illuminated thirty-five more men, arranged in successively larger groups. A dozen soldiers from the nearby barracks joined them as she watched. The competitive divisions between the groups of men were emphasised by indiscreet coughs, raised eyebrows, and long exhalations of smoke.
Saskia turned from them to the officer who now blocked the route to the arch of the exit, and the bustling square beyond. The man wore a charcoal suit beneath a skirted coat not unlike the Georgian chokha. He was middle-aged, and this gave his eyes a paternal cast. Saskia took this as a deception.
‘A good evening to you both,’ he said. ‘I am Inspector Berezovsky and these are my associates. As you can see, there has been some trouble tonight. You will not object to an inspection of your papers.’
Earlier, Saskia had been carrying a certificate of conduct for the German alien Frau Mirra Tucholsky. These were now in the Neva. She had not dared risk being caught with them, since the identity would be on the Protection Department watch list.
‘I understand entirely,’ said Pasha. Saskia wondered if he understood the proximity of exile or execution. In a conversational manner, he said, ‘This isn’t a repeat of the recent troubles, I hope.’
‘Nothing in that line,’ replied Berezovsky.
‘These are my papers,’ said Pasha, taking an expensive wallet from his jacket pocket, ‘as well as those of my sister, Ludmilla.’
With a gloveless hand, Berezovsky pinched the end of his tongue and opened the passport.
‘As a Nakhimov,’ said the Inspector, casually, ‘your family has a long history in the Hussars.’
Pasha accepted the compliment with a nod.
‘That is correct.’
In the same casual tone, Berezovsky continued, ‘And yet you are not on duty tonight, I find.’
‘I injured my back last month. I hope to resume active duty by Ascension Day.’
‘Ah.’
Berezovsky turned to the passport in the name of Ludmilla Nakhimov. He ran his thumb over the Imperial eagle on its cover. Saskia noticed that the larger of the two gendarmes had stopped blinking. His companion was relaxed but alert. It was clear that all three were veterans of these stop-checks. Something in the body language of Berezovsky had communicated unease to him. Saskia was not surprised at his next question.
‘You were born in 1884, Countess Nakhimov?’
In all likelihood, he was lying. The date was plain to him, but he had misread it deliberately. He smiled at her. It was an acknowledgement that the game, if this conversation were a game, had begun. Saskia smiled back. She did not know what to do. There was not enough light to see the date reflected in Berezovsky’s pupils.
‘I believe it is 1882, Inspector,’ said Pasha. He shared a man-to-man look with the Prot
ection Department officer. ‘My sister has had a long day. We are travelling home directly.’
The Inspector had the grace to bow. ‘Thank you for that correction. But now I must ask the Countess for her middle name and place of birth.’ After a pause, he continued, ‘I will press you for that, Countess.’
He never asks, she thought. He only states.
‘I feel ill, Pasha,’ she said. ‘Let us go home.’
The Inspector feigned concern. ‘With a blessing, Countess. There is no sense extending these proceedings. Do you not agree, Count?’
‘Of course,’ said Pasha. There was a false note in his voice. Added to this, the conviviality of the Inspector’s approach had transformed from courtesy to play. The gendarmes were black doors poised to slam on them both. ‘Now, Lidka. Answer the gentleman and then I can take you home.’
‘What was the question?’ she asked quietly.
‘Come,’ said Berezovsky, as though to a reluctant child. He raised his eyebrows and smiled. ‘It is the simplest thing.’
‘Inspector,’ said Pasha. ‘Allow me to explain. My sister had a fall earlier this evening. She is feeling unwell.’
‘Did she?’ The inspector looked from Pasha to Saskia. ‘Perhaps we can have one of our doctors examine her. They are the best, or so I am informed.’
Saskia looked at him. She did not blink.
‘I asked you to repeat the question, sir.’
Berezovsky turned to the taller of the gendarmes.
Just then, there was movement inside her blouse. Saskia thought of a trapped bird, then the sparrows of the absent i-Core. The flutter slowed to a series of taps not unlike the percussive palpations of a doctor, but ghostly.
‘Your middle name,’ said the Inspector, growing firm in his tone. ‘Your date of birth, and place.’
The invisible taps came like a second heart, fast-slow: lub-dub. Saskia smiled. Lub-dub. Dub-lub-dub-dub. Dub-lub-dub-dub. Lub-dub.
It was the simplest of codes: Russian Morse.
