Soon.
Besides, the money continued to arrive. Money and even more money, for longer than a year now, ever since he’d agreed to the Plan. Under Sergei’s astute direction he had invested most of it, and the returns had been spectacular. They were building a war chest—funds to purchase arms, to purchase men, to purchase allegiance.
Khalif twitched between his legs, pawing the dust. The horses always knew, they remembered from one year to the next. They could smell the excitement, the smoke, and the blood. It had been bred into them for generations. Drums began to pound and the artillery fired a rippling salute. Now he was screaming a command and his men drew their sabres … the sudden gleam of sharpened steel against the white sky.
He had hardly to touch the spur to Khalif, and they were off.
THREE
Sergei Andrianov sat in his box in the dignitaries’ grandstand that spanned the long eastern dimension of the Field of Mars. The enclosure was a wooden creation with finely turned filigree along the eaves of the roof, wide awnings freshly painted in the Imperial colours. Pennants flew from every flagstaff, from every post—a rush of red, white, and blue. The men surrounding him were in summer suits, some with straw hats and coloured feathers pinned to their lapels. The women were fanning themselves against the heat, chattering and cheering. Almost everyone had opera glasses.
There had not been time for him to take his private car and he was exhausted because he had been forced onto the express, then had spent a sleepless night mulling over the chaos that had taken place at the bindery. In the hours before dawn he arrived in Petersburg, and took a carriage straight to his house; a mansion inherited from his father and refitted with all the modern conveniences, built upon the rise of the Kamenoovstrovsky Prospekt, giving onto a fine view.
Andrianov, except for the quality of his clothing, was the kind of man that was overlooked, until he moved. He knew that it was his energy people first noticed. Business, pleasure, whatever he did, it was like that. Not stopping was attractive to some women, not attractive to others. He couldn’t help that. The rules of life were made for ordinary men, not someone like him. A cultivated man, a man with money. A fine nose, even features. Perhaps more Teutonic than Slavic in his appearance, with blond hair and eyebrows that emphasized his brow and the shape of his skull. Looking out over the field below him, as the gleaming cavalry regiments organized themselves into multi-coloured patterns, he was glad he had elected to come alone, mainly because he could make an easy exit when the festivities were finished.
Unfortunately he had to share the box with Dr Lemmers and they’d found themselves beside the repulsive Brogdanovitch who was wedged into his seat, red-faced and sweating. The moment Brogdanovitch had laid eyes on him, he’d abandoned his wretched family and leaned across to hector Andrianov about the new electric engines he was experimenting with in his mills.
Andrianov listened and nodded, pretended to be more interested than he was. But inevitably it was too much; he let Brogdanovitch’s theories on oil transport fade away, turned his attention to the field and watched Prince Evdaev as he wheeled his horse and took his place at the head of his cavalrymen. Behind him the regiment cantered smartly to their stations.
Andrianov looked along towards the military enclosures, the ornate uniforms, the splashes of gold braid and feathers creating a perfectly ironic display of romantic traditionalism. A lesser man would be laughing at the absurdity. All around him in the capital he could see the chaos mounting. How many others on the Field of Mars had the blessing of such sight? A dozen?
Less than a dozen, he decided.
He had only reached out to a select few of these visionaries. He could bring the others into the Plan later, when the time was right.
He shook his head at the plumes, the polished brass, gold, and silver—the huge lie that was being paraded before him. Evdaev’s beloved military had grown soft under the command of an inherited elite, unable to project Russia’s will even within her borders. It amounted to a supreme obscenity to which this horde of perfumed aristocrats was utterly blind. The best rifles in the world were British, the best light howitzers French, the best heavy ones German, the best General Staff, German again. So much for Russia as the great military steamroller.
Domestically? The economy was as thin as pasteboard; he knew its fragility intimately, and, yes, he had taken advantage of the markets, why not? The police were ineffectual and corrupt. And all of it ruled by a teetering autocracy—Nicholas held in thrall to Alexandra, his German-born Tsarina, and her grotesque companion, Rasputin. Throughout Russia were cries for reforms that would never be granted until it was too late. And Andrianov was supposed to simply sit on his hands, put his holdings at risk while the Tsar and his sycophantic ministers dithered? They were like a pack of blind children, stumbling towards the brink!
The looming threats were there for anyone to see, but none of this crowd had ever visited the darker quarters of the city, none of them could begin to grasp that surrounding their perfect palaces and sculptured gardens was a rising tide of revolutionary ferment.
If the Tsar did nothing, sooner or later someone would take matters into their own hands. And Sergei Andrianov had long realized that the future belonged to the one who struck first.
That morning he had struck over breakfast. Breakfast was with Bear, otherwise known as General A.I. Gulka, head of the Third Branch of the Imperial Chancellery, the Okhrana. Alexandr Ivanovich was a large man, more porcine than ursine, with puffed, watery eyes. Like all military men he was fond of his uniform and decorations, and he wore them at all times. He wheezed, and ate his meal enthusiastically while Andrianov listened.
‘I can assure you there is no cause for worry, excellency. It is an insignificant death,’ Gulka breathed.
‘You’re certain? Nothing that would put Gosling in jeopardy?’
‘Mmmn … absolutely nothing at all.’ Gulka chewed reflectively for a moment, knife and fork standing at attention, and then, after having decided that he believed what he’d just said, returned to his plate. When Andrianov had not made a comment after several seconds, he looked up. Innocent. Unknowing.
‘You didn’t have to intervene … send anyone to take care of it?’ Andrianov asked quietly.
‘Mmm, no, no. Nothing could be simpler. It’s purely a municipal police matter. Some little whore, she’s disgusted by her life, lovesick, homesick, who knows? She throws herself out a window in order to end it all. It’s plausible.’ Another shrug.
‘And no relatives have come forward, no one to look under the rugs?’
Gulka half-laughed, shook his head. ‘Girls like that, Sergei. No one wants them back, eh?’
Andrianov stared at him. Gulka was one of his most valuable assets. His resources were infinite. The coup would be impossible without his cooperation. If he had not been brought into the Plan, Andrianov would have been forced to kill him. Appropriately, Andrianov’s payments for his services ran to thousands of roubles each month. What made it more difficult was that fat man knew his worth, exploited it at every opportunity, constantly tried to raise the stakes. Not for the first time Andrianov reflected that Gulka’s greed might bring the entire scheme crashing down.
‘Good. I’m glad there’s no trouble, because Gosling is important, very important, Alexandr Ivanovich. He may seem like a small bird, but we need him, eh?’
‘Mmnn … Yes, if you say so, Sergei. He’s our holy grail if you say so.’
‘He’s the one who signs the papers, and he doesn’t know us, cannot be traced back to us, yes? He’s the one who’s in front. He doesn’t know it yet, and we’ve taken these steps to ensure that he will never turn on us. That was the rationale all along, that was Ivo’s big idea. To isolate Gosling from the rest of us, yes? I’ve never met the man. You yourself said it was a good idea. I’m sure you understand his value, and I’m sure you are aware of the danger. If something were to go wrong—’
‘Nothing is going to go wrong, Sergei …’ Gulka was laughing and eating at
the same time.
‘But … if something were to go wrong, better Gosling than one of us, eh?’ he waited for Gulka to comment, but the man only kept on eating. A waiter appeared, refreshed their champagne. The windows were open against the heat and the noise of the traffic along the embankment wafted into the restaurant. Andrianov stared at his own untouched plate, reached into his jacket for his wallet. ‘That’s why he’s important. He’s our insurance.’
‘I promise you, Sergei. I’ll take care of it. I have taken care of it. It’s all been taken care of,’ Gulka said without looking up from his plate.
Andrianov stared at him for a long moment. One day he would erase Gulka, he promised himself, if only for his patronizing attitude. ‘Well, good. That’s excellent, wonderful. I suppose, Alexandr Ivanovich, no news is good news as they say.’ He forced himself to smile, extracted a fifty-rouble note and slipped it under the edge of his plate. ‘Just remember, if anyone makes enquiries we shut them down, and quickly.’
‘Mmm … but of course …’ Gulka nodded, his mouth full of food, waving his fork in an ornate salute as Andrianov headed out of the room.
He met Heron inside the arched entrance to the Summer Gardens at the Alexander Nevsky Chapel, a particularly ironic spot, Andrianov thought. The chapel had been built in memory of Alexander II’s survival of an assassin’s bullet, and there was a warning inscribed on the walls—‘Do not touch the anointed sovereign.’ It had taken the People’s Will terrorist group eight attempts to get him.
It wasn’t the same these days, he thought.
Andrianov only had to wait for moment or two and then a carriage pulled up and Count Ivo Smyrba, the Bulgarian military attaché, leapt out, smiling. Heron was a little man, meticulous with his dress and toilet, always in fashion, utterly disorganized and distracted by his ready eye for the ladies. In some ways Smyrba was a tolerable presence, but in others vastly more disgusting than General Gulka.
Andrianov had recruited him carefully, mindful that he might be loyal after all, and funnel information straight back to Bulgarian military intelligence. Using him was delicate; valuable because Andrianov made frequent trips to Sofia, and hoped to make more. His business interests were expanding there, there was money to be made even during the recent fighting, and Smyrba had cooperated over the months, helping with introductions, information, rumours, gossip—in short, the grease that turned the wheels of industry more efficiently, war or no war.
Andrianov reminded himself to stay in control of his emotions, to maintain an even temper as they talked, yet everything that had gone wrong had been Smyrba’s fault as far as he could tell.
‘Please, I had no idea, I assure you, that the Baron … I mean, that this Gosling was like that …’ Smyrba waggled his hand to indicate an instability of mind.
‘Violent, you mean?’
‘Of course. He showed absolutely no indication. You would have never thought. A distinguished man of that sort, a man of taste. Naturally we all knew he was a paedophile. He liked children, fine. That was always the basis, the entire basis of the …’
‘Yes, your idea was good. Blackmail him, bind him to us for as long as we need him. Tell me about the photographs.’ Andrianov said quietly.
‘Oh, yes …’ There was hesitation in Smyrba’s voice. Andrianov stopped, there on the walkway, grabbed the little man by the sleeve. Now he could see the fear in Heron’s eyes. He kept his expression muted, his face calm.
‘It’s best, Ivo, if you tell me everything,’ he said quietly. He even smiled. Perhaps that was why Smyrba was so frightened.
The little Bulgarian cleared his throat, his eyes flicked down the pathway. ‘Yes, excellency, we do have the photographs, but they are barely useable. Blurred, you see …’
‘Blurred?’
‘Well, he was moving very quickly and there was insufficient light … I brought these …’ Smyrba reached into his jacket, extracted an envelope and handed it to Andrianov. ‘As you instructed, the negatives have been placed in a box for safekeeping.’ Smyrba smiled reassuringly.
Andrianov tipped the envelope and extracted a sheaf of photographic prints. The paper was thick and textured, the kind of thing you would use if you were giving your mother a sentimental portrait.
All of them were abstract shapes. He could make out the slash of a door, the spill of light from a window, the line of someone’s back and shoulder. He was drawn immediately to Smyrba’s own face, blurred yet recognizable, as he stood in the doorway, his hands on the shoulders of a child. Another photograph showed the hallway in the background, prostitutes running out of the rooms, what looked like a man’s raised arm.
He shuffled through the photographs, but the only one that showed Gosling with clarity was a shot taken over his shoulder; the man’s white hair and side whiskers showed clearly. There was a wild expression on the face. Terror? Ecstasy?
Smyrba fumbled in his jacket for his cigar case, offered Andrianov one. Together the two men lit up. ‘You see what I mean, Sergei. I’m sorry but I’m not sure they are any good, eh?’
One by one Andrianov slid the photographs back into their envelope. ‘But still, Ivo, if we showed just one of these to him, let’s say this one where you can see his face … he wouldn’t know about the quality of the others, yes?’
For a moment Smyrba looked up at him with confusion, then he understood. ‘Yes, of course. I see. No. And we could perhaps add something … perhaps there is a police photograph, something of the dead girl that might be added—’ Smyrba giggled and sucked on his cigar, ‘… for spice.’
‘Yes, Ivo. That’s very good. Let’s look on the bright side. Gosling won’t put up a fight once he thinks we’ve got photographs of him strangling a child. You will approach him, and it’s simple, either he cooperates entirely, or that photograph is all over the press. And we have the police to threaten him with.’
‘Yes …’ Smyrba was smiling now. Relaxing.
‘Good. So, now we have to clean up the mess. Did anyone see him do it?’
‘No,’ Smyrba said quickly. Maybe too quickly. ‘No, excellency. No one.’
‘Fine. What’s his condition? Is he composed, is he falling apart? What?’
‘I saw him only yesterday. Naturally, he’s nervous. He tried to get away from me. It is as if he blames me for everything that happened, you know? I think he is sinning and sinning, and now it is time to repent, and I am the one reminding him of his sin.’
‘Well … we’ll perhaps send someone around to question him, or put a little scare into him, you know?’
‘A policeman?’
‘A policeman. I don’t know. Perhaps … just something so that he doesn’t think he is off the hook. Perhaps we can organize it so it happens just when you are passing by, or visiting …’
‘He may not wish to see me.’
Andrianov smiled. ‘Oh, he’ll see you, Ivo. And when it’s all over a day or two later, you return and tell him not to worry, that he has friends, eh? Tell him that you’ll take care of him. Tell him that. Tell him that he’s in great danger but you know people who can help.’
‘I know someone who can help.’
‘That’s right, Ivo. If he plays along you can make it all go away. No one will ever know.’
‘Yes. Yes. Go away. Absolutely,’ Smyrba nodded. Andrianov pointed to the last photograph, the one where Gosling was shown in a sweating profile, used his finger to etch a box around Gosling’s face. ‘Have this one made larger.’ He smiled. ‘So he can get a good look at himself.’
His last meeting was with Prince Evdaev and it took place at Evdaev’s mansion, an older building on Kronyerkskaya just above the Aquarium, not that distant from his own house. He was less anxious now, after seeing Gulka and Smyrba. It appeared that the crisis had been managed. They would continue with the Plan.
‘An event like this, Sergei, I don’t mind telling you, it makes you worry,’ Evdaev said quietly. At heart the man was a coward.
‘It’s been taken care of, Ne
stor.’
‘Yes, but … weren’t you saying that he, ah … Gosling, that he was the key? The key to the whole thing, yes?’
‘One of the keys, Nestor. One of the keys.’ They had been drinking. It was the only time to meet with Nestor. After the marches and inspections. After the parades and the endless war games were over. He wanted to leave and see Mina, but she would be asleep by now.
‘What about the detectives?’ Evdaev seemed nervous. ‘There were no detectives. She’s been delivered to the morgue.’
‘Suicide?’
‘Yes, Nestor. Not to worry.’
‘No witnesses, no names?’
‘You were there, did you see anything?’
‘I was downstairs. I stayed away.’ Evdaev was squirming in his seat. If he hadn’t been holding a glass of schnapps, he would have been wringing his hands.
‘Good. You did the right thing, and I didn’t want you anywhere near Gosling.’
‘Yes. I have no idea.’
‘That’s not your role. And you shouldn’t concern yourself further.’
‘Yes, thank you. I don’t mind telling you, this whole business …’ Evdaev sighed, wiped his hand across his brow.
Andrianov smiled. The man was an utter coward, a baby. The whole day had been like that. All through his conversations he had become less and less impressed with his recruits into the scheme. Yes, they were all important men, necessary parts of the conspiracy; yes, they had all screwed up their courage to commit treason. Yes, they all had the necessary sentiments and ideological underpinnings to carry them through the storm, but underneath they were weak, ineffectual. They loved the romance of the code names, the secret rendezvous, and, of course, the payments. But for anything difficult, anything that might involve a little dirt or blood, all of them were play-actors. He even had his doubts about how Gulka would react in a crisis. Evdaev was fit to sit on a throne and take orders, fool enough to charge into battle, but for anything dangerous he had no will whatsoever. It was one more symptom of the dry rot that had disabled the whole of Russian society.
Field of Mars Page 3
