Wojtkiewicz stopped pumping for a moment to stare at him, and then laughed. ‘You think I’d trust that slippery bitch any further than I could throw her?’
‘You didn’t have any qualms about using her to trap me.’
‘Using her to trap you? You idiot! Wojtkiewicz started pumping again. ‘That drugged champagne you drank was meant for her, not you! My men work quickly, but you don’t think they could have drugged a bottle of champagne and broken into Prince Polyansky’s house to plant it there in the fifteen minutes between you leaving the faro table and arriving at the house with the countess?’
Killigrew shrugged.
‘No,’ continued Wojtkiewicz. ‘Capturing you was… well, it was something I meant to do anyhow. But I knew I’d catch up with you sooner or later. St Petersburg is a small city, and I have friends in all kinds of interesting places. But it was the so-called countess I was after… and thanks to you, she was able to escape! I suppose she told you that fairy tale about how she used to be an actress in Budapest? How she married a Magyar nobleman who fought for Kossuth’s Hungarian Republic before being executed by the Austrians? That she’s come to St Petersburg to make common cause with the surviving members of the liberal aristocracy?’
‘She did mention something of that,’ Killigrew admitted cautiously, reluctant to admit he had been completely taken in.
‘I have contacts in Budapest who were kind enough to make some enquiries for me shortly after the countess turned up here. No one there has ever heard of a Count Vásáry. And I also know some of the liberal aristocrats who are trying to ensure Tsar Alexander follows a programme of reform. It’s true this so-called countess has approached a few of them, but fortunately they were wise enough not to trust her. She’s certainly not a member of their inner circle, if that’s what you think.’
They stepped out of their shower baths and a couple of flunkeys stepped forward to pass them warm towels. After they had dried off, Killigrew followed Wojtkiewicz into the next room, where he found his evening clothes had been laundered, pressed and laid out for him.
‘If she’s not the Countess Vásáry,’ Killigrew mused as they got dressed, ‘and she’s not working for you… then who is she, and – more to the point – who is she working for?’
‘That’s what I’d like to know,’ growled Wojtkiewicz. ‘And I might know by now, if it hadn’t been for your blundering!’
Combing his hair in front of the mirror over the washstand, Killigrew flushed.
‘My guess is she’s an agent provocateur, working for the Third Section,’ continued Wojtkiewicz, tying his bootlaces. ‘It’s lucky for you that you woke up at my house, rather than in the dungeons of the Kochubey Mansion! Does she know you’re a British spy?’
Killigrew shook his head. ‘No, I thought it best to keep that from her.’
‘That’s something, at least.’
They left the dressing room, and Wojtkiewicz led the way to his library, gesturing to a plush leather armchair in front of his desk. ‘Sit down, Mr Killigrew.’ He took a bottle of vodka from a desk drawer and a couple of tumblers, pouring them each a measure before sitting on the edge of his desk to hand one of the glasses to Killigrew. ‘My own label,’ he explained.
‘It’s a little early in the day for me…’
‘Sun not over the foreyard, you mean? Drink, Mr Killigrew! You look as though you could do with the hair of the dog, as you say in your country. Down the hatch!’
‘Na zdrowie!’ responded Killigrew; it was the only Polish he knew. He knocked the contents of his glass back in one and it brought tears to his eyes. ‘Whew!’
Wojtkiewicz laughed. ‘That’s real Polish vodka, Mr Killigrew: none of the imitation filth the Russians are starting to make for themselves.’ He gestured vaguely with his tumbler. ‘When I was a boy, distilling vodka was what you’d call a cottage industry: my father used to keep a still in the cellar. Nowadays everything must be… manufactured. All Polish vodka comes from a few large distilleries. When I had served my time in the Siberian salt mines, I had to operate on the same scale if I was to be able to compete. Now my ships export vodka all over the world.’
‘Just vodka?’
Wojtkiewicz smiled. ‘Amongst other things. I’m not what you’d call an educated man, Mr Killigrew…’
Killigrew gestured around the luxuriously appointed library. There were titles in English, French, German, Russian, and some other languages Killigrew did not recognise. The books looked tarnished enough to have been actually read, rather than simply bought for show. ‘It doesn’t seem to have done you any harm.’
‘Self-educated, perhaps… I left school when I was thirteen and tried my hand at a number of different jobs: milkman, bricklayer, even a coffin polisher! For a time I served as a powder monkey in your Royal Navy, but when I was fourteen I lied about my age to join Napoleon’s Polish Legion. I always was a big lad.’
‘You served at Austerlitz?’
‘Aye; and in the invasion of Russia, and the retreat from Moscow. After the Congress of Vienna partitioned Poland, I settled in Warsaw and with a few friends I was able to raise enough capital to build my first distillery. I would have been about the same age you are now when I got married. Ten years later came the second Polish insurrection. I should have known better, but I allowed myself to be drawn into the fighting, to think that finally Poland had a chance to establish itself as an independent country.’
‘The Russians exiled you to Siberia.’
Wojtkiewicz nodded. ‘When I returned, my sons were conscripted into the army and I resolved to be a loyal subject of the tsar. I started to rebuild my distilling company into what it is today. But as the years went by and I lost one son after another in pointless little wars on the fringes of the Russian Empire, I had to face what I had known in my heart all along: there can be no compromise with despotism. So! Now you know all about me.’
‘Perhaps not everything,’ Killigrew said with a smile. ‘But enough to be going on with.’
‘And now, will you tell me what it is that brings a British spy to St Petersburg?’
‘Perhaps the less you know, the better.’
Wojtkiewicz laughed. ‘That is good! You should not trust me; or anyone else in St Petersburg. Nor should I trust you. You too could be an agent provocateur.’
‘As could you.’
‘As could we both.’
Killigrew laughed. ‘That would be embarrassing, wouldn’t it? If we both hauled one another into the Kochubey Mansion, each claiming to have caught a dangerous dissident?’
‘Aye! We might even end up provoking each other into carrying out some act of sabotage against the state!’
Killigrew shook his head ruefully. ‘How do you live in a country like this? The injustice, the repression, the need for constant paranoia just to stay alive?’
‘I understand how strange it must seem to you. But you get used to it. After you have lived in Russia for a few years, suspicion and double-dealing come as second nature. It would have been wiser for your masters to send someone raised here in Russia in your place. How long have you been in St Petersburg? Twenty-four hours?’
‘Less.’
‘I’m amazed you’ve survived this long.’ Wojtkiewicz drained the last of his vodka, and sat down behind the desk. He took a box from one of the drawers of his desk and handed it to Killigrew. ‘Your things.’ Opening the box, Killigrew found it contained his revolver, pocket book, watch, cheroot case, matches and loose change. He began tucking it all back in his various pockets.
‘Let’s get down to business,’ said Wojtkiewicz. ‘What can Mscislaw Wojtkiewicz do for a British spy?’
‘I’m looking for a man named Wilhelm Bauer, a Bavarian engineer.’
Wojtkiewicz frowned. ‘I don’t know the name. I’ll make some discreet enquiries on your behalf, but I can’t make any promises. There’s no shortage of Germans living and working in St Petersburg.’
‘He’s tall, aged about thirty-three, with dark hair
and a moustache.’
‘I’m honoured with the acquaintance of another German engineer, Professor Moritz Jacobi, who designed the infernal machines. If anyone is likely to know the whereabouts of this man Bauer, it’s Jacobi. Where are you staying?’
‘Dussot’s.’
‘Good. I’ll try not to contact you there unless I have to. There’s a salon de thé in the arcade at number forty-eight, Nevsky Prospect. Take tea there at four o’clock each day; if I have news, that’s where I’ll get word to you. Is there anything else I can do for you?’
‘Yes. While I’m in St Petersburg, it would be a shame not to see the Mariinsky Ballet Company perform. Do you think you could get me a ticket to their latest production?’
Wojtkiewicz nodded. ‘That shouldn’t present any difficulties. Ah… you do know where they’ve been performing since the Bolshoi-Petrovsky burned down, don’t you?’
Killigrew shook his head.
‘The Imperial Theatre. You know – in the Winter Palace?’
‘The Winter Palace?’ Killigrew swallowed, then gave a shrug: even if the Imperial family was in attendance the night he went to the ballet, it was hardly likely that any of them would recognise him. ‘Ah, well, “Vestigia retrorsum nulla”!’
‘Eh?’
‘Horace: “No footprints backwards.” From the lion’s den, that is.’
Chapter 11
A Night at the Ballet
Killigrew returned to his hotel to find Tweedledum and Tweedledee waiting for him. Their relief was evident as they pretended to ignore him. He made his way up to his room, where the dislodged hair on the wardrobe door and the smudged powder on the catches of his holdall brought a smile to his lips. After changing into less formal day-wear, he made his way down to the dining room for a hearty dinner.
That afternoon he went to the Admiralty where, in his guise as an American journalist, he tried to get an interview with Admiral Rykord: not that he expected Rykord to tell him where he could find Bauer, but if he was going to convince the Third Section he was just an American reporter going about his business, he had to do something journalistic; and there was always the slim hope that Rykord would let something of interest slip. In the event, an official kept him waiting for two hours before telling him that the admiral was too busy to receive him, but if he left his card, it would be passed on.
He returned to the Nevsky Prospect at a quarter to four and found the arcade containing the salon de thé Wojtkiewicz had told him about. Reminiscent of the shopping arcades Killigrew had seen in Paris, the arcade itself was almost two hundred yards long, well lit by daylight flooding through a double-glazed atrium high overhead. Milliners, tailors, upholsterers, corsetières, haberdashers and countless other upmarket shops ranged down both sides. There were three restaurants, as well as pastry shops and cafes. In the salon de thé elegant samovars steamed on the marble counter. He sat down at one of the tables and ordered a pot of coffee from a waiter. Tweedledum sat down at one of the other tables and pretended to read a newspaper. The waiter had just brought Killigrew his coffee when a man approached his table and said something in Russian. The commander looked up and saw Jedraszczyk, Wojtkiewicz’s secretary, standing over him.
Killigrew was careful not to let any recognition show on his face. ‘Parlez-vous français? I’m afraid my Russian’s not too good.’
‘Do you mind if I share your table, m’sieur?’
‘By all means.’
‘Thank you.’ Jedraszczyk sat down, but said nothing more, engaging his attention in his own newspaper, the St Petersburg Senatskiye Vedomosti. When he got up to leave, however, he left the newspaper behind. Killigrew drank another cup of coffee before departing, picking up the newspaper on the way out.
When he returned to his hotel, a couple of gendarmes were waiting for him. ‘M’sieur Bryce?’
‘Yes?’
‘Would you come with us, please?’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Superintendent Voronin wishes to speak with you.’
‘Superintendent Voronin?’
‘Our superior. It is purely a formality. Please come. Superintendent Voronin does not like to be kept waiting.’
‘Do I have any choice?’
‘It is purely a formality.’
The devil it is, Killigrew thought sourly as he accompanied the gendarmes outside, hoping they could not hear the thunderous pounding of his heart. His hands were wet with sweat where they gripped the newspaper. He made an effort to stay calm: in a country like Russia, perhaps being hauled in to be interrogated by a captain of the gendarmerie was a formality. And the gendarmes wore the black uniforms of the regular police rather than the sky blue of the Third Section. But then, perhaps the Third Section police sometimes wore the black uniforms from time to time to lull their victims into a false sense of security.
To Killigrew’s relief, there was no closed telezhka waiting outside: that suggested they were not going far. The superintendent’s bureau was in a tenement block otherwise occupied by private apartments, up four narrow flights of stairs, which saw an unceasing traffic of people of all classes who had police business: summonses, complaints against neighbours, complaints against shopkeepers, bad debts… Killigrew was willing to lay odds he was the only spy there that afternoon.
At the top of the stairs he was escorted by the two gendarmes through a succession of small, low-ceilinged annexes where crowds of people – in those rooms, four or five people became a crowd – waited to see the superintendent. Some of the commoner ones made comments as he was led past. Killigrew was getting so used to hearing Russian spoken, he was amazed by how easily he understood them without having to strain, or their speaking slowly and clearly for his benefit.
‘Who’s he, that gets to jump the queue?’
‘Foreigner by the look of him.’
‘Typical! Foreigners go straight through, while decent, law-abiding subjects of the Tsar are made to wait!’
‘If you are law-abiding, Dusya Ivanovich, then I’m the King of England!’ one of the gendarmes retorted good-naturedly.
‘I heard that! That’s slander, that is! Ooh, the shame of it!’
The gendarme knocked on the door to the next room. ‘Come in!’ a voice barked from the other side.
This is it, thought Killigrew. Stay calm. Remember: you’re an American journalist working for the New York Herald. You’re a citizen of the United States and you’ve not done anything wrong. Kit Killigrew? Never heard of him. You can do this: you’ve been posing as an officer and a gentleman for the past seventeen years, so the imposture of a Yankee reporter shouldn’t give you any trouble.
The gendarme opened the door to reveal a spud-faced man with bags under his eyes in a plain frock-coat seated behind a desk, while an inky-fingered clerk stood to attention before him.
‘The American journalist, sir,’ said the gendarme.
The spud-faced man glanced at Killigrew, and nodded. Picking up a file from his desk, he handed it to the clerk. ‘We will discuss this further tomorrow.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The clerk bustled from the room with the file.
‘Come in, come in.’ The spud-faced man motioned Killigrew through the door, and the gendarme closed it behind him, leaving the two of them alone. That was a good sign, Killigrew told himself.
The spud-faced man rose to his feet and offered Killigrew his hand. The commander was glad he was wearing kid-gloves: it disguised how damp his palms were.
‘Superintendent Porfiry Petrovich Voronin,’ the spud-faced man introduced himself. He sat down, gesturing to the chair on the other side of the desk.
Killigrew hitched up the knees of his trousers and lowered himself into the chair. The furniture in the cramped office was not only old enough to have dated back to the Great War with France, but looked as though it had been involved in some of the fighting. He removed his wideawake and dropped it on to one knee.
‘Forgive the summary way in which you were brought here,’ said Voronin. �
��I know it is not the way you do things in America, but…’ He smiled. ‘I’m sure you know we have our own customs here in Russia.’
There was too much intelligence in those eyes for Voronin to be an ordinary copper, Killigrew thought to himself. This man was Third Section.
‘I must ask you some questions,’ said Voronin. ‘Purely a formality, you understand.’
‘So the gendarmes who brought me here kept insisting,’ said Killigrew. ‘Let’s get straight to the point, Superintendent. Am I here on any charge? Am I guilty of some crime?’
‘Are you?’ There was a mocking tone in Voronin’s voice. ‘You tell me.’
Yes, there was no doubt in Killigrew’s mind: Third Section. He told himself that was nothing to worry about. Even if his claim to be an American journalist was still believed, they would nevertheless send a Third Section officer to interview any foreigner.
Voronin smiled, and gestured to the notes on the sheet in front of him. ‘I must ask you questions. The sooner you answer them, the sooner you can be on your way and about your business. May I see your passport?’ He held out his hand.
‘The concierge at the hotel took my passport. I understood that was the way you did things here?’
‘Sorry; a case of the left hand not being told what the right hand is doing. Your name is Bryce?’
‘John Bryce, yes.’
‘You are a citizen of the United States?’
‘You know I am.’
‘And your profession is that of journalist. Place of birth?’
‘New Bedford. That’s in Massachusetts.’
‘Age?’
‘Thirty.’
‘And your current place of residence?’
‘New York City. When I’m not working abroad, which is most of the time.’
‘For which newspaper do you write, M’sieur Bryce?’
‘The New York Herald.’ This is it, thought Killigrew. This is where it turns out there’s another reporter from the New York Herald in St Petersburg, who’s already been interviewed and was rather shocked to hear that another journalist he’d never heard of was claiming to be the St Petersburg correspondent.
Killigrew and the Sea Devil Page 22
