The White Russian

by Tom Bradby

  “Have you ever seen this kind of knife before?”

  “You’re the chief investigator, Chief Investigator.”

  Ruzsky shook his head. Ever since the professor had joined the department, they’d had a strong protective bond. Maretsky had once been a highly regarded academic at St. Petersburg University -a professor of philosophy-but an incident with a young male student had destroyed his career. Anton had offered him a home here, and for some reason Maretsky thought Ruzsky was the only other member of the department who did not judge him. Over the years it had paid dividends more often than Ruzsky could remember.

  “The Black Bands?” Ruzsky asked. “Political organizations? Revolutionaries? Does this kind of knife, or the inscription, have any connection with any of them?”

  “I’ve not seen anything like it.”

  “What is the script?”

  Maretsky shrugged.

  “Can you find out?”

  The professor sighed, which Ruzsky took as a sign of acceptance. He examined the knife once more. “It’s an unusual weapon.” Ruzsky looked up. “Do you still do liaison work?”

  Maretsky had been made responsible a long time ago for liaison with the Okhrana, but since Vasilyev’s appointment, relations between the two organizations had grown so hostile that there was virtually no communication at any level.

  “I never wanted to.” There was a note of bitterness in Maretsky’s voice.

  Ruzsky looked at the professor. Perhaps it was his imagination, but all of his colleagues seemed more evasive these days. Was it his fate that had frightened them? Or something else? “Have you heard any whispers about this case?” Ruzsky asked. “Has anyone called you?”

  “No.”

  Ruzsky nodded at Pavel, who returned a minute later with the photographs. Ruzsky spread them out on the desk and waited as Maretsky examined them. The professor shook his head. “No,” he said.

  “You don’t recognize either of them?”

  “No.”

  Maretsky was saved from further questioning by the appearance of one of the constables, his face puce with exertion and alarm. “Sir. You had better come.”

  7

  S arlov’s voice was audible from the top of the stairs.

  Three men in long dark overcoats waited outside the laboratory. Sarlov and Anton stood between them. “This is outrageous,” Sarlov said, his face red with anger.

  Ruzsky pushed past them. Ivan Prokopiev was standing in the center of the room, smoking a cigarette. He was a tall man, bigger even than Pavel, with a bulbous, ruddy nose and closely cropped hair. He wore only a shirt which, despite the cold, was open to the middle of his chest, dark trousers and high leather boots. The head of the Okhrana’s Internal Division still held himself with the swagger of the Cossack officer he had once been.

  He was watching two of his officers wrap the bodies in a single canvas sheet.

  “What are you doing?” Ruzsky asked.

  “Prince Ruzsky. What a pleasant surprise. Welcome home.”

  There was a moment’s silence as they stared at each other. Prokopiev made no attempt to offer an explanation.

  Ruzsky took a step closer. “You’ve no authority to do this.”

  “Sandro,” Anton said, taking hold of his arm.

  Prokopiev’s expression was dismissive.

  “Let’s see your authorization.”

  “Sandro,” Anton said again. His and Pavel’s faces were white with shock. Only Sarlov echoed Ruzsky’s anger.

  Prokopiev finished his cigarette and stamped it out under his boot. From the inside pocket of his jacket, he took a piece of paper and handed it to Anton, who looked at it before giving it to Ruzsky. It contained a single sentence instructing the Okhrana to remove the bodies for urgent political investigation. It was signed by Major General Prince Alexander Nikolaevich Obolensky, the city mayor and titular head of all of Petrograd ’s police departments.

  “Did Obolensky even see this?” Ruzsky asked. “Or did you just sign it yourselves?” In theory, Obolensky was the most senior police official in the city, but they both knew he’d never dare stand in the Okhrana’s way. Prokopiev might easily have forged his signature to save time.

  Prokopiev lit another cigarette, then pointed at the pile of clothes on the side. “Where are the contents of their pockets?”

  “Are you assuming control of the investigation?” Ruzsky pressed.

  “I don’t believe any mention is made of it.”

  “Then why do you wish to remove the bodies?”

  “You have emptied their pockets?” Prokopiev countered.

  Ruzsky shook his head. “They had been stripped of all personal items by the time we arrived.” He omitted to mention the discovery of the roll of banknotes.

  Prokopiev nodded, his face expressionless. Ruzsky thought it was the answer he had expected, or wanted.

  Anton stepped aside and forced Ruzsky to do the same, as Prokopiev’s men took hold of the canvas sheet and began to carry the corpses out of the room and down the corridor. Prokopiev clicked his heels. “We shall return them when we are done. Good day, gentlemen.”

  Ruzsky followed them, shaking off Anton’s restraining hand. Pavel stared at the floor as he passed.

  Upstairs, Ruzsky’s constables stood and watched as the corpses were carried out into the courtyard and thrown into the back of a large truck. The Okhrana men climbed up beside them. Prokopiev made his way around to the cab.

  “Urgent political investigation,” Ruzsky said. “What does that mean?”

  Prokopiev turned back.

  “Who were they?” Ruzsky asked.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Then why do you want them?”

  “They were murdered in front of the Winter Palace. That will do as a reason for now.”

  “So, in your estimation, it was a political murder?”

  “I didn’t say that, did I?” He raised his finger. “You mustn’t misquote me, old man.” He took a pace back. “I’m glad you’re home. See how our city has changed?”

  Ruzsky did not respond.

  “You haven’t, perhaps, but you will. You’ll telephone me if you ever need anything, won’t you?”

  Ruzsky still held his tongue.

  “So much crime, such difficult times. We need to help each other, isn’t that so? How is your son, by the way?”

  Ruzsky went cold. “He’s fine, thank you.”

  “Michael, isn’t it?”

  “Michael, yes.”

  “A good name. Perhaps if I ever have a son, I’ll call him Michael.” Prokopiev looked at him with his piercing blue eyes. “Good day, Prince Ruzsky.” He climbed up into the truck. “And, once again, welcome home.”

  The engine started up and diesel fumes billowed across the courtyard.

  Ruzsky watched until it had disappeared from view. He turned to find Anton standing on the step behind him. “So, we let them get away with it?” he asked quietly.

  Anton stared up at the sky. “Sometimes you’re not very bright, do you know that? If they had the power to send you into exile before, imagine what they could do to you now.”

  “Was the dead man one of theirs?”

  “How should I know?” Anton turned toward him. “If you want to be a martyr, be my guest, but be careful of Pavel.”

  “Why?”

  “He bears a huge burden of guilt. He carries it like a yoke.”

  “He shouldn’t.”

  Anton sighed. “Don’t take me for a fool, Sandro. I know what happened. He’ll follow you into the jaws of hell if it comes to it. Remember that, please.”

  Ruzsky shook his head.

  “You know what I mean, and don’t pretend that you don’t. Your desire to take the blame places others in your debt, but you’re stubborn and, in these times, that is dangerous.”

  “So, what do you want us to do?”

  Anton didn’t answer.

  “It was only authorization to move the bodies. We still have responsibility fo
r the overall investigation.”

  “Well, then it’s up to you,” Anton said, before walking back into the building. Pavel passed him on the lintel, making his way out into the courtyard.

  “Do they frighten you?” Ruzsky asked Pavel.

  “It’s you they should frighten.”

  “I won’t be their lapdog,” Ruzsky said.

  “No, well…” Pavel shrugged.

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know. You’re the boss.”

  Ruzsky sighed. “It’s still our investigation to run.”

  Back at his desk while Pavel went to the bathroom, Ruzsky thought of the fear he’d seen in Pavel’s face, and even Anton’s.

  He glanced at the clock, then took out his wallet and removed the photograph of Irina and Michael that he still kept there. He put it on his desk, switched on the lamp, and bent over it. He told himself Prokopiev was dangerous only if he made another mistake. He would just have to be careful. Tackling the thugs of the Black Bands this morning would have been unwise.

  Ruzsky stared at the face of his son.

  Michael was a handsome boy, with straight dark hair and a solemn face. He was shy, just as his father had been, stubborn and affectionate. When he was difficult-which he had become more frequently as his parents’ arguments increased-he would cling to his rebellion tenaciously, only to cry his heart out once it was over.

  Irina smiled with an easy, lopsided grin that now completely failed to touch anything within him.

  Ruzsky thought of their departure from Tobolsk six months ago. He recalled Michael’s desperate affection and Irina’s impatience.

  He thought of her standing in the tiny kitchen of that house, screaming, “I wasn’t made for this!”

  Michael would think his father had abandoned him. At only six years of age, it was a terrible conclusion to reach.

  Ruzsky stood and, just as he had done at home, rested his head against the damp cold glass of the window.

  It was not possible, surely, that a boy could be better off denied a father’s love. Wasn’t he himself testimony to that?

  Ruzsky put his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out an old printed program from the Mariinskiy Theatre. He opened it to the relevant page and then turned around and placed that over Irina on the desktop, so that Maria and Michael both looked up at him.

  He gazed at their faces, allowing his fantasy free rein for a few moments. To have a happy family; was it so much to ask?

  Ruzsky noticed the pile of newspapers next to Pavel’s desk and he walked over and pulled off the top copy, which turned out to be Friday’s Petrogradskie Vedomosti. He ignored the war news and flicked through to the theater section. Romeo and Juliet in the Mariinskiy, it announced, but there was no reference to her.

  Pavel came back into the room and Ruzsky pushed aside the newspaper, scooping up the photograph and the program into his pocket.

  Pavel had recovered and his manner was businesslike, but he still had an uncanny knack of perceiving his partner’s mood. “You’ve been dreaming?”

  Ruzsky leaned back against the window. “No. But it’s not a crime.”

  “Depends who you are. In my case, no. I dream only of the possible. More vodka, more money, more sex. But with you, I’m not so sure.”

  “Sex with you? I’m not so sure either-”

  “You’re a dreamer by nature. You dream of the impossible, I think, and that is a kind of prison.”

  “Tobolsk was a prison. Without dreams, I’d have been dead from the neck up.”

  Pavel stared at the floor. “So, where do we go?”

  Ruzsky leaned back against the edge of his desk. “The thing is, political murders don’t involve someone being stabbed seventeen times.”

  Pavel didn’t answer.

  “Do they?”

  “It depends on the motive.”

  Ruzsky left the building five minutes later, and he nearly collided with a man who barely reached his chest. “Sandro!” the man exclaimed. “They let you back!”

  Ruzsky recognized Stanislav instantly. The wind had dropped and snow was falling in big, fat flakes, some of which perched on top of the journalist’s head.

  “They let you stay!” Ruzsky countered. “I can hardly believe it.”

  “Well, you know…” Stanislav shrugged. “Even a sinking ship needs its rats…”

  Stanislav was a small, lean man with greasy hair, a long nose, round glasses, and oily, pockmarked skin. Pavel called him “the rat” and the name had stuck. He had been a journalist originally. He still called himself one, though he had been employed by the department for more than a decade. His official job was to provide information on the city police’s activities to the newspapers-which mostly meant murder cases, since that was all they were interested in-but Ruzsky had other uses for him. Stanislav, more than any of them, was at home in the city’s sewers.

  “I heard you’ve got a case for me,” Stanislav said, revealing an atrocious set of yellowing teeth. He wore woolen gloves with the fingers cut off.

  “Possibly.”

  “What do you want me to tell them?”

  “Nothing. If you have to: Two unidentified bodies found on the Neva. We’re searching the missing persons file, but we urge anyone who cannot locate a loved one or colleague to come forward.”

  Stanislav’s eyes narrowed. “I hear they’ve taken your bodies.”

  Ruzsky looked over the man’s shoulder. He had evidently only just arrived at the office. “How do you know that?”

  The rat leaned forward. “As always, my friend, better not to know how I know.”

  “All right.” Ruzsky stared at him. “I need to know who they were. Can you find out?”

  Stanislav shrugged, raising his hands to the skies, palms up. He took a step past him and then stopped. “I never thought I’d see you back here, do you know that?”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” He pointed a long, bony finger at him. “But you be careful.”

  “I’ve had enough warnings.”

  “Maybe, but the rules have changed.”

  Ruzsky frowned.

  “Your street investigator, Vladimir, had an assistant a year back. A young army officer, invalided out of the war. Honorable man, like you. He started trying to bring some of those thugs in the Black Bands to account. He wasn’t standing for any nonsense.” Stanislav’s stare was grave with meaning. “He was found in the Moyka with a knife in his back. No one here will tell you that; they don’t like to think of it.”

  “Who put it there?”

  “You don’t have to ask.”

  “Was there an investigation?”

  “There had to be.”

  “Who ran it?”

  “The Deputy Chief Investigator, Murder.”

  Ruzsky stared at the man. He wasn’t sure what he sought to imply. “I’m sure Pavel did his best.”

  Stanislav shrugged again. “Maybe. Vladimir helped. He was upset.”

  Ruzsky stared at the snow falling gently in the courtyard. Vladimir would have been upset. He was a strong man, like Pavel, but equally decent at heart. “Did the Okhrana know who these corpses were?” Ruzsky asked. “And if so, how?”

  Stanislav turned back. “How did they know you’d sealed the fate of the man who killed that girl three years ago. You or Pavel, whoever it was.”

  “Constables gossip. There are hundreds of people in this building.”

  “Yes, but very few who know exactly what’s going on inside the Criminal Investigation Division.”

  8

  T he front door of the Mariinskiy Theatre was ajar, and as Ruzsky slipped through into the foyer, he heard the noonday gun being fired from the St. Peter and St. Paul Fortress on the far side of the river.

  Ahead of him, two young women stood by the main entrance to the auditorium in animated conversation. He interrupted them with less grace than he intended. He felt, suddenly, the way he had on the ice.

  The women looked
taken aback. “Who wants to know?” one asked.

  “Chief Investigator Ruzsky. City police.” Ruzsky fumbled in a pocket for his small, dog-eared identification card, but the girls were not interested. They nodded toward the wooden doors that led into the auditorium.

  The door snapped back as he entered and one of the dancers on the stage turned in his direction.

  It wasn’t her.

  Ruzsky’s mouth was dry. He pulled the collar of his shirt away from his throat.

  He stood beneath the royal box, the blue and gold decor of the auditorium sumptuous even in the semidarkness. At the center of the small group of dancers on the stage stood the ballet master in a blue velvet jacket, bathed in light. He had dark hair and a long mustache. He stepped back to allow his dancers room. “And again,” he shouted. “And one and two and jump… No, no, no.”

  The ballet master became aware of the dancers’ distraction and spun around to face Ruzsky. “Yes?”

  It was a moment or two before Ruzsky acknowledged that the remark had been directed at him. “Maria,” he said, “Maria Popova.”

  “What about her?”

  “I was just looking-”

  “And who are you?”

  “Ruzsky, Alexander Nikolaevich. Chief investigator, city police.”

  “Has a crime been committed?”

  “No. I mean, yes. But it’s not…” Ruzsky began to recover his wits, spurred on by the look of theatrical exasperation on the man’s face. “Where is she?”

  “So it’s a private matter?”

  “It’s certainly none of your concern.”

  The ballet master’s smile told those around him he understood exactly the nature of Ruzsky’s confusion.

  “Where will I find her?” he asked again.

  “Dressing room number one. Through the side door.” The man dismissed him with a peremptory flick of the hand.

  Ruzsky walked slowly toward the side exit. He glanced up at the huge gold crown above the royal box and then at the seats his family customarily occupied.

  Ruzsky knew where to find the dressing rooms. It was quiet backstage and he stood alone in the dark corridor outside dressing room number one.