The White Russian

by Tom Bradby

  “How long?”

  “A few months. Perhaps a little more.”

  “Did she ever talk about her personal life here in Petrograd?”

  “Not to me. I don’t believe so. No she didn’t.”

  “Did she have any family or friends that you know of?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “What was her family name?”

  “Kovyil.”

  Ruzsky noted it down. “So you saw her when you were with the children. She was a nanny. To Alexei?”

  “She helped in the nursery.” Vyrubova’s expression clouded. “It was disgraceful. To steal like that. Disgraceful. The Empress has always been most generous.”

  Ruzsky doubted, from the tone of her voice, that this was true.

  “But you knew the girl well. Well enough to give her one of your dresses.”

  “No. I hardly spoke to her.”

  “It was an act of great generosity.”

  “She mentioned how much she liked it one day. It no longer fit me. After she was dismissed, I sent it to her.”

  “But Madame Renaud’s dresses are not inexpensive…”

  Vyrubova looked at him, assessing him properly for the first time. She took a pace away. “I must go to the palace.”

  “I would ask you to stay a few moments more,” he said quietly.

  “I have work to do.”

  “And I too.” Ruzsky’s tone checked her. “This girl was walking arm in arm with her lover under the moonlight in the first hours of our New Year. They were viciously attacked. Even in these troubled days, murder must not go unheeded, surely.”

  She stared at him. He wondered if she had privately expressed such sentiments at the way in which Rasputin’s killers had escaped justice.

  “Who are you? What is your name?” she demanded.

  “Ruzsky. Alexander Nikolaevich.”

  She frowned. “You are related to the assistant minister of finance.”

  “My father.”

  She assessed him with inscrutable eyes. “I cannot help you further.”

  “Did you recognize the man?”

  Vyrubova realized she still had the photograph in her hand. She returned it to him. “No.”

  “He wasn’t a member of the household staff also?”

  “No.”

  “You haven’t seen him before?”

  She shook her head.

  “Did Ella ever speak about a male friend, a lover perhaps-”

  “I told you. I hardly knew the girl.”

  Ruzsky breathed in deeply to hide his impatience. “When you say Ella was upset, what do you mean? Did you-”

  “It was the Empress who said she was upset. I did not see her.”

  This was so obviously a lie that Ruzsky found himself getting angry for the first time. “From everything you’ve said, madam, I find that-”

  “I have to go now. The Empress is expecting me.” She began to walk away.

  “Madam?”

  She stopped and glowered at him.

  “Could you give me the number of the house to which you sent the dress?”

  She looked puzzled.

  “You said that you sent the dress to her after she had left.”

  He thought Vyrubova might explode as she sought a way out of the trap into which she had led herself. “The household staff dealt with it. You must speak to them.”

  “To Count Fredericks?”

  “No, no. He has many more important things to deal with.”

  “Colonel Shulgin, then?”

  “Yes, but you may not do so now. You must make an appointment.” There was something close to panic in her voice.

  “Tomorrow, perhaps.”

  “Tomorrow, yes. Tomorrow.”

  Ruzsky was led back the way he came. The children were still playing with the snow house. Alexei was standing on a block of ice and sweeping snow onto the heads of the two men helping them. He was laughing.

  One of the girls threw a snowball at her brother and he threw one back. Ruzsky noticed that the boy dragged his right leg as he tried to run away.

  “Keep up,” the guard said. “Or I shall be forced to call for assistance.”

  “The boy tries hard to overcome-”

  “It is not your business.”

  “I don’t recall suggesting that it was.” Ruzsky thrust his hands into his pockets. “It’s a good life here. Quiet. I can see why they hate coming to Petrograd.”

  The guard looked at him, then turned on his heel. Ruzsky watched the boy sitting on a bank for a few moments more before following. He turned back once and saw that the heir to all the Russias was watching him.

  10

  B y the time he got back to the office, the only light in his department was from Pavel’s desk lamp, but Ruzsky noticed that his partner’s coat was not on the stand in the corner.

  Ruzsky walked over to his own desk. Propped up against the telephone was a letter. He recognized Maria’s hand instantly. He tapped it once against his fingers and then tore it open.

  My dear Sandro, she had written, it was so good to see you today.

  Folded into the letter was a ticket for The Firebird at the Mariinskiy on the following night.

  Ruzsky sat down. He put the letter on the desk and moved it gently to and fro.

  He stood again and looked out of the window into the darkness. Was this just an act of friendship? But hope made him want to dance.

  “Want to tell me what you’re doing?”

  Ruzsky turned around. Pavel stood in the shadows just inside the doorway.

  “I thought you’d gone,” Ruzsky said.

  “ Russia ’s most beautiful woman.” Pavel took a pace toward his partner. “She delivered it herself. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. I should imagine she has many admirers.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Exactly what I said.”

  Ruzsky folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope.

  “So,” Pavel continued. “How did you get on?”

  “You’ll never believe what I have to say, so you first.”

  Pavel raised his eyebrows. “Nothing from the embankment. I spoke to some junior official in the Winter Palace household who assured me it was not possible that anyone could have witnessed anything from an upstairs window.”

  “We’ll go and see him together tomorrow.”

  “I don’t think there’s much point. He was quite adamant that the rooms on the top floor are the preserve of the family and none of them were present last night. I don’t think he was lying.” Pavel yanked his trousers up. “But I’ve just come from the American embassy, and that sounded promising.”

  Ruzsky waited. “And?”

  “The official we need to speak to has gone out of town and won’t be back until the morning, but one of his colleagues said they’d had a report from home six weeks ago asking them to ask us to be on the lookout for a Robert White. An armed robber from Chicago. Said they’d passed it on to the Okhrana. I told them a lot of good it would do them.”

  “So what does that have to do with the couple on the ice?”

  “Someone from the Astoria telephoned the embassy this morning. Apparently, a man calling himself Whitewater checked into the hotel just over a week ago, saying he was a diplomat and writing ‘care of the embassy’ on the registration form. They suspected him of leaving without paying his bill, because his room was empty and they hadn’t seen him for two days.”

  Ruzsky was silent. “Did you go down to the Astoria?”

  “Give me a chance. I’ll go first thing. Come on,” Pavel spoke with feeling, “I need a drink.”

  “I can’t afford it.”

  “Neither can I, but there is a place nearby. I’ve threatened it with closure. They’re very cooperative.”

  Pavel led the way down the darkened stairwell.

  Outside, the snow was thick on the ground. Th
e wind had dropped, but the air was still crisp and the night cloudy. Ruzsky’s feet were instantly cold again.

  “Tell me what happened at Tsarskoe Selo,” Pavel said.

  “You won’t believe it.”

  “Try me.”

  Ruzsky smiled to himself. It was hard to believe the episode had not been a figment of his imagination-and yet it had been so ordinary.

  “I went to see Vyrubova, but the Tsarina arrived.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “On my honor.”

  Pavel shook his head and Ruzsky did not press it.

  “She had horns growing from her head?” Pavel asked.

  “Mmm. And she carried a flaming pitchfork.”

  “No, really, what happened?”

  “I went to see Vyrubova.”

  “She received you?”

  “Not exactly. I saw the Tsar depart in his car and then I was taken to her house. We walked past the imperial children, or some of them, playing in the snow. And then the Tsarina arrived.”

  “Just like that?”

  “More or less.”

  “On her own?”

  “Yes.”

  “No staff, no officials, no fanfare?”

  “It was very ordinary.”

  “No strange priests?”

  Ruzsky did not answer.

  “And?” Pavel went on.

  “Have you ever seen her close up?”

  “Of course not.”

  “She looks very tired.”

  “Don’t tell me she answered questions?”

  “The girl’s name was Ella and she worked in the imperial nursery. She was originally from the Crimea. Yalta or Sevastopol.” Ruzsky watched his feet in the snow. “Vyrubova insisted she’d taken pity on the girl and given her an old dress, but if she cared for her enough to do that, she seemed to me strangely indifferent to news of her demise. The Tsarina forgot herself and began to answer some questions, but they were both evasive and… cold. I didn’t know what to do; should I ask the Empress of the Russias questions?” Ruzsky shrugged. “And they didn’t seem to know whether or not to dismiss me out of hand.” Ruzsky thought about the episode for a few paces more. “Vyrubova was obviously lying, or at least not telling much of the truth, but I found it difficult to guess at why.”

  “What did they say?”

  “The girl was close, or so they said, to the imperial children. She was dismissed for stealing. That’s as far as I got.”

  “For stealing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Stealing what?”

  “They said money, but I’m fairly certain it was something else.”

  Ruzsky and Pavel waited as a Finnish sled was driven past, its bells jangling, then crossed the street. This side was darker, with no light from the houses and the gas lamps unevenly spaced. Ruzsky’s hand closed instinctively on the butt of the Sauvage revolver in his pocket.

  “So we know her name, but nothing more,” Pavel said.

  “I’ll telephone the household staff tomorrow and find out who she was and exactly why she was dismissed.”

  “What about the man?”

  “They said they’d never seen him before.”

  “Were they lying about that as well?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “So what do you think did happen with the girl?”

  Ruzsky thought about this for a few moments. “I don’t know.”

  Ruzsky and Pavel passed a tall brick building that looked like a warehouse and came to a small door with a white sign above it. Pavel knocked once and it was opened by an enormous man with a round face and a long beard. He nodded at each of them and stepped back to allow them inside. Light, warmth, and music spilled down the stairs.

  In the center of the wooden floor of the room above, an old man played a violin with manic energy, two men and two women sweating as they danced before him.

  A young gypsy girl led them to a table, returning a moment later with an unmarked bottle and two glasses. She was pretty, Ruzsky noticed, with serious eyes and curly, dark hair that spilled over her shoulders. She smiled at him, then laughed as she leaned forward to touch his arm.

  The restaurant was packed. All the tables were full, and a crowd lurked in the shadows behind them. Everyone was drinking from the same unmarked bottles. Prohibition had been introduced at the start of the war, to reduce drunkenness and boost national effectiveness, but had instead robbed the treasury of substantial revenue, reduced the quality of the vodka, and contributed to rampant alcoholism. The fact that expensive wines and champagnes were exempt from the ban didn’t do much for social equanimity either.

  Ruzsky had heard about these illegal cafés and speakeasies, where people danced and drank to forget the world around them, but this was the first time he had been into one. They’d not existed before his departure.

  “They keep this table for you,” Ruzsky said.

  “A man must have somewhere to relax.”

  Pavel filled the glasses and they looked at each other over the rim. “‘Sante,’ as you would say,” Pavel said, before they both drank.

  Ruzsky shook his head with the force of it. Pavel smiled and refilled. They drank again.

  Ruzsky watched the dancers. The women were voluptuous and fully aware of the hungry eyes upon them. Their dancing was sensual and provocative. Ruzsky dragged his eyes away from the floor, took out a cigarette, and leaned forward to light it in the candle’s flame, before pushing the case across to Pavel, who shook his head.

  “You’re going to go back to Irina?” Pavel asked.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “She won’t entertain the notion.”

  “Does she know that you know about her affair?”

  “No.” Ruzsky had confided in Pavel during a moment of weakness before his departure to Tobolsk.

  Pavel sighed. “Isn’t that a little perverse?”

  Ruzsky didn’t answer. His eyes were on the prettier of the two gypsy girls, who was dancing with her back arched, her chest thrust high and forward, her forehead glistening with sweat.

  Ruzsky thought of Maria on the stage in the last performance he had seen before his exile, and of her long, sinewy body and graceful movement.

  “Why haven’t you told her?” Pavel asked.

  “Who?”

  “Irina.”

  “About what?”

  “That you know about her affairs. That you have known for years.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You want to occupy the moral high ground.” Pavel was annoyed. “Even if it costs you your boy.”

  “I want to leave Michael out of it.”

  “That’s not possible and you know it. It’s killing you, not seeing him, so tell her, tell your father.”

  “I don’t want her, I’ve no desire to see my father, and it’s not going to cost me Michael. I’m determined that it won’t.”

  “If you say so.”

  “How is Tonya?” Ruzsky asked. “And your boy?”

  “You won’t want to know that they couldn’t be better.”

  “I don’t begrudge anyone happiness, and especially you.” Ruzsky looked at his friend. “I mean that.”

  “I just want to be at home. All the time. With them.” Pavel looked as if he would burst with longing. Ruzsky reached forward and patted his bunched fist.

  “The little fellow must be what, four?” Ruzsky always avoided calling the boy Sandro, because, although it was flattering, Pavel’s decision to name his son after him had always felt uncomfortable.

  “He had his birthday two months ago,” Pavel said, smiling at the thought of his son. “He laughs all the time. He always wants to see the joke. He’s got a great Russian sense of humor and he’s big like a bear.”

  “Like his father, in other words.”

  Pavel shook his head. “I don’t laugh enough anymore.”

  “You worry too much.”

  “And you don’t worry enough.”

 
; “Go home, Pavel. That’s where you should be.”

  “I want to be with you.”

  Ruzsky laughed. “No you don’t.”

  Pavel filled both glasses again. “Once more.”

  They drank. Pavel looked at him. “I shouldn’t leave you here.”

  “This is exactly where you should leave me and you know it. Go home to your wife and child.”

  Pavel hesitated, staring into his empty glass. “Do you think we should… you know, pass on this case. Leave it?”

  “Leave it?”

  Pavel looked up, a deep unease in his eyes.

  “How can we leave it?”

  Pavel shrugged. “The Empress, the palace. The Okhrana. I know you saved me last time, lied for me, but I couldn’t… you know. Tonya wouldn’t come to Tobolsk, and these are bad times.”

  “We broke the law. I was the chief investigator. If anyone was going to be punished, it should have been me.”

  “Do you think that was what it was about?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You think that you were punished because we broke the law?”

  “I think Vasilyev wanted to bring the whole department down a peg, show us who was boss in this city.”

  Pavel shook his head. “Sometimes you’re not such a brilliant investigator, after all.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You think he gives a shit about breaking the law?”

  “No, but-”

  “He’s the devil. You, more than Anton, posed a threat. You like digging around in things, you’re highborn and disdainful of anyone who doesn’t operate on the same moral plain.” Pavel raised his hand. “I mean it as a compliment. Above all, you’re difficult to control and impossible to intimidate. You’re dangerous. And I don’t like this case.” Pavel leaned back with a sigh. “I don’t like it.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just don’t. It smells dirty. We should push it on to the Okhrana. They’ve got the bodies, they’re equipped for dealing with that kind of stuff. Why fight for it?”

  They stared at each other in silence. Pavel lowered his gaze. “You’re thinking what love has reduced me to,” he said, reading Ruzsky’s mind.

  “Of course I’m not.”

  “I don’t mind if you are. They’re all I care about, Sandro.”

  Ruzsky leaned forward to touch his friend’s hand. “Of course.”