The White Russian

by Tom Bradby

  Sarlov nodded. “He could be German.”

  Sarlov took the magnifying glass and returned it to his drawer. Ruzsky examined the man’s trousers, turning them inside out. “If the murderer was that angry,” he said, “that insane-”

  “I did say angry; I did not say mad. Sane men do diabolical things,” Sarlov insisted, with some feeling.

  “His blood is up and yet, once he is done, the girl is, according to you, probably still alive, bleeding to death on the ice. The murderer bends over her and starts ripping the labels from her clothes. Then he or she goes to the man and does the same. The man’s body is covered in blood, which is everywhere, freezing quickly. This all takes time. Five minutes. Longer. It is the middle of the night, but the moon is bright and the danger of being seen must be high. There is no easy escape. You must walk far in each direction to get away from the scene and the murderer has decided that he must leave no prints. It’s brutal, methodical, but also amateurish. The murderer goes to the trouble of placing his footprints in those of his victims and then abandons that plan as he gets close to the embankment.”

  Looking at the overcoat, Ruzsky could not quite believe that the murderer had been able to so thoroughly remove all clues as to the man’s identity in a few, rushed minutes out on the ice.

  “Do you think he got this coat in Hamburg as well?” Ruzsky asked, holding it up to the light once more.

  “Do I look like an expert in international fashion?”

  Ruzsky shook his head. “To be honest, no.”

  Pavel was sitting at his desk. “Progress,” he said, holding up a photograph of the male victim’s body. “It’s the man from the Astoria Hotel. I checked on the way in. And I got hold of the American official. He’s waiting for us at the embassy.”

  Pavel stood. “You’ve a note on your desk. Another messenger. You’re a popular boy.”

  Ruzsky picked up the envelope and turned it over. It had the seal of his brother’s regiment, the Preobrazhensky Guards.

  The letter was on thick, yellowish paper.

  My dear Sandro, Dmitri had written, I shall be at the yacht club at luncheon and hope you will join me there. I shall make the assumption that your answer is affirmative, unless you get a message to me by noon.

  Ruzsky sat down and removed from the drawer the roll of ruble notes they’d found on the dead man. He realized that there was more money there than he’d first thought-the outer notes were a low denomination, but there were higher ones within. He leaned forward to count them.

  Ruzsky narrowed his eyes. He took out one note and held it up to the desk lamp. He did the same with another and then with the rest. “Come and have a look at this,” he said.

  The big detective heaved himself from his chair and came around to look at the notes.

  “See?” Ruzsky asked, holding two up to the light.

  “See what?”

  “Here.” Ruzsky pointed. It had a series of tiny marks, in black ink, underneath the serial numbers.

  Ruzsky looked closer, then at the other notes once more. “Look. They’re all in some kind of order. Each note is marked with a minuscule figure in black ink inside the double-headed eagle. By the left-hand beak. You see, one, two, three, and so on. Then each note also has some of the serial numbers underlined with tiny dots.”

  “That could mean anything. Some teller in a bank fiddling around on a cold afternoon.”

  Ruzsky spread all the notes out in front of him. He rearranged them in order of the numbers inscribed by the left-hand beak of the eagle. He could see that he was right. “We’ve got numbers one to fourteen here. So it’s a code, and the message has fourteen letters, which are to be assembled in this order. The digits underlined in the serial number must be page references from the code book. If we had that, we could see the message.”

  13

  T hey found themselves faced with a long wait at the United States embassy over on Furshtatskaya. A fat, middle-aged Russian woman sat behind the reception desk and got more irritated every time Ruzsky went to inquire how much longer the official they sought might be.

  He strolled around the entrance hall, glancing as he went at the pictures crowding the walls. The subject of each was inscribed on a brass plaque at the bottom of the frame. There was a watercolor of beach life in California, and another of a town house in Boston. Some government buildings in Washington were depicted in oil, along with a grand plantation house in Georgia and a panoramic view of New York.

  He sat down again. The remnants of Pavel’s breakfast were still visible in his mustache and on the corners of his chin.

  “You smell of herring,” Ruzsky said.

  “I forgot to tell you. I received a call from Anton when I got home last night. We have to chair a briefing later today.”

  “For whom?”

  “Vasilyev and an official from the Ministry of the Interior.”

  “Where?”

  “Alexandrovsky Prospekt.”

  Ruzsky’s heart sank at the mention of the Okhrana’s gloomy headquarters. “You can do it. I don’t need to go.”

  “Oh no.” Pavel shook his head. “You want to be back in charge, you do it.”

  “Do you think,” Ruzsky said, “that our corpse was an American intelligence agent?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Think of the banknotes. If they do contain a cipher, an encoded message…”

  “I still think that’s quite a leap.”

  Ruzsky did not respond. He could see Pavel knew he was right.

  “You’re seeing conspiracies where none exist,” Pavel said. His manner had become defensive again.

  “True, but it makes you wonder, that’s all. Perhaps it explains why the Okhrana were so quick off the mark. Did you check his room at the Astoria?”

  “Inch by inch. There’s nothing there.”

  They sat in silence.

  “Nothing at all.”

  “Come on,” Ruzsky said, glancing up at the clock on the wall again.

  “I would have thought Tobolsk might have cured you of your chronic impatience.”

  “I saw Vasilyev last night outside that club.”

  “And?”

  “He was in a car and opened the door to pick up two young girls from the street.”

  A tall man with small glasses, short hair, and a long, bony nose came through the door opposite them. He had an ungainly walk. “Good morning,” he said, speaking Russian with a perfect Petersburg accent. “Abraham Morris. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

  They introduced themselves.

  “Come through,” the man said, smiling. His voice was soft and cultured.

  Morris led them up several flights of stone steps. His office was on the top floor and it enjoyed a spectacular view of the Neva. His desk was uncluttered. The filing cabinet next to it was covered in what looked like sporting trophies. On the wall, the only painting depicted a white clapboard house overlooking a long, sandy beach.

  Morris invited them to sit, then went around to the other side of his desk and pulled over a chair, tugging up his trousers a fraction, just above the knee, as he lowered himself into it. Ruzsky was still staring at the picture on the wall. It had perfectly captured the extraordinary quality of the light. He’d forgotten how much he missed being surrounded by fine paintings.

  “Have you been to America, Chief Investigator?”

  “No,” Ruzsky said, “but I’d like to go. That’s a fine painting.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “It is one of your own?”

  The man smiled modestly. He leaned forward. “I telephoned the Astoria a short time ago. You have already been to see them.”

  “Yes,” Pavel said.

  Morris took a sheet of paper from a desk drawer. He glanced at it for a few moments, to refresh his memory, then replaced it. He raised his right hand, palm up. “How can I help you gentlemen?”

  Ruzsky reached into his pocket for a picture of the dead man.
r />   “Do you recognize him?”

  Morris took the photograph and looked at it, pushing his glasses onto the bridge of his nose. “No.”

  “You have been made aware,” Ruzsky asked, “that we are conducting a murder investigation?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t recognize the man?”

  “No.”

  Ruzsky looked at Morris, whose gaze remained steady.

  “This isn’t the man you warned the Okhrana about?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “My colleague here was informed that you warned the Okhrana to be on the lookout for a man called Robert White, an armed robber from Chicago.”

  “Correct.”

  “Is that the same man as the Robert Whitewater who has not paid his bill at the Astoria?”

  “It is likely. But I cannot say for certain.” Morris handed back the photograph.

  “But you don’t know if this is him?”

  “No, as I’ve said.”

  “The man at the Astoria gave his address as care of the American embassy.”

  Morris shrugged.

  “He’s nothing to do with you?”

  “No.”

  “His real name, then, is Robert White?”

  “He travels under many names. He prefers to amend genuine passports, of which he appears to have an unlimited number.” Morris tugged at his trousers and adjusted his eyeglasses once more. “His real name is White.”

  Ruzsky waited for Morris to go on, but the American just continued to regard him with the same level gaze. “Well, who is he, and what is he doing in St. Petersburg?”

  “A warning was handed to your colleagues in the Okhrana, as you may know.”

  “What was the warning?”

  Morris studied his feet. “It concerned his presence.”

  “White was an agent of yours?”

  Morris looked up, but didn’t blink. “Quite the reverse. He is a criminal and labor agitator of the worst kind.”

  “A labor agitator?”

  “In the steel mills.”

  “Does your State Department have time to treat all American criminals in this way?”

  “Robert White has incurred the wrath of some extremely important and wealthy people.”

  “What has he done?”

  Morris shook his head slowly.

  “So you were looking for him?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you found him?”

  “We had reason to believe that he was returning to St. Petersburg.”

  “Why did you have reason to believe that?”

  Morris was progressively abandoning any attempt to appear cooperative, but Ruzsky found it hard to fathom why.

  “You warned the Okhrana?”

  “We asked for more information on White’s previous activities here, and those of one of his Russian associates.”

  “But none was forthcoming?”

  Morris didn’t answer.

  “Who was the Russian associate?”

  “You will have to ask your colleagues in the Okhrana.”

  Ruzsky thought he detected a hint of a challenge in Morris’s eyes. He held up the photograph. “Is this White?”

  “If not, then he has slipped the net again.”

  “The man had no identification on him. But our pathologist said he thought it was possible that this man was an American, judging by his dental work.”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “Could you get your State Department to send a description?”

  Morris looked from Ruzsky to Pavel and back again. He seemed to be assessing them. “Your photograph fits the description.”

  “So this is White?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But then you’re not saying anything very much.”

  Morris stood. “I’m grateful to you gentlemen for stopping by.”

  Ruzsky did not move. “Why here?” he asked. “Why now? A criminal and labor agitator?”

  Morris did not answer. He was staring out of the window toward the Admiralty spire.

  “An American with a history of labor agitation in his native country comes to Russia at a time when all the talk is of revolution against the rule of the tsars.”

  “Mr. White is considerably more interested in crime than revolution.” Morris smiled warily. “And your colleagues in the Okhrana are quite adept at keeping watch on political activists.”

  “So they knew this man was in Petersburg?”

  “I informed them six weeks ago, just as I have told you.”

  “That you believed White was on his way to Russia?”

  “Precisely.”

  “And the Okhrana did not reply?”

  Morris shook his head.

  “You have heard nothing from them?”

  Morris gave them a tight but knowing smile. Ruzsky got the impression he didn’t like the Okhrana very much.

  “Who did you speak to?”

  Morris shook his head.

  “Something tells me, sir,” Ruzsky said gently, “that there are other things you could choose to share with us.”

  Morris smiled, his eyebrows arched. “An investigator’s instinct?”

  “The look on your face.”

  “It is not my city,” Morris said, shaking his head. “Not my country.”

  “Not the American way.”

  Morris smiled again. “Not the American way, no.” He looked at Pavel and then back at Ruzsky. “Good day, gentlemen. And good luck.”

  For a moment, in the cold street outside, Ruzsky and Pavel stood in silence, each with their own thoughts, Morris’s evident suspicion of the Okhrana hanging between them. “So it was White,” Pavel said. His expression was serious.

  “Yes.”

  “Robert White. What do you think he was doing here?”

  “I have no idea, but I think Morris probably does.”

  “He’s suspicious of us,” Pavel went on.

  “Or of the Okhrana, or of the city, or of Russia. He looked to me like a man with too much knowledge, who no longer feels confident of drawing distinctions.”

  Pavel stared disconsolately at the ground.

  “Will you call the Okhrana records office? See if you can get some hint of what they have on White.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “You might slip through the net. Why would the records library know what the senior officers are doing?”

  “You’ve been away, don’t forget. No one does anything over there without authorization now, even the most basic query. Vasilyev’s orders.”

  “Well, try. See what their reaction is at least.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I have to go and see my brother.”

  “Lunch at the club?”

  “I’ve been in Tobolsk, he’s been at the front.”

  “Well, I hope there isn’t another murder this afternoon. I’d hate anything to get in the way of your social arrangements.”

  Pavel walked off. Ruzsky called after him. “Fuck you, too.”

  Pavel turned around. “Don’t forget you’ve got a briefing to do.”

  “When?”

  Pavel stopped. “In your own good time.”

  “I think we should try and go back out to Tsarskoe Selo this afternoon.”

  “If you can fit it into your schedule.”

  “We’ll go out straight after lunch and we’ll brief them when we get back.”

  “Whatever you say, boss. Enjoy your lunch.”

  “Could you do me one more favor?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Put out an all stations bulletin. See if any of them have anything on White?”

  Pavel turned on his heel and walked away.

  14

  A t the Imperial Yacht Club, time had stood still for more than a hundred years. From the carriages parked outside alongside those for the Astoria, the drivers stamping their feet against the cold, smoking and gossiping in small groups, to the ornate, d
imly lit stairwell and the gilt-edged mirrors of the dining room, it had remained resolutely the preserve of the elite within the elite.

  Ruzsky walked past the boarded-up German embassy and across St. Isaac’s Square, stopping to allow a car to pass. He heard the noonday gun as he reached the grand gray building’s front entrance. Parked right outside stood two sleds with the distinctive gold crowns and crimson velvet upholstery of grand dukes of the Romanov dynasty.

  The doorman, dressed in the club’s blue and gold livery, nodded his head. “Good day, sir. Your brother is waiting in the dining room.” For the first time since he’d been sent to Tobolsk, and perhaps for much longer than that, Ruzsky felt like a member of one of Russia ’s leading families. He took off his hat and overcoat and gave them to the doorman, who bashed a few remaining shards of ice onto the entrance mat and then handed them in turn to a porter standing behind him.

  Ruzsky hesitated. He wondered who he would see.

  He walked up the curved staircase toward the dining room on the first floor.

  The Grand Duke Boris Vladimirovich stood in the hallway, leaning against the wall beneath a huge painting of the Neva at sunset, his portly frame straining the buttons of his uniform. He was talking conspiratorially through a cloud of cigar smoke with a man Ruzsky did not recognize.

  The shock of seeing him again made Ruzsky stop dead. He could feel the hairs standing on end on the back of his neck. The Grand Duke noticed him, but made no acknowledgment.

  Ruzsky felt the weight of the man’s contempt and the color rise in his own cheeks before he had recovered enough to turn away and walk on.

  The dining room was full. The clink of champagne glasses carried across tables, and the dust in the air, illuminated by the dull winter sun filtering through the windows, looked like gauze. Everywhere, uniforms groaned with gold braid and medals earned by acts of bureaucratic audacity.

  Ruzsky steadied himself for a moment. Anyone who recognized him here would see the disgraced scion of one of the country’s leading families, but if they actually appreciated the circumstances he had been reduced to-a dingy one-room apartment around Line Fourteen of Vasilevsky Island-then he’d have been thrown out onto the street.

  Dmitri was already seated at the family’s favored table at the far end of the room. He was staring out of the window, a tall solitary figure.