The White Russian

by Tom Bradby

  The chief of the secret police moved a round metal weight from some papers and shuffled them to the center of his desk, before walking over to the bookcase and leaning back against it. Above him hung a line of religious icons and pictures of the Tsar and Tsarina. Vasilyev took a silver case from the inside of his pocket. “Cigarette, anyone?”

  No one answered. Ruzsky studied him. He was immaculately turned out, from his neatly groomed mustache to his highly polished shoes. His manner was precise and meticulous, and he still had the habit of obsessively removing small specks of dust from his waistcoat as he spoke.

  “Would you like some English tea?” Vasilyev asked. It was a question to all of them, but directed at Ruzsky.

  “No.”

  “Your father is well?”

  Ruzsky hesitated. He wondered if the question was designed to humiliate him. “I believe so.”

  Vasilyev lit his cigarette. He held it away from his body, so that the ash did not fall upon his suit. “Anton Antipovich has told me a little, but perhaps you would care to expand. You found two bodies on the Neva. Who were they?”

  Ruzsky scrutinized the table in front of him. It was inconceivable that Vasilyev had called the meeting in ignorance; he wondered how much he already knew, and how little he could get away with telling him. “You have the bodies,” he said caustically.

  Vasilyev betrayed no visible reaction. “But you have still been working on the case, is that not so?”

  “The girl was called Ella.”

  “Her family name?”

  “Kovyil.”

  “Kovyil?” Vasilyev frowned and glanced at Prokopiev. “Does that sound familiar?”

  Prokopiev shrugged, but Ruzsky could see that it was a charade. They both knew precisely who she was. “She worked in the nursery out at Tsarskoe Selo,” he said, since he was certain they must know that, too.

  “You should have informed me immediately that the girl was a palace employee.”

  “We only found out this afternoon,” Ruzsky lied.

  “And the man?”

  “As I said, you have the bodies.”

  “We wished to ascertain that the murder was not the work of a political assassin.”

  “And have you done so?”

  “Indeed we have. But I repeat. It is your belief, is it not, that the course of the overall investigation remains under the jurisdiction of the Petrograd City Police Department.”

  To buy himself time, Ruzsky pulled out his own cigarette case and lit up. “We believe the dead man was probably an American called Robert White.”

  Ruzsky watched Vasilyev’s face for a reaction.

  Apparently unperturbed, Vasilyev drew deeply on his cigarette. “An American?”

  “So it would appear.”

  “How did you discover this?”

  “Sarlov thought he might be, from his dental work. So we went to the embassy and asked.”

  “And they confirmed it?”

  “Yes.”

  “How could they be so sure?”

  “They were looking for him.”

  “Looking for him? Here?”

  Ruzsky watched his opponent. “He was a criminal and labor agitator.”

  “A labor agitator?” Vasilyev turned back to Prokopiev. “Ivan?”

  Prokopiev shrugged again.

  “You’ve never heard of him?” Ruzsky asked.

  Prokopiev blinked, but did not feel the need to reply.

  “You’ve spoken to Shulgin?” Vasilyev asked. He clearly knew that they had.

  “Yes.”

  “What did he have to say?”

  “Ella worked in the nursery at the Alexander Palace. She was from Yalta. Perhaps you remember her?” He noticed a muscle twitch in Prokopiev’s cheek. “I believe you were chief of police in the city at the time, and Ivan your deputy?”

  “Why should either of us remember her?” Prokopiev asked.

  “No reason.”

  They were silent. The man from the Ministry of the Interior stared at his notepad. Ruzsky needed no further evidence that the city’s overall chief of police, Prince Obolensky, was no longer in control. In the deteriorating political climate, all power had passed to the man in front of them.

  “Go on,” Vasilyev said.

  “Ella was dismissed for stealing.”

  “Stealing what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Money?”

  “Probably.”

  Vasilyev was now standing with his back to them, staring out of the window.

  “The man had a small branded star on his right shoulder,” Ruzsky said.

  The official from the Ministry looked up and scribbled something on the notepad in front of him. But Vasilyev remained unmoved.

  “In addition to which, the killer went to considerable effort to strip them of anything that might identify them.”

  “So you are saying it was a political crime,” Vasilyev went on.

  Ruzsky shook his head. “The man was stabbed seventeen times…”

  “But the girl was a palace employee.” Vasilyev’s tone was emphatic.

  Ruzsky glanced around the room. Anton shifted nervously in his seat. Pavel stared dead ahead.

  Vasilyev took a pace forward. “Thank you, gentleman. That will be all.”

  For a moment, nobody moved, then Pavel stood, looking relieved.

  “A word in private, Sandro,” Vasilyev said, as he turned to leave.

  The others filed out, but the man from the Ministry of the Interior stayed where he was. He seemed to relax a little, leaning back in his chair.

  Vasilyev still had the remains of the cigarette in his hand. He stubbed it out in a big silver ashtray on his desk then lit another. He picked at his suit. “It is difficult,” he said, “isn’t it, when we cannot be certain of the victims’ identity, especially in these times, when our manpower is stretched so thin?”

  “Criminal investigations are rarely as straightforward as we would like them to be.”

  “But times have changed, Sandro. Our concerns are so…” Vasilyev spread his hands, “broad. I think we could view this as a lover’s argument. A man, a woman…”

  “So, they killed each other?”

  “Don’t play the fool with me, Ruzsky.” Vasilyev chose his words carefully. “I had a telephone call this morning, from the Alexander Palace. From the Empress herself. You can, perhaps, imagine my dilemma.” Vasilyev stubbed out his cigarette, in a manner that hinted at the anger bubbling under his cloak of self-control. “Or could if you weren’t so damned arrogant.”

  Ruzsky fought hard to keep his voice level. “This is a murder. A criminal case, and therefore under the jurisdiction of the chief of the city police, according to the dictates of the Ministry of the Interior.” He paused. “There is no sign of political motivation. As soon as there is, we will pass over the evidence we have accumulated to this department.”

  Vasilyev glared at him.

  “Will that be all?” Ruzsky asked.

  “There are other matters that require your attention, I’m sure.”

  “But none as important.”

  “So the Tsar is no longer to be obeyed?” Vasilyev’s voice was like velvet. “Is that what you think?”

  “I think that now, more than ever, there is a need for justice.”

  Vasilyev’s face darkened. “It is the Tsar or the mob, Ruzsky. You would do well to remember that.”

  Ruzsky turned away. He could almost feel the fury at his back, propelling him down the corridor.

  17

  A t the headquarters of the Petrograd City Police Department, they were waiting for him in Anton’s office. Ruzsky sat down heavily, staring at the picture of Napoleon’s retreat on the wall opposite. He could see that the others were nervous and apprehensive.

  “He invited me to close the case on the grounds that it had proved impossible to establish the identities of the victims,” Ruzsky said solemnly.

  No one replied.

  “He said he
had received a call from Tsarskoe Selo, and that I must understand his dilemma.”

  Pavel leaned forward. “Do you think that’s true?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “Shulgin seemed concerned to me, and uncertain, rather than hostile.”

  They considered this. Ruzsky looked into the eyes of his colleagues. They wanted to appear defiant, but none could entirely hide their fear.

  Anton sighed deeply. “Vasilyev is a powerful and dangerous enemy, now more than ever.”

  “But still not omnipotent.”

  “I’m not so sure.” Anton suddenly looked old. “It has a pleasing hint of irony about it, don’t you think? In the dying hours of the regime, we loyally carry out the tasks assigned to us in the name of a tsar that none of us believes in, while those who once professed fanatical loyalty to the absolute monarch now prepare themselves for the moment when he is no longer with us.”

  “I don’t understand,” Ruzsky said.

  “What do you think our friend Vasilyev has been doing these past weeks?”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “He’s been a very, very busy man. Meetings and telephone calls. Reading telegrams and letters. Those to him and those intercepted. He speaks to the generals, the politicians, and the grand dukes. He even talks to the revolutionaries.” Anton raised his hand. “You won’t believe it, but trust me, he does. How can I manage this for maximum advantage, he asks. He could stay loyal to the Tsar, as he claims, but he knows it’s moving beyond that. Change is coming, so which way is it going to blow and how can he be seen to assist it? Strikes, demonstrations, protests; the appearance of disorder. He can orchestrate them all. The generals and politicians and grand dukes could then claim they were forced to take resolute action. But, of course, if Vasilyev and his agents get it wrong… then who knows what could happen?”

  “He just told me that the choice was between the Tsar and the mob.”

  “And he is right.”

  “If he is that preoccupied, then why bother to interfere with us?”

  They sat in silence again. None of them could answer this.

  “It doesn’t smell good,” Pavel said. “They were warned this American was coming back. And when he does, he gets seventeen stab wounds for his trouble.”

  “And yet,” Ruzsky went on, “we cannot get away from the fact that, to all of us, their deaths still feel personal.”

  They looked to Maretsky. He examined his chubby hands. As a professor of philosophy at the university, he had developed a passionate interest in the criminal mind and had been brought in by Anton-after his disgrace-on a part-time basis to assist in investigations. Shortly afterward, Vasilyev had seen the value of his work and had requested-or rather, they believed, coerced-his assistance too. “I see only files,” Maretsky said, “and sometimes individuals. I would be the last person they would tell.”

  “What do you think lies beneath this case?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never heard of White or the girl. Never seen any paperwork on either of them. But then, if it was something they wanted to keep from you, I wouldn’t see it either.”

  “Why have they warned us off?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did they-”

  “Sandro, I can see the questions. I just don’t have the answers.”

  They glanced at each other. Pavel seemed suddenly less than pleased at the idea of being one of a band of brothers, but there was warmth in Anton’s eyes.

  “We cannot easily trace the American,” Ruzsky said. “So we must begin by following the path of the girl. If any of you want to stay officially neutral, then now’s the time to make that clear.”

  There was an awkward silence.

  Pavel got to his feet. His face was strained. He came level with Ruzsky, raised his head, looked apologetically into his eyes, and then slapped him so hard on the back that he almost choked. “God, Sandro,” he guffawed, “you’re a pain in the ass.”

  Pavel went home and Ruzsky retired gratefully to his office. He shut the door, switched on his lamp, and sat behind his desk in the half-darkness.

  He extracted the ticket Maria had sent him for the ballet from his pocket, and glanced up at the clock. It was almost eight; the performance had already begun.

  He stared at the ticket, put it down, moved it from one side of his desk to the other.

  He reached for his “in” tray.

  On top was an internal envelope containing a note from the fingerprint laboratory; they needed a formal signature of authorization before examining the prints from the dagger.

  Ruzsky put the form down, dipped his pen in the inkwell, scrawled, Is this bureaucracy really necessary? and put it back in the envelope and readdressed it.

  Next was a thick sheaf of telegraphs responding to Pavel’s All Russias bulletin.

  There were only three that showed any promise. The Moscow City Police had made two sightings of an American wanted on suspicion of espionage, theft, and affray who traveled under the name Douglas Robertson.

  Kazan reported that a Canadian traveling under the name Robert Jones had failed to pay his hotel bill in August 1914.

  The most encouraging was from Yalta. American wanted, it read, in connection with armed robbery, October 1910. Fits description. More details upon request. Detective Godorkin, Yalta 229.

  Ruzsky leaned back, rested his feet on the edge of the desk, and stared at the small religious icon hanging on the wall.

  He imagined Ella as she might have been while alive. He pictured her as shy and timid; the American, aggressive and manipulative. A pretty royal nanny and a thieving brigand; it was an unlikely romance.

  The minute hand on the clock moved with a loud clunk.

  Ruzsky headed downstairs. The machines in the communications room were idle. The solitary operator was drinking coffee and reading his newspaper.

  Ruzsky handed him the three telegraphs and asked him to get onto Moscow, Kazan, and Yalta for further details.

  Back in his office, Ruzsky glanced at the clock again, though he had been acutely aware of the time all evening.

  He sat down, pulled open the drawer, and took out the roll of ruble notes that had been removed from the dead man’s pocket. He spread them out in order of the numbers outlined on the left-hand side of each note.

  He stared at them, looking for a flaw to the theory he’d shared with Pavel. If you assembled the notes like this, you got the order of the letters. The numbers on the right could refer to a page and line number. But he could get no closer to breaking the code without knowing what had been used as the key.

  Ruzsky shifted the paperweight to and fro, deep in thought.

  He noticed that a figure had crept into the doorway and was leaning back, watching him. “Only a rat moves that quietly,” he said.

  “Only a fool allows himself to be burned twice.”

  Stanislav swung in through the door and sauntered over to Pavel’s desk. He perched on the end of it, his short legs not quite reaching the floor. His leather boots were in as advanced state of disrepair as Ruzsky’s own.

  “Did you talk to the newspapers?” Ruzsky asked.

  “I tipped one or two off.”

  Stanislav was sober, but he looked tired, his thin face yellow with ingrained dirt. “Was that you last night?” Ruzsky asked.

  Stanislav didn’t answer. He was stroking his stubble and looking at the floor.

  “Up to something you’d rather I didn’t know about?”

  The journalist still didn’t reply.

  “So, what are you trying to tell me?”

  Stanislav took out a packet of cigarettes, lit one, and threw the pack over toward Ruzsky, who sent it straight back.

  “How did Prokopiev know about the bodies?” Stanislav asked.

  “I have no idea. Probably from one of the constables.”

  “That’s a coincidence.”

  Ruzsky frowned.

  “That’s what you said last time,” Stanislav said
. “You-or rather Pavel, with your agreement-put that pervert in the cell at the end of the corridor and told his fellow inmates what he’d been up to. When I asked you who told the Okhrana, you said probably one of the constables. But Prokopiev was here within an hour of the man’s death.”

  “I still don’t see your point.”

  “Almost without exception, we now have a different set of constables. So, one hour after the bodies are brought in from the ice this time, Prokopiev is around to remove them.”

  “So?”

  “They knew. Someone high up is singing down the wire.”

  Ruzsky did not respond.

  “In another time, maybe that wouldn’t matter, but you took three years in exile and Vladimir ’s man wound up in the Moyka with a knife in his back. It’s not a game anymore.”

  They were silent. The clock ticked loudly on the wall and Ruzsky glanced at it.

  “Spell it out,” he said.

  Stanislav shrugged. “If I had the answers, I’d tell you.”

  “I’ve got to go.”

  Ruzsky got up and put on his coat, slipped the ballet ticket into his pocket, and walked briskly along the corridor.

  By the time Ruzsky arrived, the intermission had begun. The first-floor lobby was thronged with theatergoers discussing the performance, the hubbub rising toward the curved ceilings as liveried waiters, balancing silver trays, weaved through the throng. The men were dressed in white ties and tails, the women long dresses and gloves, diamonds glittering in the light spilling from the chandeliers.

  Here, outside the dress circle, tradition dictated that theatergoers walk slowly around the edge of the room, arm in arm.

  Ruzsky hesitated at the top of the stairs, momentarily dazzled by the finery on display. Petersburg and Russia really were two different countries. This city was as sophisticated and European and rich as most of Russia was backward, remote, and poor. The salons of the capital and the endless pine forests of the interior bore no relation to each other, and he belonged wholly to neither world.

  He glanced at his ticket and then at the signs directing him up to the top floor.

  As Ruzsky turned back up the stairs, his father’s booming laugh stopped him in his tracks. His family had spilled out of their box and into the corridor. The landing was crowded, but not enough for him to credibly pretend he had not seen or heard them. He found himself propelled across the rich red carpet behind the dress circle boxes. They were drinking champagne, clustered around a low wooden table laden with bottles in silver buckets. Ruzsky’s father stood at the center of the group.