The White Russian

by Tom Bradby

  “To steal something?”

  “Something personal.”

  “To do with Rasputin.”

  Ruzsky nodded. “It starts to make sense of things, don’t you think?”

  “And he has justified it to her on the grounds that the Empress and Rasputin are lovers. So what did Ella steal?”

  “A diary?”

  “If it had been a diary, she’d have been thrown into the darkest dungeon of the fortress over the river.”

  “Perhaps they don’t know for sure what she stole.”

  “Then how did they know she’d stolen anything?”

  “I’m not sure,” Ruzsky said. “But I think we should try Shulgin again today. See if we can talk to some of the people Ella worked with.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “What were Prokopiev’s men doing there? I don’t understand why he would be asking Ella’s mother questions to which we assume he already knows the answers.”

  Pavel gestured toward the street outside. “I can understand why they might want to take over the case, but why would they want to watch us?”

  Ruzsky shook his head.

  “The country stands on the brink. And they have the time to watch two Petrograd city policemen going about their business?”

  Ruzsky looked around the room. “We should go to Yalta,” he said.

  “Good idea. I need a holiday.” Pavel wasn’t taking him seriously.

  “Everything leads to Yalta. We’ll go tonight.”

  The color drained from Pavel’s face.

  “You don’t wish to come?”

  The big detective looked up. “It’s up to you.”

  Anton and Maretsky came in. Anton was smoking a cigarette and raised it in greeting as they went to get a cup of coffee. Ruzsky and Pavel watched their progress in silence until they came to join them.

  “So they’re officially taking over the case,” Anton said, as he sat down. “I just got a call from the Interior Ministry.” He took off his glasses and placed them on the table, rubbing his forehead and eyes as Ruzsky had done. He stubbed out his cigarette on the top of the hardwood table, throwing the butt onto the floor beneath their feet, and lit another. Anton’s eyes were bloodshot and he looked the way Ruzsky felt.

  They sat in silence. None of them wished to take the matter further.

  Maretsky was drinking hot water, which steamed up his glasses as he bent over it. He slid the mug to and fro, restlessly.

  “We’re going to Yalta,” Ruzsky said. “Tonight.”

  “Why?” Anton asked.

  “The man we found this morning was from Yalta,” Ruzsky went on. “Ella was from Yalta. We think the dead American is wanted for armed robbery in Yalta.”

  No one spoke.

  Ruzsky leaned forward. “I don’t particularly want to live in a world where the chief of the Okhrana can do whatever he likes. Do you?”

  Maretsky and Pavel both stared at the table. Anton shook his head. “We already live in that kind of world, Sandro.”

  “Well, we shouldn’t just accept it.”

  No one responded. Maretsky shook his head slowly. Ruzsky looked at his colleagues. He knew what they were thinking-that he, of all of them, had nothing to lose. All that had awaited him upon his return from Tobolsk was a cold wife and a son whom he couldn’t see. He tried to block Maria from his mind.

  Maretsky, by contrast, had a family, despite the incident with the student. Anton had a daughter on one of the university courses for women who would not want her fellow students to know her father was a policeman-even one in the city police. And Pavel had Tonya and his boy, who were, as he so readily admitted, all he cared about. But Ruzsky was reluctant to let go.

  Anton’s lips thinned. “This isn’t the time for a crusade. They’ve made it official. We can’t ignore that.”

  “Since when has doing our job been a crusade? We’ve got three bodies and at least one killer. That makes it a murder case. That’s what we’re here to do.”

  “It was a murder case, now it’s a series of atrocities carried out by a suspected revolutionary cell. And if you don’t believe me, call the Interior Ministry.”

  “Revolutionaries don’t stab their victims seventeen times.”

  No one responded.

  “Let’s ask ourselves some questions, then. Why do the Okhrana want this case? Maretsky?”

  The professor continued to stare at the table.

  “Maretsky? You work with them. You don’t think this was the work of revolutionaries, do you? And what are the Okhrana doing?”

  The professor looked up. His face was strained. “I go over there when I have to. I do not work with them.”

  “Well, what do you-”

  “Do you know why you were sent into exile?” The professor’s eyes flashed at Ruzsky through his dirty round glasses. “Because he didn’t know what to make of you. He was still feeling his way then. You’re highborn. You had connections. You were an unknown quantity. Better to play safe and get you out of the way. But it’s all changed, Sandro. You’ve seen him up close. You know that.”

  Ruzsky thought of Vasilyev at the ballet, in the midst of the family that had largely disowned him. “I see nothing behind his eyes.”

  “Precisely. We’re not talking about exile to Tobolsk anymore.”

  They contemplated this in silence.

  “He’s a chief of police, not God,” Ruzsky said.

  “We’re not here to give you a sense of purpose,” Anton responded.

  Ruzsky felt his face redden.

  “The Okhrana have taken over this case. There is nothing we can do about it.”

  “We could take it up with the Interior Ministry.” It was a weak argument and he knew it.

  Anton shook his head. “Vasilyev can pick up the telephone and call the palace anytime he chooses.”

  “But the palace doesn’t like the Okhrana,” Pavel said quietly. He smiled at Ruzsky, his earlier faint heart apparently forgotten.

  Anton sighed.

  “They can’t punish us for continuing to amass information on a murder case,” Ruzsky went on.

  “Of course they can.”

  “We can say we were still seeking to assist them.”

  “They can suspend us, dismiss us, send us to where you’ve just come from. Or worse.”

  To Ruzsky, Anton suddenly seemed terribly tired. It was as if he had given up, not just on his work, but on life. It was hard to recall the witty, outspoken man who had kept them laughing for hours during those evenings at his country home overlooking the Gulf of Finland.

  “They have removed us from the case. Categorically. Explicitly,” Anton said. “They left no room for me to claim a misunderstanding. I’m going to have to ask you to desist from any further inquiries.”

  “But why?” Ruzsky asked. “That’s the question. Why are they so determined to block us?”

  “That may be the question, but it is not one to which we have to find an answer. My instructions are clear. It would have been difficult to get to Yalta, anyway. You’ve heard what it is like.”

  Anton stood. He did not meet Ruzsky’s eye. He turned and walked out. Maretsky followed him.

  “So now we are two,” Pavel said once they’d gone. “Well done.”

  22

  T he train out to Tsarskoe Selo moved slower than ever, the rhythmic hiss of the steam engine and the gentle rattle and roll of the carriages sending Pavel to sleep. He rested his head between the seat and the window, his mouth wide open.

  As he looked out at the snow-covered landscape, Ruzsky could not imagine ever leaving the country of his birth.

  “What are you thinking?” Pavel asked. His head hadn’t moved, but his mouth was shut and he’d been watching him.

  “Nothing much.”

  “A girl?”

  They pulled out of the trees and Ruzsky leaned closer to the window. It was so dirty and the landscape here so monotonous, it was hard to distinguish snow and sky from the grayness of the pane.

  “Is it love
?”

  Ruzsky didn’t answer.

  “Who is it?”

  Ruzsky shook his head.

  “The ballerina?”

  “No,” Ruzsky lied.

  Pavel whistled quietly. “She’s beautiful. I wouldn’t blame you. What will you do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Believe what you want.”

  “Love has a habit of overcoming most obstacles,” Pavel said.

  Ruzsky looked out of the window. Two young boys in thick winter coats stood on top of the bank, waving at the passengers. Ruzsky waved back.

  “Sometimes the obstacles are impossible to overcome,” he said.

  “But you don’t really believe it. That’s your secret.”

  Pavel smiled, but Ruzsky could not respond. He had a sudden, vivid image of Maria and his brother naked in front of her fire, the soft light dancing over their bodies.

  He stared out of the window again.

  “Now what are you thinking?” Pavel asked.

  “That I wish you would shut up.”

  “I’m here to torment you until you talk.”

  Ruzsky attempted a smile. “Nothing profound. About Russia. About home.”

  Pavel searched his face. “Did you ever think of escape?”

  Ruzsky thought of the ice cracking, of the water’s embrace. “And leave Michael in the hands of the Grand Duke?”

  Pavel nodded ruefully. “I could never live anywhere else.”

  “Neither could I.”

  Pavel straightened. “Perhaps you could take him with you. I’m not saying you wouldn’t miss home-you do miss it-but whatever it was that happened in your… well, you know. You could go.”

  “You sound like my nanny.”

  Pavel took that as a compliment, though it wasn’t necessarily meant as one. “We’ve known each other a long time.”

  Ruzsky didn’t answer.

  “It’s been a privilege to be your friend.”

  Ruzsky frowned. “Am I missing something?”

  “I like things to be said. I don’t like them to be hidden, you know that.”

  Ruzsky turned to the window again.

  “Do you enjoy your job, Sandro?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Exactly what I said.”

  “This is a strange series of questions.”

  “You’re an idealist; you didn’t have to work-”

  “Neither true, alas.”

  “You could have made up with your family, if you’d wanted to.”

  Ruzsky didn’t answer.

  “I started out as a constable-I had very little choice-but I enjoy what I do. I was just thinking about it…”

  Ruzsky leaned forward to interrupt. “I don’t know where this is leading us, Pavel.”

  “I’ve always assumed that I understood what made you do this job, but I’ve never asked.”

  “Yes. I suppose the answer is yes. I enjoy what I do, but you’re wrong about a lot of things. I don’t think of myself as an idealist.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because what you see as idealism, my old friend, I know to be obstinacy. It’s not the same thing at all.”

  Pavel pressed his forehead against the cold glass of the window. “What will become of us?”

  “We’ll be all right.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t. Not anymore.”

  “What are you worried about?” Ruzsky asked.

  “About Tonya. About my boy.”

  “They’ll be all right. If anyone, it is you who should worry.”

  “Exactly. And where would they be if something happened to me?”

  “I’d look after them.”

  “Would you?” Pavel’s eyes glistened.

  “Of course. I’d steal one of my father’s paintings.”

  Pavel looked uncertain for a moment, then grinned sheepishly. “Very funny, Sandro,” he said.

  At the Alexander Palace, they were shown through to the same anteroom and told to wait. Ruzsky walked to the window and looked out at the frozen lake, but there was no sign of the imperial children. A skein of mist curled around the trees in the distance and stretched out across the ice.

  “This is a bad idea,” Pavel said again.

  Ruzsky did not respond.

  “Just because we didn’t see them watching us on the way here doesn’t mean to say that they weren’t.”

  Ruzsky turned. “Shulgin doesn’t like the Okhrana, or at least the Petrograd Okhrana, and I think the feeling is mutual. We’ll see what happens.”

  “It’s crazy to come here.”

  Ruzsky shook his head. They’d had this argument three times already.

  They heard footsteps and turned to see the guard who had brought them. “Come with me,” he said, without grace or ceremony.

  Their coats were returned to them in the hallway. “Are we not to receive an audience?” Ruzsky asked with equal curtness.

  “Please come with me.” The guard turned on his heel and led them out, past the columns at the front of the palace and the two curved archways, to the far wing.

  The door swung open and they were admitted by a tall houseboy in a bright red and gold uniform. Two others stood behind him; a fourth took their coats.

  He took them up two steps and marched them down a long corridor.

  “What’s going on?” Pavel whispered.

  “These are the family quarters,” Ruzsky said.

  Their footsteps echoed. Martial paintings lined the walls. Ruzsky’s eye was caught by a giant portrait of Nicholas I on a white charger. A shrill peel of laughter rang out from somewhere on their left.

  They were led past two large golden urns and into a formal room decorated, too, in red and gold. They stood for a moment at its entrance, flanked on either side by a phalanx of white marble busts, beneath a vast tapestry of Marie Antoinette and her children.

  The houseboy invited them to sit on an upholstered, gilt-edged sofa, between two inlaid grand pianos, then withdrew. They listened to his footsteps receding.

  “What’s going on?” Pavel whispered again.

  Ruzsky was staring up at Marie Antoinette. He turned to Pavel and put his finger to his lips. He mouthed: “Empress,” and pointed to the open door on the far side of the room.

  They heard more footsteps in the corridor.

  Shulgin entered, scowling. “You did not telephone.”

  “Please accept my apologies, Your High Excellency,” Ruzsky said quietly, knowing that the colonel’s performance was not entirely for their benefit.

  “That does not-”

  Shulgin stopped as both Ruzsky and Pavel became aware of a figure standing in the shadows beyond the doorway.

  “What do they want, Shulgin?” the Tsarina asked.

  “They are investigating the death of Ella Kovyil, Your Majesty.”

  “I asked, what do they want?”

  “They wish to speak to some of the household staff who worked alongside her. I have told them already, on a previous occasion, that this is a matter that requires discussion with other senior members of staff…”

  The Tsarina stepped forward into the doorway. She wore a black dress, with an oval mother-of-pearl brooch pinned to the neck.

  “I saw you before,” she said to Ruzsky. “Two days ago.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Ruzsky stood and made a small bow, then gave a sidelong glance at Pavel, who was sitting with his mouth open. He snapped upright and did the same.

  “What do you want now?” she asked.

  “They fear a conspiracy,” Shulgin said, his tone dismissive. “Some political skulduggery.”

  “Is this true?” the Tsarina demanded. She looked at them for the first time, concentrating her attentions on Pavel, but her gaze was neutral, neither censorious nor inquisitive.

  “It is one possibility,” Ruzsky said.

  “Then it should be a matter
for the Okhrana.”

  “If it pleases Your Highness.”

  “Is it a matter for the Okhrana?” She made no attempt to conceal her impatience.

  “Yes.”

  “Then why are they not here instead of you?”

  “I don’t know, Your Majesty. Perhaps they will be.”

  The Tsarina hesitated. “You give swift answers, Detective, and yet I do not believe them.”

  Ruzsky did not respond.

  “Why have you not found Ella’s killer?”

  Ruzsky looked at Shulgin, whose expression now appeared to carry more than a hint of apology for his mistress’s haughty manner. “We are working tirelessly, Your Highness,” Ruzsky said evenly. “But our resources are few. As I’m sure you are aware, the city has known better times.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Ruzsky immediately recognized his mistake. “The war, Your Majesty; a strain upon us all, but especially on your good self.”

  “The Tsar is returning to the front,” she said. Perhaps realizing this had little relevance, she added: “We will prevail.” It was said with finality, but she did not move.

  Shulgin coughed nervously. They all examined the highly polished floor.

  “Why do you think Ella was murdered by a revolutionary?” the Tsarina asked.

  “It is only a theory,” Ruzsky said, not wishing to contradict her.

  “Tell me about it.”

  Ruzsky glanced at Shulgin again, but was given no lead. The colonel was still staring discreetly at his boots.

  “Your Majesty, Ella’s lover, the American, was a notorious agitator.”

  “An American?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was he doing in Petrograd?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “You have spoken to the Okhrana. To Vasilyev, to that other tiresome, arrogant man…” She snorted in distaste.

  “Ivan Alexandrovich, ma’am,” Shulgin said.

  “Prokopiev. Yes. Have you spoken to them?”

  “We have.” Ruzsky answered.

  “What do they have to say on the matter?”

  “I believe they were informed some weeks ago that the American would be returning to the capital.”