The White Russian

by Tom Bradby

  Ruzsky looked at Prokopiev, then Pavel. “Yes,” he said, “it did.”

  “Perhaps you would like to give us a few more details?”

  Ruzsky hesitated. Prokopiev, he calculated, would have spoken to Godorkin in Yalta. They must know exactly what he’d discovered. “The victims were all members of a cell of the Black Terror.”

  Vasilyev glanced at Shulgin, then his father, and Ruzsky sensed that this was all for their benefit. “You once kept them under surveillance,” he added.

  No one responded. Ruzsky realized that Shulgin and his father were already aware of this fact. “The American,” Shulgin said, turning toward Vasilyev. “From…”

  “ Chicago,” Vasilyev responded.

  “Yes. How did he first meet the girl Ella? How did he come to be in Yalta?”

  “White’s mother bore the maiden name Kovyil.”

  Ruzsky frowned. Was it the case that even Mrs. Kovyil had been lying to him? Hadn’t she given the impression that the American had been a stranger?

  “So, White’s mother was originally from Yalta?” Shulgin asked.

  Vasilyev nodded.

  “How did she end up in Chicago?”

  “She met a sailor.”

  “White and the girl Ella were not lovers then?”

  “They were cousins. That doesn’t stop them being lovers.”

  Shulgin considered this. He looked at the papers in front of him.

  “We were told by the Americans,” Vasilyev went on, “that there are some influential people back at home who would have liked to talk to White, had they been given the opportunity. Executives of a large steel company for one.”

  “What did he do to them?”

  “He kidnapped one of the men’s sons,” Prokopiev interjected, “a boy of six, then cut him into small pieces and delivered him to their door in a canvas sack.”

  Prokopiev turned toward Ruzsky. Was that intended as a threat?

  They were silent again. Ruzsky’s father stared at the table.

  “This Friday,” Shulgin said. “In three days. That is…”

  Vasilyev nodded gravely. “That is what our intelligence would suggest.”

  Ruzsky wanted to ask a question, but held his tongue.

  “We expect it to begin on Friday?”

  “Friday or Saturday, yes.”

  “What to begin?” Ruzsky asked.

  Shulgin turned to face him. “It is of no import to the investigation.”

  “But how can we-”

  “It is not.” Shulgin’s tone was emphatic. “There is intelligence to suggest that antisocial elements will try to stir up trouble at the end of this week. It is not your concern.” Shulgin turned back to face Vasilyev, indicating he would brook no further discussion. Ruzsky wondered why he had chosen to bring the subject up. Was Shulgin deliberately trying to make him aware of something? “And this man…” Shulgin went on.

  “Borodin,” Vasilyev responded.

  “Yes, still no sign?”

  “No.”

  Shulgin sighed. “The murders.” He turned toward Ruzsky. “Were all three committed by the same man?” His tone had grown impatient.

  Ruzsky deflected the question to Sarlov. The pathologist sniffed and pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose. “Yes,” he said, “I would say so.”

  “Could you expand, Sarlov?” Anton asked. Ruzsky formed the impression, as he glanced at him, that his superior had been aware of the exact direction this conversation would take.

  “I cannot say for certain.” Sarlov took off his glasses and began to use them to make his points. “I did not see the body from the Lion Bridge, but from a conversation with my colleague, I should say it is likely that all three victims were stabbed by a man of a similar height. More than six feet tall. The particular nature of the wounds”-Sarlov indicated with his glasses-“is the same in each case.”

  “The murderer was a man?”

  “Without doubt.”

  Ruzsky’s father leaned forward. “If the dead are revolutionaries, as you say, then the question as to who is killing them is immaterial, isn’t it? Their deaths can hardly be considered a matter of the gravest concern.”

  “We do not wish to give the impression that the state is indifferent to murder,” Vasilyev said, with heavy irony. It was a reference to Rasputin’s aristocratic killers and the Tsar’s lenient treatment of them. Shulgin did not react.

  “The savagery of these murders makes them a cause for public concern,” he responded evenly.

  They all looked at Ruzsky.

  “What do you think lies behind these murders, Alexander Nikolaevich?” Vasilyev asked.

  The chief of the Okhrana stared at him, his head bent forward. Ruzsky remained still, refusing to look away. Were the murders the work of this man? Had he been settling old scores?

  “Thank you for your time, gentlemen,” Vasilyev said. “Naturally, we will need to continue to work together.”

  It was a moment before Ruzsky realized that they were expected to leave. As they did so, Shulgin and his father remained seated.

  Outside, Ruzsky began walking swiftly away, but Pavel caught up with him.

  “Sandro,” he said, out of breath. “I know what you’re going to do.”

  Ruzsky did not answer.

  “If these murders are about what happened in Yalta, then you think she will be next.”

  Ruzsky stopped.

  “In any case, what was that all about?” Pavel’s face was earnest and well meaning and Ruzsky’s affection for him swelled again. He took out his cigarettes and offered his friend one.

  They smoked them together, side by side, moving their feet against the cold and watching the group of their colleagues fifty yards away.

  Anton, Maretsky, and Sarlov were waiting for their sled outside the gloomy entrance to the Okhrana’s headquarters. They, too, were huddled together and Ruzsky got the impression they were ignoring the pair of them.

  “Why have they changed their tune?” Pavel asked. “The Okhrana, I mean.”

  “They haven’t.”

  “Then why do they want us to cooperate?”

  “They don’t.”

  “So what was that all about?”

  Ruzsky watched Anton, Maretsky, and Sarlov getting into the sled. They did not look around. “I’m not certain.”

  “Do you think Shulgin has forced them to cooperate?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that’s not how Vasilyev works. He’s the spider. He spins the webs.”

  Pavel seemed disheartened again by this. Perhaps he had genuinely believed the investigation might be entering less stormy waters.

  “I think we were there for Shulgin’s benefit, all right,” Ruzsky said, “so I would guess the Empress told him to call the meeting.”

  “Why was your father present?” Pavel asked.

  “I’m not certain. It may be that Vasilyev asked him to attend.” Ruzsky stared after the departing sled. “Perhaps it was an attempt to intimidate me. If you recall, my father did nothing to try and prevent me being exiled to Siberia. Vasilyev knows we don’t get on.” Ruzsky glanced over his shoulder. “No one watching us. If Prokopiev and his thugs didn’t manage to eliminate us in Yalta, will they try again?”

  Pavel did not answer. He was staring at his feet.

  “Should we be frightened, Pavel?”

  “I don’t know, Sandro.”

  Ruzsky took a long drag on his cigarette and then exhaled violently. “Christ,” he said.

  39

  F okine was onstage at the Mariinskiy, his voice echoing around the empty auditorium. Ruzsky and Pavel stood beneath the golden splendor of the royal box, the double-headed eagle of Imperial Russia looking down upon them.

  Fokine pointedly ignored them for a few minutes. Ruzsky kept his temper.

  “Yes,” Fokine said, at length.

  “I need a word.”

  “I’m busy.”

  “So am I.”r />
  “You’re the detective?” Fokine asked, knowing perfectly well who he was. The other dancers were looking at him with ill-disguised contempt.

  Ruzsky breathed in silently.

  “Can’t it wait?” Fokine asked, a hand upon his waist.

  “No.”

  “I know what it is about.”

  “Then it will not take much of your time.”

  Fokine turned around. “I’ll be down in a minute-”

  “Get down here. Now,” Ruzsky snapped, and the tone of his voice made Fokine swing around sharply.

  The choreographer hesitated for a moment, in shock, before moving across the stage swiftly. One of the younger dancers sniggered.

  Ruzsky took hold of Fokine’s arm and moved him through a door beside the orchestra pit. Pavel, who had been standing behind him, followed quietly. The corridor was dark, the man’s ghostly face dimly lit by the lights from the stage. He had a big nose and red lips, which he pursed together when frightened. “Where is she?” Ruzsky asked.

  “Where is who?”

  Ruzsky stared into his eyes. “Do you want a spell in the Lithuanian Castle?”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  Ruzsky gripped his arm tighter. “Do you have any idea what they would do to a man like you?”

  “Let go of me.”

  Ruzsky dug his thumb and forefinger into Fokine’s arm until he squeaked. Pavel took a step closer, as if preparing to intercede.

  The choreographer wriggled, so Ruzsky released him, took out his heavy revolver, cocked it, and placed it against the bridge of Fokine ’s nose. “I’m afraid I don’t have time to be polite.”

  “I have no idea where she is.”

  “I think differently.”

  “Why should I-”

  “I think you know.”

  Ruzsky pressed harder.

  “All right.” Fokine raised his hand and pushed the gun away. He was shaking, a thin sheen of sweat clinging to his forehead. “You’ll find her at the Symnov factory today.”

  “The Symnov factory?”

  “Yes.” Fokine wiped the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his velvet jacket. “There is a strike. That is where you will find her.”

  The Symnov factory loomed like a giant in the half-darkness, its tall brick chimneys towering above them.

  Ruzsky was jammed inside a tram, the air warm with the heat of bodies, despite the cold outside, steam gathering in the windows. Pavel was two feet away and they eyed each other warily.

  The trolley bell rang and they joined the crowd getting off opposite the factory.

  It was not yet five, but it was already dark, the moon bright as the crowd flowed toward the gates and the mass of people gathered beyond them. There appeared to be an equal number of men and women-solemn, unyielding faces staring at them as they pushed through.

  Ruzsky and Pavel were shoulder to shoulder. “Why don’t you go home?” Ruzsky hissed into his ear, but the big detective ignored him.

  A group of strike organizers stood at the gates, controlling the flow of people, and Ruzsky forged his way toward one. He was a tall man with short hair and round glasses-a student, Ruzsky thought, rather than a worker.

  “Identification,” the man demanded.

  Ruzsky shook his head. He was a couple of feet ahead of Pavel now.

  “You’ve no papers?”

  “I left them behind.”

  The man assessed him. “Then you’d better make sure the Okhrana don’t get their hands on you.”

  He was allowed through into the factory yard, where perhaps as many as a thousand people had gathered.

  Ruzsky became acutely conscious of the police photographs and revolver digging into his ribs. He cursed himself for not disposing of them.

  Ruzsky surveyed the crowd, trying to get his bearings.

  He looked back and saw Pavel showing some papers to the man at the gate. Perhaps he had got himself issued a set that did not list his occupation.

  One group of men had gathered around a brazier. Ahead, light flickered on the stone steps leading to the factory entrance.

  Pavel joined him and Ruzsky found his concern eased by his friend’s grim determination. They slipped through the crowd, trying to scrutinize faces in the distance, while avoiding those close by. Wherever they went, they appeared to attract hostile and suspicious glances.

  After ten minutes or more, Ruzsky stopped in one corner of the yard. He took out and lit a cigarette, then offered one to Pavel. They smoked in silence, listening to the expectant murmur of conversation.

  Ruzsky saw her emerge onto the steps. She looked around, then disappeared again. Ruzsky threw his cigarette to the ground and began to walk toward her. He looked back to check that Pavel had not followed him and saw the warning in his friend’s eyes.

  The light on the steps came from flaming torches bolted to the walls. Ruzsky followed her into the half-darkness of the central hall.

  A man stepped forward. His demeanor was much more aggressive than that of the guard at the gate. “Yes?”

  Ruzsky pointed at the stairwell ahead of him. “I was with the woman who just came through.”

  “Who?”

  “The woman who just passed.”

  “What is her name?”

  Ruzsky frowned. “Maria. Maria Popova.”

  The guard relaxed a little. He came forward and Ruzsky saw that he had a revolver in his right hand. “Papers.”

  “I don’t have any. I just told the man at the gate.”

  “You have no papers?”

  “No.”

  The man was confused.

  “You’re with Popova?” he asked again.

  “Yes.”

  The guard nodded for him to continue and slipped back into the shadows.

  Ruzsky walked up the staircase to the landing on the first floor. A small group stood in an alcove, gathered around a man who leaned against the wall with his hands in his pockets. He was tall, good-looking, and well groomed, his dark hair short and his features neat, lean, and angular. Torchlight bathed his face as he listened to the woman beside him. Ruzsky was certain that this was the last member of the group in Yalta, Michael Borodin.

  The man’s eyes flicked to the right. He stared at Ruzsky.

  Maria swung slowly around. Her expression did not alter. She was a stranger to him.

  “Yes?” Borodin asked.

  Ruzsky took a step forward. Their eyes bored into him. He thought of the guard at the bottom of the stairs and the thousand hostile faces in the courtyard below.

  “I…”

  Maria stared at him, her look now every bit as hostile as the others’.

  Ruzsky could feel the muscles in his face starting to twitch and a low pain gather in the pit of his stomach.

  “Who are you?”

  Borodin did not move, but he did not need to.

  Maria offered no hope or acknowledgment. Ruzsky did not move. He could not think.

  “Who are you?” Borodin asked again, with greater force.

  “I am Alexander…” Ruzsky’s voice was weak. He could think of no believable explanation for his presence, nor any means of escape. He had told the guard he knew Maria Popova, but if he made the same mistake here, she would denounce him.

  He took an involuntary step backward. The stares grew still more hostile. They could sense his confusion and taste his fear.

  The hallway was silent but for the hissing of the torches.

  Ruzsky watched, helpless, as Michael Borodin reached inside his coat.

  “Alexander is a friend,” Maria interceded.

  Borodin lowered his hand slowly.

  Her eyes never leaving his, Maria approached Ruzsky, took his arm, and led him gently forward to the edge of the group.

  Borodin stared at Ruzsky. He had a fierce, unblinking gaze. “Who is he?”

  “He’s in the Ministry of War. Sandro. Sandro Khabarin.”

  “What is he doing here?”

  “I invited him.”
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  “Why did you invite him?”

  “He wished to become one of us.”

  “Why does he wish to become one of us?”

  Maria looked at Ruzsky. Her eyes carried the most potent warning. Now they were bound together in danger and his heart swelled in gratitude. “We cannot wait any longer,” Ruzsky said. “Everyone must play their part.”

  “We cannot wait any longer?” Borodin’s eyes flicked to the hallway and then back again. “Why can we wait no longer?”

  “Things cannot go on as they are. Even the Tsar’s servants know it.”

  “And you are a servant of the Tsar?”

  “We all are.”

  Borodin tilted his head fractionally, his scrutiny unbroken. He took his right hand from his pocket and slowly scratched his cheek. Ruzsky could see the bulge in his overcoat and was certain that he was armed. “What does the servant of the Tsar wish to do about it?”

  “It is too late for anything but revolution.”

  Borodin smiled. “But that has always been so.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I question whether an official of the Tsar, with soft hands and a softer mind, is prepared to sacrifice himself for our cause. Why not join the liberals, with their many lunatic schemes?”

  Ruzsky did not answer.

  “Do you question that, Maria?”

  “No.”

  “No?” Borodin turned to face him again. “She is confident. We trust Maria, perhaps above all people. But should we trust you?” Borodin looked into his eyes. “Should we trust the man with soft hands? What would you do for the revolution, Khabarin?” He smiled. “Would you kill a man?”

  “Of course.”

  “Would you kill a friend at your Ministry of War, another enemy of the state?”

  “Yes.”

  Borodin turned to the others. “A man who will kill his own comrades?”

  Ruzsky stared at him.

  “But you wish to impress us. And not too much. I like that.” Borodin’s eyes searched Ruzsky’s own. “Very well. A friend of the ballerina is a friend to us all.”

  Borodin turned back to the group. The man next to him was thin and, like the student at the gate, wore tiny round glasses. His teeth were poor and his hair dirty. The woman on the other side of him could have been his older sister; she, too, looked like she had seen neither soap nor water. Her lank hair hung down to her waist, a cloth cap in her hand. Once, she might have been almost pretty, but her face was lined and careworn, her teeth rotten. The pair were resentful, Ruzsky could see, not of him but of Maria and the way their leader instinctively responded to her.