The White Russian

by Tom Bradby

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ruzsky strode forward and pulled back the door. He charged down the steps, his sudden and violent appearance bringing a hush to the crowd.

  He stopped and surveyed them. “You have ten seconds to leave the street, by official order, and I will shoot anyone who remains a moment longer.”

  Ruzsky looked from face to face. He saw the hunger for violence there, the desire to be bold enough to storm through to the world of wealth and privilege that lay behind him. For a few seconds, he feared that his ultimatum would not be enough, and that he would have to carry out his threat. Then one turned away, and the others slowly followed.

  He saw a curtain twitching in the house opposite, but none of the neighbors-friends and colleagues of his father’s for many years-had come to offer any help.

  48

  T he following morning, Ruzsky watched Ingrid and Michael go. He had helped conceal a few spare clothes inside Ingrid’s coat, and now, from the window of his father’s bedroom, he kept his eye upon their receding figures until they disappeared at the end of the street.

  He saw with satisfaction that the man in the sled did not follow. He barely gave them a second glance.

  At the city police headquarters, Ruzsky found his colleagues gathered at the window. Beside Pavel, Maretsky looked like a dwarf. As they turned to see who had entered, the professor mumbled his condolences, then stared at the floor in embarrassment.

  Ruzsky joined them at their vantage point. The man who had tailed him from Millionnaya Street had parked alongside another droshky on the far side of Ofitserskaya Ulitsa. Ruzsky could tell from Pavel’s expression that the second driver was also Okhrana.

  He heard chanting and craned his neck to identify its source. About a hundred or more protestors were walking in their direction, carrying a tawdry red banner bearing the slogan “Fair pay for a fair day’s work.”

  Ruzsky watched the faces of the Okhrana men as the protest passed. “You were followed here too?” he asked Pavel.

  “Yes.”

  “How long have you had a tail?”

  “Since first thing this morning.”

  Ruzsky glanced at Maretsky, then tugged at Pavel’s arm and moved him over to the other side of the office. “Did you manage to-”

  “I could not find her. I searched half the night.”

  Ruzsky felt his chest tighten. “Where did you look?”

  “She was not at her apartment. The neighbors had not seen her.”

  “Perhaps she came back later?”

  “I checked for the last time at past one in the morning.”

  “Did you-”

  “She wasn’t at the Mariinskiy. They had been expecting her for a rehearsal in the afternoon, but she never showed up. When I impressed upon them the urgency of my inquiry, they gave me the name of a Guards officer… your brother.” Pavel’s tone was neutral; he offered no judgment on his partner’s personal affairs. “I went over to the barracks. The officer on duty said that Major Ruzsky had been expected at dinner in the mess, but had not been present. Then I went to the Symnov factory, but could find no sign of anyone. When I got back to her apartment at one, your brother answered the door.”

  “You spoke to him?”

  “He was in uniform-as if he had been intending to go to the dinner. He looked tired and worried, so I introduced myself and said I wished to speak to her in connection with a case. He replied that he did not know where she was.”

  “And you believed him? It was not possible she was inside the apartment?”

  “Sandro, I could see the concern in his face. He said he had been due to meet her at seven that evening, but she had not appeared.”

  Ruzsky retreated to his desk. He sat and rubbed his temples. What was she doing?

  “Have you ever heard of the Kresty Crossing?” he asked.

  “No. Why?”

  “Maretsky?”

  The professor turned around, startled. “What?”

  “Have you ever heard of somewhere called the Kresty Crossing?”

  “Er… no.” He shook his head. “What is it?”

  “It’s a place. At least, I assume it is.”

  “Should I be aware of it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why?” Pavel asked again.

  “You remember the numbers on the money we found on the American? Well, the message spells: ‘The Kresty Crossing.’ ”

  The pair of them examined him in silence. “How do you know that?” Pavel asked.

  “I found the code book.”

  Pavel was about to open his mouth to ask where, when he saw the answer in his friend’s eyes. Ruzsky offered no further clarification. He stood and moved over to the map of the city on the wall above Pavel’s desk.

  “Are you sure it’s a place?” Pavel asked.

  “It sounds to me like a railway junction.”

  All three were silent as they studied the map. Ruzsky traced the line of each route out of the capital, but no crossings were marked.

  “What makes you think it’s a railway junction?” Maretsky asked.

  “Because the last thing we know the group in Yalta did was rob a train.”

  Pavel leaned back against the edge of his desk. “Aren’t we clutching at straws?” he said gently.

  “Why?” Ruzsky struggled to persuade himself that somewhere here lay the key to Maria’s disappearance.

  “Well… I mean, Ella stole something from the Empress. That’s why she was killed…”

  “We’ve assumed that’s why she was killed.”

  Pavel frowned. “You don’t think the two events are connected?”

  “Perhaps not in the way we thought.”

  Pavel shifted onto the top of his desk and swung his legs to and fro, deep in thought. “But, as you said before, Ella was a shy, quiet girl. Someone put her up to that theft. Why would they want her to steal from the Empress if their intention was to rob a train? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “We know that Borodin assembled his people here for a specific purpose. We know that robbery is something at which they are experienced.”

  “That doesn’t explain any of the deaths.”

  Ruzsky stared at the telephone in front of him. He picked up the receiver and asked the operator to connect him to Petrograd 592.

  As the call was put through, he imagined the bell ringing in Maria’s empty hallway.

  He waited. There was no answer.

  He replaced the receiver. Pavel was watching him. Ruzsky knew he was testing the limits of his loyalty.

  He sifted mechanically through the paperwork that had accumulated on his desk. There was a note from Sarlov, but as he picked it up, he saw Maretsky slipping out of the door. “Have you heard from Professor Egorov?” he asked.

  The professor stopped.

  “You said he was going to telephone you. You showed him the inscription on the knife.”

  “Of course. I’ll call him.”

  Maretsky pulled the door shut behind him.

  Ruzsky sat down. Pavel had returned to the window and was looking at their watchers on the street with the fascinated air of a small child following a military parade.

  Ruzsky glanced over Sarlov’s note, then picked up the telephone again. “Sarlov? It’s Ruzsky.”

  “Sandro, yes. I’m… well, we’re all sorry. I’m sure-well, I hope you know that.”

  “Thank you, yes.” Ruzsky cleared his throat. “You wanted to speak to me…”

  “Yes…” Sarlov seemed hesitant.

  “Your note referred to the body at the Lion Bridge.”

  “Yes.” Sarlov blew his nose heavily. “Of course. Do you recall the brand on the American’s shoulder?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, the body at the Lion Bridge had something similar.”

  “On his shoulder also? In the same place?”

  “I can’t say for certain. I didn’t see it. The Okhrana performed the autopsy, if you recall.”

  “You di
scussed it with a colleague?”

  “It came to my attention, yes… The marks sounded alike. I thought you’d like to know.”

  “So, both men had the mark, but not the girl.” Ruzsky was referring to Ella, but thinking of Maria. He had seen nothing like it on her shoulder either.

  The pathologist did not respond.

  “If there is anything else that springs to mind, would you telephone me, Sarlov?”

  “Of course.”

  Ruzsky terminated the call. He looked at the clock on the wall beside him. He tried to work out what reason there could be for the men in the group to have the mark, and the women not.

  He picked up the receiver once more. “Would you put me through to the Ministry of the Railways,” he told the operator.

  Pavel glanced over his shoulder, before facing the street again. The shouts outside were growing louder.

  Ruzsky asked to be connected to the assistant secretary to the minister. A man in this office listened patiently to his explanation, but said that he had no idea where the Kresty Crossing was or what it might be. He suggested that Ruzsky call the Bureau for Railway Building and Maintenance on Petrograd 447.

  The number 447 turned out to be for the administration department at the headquarters of the North Russia Maritime and Customs Police. Ruzsky called the operator and was eventually put through to the correct department at the bureau, but the wrong individual. The man said the office he required was on the floor below, but that he could not recall the number.

  More than ten minutes later, Ruzsky finally spoke to someone in the maintenance department of the Bureau for Railway Building and Maintenance. Despite it having been impressed upon him that this was a criminal investigation, the man said he was too busy to check the detailed maps that were kept on the top floor. He conceded, when Ruzsky would not let the matter drop, that he believed it was a road crossing on the line out to Tsarskoe Selo, but he could not be certain. Everyone in the department was stretched to breaking point, he said, ensuring the lines were in working order for the war effort, and he did not have time to pursue the matter further.

  When Ruzsky tried to ask again, the call was terminated.

  He stared at the telephone after replacing the receiver.

  A moment later they heard rapid footsteps on the stairs and along the corridor. A constable appeared in the doorway, a sheepskin cap in his hands, his hair damp with sweat.

  They waited while he caught his breath.

  “Another body, sir,” he gasped. “A woman.”

  49

  R uzsky flew down the stairs, the constable alongside him. “A woman?” he demanded.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How old?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Young?”

  “I-”

  “Twenty? Thirty? Older?”

  “Something like that, sir, yes.”

  Ruzsky ran out into the street toward the droshky waiting opposite. They had lost Pavel, but he did not wait. “Where?” he demanded of the constable as the young man got in beside him.

  “Vyborg side,” the man shouted at the driver. “By the Finland Station.”

  The driver cracked his whip and the sled began to move. “Go via the quay,” Ruzsky instructed him.

  The man did not look around, nor did he query the instruction. Only likhachy drivers were usually allowed to take their charges along the Palace Embankment. Ruzsky glanced back over his shoulder and saw Pavel running out of the building. The big detective hailed another sled. He had two more constables with him.

  Ruzsky swung back to his companion. “She was dark?” he demanded. “Dark hair? Long, dark hair?”

  “Yes, sir. I believe so.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes… yes.” He did not seem at all certain. “She had a knife, through her…” He pointed at his eye.

  Ruzsky faced the front.

  It could not be her. But his heart threatened to break out of his chest and his forehead prickled with sweat.

  The sled hurtled past the Admiralty and the facade of the Winter Palace. They swung onto the Alexandrovsky Bridge.

  “Whereabouts?” Ruzsky heard himself shout. “Tell me where exactly.”

  “I’ll show you, sir,” the constable responded, equally agitated. “I’ll show you.”

  They were over the bridge now and hurtling down the broad, tree-lined avenue, toward the spire of the Finland Station.

  “Here,” the constable shouted at the driver, pointing toward a narrow side street between the tenements. “Here.”

  The man slowed the horses and then wheeled them into the alley and down toward a tall, dark building surrounded by armed men.

  Ruzsky leapt from the sled before it had ground to a halt.

  Ten or more Okhrana agents, armed with rifles, stood in a semicircle around the entrance. The queue outside the bakery opposite stared at the scene in awed silence.

  Ruzsky strode toward the officer in charge. “Chief Investigator Ruzsky,” he said, “city police.”

  The man’s broad, bearded face was unyielding. “We’ve instructions to let no one through.”

  “A murder has been reported by my constables,” Ruzsky said.

  The other sled drew up and Pavel strode over. He produced his identification papers. “Deputy Chief Investigator Miliutin,” he said. The man remained unmoved.

  The two groups faced each other. Ruzsky slipped his hand into his jacket, grasping the handle of his revolver. The silence was broken by the screech of an engine and then a loud clank as a train shunted inside the Finland Station.

  Ruzsky seized his moment.

  “You… stop,” the officer shouted, but Ruzsky had already broken into a run, darting through the entrance, past a mound of garbage.

  “Wait,” he heard Pavel shout. He half expected a shot.

  Ruzsky pounded up the stairs. The stench of urine and decay brought tears to his eyes. The walls glistened with water. He tried to focus only the steps ahead of him. He turned the last corner.

  There was a man ahead, bent over the body.

  Ruzsky saw one slim leg twisted at an impossible angle, a long leather boot.

  Prokopiev straightened and turned to face him. A knife protruded from the dead woman’s cheek.

  “Sandro, I-”

  It was not her.

  It was Olga.

  Christ, it was not her.

  Ruzsky leaned against the wall as he tried to recover his breath. Inside his overcoat, he was soaked in sweat, his throat dry and palms clammy. The Okhrana officer caught up with him and bellowed in his ear, but Ruzsky was oblivious.

  “All right, all right,” Prokopiev shouted. He waved the man away, and Pavel, who stood behind. “I’ll deal with him.”

  Prokopiev faced Ruzsky, his hands thrust into his pockets, waiting for the others to withdraw.

  Ruzsky tried to control his breathing. He wiped the sweat from his forehead.

  Prokopiev examined him as a gamekeeper might a cornered animal, but, as Ruzsky came to his senses, he realized that something had changed in the man.

  Ivan Prokopiev appeared tired, and in those dark, intense eyes, there was a hint, if not of humanity, then at least of irony, or weary disillusion. “Are you all right, Chief Investigator?” he asked. “You do not look well.”

  When the others had retreated out of earshot, Prokopiev took out a silver cigarette case and offered it to Ruzsky. “Did you think it was someone else?” Prokopiev asked as his match flared.

  They smoked in silence. Prokopiev glanced at his boots. They had been newly polished. “I heard about your father,” he said. “I’m sorry for that.”

  Ruzsky did not respond. He took a pace toward the body, but Prokopiev raised his hand. “Don’t go any closer,” he said, smoke bleeding through his mouth and nostrils.

  Ruzsky examined the dead woman. The hilt of the knife bore a striking resemblance to the one they had discovered on the Neva.

  “You know who
she is?” Ruzsky asked.

  Prokopiev shrugged.

  “Might I take a look?”

  Ruzsky inched forward and this time Prokopiev made no move to stop him.

  Olga had fallen awkwardly, her body twisted. Her assailant had been waiting in the shadows of the doorway and her face, never beautiful, was savagely distorted.

  Ruzsky squatted, an arm resting upon his knee. He reached forward to touch the skin of what remained of her cheek. She had been dead some time.

  He examined the knife. It was an ancient, simple weapon with an iron handle, but no inscription that Ruzsky could see.

  There were three stab wounds: one in the left cheek, another in the mouth, and a third directly through the center of the eye. He didn’t need Sarlov to tell him that the killer had been tall. The wounds were deep. A pool of congealed blood had frozen on the stone floor around her head. Her remaining eye was fixed upon him. It appeared to be as filled with hatred for Ruzsky and his kind as it had been when she was alive.

  Prokopiev leaned on the iron balcony. “So, who did you think it was, Chief Investigator?”

  “There are no witnesses?” Ruzsky asked, ignoring Prokopiev’s knowing look. He had seen no onlookers or curious glances through half-open doors. Such was the fear of the Okhrana.

  Prokopiev did not respond.

  Ruzsky reached a hand toward the pocket of Olga’s overcoat.

  “There’s nothing in there.”

  Olga’s clothes were ill-fitting and loose, so he started to ease her overcoat away from her right shoulder.

  “What are you doing?”

  Ruzsky did not respond.

  “Step back, Sandro. Please.”

  But Ruzsky had already pulled back Olga’s overcoat and was now shifting the thick shirt beneath far enough to allow him a glimpse of her shoulder.

  She had the mark, a dark star branded upon white skin.

  “Move back,” Prokopiev said.

  “You see this? This brand? The American had one; so did the man we found at the Lion Bridge.”

  Prokopiev bent down to take a closer look. Ruzsky could see that he knew exactly what it meant.