The White Russian

by Tom Bradby

  She had been waiting for him. She had known he would be searching for her.

  She took him into her arms and he breathed in the scent of her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Sandro, I’m so sorry.”

  Ruzsky closed his eyes, transported for a moment to the place he most wished to be.

  “I wanted to come to you,” she whispered.

  Maria let him go, but only so that she could look into his eyes, her long fingers resting coolly upon his jaw. Her expression was intense; she wanted to offer reassurance and support in the dark hours she knew all too well. “I met your father once,” she said, “before you came back, after a performance. Despite everything, he was charming and kind. He reminded me of you.” She came closer, her face almost touching his. “I’m sorry, Sandro, if I’d known… I would have told you. You understand that, don’t you?” The look in her eyes was that of a little girl desperate to be believed.

  “He was as good as murdered.”

  Maria did not answer. Ruzsky slid down the wall, and she slid with him.

  “Your group was gathered here by Vasilyev,” Ruzsky said. “For a robbery. He plans to steal some of the Tsar’s gold. Vasilyev duped my father.”

  Maria looked down at her hands.

  In the riot of emotions that crossed her face, Ruzsky found the final pieces of his jigsaw. “It’s going to be moved,” he said suddenly. “Vasilyev would have needed someone to sign the papers, so he must have convinced my father and Shulgin that the gold needed to be moved out of the city to Tsarskoe Selo.”

  Ruzsky took hold of Maria’s chin and forced her to meet his eye. “Talk to me,” he said. “Please.”

  But Maria looked down, her long, dark hair shadowing her tortured face.

  Ruzsky reached into his pocket, took out the piece of paper, and handed it to her.

  He watched her expression as she read it.

  “Have you come to arrest me?”

  “I’ve come because I fear I’m going lose you.”

  Maria leaned back against the wall with an almost inaudible sigh. She raised her knees and placed her head against them. The desire to reach out and touch her was almost more than he could resist.

  “Less than a second,” she said, “to destroy so much. How can it be possible?”

  Maria lifted her head and tipped it back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling.

  Ruzsky waited.

  “Sometimes, even now,” she said, “when I am asleep, I can see the clear sky and the sea. I can hear the sound of the cicadas and feel the sun on my face. I was smiling. I was my father’s assistant’s favorite, and he was making me laugh. Father and mother, my sister and brother, were all in the carriage in front of us. I could hear Papa’s laughter. He had a big, loud, booming laugh.”

  Maria put her hands against her cheeks. Ruzsky could not tell if she was crying.

  There was a long silence.

  “We had been to Livadia. It was the summer, and they had had a function in the gardens for local officials and their families. My sister and brother and I had hidden beneath the tables and gorged ourselves on cake. We had played with the older girls, the Tsar’s daughters, and everything was just perfect. All the adults drank champagne and talked in small groups.

  “On the way home, Father laughed and Mother started to sing and he joined in. I think they were drunk.”

  She smiled, her face the image of her sister’s.

  “We were rounding the corner. It was very hot. I could see my mother’s parasol. Kitty was looking around and waving at me and so was Peter, my brother.

  “A man stepped out. He wore a black suit and a fedora-a dark shadow on a bright day. I saw the bomb leave his hand and then there was complete silence. I knew something terrible was about to happen. We had heard of assassinations, of course, but never here, never in Yalta.

  “The taste of my father’s flesh and the sight of it on the front of my white dress; the smell; these things have stayed with me every moment of my life.

  “Nobody screamed. It was still such a perfect day. Our driver stopped and his assistant, Kemtsov, stood up. He had blood on his face, too, and pieces of flesh clung to his dark suit and hat. I saw the shock on his face. He climbed down from the carriage. He walked slowly and I think he called out. But there was no answer.

  “The man in the fedora was no longer there. The cicadas screeched. The sun shone. It seemed to take an age for Kemtsov to reach my parents’ carriage.

  “I did not want to call to him.

  “I stood up and squinted at the sun. I stepped down onto the dusty road and stumbled; I could not feel my legs. When my balance returned, I walked slowly to where Kemtsov stood.”

  Maria’s face was as still as a statue.

  “Kitty was alive. My father’s great body had shielded her. She didn’t have a scratch on her, but I knew from the expression on her face that we had lost her. She held my brother’s hand. She, too, had been dressed in white.

  “There was a tiny breeze. I remember a strand of hair blowing across her face.

  “Kemtsov fainted, but we did not help him. I held Kitty’s hand and we stared into each other’s eyes. It was as if the world around us had ceased to exist.” Maria tipped her head to one side. “And it was strange, because, then, I could not hear anything.”

  Maria stared at the wall. Her face was wet with tears. Ruzsky enfolded her in his arms.

  She gripped him tightly.

  “It’s all right,” he whispered.

  Her fingers dug deep into his back. “No,” she whispered. “It’s not all right. It will never be all right.”

  Ruzsky held her until the convulsions ceased and her breathing slowed. He released her and she tried to compose herself, wiping the tears from her cheeks and removing the hair from her eyes.

  “Michael Borodin. Michael Borodin. Such an ordinary name,” she said, as if in a trance. “I was at the piano when my uncle first mentioned his name. It was in the big hall of his house. The window was open and the evening was cool. The police have no doubts, he said, but the man has fled. They would put out an All Russias bulletin, but I knew even then that it would be up to me to find him.”

  They were silent. Ruzsky could hear her breathing.

  “And you did?”

  “It has not been easy.”

  “You infiltrated the group.”

  Maria did not answer.

  “You infiltrated the group alone, or at Vasilyev’s urging?”

  “Alone.”

  “You have never been his agent?”

  “The suggestion is obscene.”

  “But you did not kill them.” It was a statement, shielding a question. He hoped merely that she would confirm it.

  She slowly shook her head. “For many years, I had lived for their deaths,” she said wearily. “But no, I could not kill them…”

  “Does Dmitri know about this?”

  “No!” She shook her head. “He knows nothing.”

  Ruzsky looked out at the glow of the gas lamps in the street. He thought of Ella’s pretty face on the ice, then of the knife in Olga’s eye, then of Maria risking her life to push him away from the Cossack’s thundering hooves. And he knew that whatever she had done, his love for her was as fundamental and unyielding as his love for his son. He was bound to her.

  “What shall we do?” he asked.

  Maria stared at the floor. His heart ached for her.

  “If I have found out the truth, then so will they. And when they do, they will kill you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Borodin still lives. Why have you not already-”

  “We have tried, but he is unpredictable and suspicious. There was a meeting last night, and he was supposed to arrive with Olga, but he never came.”

  “But you are certain he will be at the Kresty Crossing?”

  Ruzsky saw the flicker of recognition in her eyes.

  “I will help you,” he said.

  “No.”

  “I will do anything
you ask of me.”

  “You are your father’s son. You are the chief investigator, and you believe in the old certainties, the old Russia. You could never be an accomplice to murder.”

  Ruzsky felt a knot in his stomach. He was desperate to deflect her. “They must suspect you.”

  “How could they? I was no more than a girl at the time of my parents’ death. Soon after, I fled the unhappiness of my uncle’s house and took another name. For all that anyone knows the young Maria Bulyatina might as well have been blown apart in that carriage.”

  “Borodin will kill you. He must suspect-”

  “But he does not. You have seen how he is with me.”

  “And you will risk everything for this final act of revenge?”

  “What is it that I risk, Sandro? What is it that I have?”

  He smarted at her rebuke. “I would do-”

  “It is too, too late. It was too late a long time ago.”

  “So you came to Petrovo to say goodbye?”

  Maria did not answer.

  “If I had not been married. If I had not turned away…”

  “It was already too late for me, even then.”

  Ruzsky pulled her gently toward him until her head rested upon his shoulder, her legs entwined with his. He lifted her face and held it as the tears rolled down her cheeks. “What can I do?” he asked.

  Maria did not answer. He cradled her head upon his shoulder and rocked her as she cried. “It will be all right,” he whispered, but he knew that she did not believe him, and he wasn’t sure he believed himself.

  He was tortured by the image of Borodin covered in the young man’s blood on that night at the factory, and of Maria bending before him to clean it from his clothes.

  Could she really defeat this man?

  “This will consume you,” he whispered.

  “Sandro… This is my fate. It has chosen me, but it is also the one I have chosen.”

  “This man has dragged you into his world. He will extinguish all the light your family once created. Is this what your father would have wished for you?”

  “Do not speak of my father.”

  “To abandon your sister…”

  “Do not speak of them, Sandro.”

  “Don’t leave Kitty to her fate.”

  “Sandro, I beg you.”

  “No, Maria. I beg you.” But he knew he had lost her. Maria’s sacrifice was not wild and hasty, but gentle and considered. This was her fate. The passion they had shared at Petrovo was fueled by the urgency of the condemned. “Please,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

  “You must let it run its course.”

  “I cannot.”

  “Nothing can change this, Sandro…”

  She reached for him, her legs wrapped around his waist, her cheeks pressed to his. They touched each other with urgent desperation. Ruzsky kissed her cheeks and forehead and nose and eyes.

  “Sandro,” she whispered. “My Sandro. I’m so sorry.”

  Ruzsky crushed her to him.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said again. “I would do anything for you, anything except this.”

  Later, they stood and stared at each other in the darkness of the hallway.

  Ruzsky knew he must leave, but could not. “I will try to stop you,” he said.

  “Then we may both pay a terrible price.”

  “For my father’s sake, for the sake of all that he stood for, I cannot allow their plans to continue uninterrupted.”

  Ruzsky could not take his eyes off her. He was hardly able to breathe.

  “Goodbye, Sandro.”

  Ruzsky walked out into the stairwell.

  He faced her. He could not bring himself to say goodbye.

  Slowly, and without taking her eyes from his, Maria Bulyatina shut the door.

  52

  R uzsky slept fully clothed in Michael’s bed, and was awake long before dawn.

  He pulled back the tiny curtain. It was still snowing heavily, the gas lamps dull orbs in a sea of swirling darkness. But Ruzsky could see the sled. Its occupant was still there, wrapped in blankets.

  Ruzsky checked his watch. It was almost six. The day was Friday, but he could not be certain of the date.

  He walked across the hall. Dmitri had not returned. He searched the bedrooms on the lower floors for good measure, and then took a few minutes to shave.

  When he had finished, Ruzsky climbed back to the top floor and walked slowly through the rooms. He wished to take leave carefully of his childhood home today. He looked at his own room, then Ilya and Dmitri’s.

  He went to his father’s bedroom on the first floor.

  Ruzsky stared at the carnations, which had begun to wilt, and surveyed his father’s silver hairbrushes, neatly set out on top of the dresser. He felt like a ghost, drifting silently through a former life.

  Ruzsky picked up the telephone in the hall and asked the operator to connect him to the Hôtel de l’Europe. “Madam Ruzsky,” he said.

  “What room number, sir?”

  “I’m not certain.”

  After a momentary delay, he was connected and a sleepy voice answered.

  “Ingrid?”

  “Sandro.”

  “I’m sorry to wake you.”

  “What is it, Sandro?”

  “I just… wanted to check you were all right.”

  “We’re fine. Michael is still asleep.”

  “Will you stay in the hotel today? I know it is hard, but if it is possible…”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Just stay inside if you can.”

  “Have you seen Dmitri?”

  “No.” Ruzsky tried to sound untroubled. “But I’m going to look for him now. There’s something I need to talk to him about. He’s probably staying in the barracks, or perhaps he’s taken a room at the yacht club.”

  “Of course.”

  “Go back to sleep.”

  “Goodbye, Sandro.”

  Ruzsky went to find one of his father’s thick woolen overcoats from the cloakroom and took a new sheepskin hat from the shelf. As he put them on, he glanced once more around the darkened hallway, his gaze resting upon the scabbard on the wall just inside the drawing room door.

  He hesitated only a moment more and then walked forward and out into the street, the front door slamming shut behind him.

  It was snowing harder than ever. An Arctic wind chafed his ears as it whistled down from Palace Square. Ruzsky pulled down the flaps of his hat and began to walk, his eyes half closed against the driving snow. At this time and in this weather, the city was deserted; his only company was his pursuer.

  Ruzsky deliberately walked through the Summer Gardens, forcing the Okhrana man to leave the sled and follow him on foot.

  At the iron gates to the main Preobrazhensky barracks opposite the Tavrichesky Garden, a sergeant in the guard box eyed him suspiciously before wiping away the condensation that had gathered upon his window and pulling it back. “Yes.”

  “I’m looking for Major Ruzsky.”

  “At this time in the morning?” He was one of the old school. On his top lip, he sported a long and elegant mustache with fine, waxed curls at its tips. He consulted his list. “No. Not present.”

  “Has he been at all, during the night?”

  “Do I look like his mother?”

  “You haven’t seen him?”

  “Who is asking?”

  “His brother, Alexander Ruzsky.”

  The man shook his head.

  “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  Ruzsky retraced his steps past the Summer Gardens, through Millionnaya Street, and across the lonely expanse of Palace Square to St. Isaac’s, the Astoria, and finally the yacht club. It was the same story here. The doorman knew Dmitri well-they all did. But he had not seen him for several days.

  Ruzsky checked his watch once more before continuing on his cold and lonely walk down Morskaya, past the gilded window of the jeweler Fabergé, and the dusty premises of Watkins, the old Engl
ish bookseller.

  As he turned toward the Tsarskoe Selo Station, Ruzsky had almost forgotten that the man from the Okhrana was behind him, but when he looked around, he was only about twenty yards away. He had abandoned all pretense of concealment.

  Waiting by the ornate gates of the Alexander Palace at Tsarskoe Selo little more than an hour later, Ruzsky pulled his coat tight around him. He was cold now, through to his core.

  The palace grounds were deserted. The sentry had retreated to his box. In the building overlooking the gate, an officer of the palace police watched him.

  Ruzsky tried to light a cigarette, but soon gave up. He had lost all feeling in his feet, and bashed his boots hard to try and restore it. His welcoming committee was taking a damned long time.

  At length, the guard instructed him to proceed. He pointed at the near corner of the palace. “They are waiting,” he said.

  Ruzsky began to walk, his head tipped forward against the wind.

  Another uniformed guard was standing outside the large wooden doors to the family’s private wing, and he ushered Ruzsky up the steps and into the hall. He took off his hat, coat, and gloves and tried unsuccessfully to prevent the snow from falling on the polished wooden floor. A footman removed them from his arm.

  Colonel Shulgin strode down the corridor toward him. His face was like granite, but his eyes communicated a different message, perhaps, Ruzsky thought, comradeship or compassion. “Come this way, please,” he said.

  Ruzsky followed.

  Shulgin led him to the antechamber and they sat in a pair of upholstered chairs beneath the portrait of Marie Antoinette. Ruzsky glanced up at it. He had once been told that it hung over the Empress’s desk.

  They waited. Shulgin examined his hands. “I’m sorry about your father,” he said beneath his breath. He stared dead ahead. “I had not imagined…”

  “I must speak with you.”

  They heard footsteps from the direction of the Empress’s private apartments. She swept into the room, wearing a dark dress with a cream brooch at the neck. Shulgin and Ruzsky both stood and bowed low.

  The Empress waved them back to their seats and took one opposite. She was about to start speaking when they heard a child’s cry in the distance. She began to get up, then chose to ignore it and sat down, smoothing the front of her dress.