The White Russian

by Tom Bradby

  But in his mind’s eye, Ruzsky could see his brother walking across the ice to his fate. He could not let him die alone. He began to kick, his lungs stretched, the cold numbing every fiber of his being.

  He saw ripples on the surface of the water.

  Lungs exploding, he pushed upward until he burst through the hole.

  A hand grasped for his.

  A man stooped over him and it took Ruzsky a few moments to recognize who it was. “Pavel?” he asked.

  “Be quiet,” the voice hissed. “Save your energy.”

  56

  W hen Ruzsky opened his eyes again, Pavel was bending over him, and he could see Katya and Peter looking anxiously over his shoulder. He was in dry clothes, but he was chilled to the marrow. He was lying on the floor of the drawing room in Millionnaya Street, next to a roaring fire, the side lamps lit.

  Ruzsky heard Katya whisper something to Peter and then they withdrew, leaving him alone with his deputy. Pavel moved back to the long white sofa.

  Ruzsky looked up at the ornate cornices of the ceiling and the low chandelier. His gaze strayed across to the oil of the mountains of the Hindu Kush and the curved saber that hung alongside it. He grasped for the familiar in a world that was growing ever more remote.

  “You’ve been following me,” he whispered quietly. “You’ve been watching me from the start.”

  Ruzsky stared at the ceiling. He did not want to look at Pavel; he didn’t want to see the guilt and regret he would find there. He had experienced too much of both. “They must have threatened Tonya, or your boy.”

  They were silent. Ruzsky listened to the crackle of the fire.

  “They didn’t have to,” Pavel said. “It’s been clear how the land lies for a long time. Only you refused to see it.”

  Ruzsky closed his eyes again. Pavel’s face merged with Dmitri’s in his mind. He thought of his brother’s solitary progress across the ice, and of the guilt that haunted his every waking moment.

  He thought of his father’s body sprawled across the floor of the study.

  They could have anyone. They could destroy everything. “I understand, Pavel.”

  He shook his head. “No, you would never understand.”

  There was a long silence.

  “You work for Vasilyev alone? Not Borodin and his group?” Ruzsky asked.

  “We all work for Vasilyev.”

  “In Yalta, they tried to kill us both.”

  “It was a warning. You were to be allowed to pursue the murder case-after all, Vasilyev more than anyone wished to know who was killing his men-but you were not to uncover the link between him and the revolutionaries. And in Yalta, you did. The bomb was an attempt to warn you off, but the young fool was incompetent and that’s why he nearly killed us.”

  Pavel stared at him with mournful eyes.

  “In your own way, you were trying to protect me,” Ruzsky said. “You thought that if you watched me and reported back all that we were doing, they’d have no need to dispose of me. Isn’t that the case?”

  “Even if it was, it would not exonerate me.”

  Ruzsky looked at his friend. “For Christ’s sake, you do not have to seek my forgiveness. What have I done that is of any benefit to anyone?”

  “You have caused Vasilyev true discomfort.” Pavel examined his hands. “He wanted to find out who was killing his creatures, but he did not want you to know what they were doing.” He looked up. “He could not decide what to do with you.”

  Ruzsky heard the hesitation and regret in Pavel’s voice and, when he looked up, saw it in his eyes. His heart sank.

  Their friendship was destroyed and they both knew it. The consequences of this betrayal outran even a complete understanding of its motives. “I’m sorry,” Ruzsky said.

  “I deserve no pity.”

  “And should feel no shame. There is no one left to serve.”

  Pavel did not answer.

  “Each of us must find his own way through. I didn’t understand that before. I do now.” Ruzsky pulled back the blankets and forced himself upright. His head exploded with pain.

  “If you try to interfere, they will kill you.”

  “I have no choice.”

  “It is too late. The gold is already being loaded at the Tsarskoe Selo Station. There is nothing you can do.”

  “I cannot leave him. He is my brother.”

  “If that is his destination, then all you will achieve is to die together.”

  “But I cannot abandon him to his fate alone.” Ruzsky looked at his partner. “Do they know he is coming?”

  Pavel shook his head.

  “Will Maretsky tell them about the knife?”

  “He would not help them.”

  “I ask only for a chance, Pavel.”

  The big detective straightened, his eyes never leaving Ruzsky’s own. “Of course, my friend. I will ask them to prepare a sled.”

  A few minutes later, Ruzsky opened the door and stepped out into the night. A plain sled had been prepared, without the family’s livery. A servant was wrapped up in the driving seat and the horses shifted quietly in the wind. Pavel was waiting for him in the darkness.

  Ruzsky climbed into the back, and looked into the face of his deputy.

  “You are too late to reach the crossing,” he said. “Try to get onto the train.”

  Ruzsky offered him his hand. Pavel took it cautiously. “Good luck, my friend,” he whispered. “There will be many of them.”

  The sled pulled away.

  As Ruzsky looked back, he saw that Pavel was still watching him, his big body framed by the light of the doorway.

  57

  O khrana men in long black overcoats had sealed off the Tsarskoe Selo Station, standing in a ring around its entrance in the darkness. It was still snowing heavily and Ruzsky ducked his head and walked past them toward Sadovaya Ulitsa.

  He had left the sled some distance away and told the servant to return home.

  Fifty yards on, Ruzsky stopped and looked back to check that he was out of sight.

  He reached up for the wooden fence next to the road.

  It took all his strength to lever himself over it and into a drift three or four feet deep that had gathered on the far side. For a moment, he was lost in the powder, small crystals of ice in his eyes and mouth and ears.

  He stood and fought his way through, until he stumbled and fell onto an icy pathway.

  He picked himself up and brushed the snow weakly from his clothes. There were no lights on in the two sheds ahead, but he could see sparks from a brazier spitting into the night sky.

  The coal fire stood in a small clearing. Ruzsky hesitated for a moment, then moved forward to warm himself, standing so close that sparks gathered on his clothes.

  He heard voices and slipped into the nearest shed. It was dark and smelled of oil and grease. Bits of machinery-winches, old signal posts, hammers, and wrenches-hung from the ceiling alongside rows of conductors’ flags. Ruzsky shut the door and waited until the men had passed. They were talking quietly to themselves, and he smelled the pungent aroma of their tobacco.

  He took the Sauvage revolver from inside his jacket and checked that there was ammunition in its chambers. He wasn’t certain if it would still fire after being bathed in the frozen waters of the Neva, but he replaced it and stepped outside.

  He walked to the far end of the shed and looked down toward the station.

  The snout of an armored train, of the kind used to transport heavy fighting equipment to the front, poked out beyond the shelter of the glass and iron roof above the concourse. Across the track, through the snowstorm, Ruzsky could see a group of men standing guard.

  Above the engine, the Tsar’s personal flag flapped in the wind.

  To Ruzsky’s left, there was a large mound of discarded equipment covered in snow and he waded through another thick drift to reach it. He felt his body temperature plunging once more, his hands icy as he touched a discarded piece of track and clawed his way up
it so that he had a view into the station concourse. He was close to the platform where he and Pavel had boarded the commuter train to Tsarskoe Selo.

  Behind the huge black engine were four or five transport wagons with their doors open. Through a cloud of steam, Ruzsky could make out a series of figures on the platform. Four men wheeled a trolley down toward one of the transport wagons and unloaded its contents. The gold bars shimmered in the light of the gas lamps.

  Ruzsky could make out Prokopiev, who stood several inches above the group of agents around him. The Okhrana deputy threw his cigarette out into the night and then he and two colleagues strolled toward the engine and climbed in.

  Ruzsky watched the last of the gold being loaded up. One of the men got into the carriage and another slammed its door shut. The other two wheeled the trolley back toward the station entrance.

  The engine wheezed and hissed. A cloud of steam curled around the corner of the roof and was lost in the swirling snow.

  Ruzsky stood and caught sight of two guards, right in front of him, not ten yards away. He cursed silently and dropped back down, his heart pounding.

  He raised his head slowly. The men had not seen him. They were also watching what was happening on the platform, smoking and talking to each other. They began to walk around to his right, blocking his departure.

  There were a series of shouts. The engine let off a loud hiss of steam and then turned its wheels once, shunting the carriages forward.

  More men appeared on the platform.

  Prokopiev stuck his head out of the side of the engine and looked back at the carriages. “All right!” he called. “It’s ready!”

  The train shunted forward once more, but still did not pull away.

  The two guards stood between Ruzsky and the train.

  The engine blew off another head of steam. Again it shunted forward and this time kept moving, its great iron wheels grinding their way along the track.

  The guards watched its departure for a moment, then moved away.

  Ruzsky edged forward. No one was visible at the rear of the train. The Okhrana men inside were behind closed doors and those in the armored engine had ducked down to avoid the blizzard.

  The train began to gather speed. As the last transport carriage drew level, Ruzsky began to run. He slipped once, then picked himself up and waded through to the path. Out on the track, the snow drove hard into his face and mouth.

  He heard shouts behind him and what sounded like a shot, but the train was moving at the pace of a run now and his eyes were on the great iron bar at the rear of the last car.

  He reached it and took hold of its lip, but was almost pulled from his feet.

  Ruzsky grunted to himself and jumped. He was half up on the ledge, one leg banging along the ground.

  He heaved himself forward. Another shot rang out and he looked up to see the two guards, both down on one knee, their rifles pointing toward him, but the train roared onward, and their bullets were lost in the darkness.

  When he could no longer see the station, Ruzsky pulled himself upright and climbed the ladder to the iron roof of the carriage.

  The snow whipped into his face, and the night groaned and howled around him. Flat on his stomach, almost unable to see, he clawed his way forward slowly. He reached the end of the carriage and slipped down into the gap before climbing up to the next. He repeated the exercise until he was only a few yards short of the engine.

  They were out of the city now, the landscape a brilliant white, the plow sending great chunks of snow flying across him. Occasionally, Ruzsky looked ahead, but all he could see was the Tsar’s yellow and black flag snapping in the wind.

  58

  F inally, the train slowed.

  Ruzsky pushed himself onto his knees. The snow had stopped and the moon cut through thinning clouds to leave slivers of light dancing upon an indifferent landscape.

  They were coming down a slight incline, and ahead, Ruzsky could see a road that ran through the middle of the wood and up to the edge of the track. It had been recently cleared. A large military truck was parked across the line.

  The train jolted as the brakes were applied, almost sending Ruzsky tumbling over the lip of the carriage. It came slowly to a halt less than ten yards from the obstacle. Ruzsky kept low, but the only sound was the wheezing of the engine.

  Up ahead, he saw two Okhrana men walking toward the truck. He heard a shouted command, but there was no response. The men looked about them.

  The engine appeared to grow quieter, the forest around it still.

  One of the men moved up to the rear of the truck, a revolver in his hand. He wore a black fedora and it spun high into the air as his body slumped to the ground, the powder lifting around him as the snow cushioned his fall.

  For a second, there was no reaction, even from his companion. And then the second man turned, his own hat falling in his haste.

  He got no more than a yard as the air was filled with the crack and whistle of rifle shots. Dark figures emerged from the woods, charging toward the carriages. There were shouts, doors banging, more shouts, screams, and then the dull pop of shots muffled by the wood.

  Vasilyev was sacrificing his own men in the interests of staging an authentic robbery.

  And then all was quiet once more.

  Ruzsky heard the roar of a truck being started, and he watched as from down the lane a line of headlights begin to swing through the wood.

  The convoy wound its way down to the crossing.

  Ahead of them, on the far side of the track, the road ran straight up a hill. Halfway up it, in the moonlight, Ruzsky could make out Borodin and Maria. She did not wear a hat; her long hair was swept back from her face, as if she wanted to be recognized. Despite her height and slender grace, she seemed a frail figure alongside him.

  There was a hiss of steam, then an eerie silence.

  Ruzsky listened to the clank and whimper of the engine.

  There was a shout. “I have him!”

  All of the men in the clearing moved at once. Figures swarmed from the shadows. There was a shot, then another.

  Borodin turned in the direction of the confrontation, but Maria continued to stare straight ahead.

  Ruzsky heard a distant cry.

  He waited, his heart pounding.

  Had they been waiting for him?

  He saw Dmitri being led over the brow of the hill.

  Ruzsky pushed himself up, fumbling for his revolver, and as he did so, he felt the cold metal of a gun barrel on the back of his neck. “Good evening, Chief Investigator,” Prokopiev said. “Time to join us.”

  Ruzsky looked up. He put his revolver down. “Don’t hurt him.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Don’t hurt him.”

  He saw the tension in Prokopiev’s face. “Get down.”

  Ruzsky swung around and jumped into the drift beside the crossing. He walked forward, Maria’s gaze fixed upon his.

  Dmitri turned around, his face white. He was ringed by men in long overcoats, their rifles and revolvers pointed unerringly at him. There was fear in his eyes, such as Ruzsky had only ever seen in those of condemned prisoners before they were led to execution. He took his brother’s hand, his grip icy cold. “It’s all right,” he said.

  Dmitri fell into his arms and Ruzsky held him tight. For a moment, they were thousands of miles away, far from the harsh-faced men who surrounded them, clutching each other on the top floor of the house at Petrovo. “It’s all right,” he whispered.

  He looked up to see Michael Borodin striding toward them. He saw no shred of humanity in his eyes.

  Borodin pulled them apart. He kicked Ruzsky and forced him to his knees. “Mr. Khabarin,” he said.

  Ruzsky stared at Maria.

  “Your Russia is dead, Prince Ruzsky,” Borodin said. He cocked his revolver. “And your kind will soon be finished. You understand that, don’t you?”

  Ruzsky listened to the last gasps of the steam engine. Maria’s eyes bored
into his. Her expression was one of infinite sadness, as if she was reaching out to him but could never touch him again.

  Ruzsky felt the cold metal of Borodin’s revolver at the back of his skull, but did not flinch. He mumbled a prayer. He thought of his father’s smile in the hallway of the house on Millionnaya Street and Michael pounding through the snow and into his arms.

  The world around him was distorted and out of focus.

  All he could hear was his own breathing.

  He kept his eyes upon Maria.

  Dmitri began to move, a blur on the periphery of Ruzsky’s vision. He got only a yard toward Borodin before the revolutionary fired a single shot through his forehead. His body crumpled and fell.

  The clearing was still. Maria had taken a pace toward them, but had now frozen where she stood.

  Ruzsky crossed himself.

  He waited. He closed his eyes.

  “There was no need for him to die,” Borodin whispered, his mouth close to Ruzsky’s ear. “She wanted you both to live. That was the trade.”

  Ruzsky looked up at Maria.

  Her sadness was not for him, but for herself. She had come to say goodbye.

  He heard the snort of a horse and the bells on a sleigh.

  “Start walking, get in and go away,” Borodin said. “Turn around and you’ll regret it.”

  Ruzsky did not move.

  “She has paid for your freedom. Better take it before I change my mind.”

  Ruzsky stared, transfixed, at Michael’s tiny figure beyond the crossing. Ingrid sat next to him, two Okhrana agents either side of them, their guns pointed toward him. He looked down at the body of his brother sprawled in the snow.

  “Don’t you want to know what she thinks you are worth?”

  Ruzsky kept his eyes upon his son.

  “She has offered what only a woman can give.”

  Ruzsky still did not move.

  “She sent your brother to kill me, but when she understood that she could not stop you trying to save him, she traded her own freedom in order to keep you alive. It is quite heroic.”