Bedlam: The Further Secret Adventures of Charlotte Bronte

15

The secret adventures of John Slade

Easter 1849. After midnight mass, a huge crowd filled Red Square, a vast open expanse within the walls that enclosed the Kremlin. Domes glittered in the damp, fecund spring air. St. Basil’s Cathedral loomed above the crowd, as brightly colored and patterned as Christmas candy. Everyone carried candles. Thousands of faces lit by the flames glowed like medieval icons. The doors of all the churches in the Kremlin opened. Light from within flooded the square. Out marched parades of priests wearing golden vestments and swinging censers, followed by congregations bearing banners and lit tapers. Singing from choirs rose to heaven.

John Slade stood among the crowd. He saw a familiar figure-the Third Section agent who’d been watching him for four months. The agent was a common Russian type, a slim man with a pale, melancholy face and a dark mustache. Slade noticed something different about his shadow tonight. The man hovered closer than usual. For the first time he met Slade’s gaze. Slade sensed that the opportunity he’d been waiting for was at hand. He moved slowly out of the crowd, allowing his shadow to keep up with him. When he reached the bank of the river, he stopped. It was dark beneath the trees, and quiet. The lights in Red Square shimmered in the distance. Slade didn’t have long to wait. His shadow joined him and said, “Happy Easter, Mr. Ivan Zubov.”

“The same to you, Mr. Andrei Plekhanov. And to your colleagues in the Third Section.”

The man’s dark eyes widened. “How do you know who I am?”

Slade had done a little spying on his spy. He had followed Plekhanov to his lodgings and obtained the information from another tenant. Plekhanov hadn’t noticed that Slade had turned the tables on him. Now Slade said, “I borrowed a leaf from your book.”

Plekhanov smiled tensely. “You’re an unusual dissident, Mr. Zubov. Your friends-Peter, Alexander, and Fyodor-would never have spotted me, let alone managed to discover my name. But they are too preoccupied with plotting against the government, aren’t they?”

Slade knew he was supposed to be upset by the news that the Third Section knew who and what his friends were. He arranged his features into the proper expression of alarm and fright. Plekhanov’s smile relaxed.

“So you see, we know what you are up to,” Plekhanov said.

“I’m not up to anything,” Slade said, deliberately speaking with a tremor in his voice, avoiding the other man’s gaze, and signaling a lie. “I’m not a dissident.”

“Oh? What about the articles you write for the radical journals?”

“I write for anybody who will pay me. I’m just a poor author trying to make a living.”

Plekhanov laughed. “You are poor, that’s true enough. Your landlord says you’re behind on your rent. You also owe money at all the shops and taverns in the neighborhood.” Slade had deliberately created his reputation as a debtor, and Plekhanov had swallowed the bait. “But never fear. I have a proposition to make you. Should you accept, it will solve your financial problems.”

Slade combined hope with wariness in his expression. “What sort of proposition?”

“You work for me as an informant. You report on your friends, and I pay you enough to cover your debts and put vodka in your cup.”

“I can’t betray my friends,” Slade said, aghast.

Plekhanov’s melancholy face turned cruel. “If you refuse my proposition, I will have you sent back to St. Petersburg. I happen to know you’re wanted by the police there.”

Slade himself had spread the rumor that he’d committed petty crimes in St. Petersburg and he was a fugitive from the law. That story had led Plekhanov to believe he had power over Slade, just as Slade had intended. Slade let his shoulders sag in defeat. He nodded.

“You’re a wise man.” Plekhanov clapped Slade on the back. “Now that we’ve settled our bargain-are your friends up to anything the Third Section would like to know about?”

Slade thought of their conspiracy to assassinate its chief. They’d been spying on Prince Orlov, and their plans were almost set. Slade felt guilt descend upon him like the blade of a guillotine. Duty required him to deliver his friends to their enemies.

“Yes,” he said with genuine reluctance, “there is.”