20

The secret adventures of John Slade

1850 July. A feverish orange sun set over Moscow. Smoke veiled the red gothic tower that rose above the Saviour Gate to the Kremlin. Inside the tower, John Slade and Prince Orlov mounted the stairs to the lookout post at the top, a small, octagonal space with open arches that provided views in all directions. Tsar Nicholas stood looking over the city toward the Presnya quarter, where radicals had incited violence among workers angered by bad conditions in the factories and peasants starved by high food prices. A riot was underway, and riots inevitably led to fires. The Tsar turned away from the distant orange glow of the flames. He faced Slade and Prince Orlov, who bowed.

“Your Highness,” Orlov said. “This is Ivan Zubov, the man I mentioned.”

“Ah. The informant who warned us about the riot,” the Tsar said.

As he and Slade studied each other, Slade saw an intelligent man burdened by responsibility yet determined to lead his kingdom to world supremacy. He knew that the Tsar saw in him a traitor to his own cause and a useful tool for the regime. That was exactly what Slade wanted the Tsar to see. This was a moment of professional triumph for Slade: at last he had breached the strict security around the Tsar.

“Mr. Zubov spied on the radicals who planned the riot,” Prince Orlov said, eager to curry the Tsar’s favor. “Thanks to him, my men were able to contain it before it could spread to the rest of the city.”

“Very good,” the Tsar said.

“Perhaps Mr. Zubov is too good. Or perhaps not good enough.” The harsh voice belonged to a man who stood in a shadowed corner of the tower.

Slade was disturbed that he hadn’t noticed the man. How could he, an expert spy, fail to detect someone who was only six feet away? The man emanated none of the signals by which people reveal their presence. His breathing was silent. His body had no odor, even on this hot night. He had stood perfectly still until now, when he shifted position. The lights from the city edged his face, whose skin was pitted, whose pale eyes gleamed like mercury.

“Comrade Wilhelm Stieber,” Prince Orlov said. “I didn’t know you were there. What do you mean by your comment about Mr. Zubov?” He bristled at the criticism of Slade, his gift to the Tsar.

Slade recalled the information he’d read in Stieber’s dossier. Stieber had been born in Prussian Saxony, had studied law at Friedrich Wilhelm University in Berlin, had worked for the Berlin police and risen to the rank of Inspector of the Criminal Division. After the revolutions of 1848, he’d been promoted to chief of police. He’d then ventured abroad and cropped up in courts all over Europe. According to his dossier, he was thirty-three years of age, but his gray hair, confident poise, and air of wisdom made him seem decades older, even though he had the vigor of youth. The dossier provided only the meager details that the Foreign Office had managed to compile. Stieber was an enigma.

Now Stieber addressed Prince Orlov but watched Slade. “Mr. Zubov has warned us about many problems. The riot in Presnya, the anti-government propaganda strewn around the city, and the secret societies recruiting members among the workers and peasants, for example.”

“That’s to his credit,” Prince Orlov said.

“But he never warns us soon enough to prevent trouble,” Stieber said. “It always happens anyway.”

The Tsar frowned as he listened. He was not a rash leader who jumped into disputes and imposed his own opinion; he would rather hear all sides first. Slade hid his own consternation. Did Stieber suspect that he was deliberately delaying his reports? Instinct warned him not to speak. He’d heard that Stieber excelled at reading people. One tiny lapse in his Russian accent could give him away. If there was anyone who could discern that Slade wasn’t whom he purported to be, it was Stieber.

Prince Orlov said, “Even the best informant can’t always find things out as early as we would like. And if you’re implying that the Third Section is at fault-well, my men react as best they can on short notice.” His bald head and fleshy face glistened with sweat.

“Those are good excuses,” Stieber said. “If excuses were horses, all men would ride.”

“We’ve arrested many political enemies since Mr. Zubov began working for us.” Prince Orlov glanced at the Tsar, whose frown deepened.

“Have you noticed that most of those ‘political enemies’ are thieves, street brawlers, confidence men, murderers, and other common criminals? They’re hardly the cream of the dissident intelligentsia, the people we want to crush,” Stieber said.

“The three who tried to assassinate me were,” Prince Orlov retorted.

“So it would seem. Have you also noticed that since Mr. Zubov began working for you, activity among the secret societies has increased, and so has civil unrest?”

“What are you saying?” demanded Prince Orlov.

Slade wondered if Stieber suspected the truth about him. Or perhaps Stieber automatically distrusted anyone new to the Tsar’s inner circle; perhaps he was jealous because he viewed Slade as a rival for influence over the Tsar. Slade waited, outwardly calm, tense inside.

“Just that Mr. Zubov bears watching,” Stieber said evenly.

His gaze locked with Slade’s. Antagonism sparked between the two men, hot and bright as the fires burning in the city. The figures of Prince Orlov and Tsar Nicholas seemed to waver, no more substantial than ghosts. For a moment Stieber and Slade were alone in the world. Slade realized that he’d met his match. Of the three powerful men, Stieber was the one from whom Slade-and the world-had the most to fear.

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