The White Russian

17

A t the headquarters of the Petrograd City Police Department, they were waiting for him in Anton’s office. Ruzsky sat down heavily, staring at the picture of Napoleon’s retreat on the wall opposite. He could see that the others were nervous and apprehensive.

“He invited me to close the case on the grounds that it had proved impossible to establish the identities of the victims,” Ruzsky said solemnly.

No one replied.

“He said he had received a call from Tsarskoe Selo, and that I must understand his dilemma.”

Pavel leaned forward. “Do you think that’s true?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Shulgin seemed concerned to me, and uncertain, rather than hostile.”

They considered this. Ruzsky looked into the eyes of his colleagues. They wanted to appear defiant, but none could entirely hide their fear.

Anton sighed deeply. “Vasilyev is a powerful and dangerous enemy, now more than ever.”

“But still not omnipotent.”

“I’m not so sure.” Anton suddenly looked old. “It has a pleasing hint of irony about it, don’t you think? In the dying hours of the regime, we loyally carry out the tasks assigned to us in the name of a tsar that none of us believes in, while those who once professed fanatical loyalty to the absolute monarch now prepare themselves for the moment when he is no longer with us.”

“I don’t understand,” Ruzsky said.

“What do you think our friend Vasilyev has been doing these past weeks?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“He’s been a very, very busy man. Meetings and telephone calls. Reading telegrams and letters. Those to him and those intercepted. He speaks to the generals, the politicians, and the grand dukes. He even talks to the revolutionaries.” Anton raised his hand. “You won’t believe it, but trust me, he does. How can I manage this for maximum advantage, he asks. He could stay loyal to the Tsar, as he claims, but he knows it’s moving beyond that. Change is coming, so which way is it going to blow and how can he be seen to assist it? Strikes, demonstrations, protests; the appearance of disorder. He can orchestrate them all. The generals and politicians and grand dukes could then claim they were forced to take resolute action. But, of course, if Vasilyev and his agents get it wrong… then who knows what could happen?”

“He just told me that the choice was between the Tsar and the mob.”

“And he is right.”

“If he is that preoccupied, then why bother to interfere with us?”

They sat in silence again. None of them could answer this.

“It doesn’t smell good,” Pavel said. “They were warned this American was coming back. And when he does, he gets seventeen stab wounds for his trouble.”

“And yet,” Ruzsky went on, “we cannot get away from the fact that, to all of us, their deaths still feel personal.”

They looked to Maretsky. He examined his chubby hands. As a professor of philosophy at the university, he had developed a passionate interest in the criminal mind and had been brought in by Anton-after his disgrace-on a part-time basis to assist in investigations. Shortly afterward, Vasilyev had seen the value of his work and had requested-or rather, they believed, coerced-his assistance too. “I see only files,” Maretsky said, “and sometimes individuals. I would be the last person they would tell.”

“What do you think lies beneath this case?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never heard of White or the girl. Never seen any paperwork on either of them. But then, if it was something they wanted to keep from you, I wouldn’t see it either.”

“Why have they warned us off?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did they-”

“Sandro, I can see the questions. I just don’t have the answers.”

They glanced at each other. Pavel seemed suddenly less than pleased at the idea of being one of a band of brothers, but there was warmth in Anton’s eyes.

“We cannot easily trace the American,” Ruzsky said. “So we must begin by following the path of the girl. If any of you want to stay officially neutral, then now’s the time to make that clear.”

There was an awkward silence.

Pavel got to his feet. His face was strained. He came level with Ruzsky, raised his head, looked apologetically into his eyes, and then slapped him so hard on the back that he almost choked. “God, Sandro,” he guffawed, “you’re a pain in the ass.”

Pavel went home and Ruzsky retired gratefully to his office. He shut the door, switched on his lamp, and sat behind his desk in the half-darkness.

He extracted the ticket Maria had sent him for the ballet from his pocket, and glanced up at the clock. It was almost eight; the performance had already begun.

He stared at the ticket, put it down, moved it from one side of his desk to the other.

He reached for his “in” tray.

On top was an internal envelope containing a note from the fingerprint laboratory; they needed a formal signature of authorization before examining the prints from the dagger.

Ruzsky put the form down, dipped his pen in the inkwell, scrawled, Is this bureaucracy really necessary? and put it back in the envelope and readdressed it.

Next was a thick sheaf of telegraphs responding to Pavel’s All Russias bulletin.

There were only three that showed any promise. The Moscow City Police had made two sightings of an American wanted on suspicion of espionage, theft, and affray who traveled under the name Douglas Robertson.

Kazan reported that a Canadian traveling under the name Robert Jones had failed to pay his hotel bill in August 1914.

The most encouraging was from Yalta. American wanted, it read, in connection with armed robbery, October 1910. Fits description. More details upon request. Detective Godorkin, Yalta 229.

Ruzsky leaned back, rested his feet on the edge of the desk, and stared at the small religious icon hanging on the wall.

He imagined Ella as she might have been while alive. He pictured her as shy and timid; the American, aggressive and manipulative. A pretty royal nanny and a thieving brigand; it was an unlikely romance.

The minute hand on the clock moved with a loud clunk.

Ruzsky headed downstairs. The machines in the communications room were idle. The solitary operator was drinking coffee and reading his newspaper.

Ruzsky handed him the three telegraphs and asked him to get onto Moscow, Kazan, and Yalta for further details.

Back in his office, Ruzsky glanced at the clock again, though he had been acutely aware of the time all evening.

He sat down, pulled open the drawer, and took out the roll of ruble notes that had been removed from the dead man’s pocket. He spread them out in order of the numbers outlined on the left-hand side of each note.

He stared at them, looking for a flaw to the theory he’d shared with Pavel. If you assembled the notes like this, you got the order of the letters. The numbers on the right could refer to a page and line number. But he could get no closer to breaking the code without knowing what had been used as the key.

Ruzsky shifted the paperweight to and fro, deep in thought.

He noticed that a figure had crept into the doorway and was leaning back, watching him. “Only a rat moves that quietly,” he said.

“Only a fool allows himself to be burned twice.”

Stanislav swung in through the door and sauntered over to Pavel’s desk. He perched on the end of it, his short legs not quite reaching the floor. His leather boots were in as advanced state of disrepair as Ruzsky’s own.

“Did you talk to the newspapers?” Ruzsky asked.

“I tipped one or two off.”

Stanislav was sober, but he looked tired, his thin face yellow with ingrained dirt. “Was that you last night?” Ruzsky asked.

Stanislav didn’t answer. He was stroking his stubble and looking at the floor.

“Up to something you’d rather I didn’t know about?”

The journalist still didn’t reply.

“So, what are you trying to tell me?”

Stanislav took out a packet of cigarettes, lit one, and threw the pack over toward Ruzsky, who sent it straight back.

“How did Prokopiev know about the bodies?” Stanislav asked.

“I have no idea. Probably from one of the constables.”

“That’s a coincidence.”

Ruzsky frowned.

“That’s what you said last time,” Stanislav said. “You-or rather Pavel, with your agreement-put that pervert in the cell at the end of the corridor and told his fellow inmates what he’d been up to. When I asked you who told the Okhrana, you said probably one of the constables. But Prokopiev was here within an hour of the man’s death.”

“I still don’t see your point.”

“Almost without exception, we now have a different set of constables. So, one hour after the bodies are brought in from the ice this time, Prokopiev is around to remove them.”

“So?”

“They knew. Someone high up is singing down the wire.”

Ruzsky did not respond.

“In another time, maybe that wouldn’t matter, but you took three years in exile and Vladimir ’s man wound up in the Moyka with a knife in his back. It’s not a game anymore.”

They were silent. The clock ticked loudly on the wall and Ruzsky glanced at it.

“Spell it out,” he said.

Stanislav shrugged. “If I had the answers, I’d tell you.”

“I’ve got to go.”

Ruzsky got up and put on his coat, slipped the ballet ticket into his pocket, and walked briskly along the corridor.

By the time Ruzsky arrived, the intermission had begun. The first-floor lobby was thronged with theatergoers discussing the performance, the hubbub rising toward the curved ceilings as liveried waiters, balancing silver trays, weaved through the throng. The men were dressed in white ties and tails, the women long dresses and gloves, diamonds glittering in the light spilling from the chandeliers.

Here, outside the dress circle, tradition dictated that theatergoers walk slowly around the edge of the room, arm in arm.

Ruzsky hesitated at the top of the stairs, momentarily dazzled by the finery on display. Petersburg and Russia really were two different countries. This city was as sophisticated and European and rich as most of Russia was backward, remote, and poor. The salons of the capital and the endless pine forests of the interior bore no relation to each other, and he belonged wholly to neither world.

He glanced at his ticket and then at the signs directing him up to the top floor.

As Ruzsky turned back up the stairs, his father’s booming laugh stopped him in his tracks. His family had spilled out of their box and into the corridor. The landing was crowded, but not enough for him to credibly pretend he had not seen or heard them. He found himself propelled across the rich red carpet behind the dress circle boxes. They were drinking champagne, clustered around a low wooden table laden with bottles in silver buckets. Ruzsky’s father stood at the center of the group.

Dmitri’s German wife, Ingrid, was at his shoulder. She was coldly beautiful, long blond hair framing a neatly formed, perfectly made-up face. She had a petite nose and a small mouth, her personality so naturally shy and reserved that Ruzsky had rarely been able to penetrate much beneath the surface. But her kiss tonight was warm and her eyes sparkled as he stepped away from her. Was it, he wondered, just the natural empathy of betrayed spouses?

Dmitri stepped down from the box, his face flushed. “Sandro,” he said, glowing with pleasure. Vasilyev was behind him, followed by Irina.

“I believe you know one another,” Ruzsky’s father said stiffly, gesturing toward the chief of the Okhrana.

“Yes,” Ruzsky said, stunned by the man’s sudden presence in the bosom of his family. “Yes,” he said again, “I believe we do.”

Irina was staring at him as Dmitri stepped forward and hugged him so tight his ribs almost cracked. “The prodigal returns,” he said, turning toward the silent company. “Come on,” he said. “This ridiculous feud cannot go on forever.”

Dmitri’s tone was laced with jollity, but it carried an unmistakably serious plea. He stood next to his brother, an arm around his shoulder, the two of them facing the assembled company.

Ruzsky found it impossible to avoid Vasilyev’s hooded gaze.

Irina’s face was flushed red, her eyes barely concealing her anger at his presence. Perhaps the Grand Duke was close by.

“Sandro must join us,” Dmitri exclaimed. “A benchmark performance.” As Ruzsky saw the hurt in Ingrid’s eyes, he realized how drunk his brother was.

They remained silent. Vasilyev continued to stare at him with intense, unblinking eyes. Ruzsky tried to summon enough energy to retreat with grace, but found himself catching his father’s eye. Just for a moment, beneath the severe frown, he thought he saw his expression soften. “Sandro must join us,” he said. “Of course.”

Dmitri stepped away from him and lit a cigarette, looking suddenly sober.

Ruzsky cleared his throat. “No.” He saw relief in Irina’s eyes, regret in Ingrid’s. “No, it’s a kind offer. Another time, perhaps.”

“You’re here anyway,” his father said.

“Yes, but I’m… on duty, in a manner of speaking.”

His father glanced at Vasilyev.

“One must take time to relax, Sandro,” Vasilyev said, but his unyielding glare belied the soothing tone of his words.

“Of course.” He looked at his father, whose face had not quite returned to the hostile set of previous encounters. “Have a good evening.”

Ruzsky did not look back as he climbed the stairs. He slumped down into his seat at the far end of the front row with some relief, and gazed down at the empty stage. He was very high up here and it was pleasantly warm.

He only became aware that the performance was about to resume when he realized that the seats around him were once again full. The orchestra was warming up discordantly.

Ruzsky glanced down at the royal box. He could see the Tsar’s brother Grand Duke Michael in earnest conversation with Teliakovsky, the director of Imperial Theatres, and Count Fredericks, minister of the court.

The lights faded, the lavishly embroidered stage curtain was raised, and the overture began.

Maria appeared, in pure white against a startling blue backdrop, and her presence was as intoxicating as it had been when he had first watched her here, all those years ago. A young girl next to him craned her neck for a better view, her face alive with excitement.

Ruzsky forced himself to relax, sitting in the semidarkness, far above the stage.

She was tall for a ballerina. Her long, willowy body moved with such supple grace that nothing she did, no step she took, no pirouette or twist, ever seemed less than perfect. He watched her in a daze, oblivious to the music, or the onlookers, or even the careful choreography of the dance itself. He allowed himself to wallow in the sensation of being close to her.

But, as he watched, he was suddenly gripped by doubt. Only a fool would wait three years for a man who had let an unfaithful wife stand in the way of their fragile chance of happiness.

Ruzsky tried to stem the growing tide of dismay and self-reproach, but without success. He stood and pushed his way along the row, to a chorus of disapproval from those around him.

Outside, as he turned the corner of the stairs, he almost knocked Ingrid over. He grabbed hold of her to steady both of them and as he looked into her eyes, Ruzsky saw the depth of her hurt.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He stepped back. “No…”

They both stared at the floor. Ruzsky wondered what his brother had done or said on this occasion.

“You are…” He could not think of what to say. It was obvious that she was too upset to join her husband below.

“You’re leaving?” she asked.

“Yes.” He could see that her assumption was he’d been upset by the exchange with his father. “I have work to do,” he went on. He moved past her on the stairs.

Ruzsky wondered if he should offer words of comfort, but a natural sense of decorum restrained him. Whatever the cause of her unhappiness, she was his brother’s wife. “Have a good evening,” he said.

“Yes.”

Ruzsky walked down the stairs. At the corner, he looked over his shoulder and saw that she was still watching him. He raised his hand briefly-intended only as a gesture of support-and then was gone.