The White Russian

19

T he victim lay crumpled in the shadow of the arch.

They were not far from the Mariinskiy Theatre, next to the Lviny Most, the Lion Bridge, a well-known haunt for lovers. It was about six in the morning, the city around them still shrouded in darkness.

Ruzsky was standing next to one of the white stone lions, wondering how he could avoid going down onto the ice. His injured hand still throbbed gently. “Do you want us to bring him up?” Pavel asked. “He was pushed over from the parapet.”

Ruzsky looked around him. The path was too well trodden to trace any footprints. “All right.”

There were three constables, the same men who’d been on duty when the bodies had been found on the Neva. They listened to Pavel without enthusiasm and then walked down onto the ice behind him.

Pavel bent over the body. One of the constables glanced up toward Ruzsky.

The chief investigator muttered a curse and then walked down to the ice. The Griboedov Canal curved to the left here, its frozen surface ghostly in the light of the gas lamps. As he stepped onto it, Ruzsky twisted involuntarily and slipped. He struggled to control his breathing. Gradually, he became aware that he was under the scrutiny of the constable closest to him. Ruzsky lowered his head and marched toward the body.

The man lay curled up, his body frozen. “Shit,” Ruzsky said. He waved to indicate that the constables should move back, then he took hold of the corpse with his good hand and dragged it out into the moonlight.

He bent down again.

For all his experience, he felt his stomach lurch. The man had been stabbed so many times in the neck, his head had almost been severed. The blood had frozen and crystals of ice had collected in his mustache and along his eyebrows.

“Christ,” Pavel whispered beside him.

The man had a young, lean face and yellow teeth. Ruzsky guessed that he would only have been marginally more attractive in life than he now appeared in death.

He pulled back the man’s overcoat. There were no markings on it, and at first, he thought the body had been systematically stripped again. In the right-hand pocket he found a disordered fistful of banknotes.

Ruzsky riffled through them, holding them up to see if any had been marked in the same way as the American’s, but they had not. In the middle of the bundle was a return rail ticket from Sevastopol to Petrograd, issued from an office in Yalta. The card for the first leg of the journey had been stamped three days ago at Sevastopol, so the man must just have arrived in the capital.

Ruzsky tried the other pocket. He pulled out some identity papers. They appeared to be genuine. “Boris,” Ruzsky said. “What does that say?”

“Molkov,” Pavel said, scrutinizing it closely. “Or Markov. Markov.”

“ Yalta. Thirty-four years of age.”

Pavel pulled the coat back farther to be sure there were no other wounds. “Almost certainly the same killer, wouldn’t you say?”

Ruzsky didn’t answer. He took two paces back and scanned the buildings overlooking the canal. They were residential apartments or houses, backing onto the Conservatory. “More chance of someone having seen here,” Ruzsky said.

“Not at that time in the morning. He’s been dead several hours, at least.”

Ruzsky looked at his pocket watch. It was almost seven. He wondered if the man had already been dead when he had left the theater with Maria.

“This time,” Pavel said, “the killer wasn’t stalking his victim.”

“An arranged meeting?”

“Don’t you think so?”

“Yes, but it’s a strange time to choose.”

They heard a group of horses whinnying and turned to see a green Okhrana sledge pulling up. Prokopiev jumped down before it had stopped and strode toward them. He vaulted the side and landed squarely on the ice-a silly, theatrical gesture. “Thank you for your assistance, gentlemen. We shall take over from here.”

Prokopiev’s shirt was open at the neck, as though he had, himself, just gotten out of bed. He looked at them with his head titled down a fraction, and, in the dark, it had the effect of making his stare still more intense. Two other Okhrana men leaned over the bridge above them.

Ruzsky slipped the dead man’s identity papers and the wad of money into his overcoat pocket. Prokopiev was too busy preening himself to notice.

“By order of the interior minister,” Prokopiev said.

“What is?”

“We’ll deal with the case.”

The two groups glared at each other. “Is there something I’m missing?” Ruzsky asked. As he spoke another sledge rounded the corner and drew up in front of the Lion Bridge. The chief of the Okhrana climbed down and strode toward them. He wore a fur hat. He stepped awkwardly onto the ice, before turning to face them. The moonlight made his face seem older, the lines exaggerated and his skin bloodless. He nodded once. “Good morning, gentlemen.”

No one replied.

“We need more constables, I see.”

It was a moment before Ruzsky realized that this had been an attempt at humor. “Yes,” he said.

“What is the situation?”

Ruzsky frowned. “What is what situation?”

“You have discovered another body and the constables have reported that the killing was aggressive?”

“Something like it.”

“Something like it?”

Ruzsky looked at the dead man. “It’s similarly savage.” He glanced at the constables, each of whom avoided his eye.

“So the same killer?” Vasilyev asked.

“Possibly. Or someone who wants us to think that.”

“You can go home now,” Vasilyev said. He’d spoken so quietly that it was a moment before Ruzsky grasped what had been said.

“What did you say?”

“Ivan will deal with this.”

Pavel tugged at Ruzsky’s arm. “Isn’t that Anton’s decision?” Ruzsky asked. “Or does the Okhrana have an interest in the case we should know about?”

“The same frenzied attack,” Vasilyev continued smoothly. “We should have let Ivan deal with the couple on the ice.”

“And why is that?” Ruzsky asked. Pavel tugged at his sleeve again.

“Ivan has many agents at his disposal, Sandro. A member of the imperial staff… it must have been the work of terrorists.”

Ruzsky hesitated. He was about to go on. He wanted a confrontation, but he could sense Pavel’s nervousness. He made them wait. “Good luck,” he said finally, before clambering back onto the bridge.

“Will they get Sarlov to do the autopsy?” Ruzsky asked when they had turned the corner.

“I don’t know.”

“We should get him out of bed and explain what has happened.”

“What’s that going to achieve?”

“Forewarn him, Pavel.”

“We should just leave it.”

“And how did they find out so quickly?” Ruzsky went on, ignoring his partner. “Which one of the constables is in their pay?”

“Calm down, Sandro.”

Ruzsky stopped and stared at his colleague.

“All right,” Pavel said, “but let’s slow down, can we? And by the way, you look terrible.” Ruzsky wasn’t surprised. He pressed his eyes into their sockets. His head was pounding. “I don’t understand,” he said.

“Understand what?”

“When they took away the bodies from the Neva, why didn’t they just assume control of the case? It doesn’t make any sense to me. Their actions aren’t consistent.”

Pavel didn’t answer. “What happened to your hand?” he asked.

“Oh.” Ruzsky looked at the rag he had bound around his palm. “An accident with a vodka bottle.”

“You should be more careful, my friend.”