The White Russian

21

D ownstairs, the sun was so shrouded by cloud that it was difficult to tell day from night. The wind whistled along the narrow alley between the tenements, and the few people out on the street moved quickly, their heads bent.

A funeral procession rounded the corner. Four men dressed in black carried a coffin draped in a simple scarlet cloth. Behind them came a group of women huddled together against the cold and holding their veils to their faces as the wind worried at their billowing robes. Alongside them walked three soldiers in dirty gray overcoats and woolen hats.

Ruzsky and Pavel waited as the procession passed, the only sound that of boots crunching in the snow. None of the mourners met their eye.

Ruzsky thought of the soldiers he had seen going off to the front on the day of his departure for Tobolsk three years ago. Then, the capital had been full of khaki-clad men marching with grim but determined faces.

Now only the politicians claimed the war could be won; defeat was in the face of every man in uniform.

For a moment, after the small cortege had turned into an alley and disappeared, the detectives gazed after it, both deep in thought. As they turned back, they saw a man huddled in the front of his cab at the far end of the alley, clutching the reins to his chest as his horse shifted restlessly. Once he saw that they were looking at him, he turned the cab around and moved off.

It came as a shock to Ruzsky, though he knew it shouldn’t; they were being watched.

“A ruble for whoever’s first to spot the next one,” Ruzsky said, but Pavel wasn’t smiling.

“Just ignore them,” Ruzsky said. “If they’ve got nothing better to do-”

“But they have,” Pavel said.

They had breakfast in the canteen. It was the first working day of the New Year, and it showed.

Pavel got a full tray of cold meat and pickled cucumbers; Ruzsky made do with Turkish coffee, since the vodka had killed off his hunger. They went to sit in the far corner, so that they would not be overheard.

“I knew Rasputin would come back to haunt us,” Pavel said.

Ruzsky offered him a cigarette and they smoked in silence, glancing occasionally at the other diners.

“Why would Ella ask her mother that question?” Pavel asked.

“A guilty conscience.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Ella was a shy, somewhat naive girl,” Ruzsky said. “She knew little of life outside the palace and the respectable but dull world of her parents. For all her talk of revolution, she never quite comes to terms with what her American has asked her to do.”

“To steal something?”

“Something personal.”

“To do with Rasputin.”

Ruzsky nodded. “It starts to make sense of things, don’t you think?”

“And he has justified it to her on the grounds that the Empress and Rasputin are lovers. So what did Ella steal?”

“A diary?”

“If it had been a diary, she’d have been thrown into the darkest dungeon of the fortress over the river.”

“Perhaps they don’t know for sure what she stole.”

“Then how did they know she’d stolen anything?”

“I’m not sure,” Ruzsky said. “But I think we should try Shulgin again today. See if we can talk to some of the people Ella worked with.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “What were Prokopiev’s men doing there? I don’t understand why he would be asking Ella’s mother questions to which we assume he already knows the answers.”

Pavel gestured toward the street outside. “I can understand why they might want to take over the case, but why would they want to watch us?”

Ruzsky shook his head.

“The country stands on the brink. And they have the time to watch two Petrograd city policemen going about their business?”

Ruzsky looked around the room. “We should go to Yalta,” he said.

“Good idea. I need a holiday.” Pavel wasn’t taking him seriously.

“Everything leads to Yalta. We’ll go tonight.”

The color drained from Pavel’s face.

“You don’t wish to come?”

The big detective looked up. “It’s up to you.”

Anton and Maretsky came in. Anton was smoking a cigarette and raised it in greeting as they went to get a cup of coffee. Ruzsky and Pavel watched their progress in silence until they came to join them.

“So they’re officially taking over the case,” Anton said, as he sat down. “I just got a call from the Interior Ministry.” He took off his glasses and placed them on the table, rubbing his forehead and eyes as Ruzsky had done. He stubbed out his cigarette on the top of the hardwood table, throwing the butt onto the floor beneath their feet, and lit another. Anton’s eyes were bloodshot and he looked the way Ruzsky felt.

They sat in silence. None of them wished to take the matter further.

Maretsky was drinking hot water, which steamed up his glasses as he bent over it. He slid the mug to and fro, restlessly.

“We’re going to Yalta,” Ruzsky said. “Tonight.”

“Why?” Anton asked.

“The man we found this morning was from Yalta,” Ruzsky went on. “Ella was from Yalta. We think the dead American is wanted for armed robbery in Yalta.”

No one spoke.

Ruzsky leaned forward. “I don’t particularly want to live in a world where the chief of the Okhrana can do whatever he likes. Do you?”

Maretsky and Pavel both stared at the table. Anton shook his head. “We already live in that kind of world, Sandro.”

“Well, we shouldn’t just accept it.”

No one responded. Maretsky shook his head slowly. Ruzsky looked at his colleagues. He knew what they were thinking-that he, of all of them, had nothing to lose. All that had awaited him upon his return from Tobolsk was a cold wife and a son whom he couldn’t see. He tried to block Maria from his mind.

Maretsky, by contrast, had a family, despite the incident with the student. Anton had a daughter on one of the university courses for women who would not want her fellow students to know her father was a policeman-even one in the city police. And Pavel had Tonya and his boy, who were, as he so readily admitted, all he cared about. But Ruzsky was reluctant to let go.

Anton’s lips thinned. “This isn’t the time for a crusade. They’ve made it official. We can’t ignore that.”

“Since when has doing our job been a crusade? We’ve got three bodies and at least one killer. That makes it a murder case. That’s what we’re here to do.”

“It was a murder case, now it’s a series of atrocities carried out by a suspected revolutionary cell. And if you don’t believe me, call the Interior Ministry.”

“Revolutionaries don’t stab their victims seventeen times.”

No one responded.

“Let’s ask ourselves some questions, then. Why do the Okhrana want this case? Maretsky?”

The professor continued to stare at the table.

“Maretsky? You work with them. You don’t think this was the work of revolutionaries, do you? And what are the Okhrana doing?”

The professor looked up. His face was strained. “I go over there when I have to. I do not work with them.”

“Well, what do you-”

“Do you know why you were sent into exile?” The professor’s eyes flashed at Ruzsky through his dirty round glasses. “Because he didn’t know what to make of you. He was still feeling his way then. You’re highborn. You had connections. You were an unknown quantity. Better to play safe and get you out of the way. But it’s all changed, Sandro. You’ve seen him up close. You know that.”

Ruzsky thought of Vasilyev at the ballet, in the midst of the family that had largely disowned him. “I see nothing behind his eyes.”

“Precisely. We’re not talking about exile to Tobolsk anymore.”

They contemplated this in silence.

“He’s a chief of police, not God,” Ruzsky said.

“We’re not here to give you a sense of purpose,” Anton responded.

Ruzsky felt his face redden.

“The Okhrana have taken over this case. There is nothing we can do about it.”

“We could take it up with the Interior Ministry.” It was a weak argument and he knew it.

Anton shook his head. “Vasilyev can pick up the telephone and call the palace anytime he chooses.”

“But the palace doesn’t like the Okhrana,” Pavel said quietly. He smiled at Ruzsky, his earlier faint heart apparently forgotten.

Anton sighed.

“They can’t punish us for continuing to amass information on a murder case,” Ruzsky went on.

“Of course they can.”

“We can say we were still seeking to assist them.”

“They can suspend us, dismiss us, send us to where you’ve just come from. Or worse.”

To Ruzsky, Anton suddenly seemed terribly tired. It was as if he had given up, not just on his work, but on life. It was hard to recall the witty, outspoken man who had kept them laughing for hours during those evenings at his country home overlooking the Gulf of Finland.

“They have removed us from the case. Categorically. Explicitly,” Anton said. “They left no room for me to claim a misunderstanding. I’m going to have to ask you to desist from any further inquiries.”

“But why?” Ruzsky asked. “That’s the question. Why are they so determined to block us?”

“That may be the question, but it is not one to which we have to find an answer. My instructions are clear. It would have been difficult to get to Yalta, anyway. You’ve heard what it is like.”

Anton stood. He did not meet Ruzsky’s eye. He turned and walked out. Maretsky followed him.

“So now we are two,” Pavel said once they’d gone. “Well done.”