The White Russian

22

T he train out to Tsarskoe Selo moved slower than ever, the rhythmic hiss of the steam engine and the gentle rattle and roll of the carriages sending Pavel to sleep. He rested his head between the seat and the window, his mouth wide open.

As he looked out at the snow-covered landscape, Ruzsky could not imagine ever leaving the country of his birth.

“What are you thinking?” Pavel asked. His head hadn’t moved, but his mouth was shut and he’d been watching him.

“Nothing much.”

“A girl?”

They pulled out of the trees and Ruzsky leaned closer to the window. It was so dirty and the landscape here so monotonous, it was hard to distinguish snow and sky from the grayness of the pane.

“Is it love?”

Ruzsky didn’t answer.

“Who is it?”

Ruzsky shook his head.

“The ballerina?”

“No,” Ruzsky lied.

Pavel whistled quietly. “She’s beautiful. I wouldn’t blame you. What will you do?”

“Nothing.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Believe what you want.”

“Love has a habit of overcoming most obstacles,” Pavel said.

Ruzsky looked out of the window. Two young boys in thick winter coats stood on top of the bank, waving at the passengers. Ruzsky waved back.

“Sometimes the obstacles are impossible to overcome,” he said.

“But you don’t really believe it. That’s your secret.”

Pavel smiled, but Ruzsky could not respond. He had a sudden, vivid image of Maria and his brother naked in front of her fire, the soft light dancing over their bodies.

He stared out of the window again.

“Now what are you thinking?” Pavel asked.

“That I wish you would shut up.”

“I’m here to torment you until you talk.”

Ruzsky attempted a smile. “Nothing profound. About Russia. About home.”

Pavel searched his face. “Did you ever think of escape?”

Ruzsky thought of the ice cracking, of the water’s embrace. “And leave Michael in the hands of the Grand Duke?”

Pavel nodded ruefully. “I could never live anywhere else.”

“Neither could I.”

Pavel straightened. “Perhaps you could take him with you. I’m not saying you wouldn’t miss home-you do miss it-but whatever it was that happened in your… well, you know. You could go.”

“You sound like my nanny.”

Pavel took that as a compliment, though it wasn’t necessarily meant as one. “We’ve known each other a long time.”

Ruzsky didn’t answer.

“It’s been a privilege to be your friend.”

Ruzsky frowned. “Am I missing something?”

“I like things to be said. I don’t like them to be hidden, you know that.”

Ruzsky turned to the window again.

“Do you enjoy your job, Sandro?”

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said.”

“This is a strange series of questions.”

“You’re an idealist; you didn’t have to work-”

“Neither true, alas.”

“You could have made up with your family, if you’d wanted to.”

Ruzsky didn’t answer.

“I started out as a constable-I had very little choice-but I enjoy what I do. I was just thinking about it…”

Ruzsky leaned forward to interrupt. “I don’t know where this is leading us, Pavel.”

“I’ve always assumed that I understood what made you do this job, but I’ve never asked.”

“Yes. I suppose the answer is yes. I enjoy what I do, but you’re wrong about a lot of things. I don’t think of myself as an idealist.”

“Why not?”

“Because what you see as idealism, my old friend, I know to be obstinacy. It’s not the same thing at all.”

Pavel pressed his forehead against the cold glass of the window. “What will become of us?”

“We’ll be all right.”

“Do you think so?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t. Not anymore.”

“What are you worried about?” Ruzsky asked.

“About Tonya. About my boy.”

“They’ll be all right. If anyone, it is you who should worry.”

“Exactly. And where would they be if something happened to me?”

“I’d look after them.”

“Would you?” Pavel’s eyes glistened.

“Of course. I’d steal one of my father’s paintings.”

Pavel looked uncertain for a moment, then grinned sheepishly. “Very funny, Sandro,” he said.

At the Alexander Palace, they were shown through to the same anteroom and told to wait. Ruzsky walked to the window and looked out at the frozen lake, but there was no sign of the imperial children. A skein of mist curled around the trees in the distance and stretched out across the ice.

“This is a bad idea,” Pavel said again.

Ruzsky did not respond.

“Just because we didn’t see them watching us on the way here doesn’t mean to say that they weren’t.”

Ruzsky turned. “Shulgin doesn’t like the Okhrana, or at least the Petrograd Okhrana, and I think the feeling is mutual. We’ll see what happens.”

“It’s crazy to come here.”

Ruzsky shook his head. They’d had this argument three times already.

They heard footsteps and turned to see the guard who had brought them. “Come with me,” he said, without grace or ceremony.

Their coats were returned to them in the hallway. “Are we not to receive an audience?” Ruzsky asked with equal curtness.

“Please come with me.” The guard turned on his heel and led them out, past the columns at the front of the palace and the two curved archways, to the far wing.

The door swung open and they were admitted by a tall houseboy in a bright red and gold uniform. Two others stood behind him; a fourth took their coats.

He took them up two steps and marched them down a long corridor.

“What’s going on?” Pavel whispered.

“These are the family quarters,” Ruzsky said.

Their footsteps echoed. Martial paintings lined the walls. Ruzsky’s eye was caught by a giant portrait of Nicholas I on a white charger. A shrill peel of laughter rang out from somewhere on their left.

They were led past two large golden urns and into a formal room decorated, too, in red and gold. They stood for a moment at its entrance, flanked on either side by a phalanx of white marble busts, beneath a vast tapestry of Marie Antoinette and her children.

The houseboy invited them to sit on an upholstered, gilt-edged sofa, between two inlaid grand pianos, then withdrew. They listened to his footsteps receding.

“What’s going on?” Pavel whispered again.

Ruzsky was staring up at Marie Antoinette. He turned to Pavel and put his finger to his lips. He mouthed: “Empress,” and pointed to the open door on the far side of the room.

They heard more footsteps in the corridor.

Shulgin entered, scowling. “You did not telephone.”

“Please accept my apologies, Your High Excellency,” Ruzsky said quietly, knowing that the colonel’s performance was not entirely for their benefit.

“That does not-”

Shulgin stopped as both Ruzsky and Pavel became aware of a figure standing in the shadows beyond the doorway.

“What do they want, Shulgin?” the Tsarina asked.

“They are investigating the death of Ella Kovyil, Your Majesty.”

“I asked, what do they want?”

“They wish to speak to some of the household staff who worked alongside her. I have told them already, on a previous occasion, that this is a matter that requires discussion with other senior members of staff…”

The Tsarina stepped forward into the doorway. She wore a black dress, with an oval mother-of-pearl brooch pinned to the neck.

“I saw you before,” she said to Ruzsky. “Two days ago.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Ruzsky stood and made a small bow, then gave a sidelong glance at Pavel, who was sitting with his mouth open. He snapped upright and did the same.

“What do you want now?” she asked.

“They fear a conspiracy,” Shulgin said, his tone dismissive. “Some political skulduggery.”

“Is this true?” the Tsarina demanded. She looked at them for the first time, concentrating her attentions on Pavel, but her gaze was neutral, neither censorious nor inquisitive.

“It is one possibility,” Ruzsky said.

“Then it should be a matter for the Okhrana.”

“If it pleases Your Highness.”

“Is it a matter for the Okhrana?” She made no attempt to conceal her impatience.

“Yes.”

“Then why are they not here instead of you?”

“I don’t know, Your Majesty. Perhaps they will be.”

The Tsarina hesitated. “You give swift answers, Detective, and yet I do not believe them.”

Ruzsky did not respond.

“Why have you not found Ella’s killer?”

Ruzsky looked at Shulgin, whose expression now appeared to carry more than a hint of apology for his mistress’s haughty manner. “We are working tirelessly, Your Highness,” Ruzsky said evenly. “But our resources are few. As I’m sure you are aware, the city has known better times.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Ruzsky immediately recognized his mistake. “The war, Your Majesty; a strain upon us all, but especially on your good self.”

“The Tsar is returning to the front,” she said. Perhaps realizing this had little relevance, she added: “We will prevail.” It was said with finality, but she did not move.

Shulgin coughed nervously. They all examined the highly polished floor.

“Why do you think Ella was murdered by a revolutionary?” the Tsarina asked.

“It is only a theory,” Ruzsky said, not wishing to contradict her.

“Tell me about it.”

Ruzsky glanced at Shulgin again, but was given no lead. The colonel was still staring discreetly at his boots.

“Your Majesty, Ella’s lover, the American, was a notorious agitator.”

“An American?”

“Yes.”

“What was he doing in Petrograd?”

“We don’t know.”

“You have spoken to the Okhrana. To Vasilyev, to that other tiresome, arrogant man…” She snorted in distaste.

“Ivan Alexandrovich, ma’am,” Shulgin said.

“Prokopiev. Yes. Have you spoken to them?”

“We have.” Ruzsky answered.

“What do they have to say on the matter?”

“I believe they were informed some weeks ago that the American would be returning to the capital.”

The Tsarina looked at him sharply. Her eyes had narrowed. Ruzsky knew that he was playing with fire, but had been unable to resist. “Who told you that?” she asked.

“The American embassy.”

“The American embassy? That ridiculous man…”

“A Mr. Morris, ma’am,” Shulgin offered.

The Tsarina stared at Ruzsky. “You don’t seem to have achieved very much, Investigator…”

“Ruzsky.”

“Ah, yes. Your father is the assistant minister of finance.”

The Empress seemed on the verge of making some dismissive remark, but thought better of it. “So am I to understand that a member of the imperial household was stabbed in the center of our city, and yet you know nothing of who killed her, or why?”

“We believe that the American may have had something to do with whatever it was that she stole from you.”

“Who told you that she stole from me?” The Tsarina glared at Shulgin.

“With respect, you did, Your Majesty,” Ruzsky said. He could no longer recall if this was true, or whether he had first learned of Ella’s alleged crime from Anna Vyrubova, but he wanted to see if he could catch the Empress off balance.

“You must try harder,” she said, before turning on Shulgin. “This is an absolute disgrace. Speak to Vasilyev and-”

“I was under the impression that it had already been done,” Ruzsky said.

In the uneasy silence that followed, he could see that the Tsarina was caught between fury at the interruption and curiosity as to what he had meant.

“We were led to believe,” Ruzsky went on, “that the palace considered it in the nation’s best interests that the matter be given…” Ruzsky caught Pavel’s eye. He looked as if he was about to faint. “We were under the impression,” he said carefully, “that the palace had dwelt upon this matter, and did not consider it an item of high priority.”

Shulgin again became the focus of the Tsarina’s infuriation. “What’s this?”

“I have no idea.”

“What do you mean?” She turned back to Ruzsky.

“Exactly as I said, Your Highness. But I must have been mistaken. I apologize. You wish the matter to be given the highest priority?”

“Of course. An attack on one of our members of staff? What could be more important than that?”

Shulgin breathed in deeply as the Empress retired. For a moment, they were all co-conspirators, but his reserve quickly reasserted itself. He took a step back, as if to distance himself from the exchange that had just taken place.

“Please wait here for a moment,” he said.