The White Russian

35

R uzsky strolled back down the winding alley to the promenade. He had established from Godorkin that the Tatyana Committee Convalescent Home was on the other side of the hill, overlooking the next bay, but even if Maria had gone there to see her sister, neither the prevailing atmosphere nor Ruzsky’s state of mind encouraged haste.

He needed time to think.

He stopped and leaned against the wrought iron railings. A group of small boys was throwing stones on the shingle beach below, trying to land them in a small pool of water they’d dug in the sand. Farther down, a man was selling cold drinks from a cheerful red and white stall.

Ruzsky straightened. He crossed the road and walked into the hotel lobby. He climbed the stairs to the first floor and knocked on Pavel’s door. There was no answer. He cursed under his breath. It was unlike Pavel not to have left a note. Beside him, in the corridor, a palm tree fluttered in the breeze from an open window.

Perhaps his departure from the train had upset his old friend more than he’d imagined. Ruzsky rubbed his hand hard across his face and groaned inwardly. He supposed it had been a typically selfish gesture. He walked toward the stairs again. He needed that cheery, gregarious face now.

The Moorish palace at Livadia was cut from almost translucent white stone. Ruzsky was admitted to the grounds by the security guards at the gate and told to wait in the sunshine beside the front steps. He squinted heavily, shading his eyes as he watched one gardener clipping a hedge while another scrubbed the stonework around the fountain. The garden, like so much of Yalta, was green even at this time of year, packed full of the distinctive narrow firs and tall palm trees.

The man who came to meet him was exceptionally tall and lugubrious, but without the military bearing Ruzsky had grown to expect in palace officials. He stooped slightly, as if weighed down by his long, drooping nose. He was thin almost to the point of emaciation, and superior to the point of being immediately irritating. A much lesser individual, Ruzsky judged, than Shulgin at Tsarskoe Selo. “You are the investigator?” the man said, his voice so soft that it was hard to hear.

Ruzsky nodded expectantly as he listened to the clip-clip-clip of the shears behind him.

“How can I help you?” He had not bothered to introduce himself.

“And you are?” Ruzsky asked.

“I am the chief officer of the household.”

“You have, I’m sure, already spoken to my colleague.”

The man inclined his head. “I do not believe so.”

Ruzsky frowned. “He came here yesterday, direct from the police station. A big man, with a generous beard. Investigator Miliutin. Pavel Miliutin.”

The man shook his head, his confusion genuine.

“Perhaps he spoke to someone else?” Ruzsky asked.

“That’s not possible. I was here all day. If he had called, the guards would have sent for me.”

Ruzsky was silent. He turned to face the sea and watched the gardeners at work again. He wanted to leave now, but suddenly had no idea where to go. Pavel must have been onto something. He must have followed a lead.

“How can I help you?” the man asked, and now his supercilious manner annoyed Ruzsky.

“Ella Kovyil.”

The official frowned again.

“She used to work here. Her father was a noncommissioned officer in the Preobrazhenskys. She was taken on as a nanny to the Tsarevich in the summer of 1910.”

“It may be.”

“It may be, or it was?”

Perhaps the man sensed Ruzsky’s unease. His patronizing manner melted away and his face grew more serious. “It was.”

“You were here?”

“I recall the girl, if that is what you mean.”

“Tell me about her.”

The man tilted his head a fraction and appraised his interlocutor properly for the first time. “You have come a long way, Chief Investigator. What is the nature of your inquiry?”

“Ella was found with a knife in her chest in front of the Winter Palace on New Year’s morning. Her companion was cut to bits.”

The man did not react. His expression was sober, but neutral.

“Did you know when you employed her that she was a member of a revolutionary organization?”

Now the lugubrious bureaucrat looked as if he had seen a ghost.

“She was part of a cell of the Black Terror that met regularly through the spring and summer of 1910, at different venues in Yalta.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“But it’s true.” Ruzsky was enjoying his power to shock, even if he wasn’t enjoying much else. “The question that I have is a simple one. Who was responsible for vetting her before she took up her post in the nursery here?”

The man shook his head. “She was only here a short time. I could never have-”

“Who was responsible for ensuring she had the correct security clearance to take a job working in close, daily contact with the heir to the throne? The chief of police in the town, isn’t that so?”

“She was from Yalta,” the man answered defensively. “She’d lived here all her life. We naturally assumed that if there was anything amiss, then it would have come to the attention of the chief of police. And of course, Mr. Vasilyev is now…” He trailed off, not wishing to offer a criticism.

“The information that I have just given you,” Ruzsky said, “was gleaned from Mr. Vasilyev’s files here in Yalta.”

The official stared out to sea. He pressed his finger against the skin above his lip, as if smoothing an imaginary mustache.

Ruzsky left him. He wanted to find Pavel. He wanted to find Pavel now.

On the journey down the hill, Ruzsky rested his head on the back of the horse-drawn cab and gazed up at the unblemished sky.

The path was dusty and the cab threw up a cloud behind it which was blown gently across the rocky scrubland.

He considered the possibility that Ella had once been a police agent, but could not see it. The girl of his imagination, and of her own mother’s description, was too timid for such a thing. And yet, she’d continued in her doomed love affair against the wishes of her family, and had stolen something intensely personal from the most powerful woman in Russia -or had tried to.

The cab stopped in front of the hotel and Ruzsky climbed down into the street. He paid the driver and noticed as he did so that a different man sat behind the red and white stall on the promenade. He seemed to be consciously avoiding his eye, even though the street was almost deserted.

Ruzsky put the change in his pocket. He watched the group of boys he’d seen earlier climb the steps from the beach and walk off in the direction he’d just come from.

Ruzsky patted the cabbie’s horse. The man at the stall still didn’t look at him.

He turned around and moved slowly into the lobby of the hotel.

He knew people were watching. Everyone seemed suddenly too busy. The air of indolence had been replaced by one of unnatural industry. Only the palm trees still swaying in the gentle breeze bore witness to the hotel’s normal, relaxed atmosphere.

Ruzsky approached the desk. The clerk gave him a frozen smile.

Ruzsky heard himself ask if his colleague had returned, but now, when the man shook his head, Ruzsky could see that he was lying.

The world seemed to turn more slowly. Ruzsky felt the screeching in his ears that he remembered from the day of Ilusha’s death-and the sense of everything around him disintegrating.

He watched his boots as he climbed the stone steps.

The first-floor landing was deserted, the window still open, another palm swaying in the breeze. A fan turned on the ceiling above him.

Ruzsky crossed the wooden floor toward Pavel’s room. He saw the gold number eleven on the big green door and heard his own knock, though he could barely feel the impact on his knuckles.

There was no reply.

He knocked again.

Ruzsky hammered harder. “Pavel.”

He waited.

“Pavel!” he shouted.

He reached inside his jacket for his revolver. “Pavel!” he bellowed again.

The corridor and the room within remained silent. No one had come to investigate the source of the shouting.

Ruzsky put his shoulder to the door and shoved. He stepped back and kicked it. He tried again with his shoulder and it suddenly gave.

The room was dark, thick, embroidered curtains tightly drawn.

Pavel Miliutin lay facedown on the bed, a naked arm trailing along the floor.

Ruzsky did not move. The silent breeze cooled his face. His head spun and he pushed himself forward. He opened his mouth to shout, but no sound came out.

He reached his friend and heaved him roughly over, pitching him onto the floor.

The sunlight spilled onto his face. Pavel opened his eyes. “Sandro?” His breath reeked of vodka.

Ruzsky stood up, gave him a firm kick, and then slumped down on the bed. He saw the bottle of vodka on the floor beside him. “You idiot,” he said.

Pavel heaved himself up, frowning heavily. He rubbed his eyes. “Why didn’t you answer the door?” Ruzsky asked.

“What time is it?”

“Time I got a new deputy.”

“Be my guest.” Pavel frowned again. “What happened to the door?”

“You didn’t answer when I knocked. Everyone in the lobby was behaving as if they knew something that I didn’t.”

“They’ve been like that for days.” Pavel yawned and rubbed his forehead again. “They know we’re being watched.”

Ruzsky strode forward, tore the curtain back from the window, picked up his revolver from where he had dropped it, and stepped out onto the balcony. The red and white stall on the promenade had disappeared.

The street was deserted, the light rapidly fading.

Ruzsky waited, but there was no sign of life. Even the waves seemed quieter.

He came back into the room. The last of the sunlight illuminated Pavel’s creased face.

They both heard the quick footsteps of someone running in the street and Ruzsky looked down to see a man in a dark suit-young, with long hair-sprinting with his arm stretched back behind his shoulder.

For a moment, he was paralyzed, his eyes on the black cylinder as it left the man’s hand.

Ruzsky took two quick paces and hit Pavel, knocking him to the floor as the bomb thumped against the wooden frame of the balcony door and then fell to the ground.

There was a moment’s silence.

The explosion sucked the air from the room, filling it instead with a deafening roar.

Ruzsky moved his arms first and was relieved to find he could feel the broken glass around him. He tried to push himself to his feet and was able to do so without any pain. He could find no signs of injury, save for some blood on his face.

He put his hand against the wall to steady himself.

Pavel was staring at him, his face white. “All right?” Ruzsky asked, but his ears were ringing.

Ruzsky turned and leaned against the wall.

The curtain still twisted in the breeze, but the windows had been shattered, along with the woodwork of the door. Pavel pushed himself to his feet. It was clear to both of them that they had been saved by the way the bomb had bounced back off the window frame before exploding, the force of the blast twisting the balcony’s iron balustrade.

Ruzsky walked toward the door across broken glass, but Pavel moved swiftly to intercept him, a giant hand upon his shoulder. “Where in the hell do you think you’re going?” he bellowed. Pavel had small specks of broken glass in his beard.

“Let’s find him.”

“No.” Pavel shook his head and it was clear he was not going to let go. “They’ll be waiting for us.”

“If we catch the man, we can find who sent him.”

“We know who did.” Pavel prized Ruzsky’s gun from his hand and shoved it into his own pocket, then wedged the door shut as best he could and manhandled Ruzsky across the room. He pushed him into the chair and sat himself on the bed.

They watched the red sun sink slowly toward the bay. The wind was still fresh, the world around them quiet.

There were hushed voices in the road outside.

“No one is coming,” Ruzsky said.

Pavel did not answer.

The voices died away and only the sound of the waves disturbed the peace.

“No one from the hotel has been up,” Ruzsky said.

Pavel still didn’t respond.

“Nor Godorkin.”

Pavel stood. He took out his own revolver and handed Ruzsky’s back to him, then brushed the glass from his clothes and beard.

“What should we do?” Ruzsky felt disoriented. He was conscious of how rarely he had looked to Pavel for a lead.

“They’re waiting for us,” Pavel said. “So we’re not going to give them the satisfaction of wandering out.” He moved toward the door. “I’ll have a look around. You stay here.”

Pavel pulled back the broken door, his footsteps receding rapidly in the corridor. After he’d gone, Ruzsky took out a cigarette and smoked it.

The night brought a chill to the air, but he didn’t move. Moonlight crept through the shadows, the smoke melting into it.

He wondered where she was.

Ruzsky heard footsteps in the corridor and forced himself to concentrate. He stood and moved as quietly as he could into the darkest corner, facing the door.

The man was moving fast, with steady, straightforward steps. The door was pushed back and Pavel’s bulky figure silhouetted against the light.

“I can’t see anyone,” he said. He moved over to the wall to look out of the window. “There is an alley which we can reach from the balcony on the first floor of the far wing.”

A shot rang out, the bullet thumping against what was left of the woodwork around the window and then ricocheting inside. Pavel slammed himself back against the wall.

Ruzsky stood. Without a word, he tugged at his partner’s coat and began to drag him in the direction of the door. “We’ll gain nothing by staying.”

Pavel led the way down the corridor outside, into the darkness of the opposite wing. One of the long windows at the far end was creaking gently in the breeze and Pavel reached it and looked down at the alley below. “Swing from the balcony, drop, and then run. I’ll go first.”

“No.” Ruzsky pulled him back roughly. “You watch.”

Ruzsky glanced up and down the lane. On the far side, a tobacconist’s sign swung from a long wooden pole.

He stepped out onto the balcony, swung himself over, and landed quietly in the dust. The sea glinted in the moonlight and the only sound was the gentle roll of waves onto the shore.

He crossed to the other side and watched as Pavel jumped.

Ruzsky pointed down the alley to indicate the direction they should go and then led the way, trying to keep to the shadows. He glanced around the corner. Light spilled from the back of the hotel in a wide arc.

Ruzsky left the shelter of the wall and began to walk away. He heard a shout and then a shot. He ducked his head and ran, turning to check that Pavel was still with him.

He pounded over the river, swung left onto Yalta ’s fashionable Pushkinskaya and then right into a narrow alley that led off it. He slowed as he ran up the hill into the warren of Tartar houses.

They rounded another corner and Ruzsky pulled Pavel to the ground beside him.

They looked back down the slope, breathing heavily.

Two men in dark suits and fedoras dashed into the light. Ruzsky aimed carefully at the first.

He fired once and watched the man fold. The other ducked into the shadows and shouted for assistance.

Ruzsky pulled Pavel to his feet.

They ran again, the alleys getting narrower and steeper, all crisscrossed by lines of washing.

There were more shouts behind them. Pavel hissed, “Stop,” his voice low but hoarse. Ruzsky waited while his partner regained his breath.

A window opened above, the alley bathed in light as a woman came to the window. She saw them standing in the darkness opposite and heard the shouts of their pursuers. She stared at them for a moment and then pulled the shutters closed again.

“Come on,” Ruzsky said.

They moved at a slower pace, but the warren of alleys gave them the advantage. At the top of the hill, Ruzsky led them across the road and into the shelter of a cypress tree.

They sat against its trunk, trying to catch their breath. Pavel’s forehead glistened with sweat. Ruzsky watched the road.

They heard a horse whinny and then saw a cab race up the hill to the crossroads.

In the moonlight, they could both clearly make out the figure of Ivan Prokopiev climbing out of the cab, the sea shimmering behind him. He was wearing a long black cloak and stood with his hands on his hips, facing the alley up which they had just walked. The horse breathed heavily from the exertion, snorting into the night air.

Two of their pursuers emerged.

“No sign,” one said, in response to Prokopiev’s barked question.

“Impossible,” Prokopiev snapped. “Go back.”

The men swung around reluctantly and began to jog down the hill. Prokopiev waited for a few minutes and then turned around. Ruzsky wondered whether he had sensed their presence, but they were well hidden.

They listened to the sound of the cicadas.

The secret policeman got back into the cab, standing tall as he looked down over the town. Then he sat and barked at the driver to continue along the straight road ahead, disappearing in a cloud of dust.

Neither Pavel nor Ruzsky moved until he was out of sight.

They stood in silence. Ruzsky considered lighting a cigarette, then thought better of it.

“Which way?” Pavel asked.

“Hold on a minute.”

“What’s the point in waiting? They’ll be back.”

“We’re well hidden.”

Neither man spoke.

Ruzsky closed his eyes and tried to gather his thoughts. The peace of the night was beguiling.

“I have something I need to do,” he said eventually. “We can walk over the hill, then get transport from there in the morning. Or you can stay here, and I’ll come back to get you.”

“What is it that you need to do?”

“I need to find someone.”

“Why?”

“I’ll explain when we get there.”

“Explain now. Don’t tell me it has to do with the girl.”

Ruzsky didn’t answer.

“Sometimes-”

“I found the names of our victims in Godorkin’s files,” Ruzsky said. “I looked through all the paperwork for 1910 and found nothing. So I tried by name and still drew a blank. Then I found the political files. All three of our corpses were part of a cell of the Black Terror here in Yalta.”

“The assassins?”

“Yes.”

Pavel shook his head sorrowfully.

“The files detail meetings through the spring and summer of 1910. There are six names in the reports: Ella, the American White, Markov-”

“The one we found by the Lion Bridge?”

“Yes. Then a man called Borodin, another woman, and Maria Popova.”

“Your Maria?”

“Maria Popova, yes.”

Pavel was silent. They stared at the crossroads. A crude sign had the word Yalta in one direction and Sevastopol in the other.

“She is a revolutionary? An assassin?”

Ruzsky did not respond.

“So, what did they do, this group?” Pavel asked.

“In the file that I saw, they were engaged in planning a train robbery. All surveillance was called off two or three weeks before it happened and there are no further references to that or anything else in the file. After it, the records come to an end.”

“So where is Maria Popova now?”

Ruzsky sighed heavily. His desire to strike out on his own was overwhelming, but he knew Pavel would never accept it. “She said she was going to a sanatorium to see her sister.” Ruzsky eased himself gently to his feet, leaning against the tree trunk.

“Did she say which one?”

“Yes.”

Pavel stared out to sea, deep in thought. “Did you know she was going to be on that train?”

Ruzsky hesitated. “Yes.”

“Did she ask you to join her?”

“No.”

“Did she know that you would be coming to Yalta?”

“No.”

Pavel looked at him. “If this sanatorium exists, what makes you think she’ll still be there?”

Ruzsky shrugged.

“Sandro,” Pavel said, “come on.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s one of them. She has lured you down here into a trap. If she gave you the name of this sanatorium, who is to say they won’t be waiting for us when we get there?”

“I’ll go alone.”

“That’s not the point.” Pavel’s voice was gentle and full of compassion. “I understand how you feel, but please face the facts as they are.”

“I know how it might look,” Ruzsky said softly, “but it’s not like that.”

“Love is blind.”

Ruzsky shook his head. “I understand what you say and why, but it’s-”

“It’s about faith.”

“Yes.”

“Well… I trust your judgment. More than anyone’s,” Pavel said.

“Why don’t you stay here. I’ll-”

“From now on, we stick together. What was Borodin doing in Yalta?”

“I don’t know,” Ruzsky replied.

“This is the same man… the Bolshevik?”

“I assume so.”

“Well, what about the American. What was he doing here?”

Ruzsky shook his head.