The White Russian

38

O n the top floor of the Okhrana’s headquarters, the dull afternoon sun fringed Vasilyev’s head, his office silent but for the ticking of a clock on the far wall.

The chief of the secret police stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his shoulders hunched, his squat, round body blocking light from the window.

“Good day, gentlemen,” he said.

Ahead, about eight or nine chairs had been assembled in a circle. Colonel Shulgin was already seated, and next to him, the assistant minister of finance, in a dark morning suit. Prokopiev stood behind them and Ruzsky knew instantly that he and Vasilyev were gauging his reaction to his father’s presence.

Ruzsky nodded toward Shulgin, then his father. “Your High Excellency,” he said. He sat and the other members of the city police took their places on either side of him. Shulgin shuffled his papers, glancing through them as if to refresh his memory.

Vasilyev and Prokopiev followed suit. As they did so, Ruzsky caught his father’s eye and saw the deep unease that lurked there.

Ruzsky adjusted his overcoat. He had his revolver in one pocket and the police department crime scene photographs in the other and both were digging into his ribs.

“Gentlemen,” Vasilyev said, surveying them carefully. “We know why we are here. Perhaps the chief investigator would like to tell us what he has discovered?” The head of the Okhrana took a white handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his face. Ruzsky detected the scent of cologne.

Vasilyev ran a finger across his forehead, along the line of his scar.

“We have continued to investigate the case,” Ruzsky said carefully. “By express order of Her Imperial Majesty.”

The room was hushed, but Ruzsky saw a muscle flexing in Vasilyev’s cheek. “You have been to Yalta?” he responded.

“Yes.”

“And what took you there?”

Ruzsky looked at the pale blue eyes, as steady and inanimate as crystal. “We had reason to believe that there was a connection between all three murder victims.”

“And did that prove to be correct?”

Ruzsky looked at Prokopiev, then Pavel. “Yes,” he said, “it did.”

“Perhaps you would like to give us a few more details?”

Ruzsky hesitated. Prokopiev, he calculated, would have spoken to Godorkin in Yalta. They must know exactly what he’d discovered. “The victims were all members of a cell of the Black Terror.”

Vasilyev glanced at Shulgin, then his father, and Ruzsky sensed that this was all for their benefit. “You once kept them under surveillance,” he added.

No one responded. Ruzsky realized that Shulgin and his father were already aware of this fact. “The American,” Shulgin said, turning toward Vasilyev. “From…”

“ Chicago,” Vasilyev responded.

“Yes. How did he first meet the girl Ella? How did he come to be in Yalta?”

“White’s mother bore the maiden name Kovyil.”

Ruzsky frowned. Was it the case that even Mrs. Kovyil had been lying to him? Hadn’t she given the impression that the American had been a stranger?

“So, White’s mother was originally from Yalta?” Shulgin asked.

Vasilyev nodded.

“How did she end up in Chicago?”

“She met a sailor.”

“White and the girl Ella were not lovers then?”

“They were cousins. That doesn’t stop them being lovers.”

Shulgin considered this. He looked at the papers in front of him.

“We were told by the Americans,” Vasilyev went on, “that there are some influential people back at home who would have liked to talk to White, had they been given the opportunity. Executives of a large steel company for one.”

“What did he do to them?”

“He kidnapped one of the men’s sons,” Prokopiev interjected, “a boy of six, then cut him into small pieces and delivered him to their door in a canvas sack.”

Prokopiev turned toward Ruzsky. Was that intended as a threat?

They were silent again. Ruzsky’s father stared at the table.

“This Friday,” Shulgin said. “In three days. That is…”

Vasilyev nodded gravely. “That is what our intelligence would suggest.”

Ruzsky wanted to ask a question, but held his tongue.

“We expect it to begin on Friday?”

“Friday or Saturday, yes.”

“What to begin?” Ruzsky asked.

Shulgin turned to face him. “It is of no import to the investigation.”

“But how can we-”

“It is not.” Shulgin’s tone was emphatic. “There is intelligence to suggest that antisocial elements will try to stir up trouble at the end of this week. It is not your concern.” Shulgin turned back to face Vasilyev, indicating he would brook no further discussion. Ruzsky wondered why he had chosen to bring the subject up. Was Shulgin deliberately trying to make him aware of something? “And this man…” Shulgin went on.

“Borodin,” Vasilyev responded.

“Yes, still no sign?”

“No.”

Shulgin sighed. “The murders.” He turned toward Ruzsky. “Were all three committed by the same man?” His tone had grown impatient.

Ruzsky deflected the question to Sarlov. The pathologist sniffed and pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose. “Yes,” he said, “I would say so.”

“Could you expand, Sarlov?” Anton asked. Ruzsky formed the impression, as he glanced at him, that his superior had been aware of the exact direction this conversation would take.

“I cannot say for certain.” Sarlov took off his glasses and began to use them to make his points. “I did not see the body from the Lion Bridge, but from a conversation with my colleague, I should say it is likely that all three victims were stabbed by a man of a similar height. More than six feet tall. The particular nature of the wounds”-Sarlov indicated with his glasses-“is the same in each case.”

“The murderer was a man?”

“Without doubt.”

Ruzsky’s father leaned forward. “If the dead are revolutionaries, as you say, then the question as to who is killing them is immaterial, isn’t it? Their deaths can hardly be considered a matter of the gravest concern.”

“We do not wish to give the impression that the state is indifferent to murder,” Vasilyev said, with heavy irony. It was a reference to Rasputin’s aristocratic killers and the Tsar’s lenient treatment of them. Shulgin did not react.

“The savagery of these murders makes them a cause for public concern,” he responded evenly.

They all looked at Ruzsky.

“What do you think lies behind these murders, Alexander Nikolaevich?” Vasilyev asked.

The chief of the Okhrana stared at him, his head bent forward. Ruzsky remained still, refusing to look away. Were the murders the work of this man? Had he been settling old scores?

“Thank you for your time, gentlemen,” Vasilyev said. “Naturally, we will need to continue to work together.”

It was a moment before Ruzsky realized that they were expected to leave. As they did so, Shulgin and his father remained seated.

Outside, Ruzsky began walking swiftly away, but Pavel caught up with him.

“Sandro,” he said, out of breath. “I know what you’re going to do.”

Ruzsky did not answer.

“If these murders are about what happened in Yalta, then you think she will be next.”

Ruzsky stopped.

“In any case, what was that all about?” Pavel’s face was earnest and well meaning and Ruzsky’s affection for him swelled again. He took out his cigarettes and offered his friend one.

They smoked them together, side by side, moving their feet against the cold and watching the group of their colleagues fifty yards away.

Anton, Maretsky, and Sarlov were waiting for their sled outside the gloomy entrance to the Okhrana’s headquarters. They, too, were huddled together and Ruzsky got the impression they were ignoring the pair of them.

“Why have they changed their tune?” Pavel asked. “The Okhrana, I mean.”

“They haven’t.”

“Then why do they want us to cooperate?”

“They don’t.”

“So what was that all about?”

Ruzsky watched Anton, Maretsky, and Sarlov getting into the sled. They did not look around. “I’m not certain.”

“Do you think Shulgin has forced them to cooperate?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s not how Vasilyev works. He’s the spider. He spins the webs.”

Pavel seemed disheartened again by this. Perhaps he had genuinely believed the investigation might be entering less stormy waters.

“I think we were there for Shulgin’s benefit, all right,” Ruzsky said, “so I would guess the Empress told him to call the meeting.”

“Why was your father present?” Pavel asked.

“I’m not certain. It may be that Vasilyev asked him to attend.” Ruzsky stared after the departing sled. “Perhaps it was an attempt to intimidate me. If you recall, my father did nothing to try and prevent me being exiled to Siberia. Vasilyev knows we don’t get on.” Ruzsky glanced over his shoulder. “No one watching us. If Prokopiev and his thugs didn’t manage to eliminate us in Yalta, will they try again?”

Pavel did not answer. He was staring at his feet.

“Should we be frightened, Pavel?”

“I don’t know, Sandro.”

Ruzsky took a long drag on his cigarette and then exhaled violently. “Christ,” he said.