The White Russian

52

R uzsky slept fully clothed in Michael’s bed, and was awake long before dawn.

He pulled back the tiny curtain. It was still snowing heavily, the gas lamps dull orbs in a sea of swirling darkness. But Ruzsky could see the sled. Its occupant was still there, wrapped in blankets.

Ruzsky checked his watch. It was almost six. The day was Friday, but he could not be certain of the date.

He walked across the hall. Dmitri had not returned. He searched the bedrooms on the lower floors for good measure, and then took a few minutes to shave.

When he had finished, Ruzsky climbed back to the top floor and walked slowly through the rooms. He wished to take leave carefully of his childhood home today. He looked at his own room, then Ilya and Dmitri’s.

He went to his father’s bedroom on the first floor.

Ruzsky stared at the carnations, which had begun to wilt, and surveyed his father’s silver hairbrushes, neatly set out on top of the dresser. He felt like a ghost, drifting silently through a former life.

Ruzsky picked up the telephone in the hall and asked the operator to connect him to the Hôtel de l’Europe. “Madam Ruzsky,” he said.

“What room number, sir?”

“I’m not certain.”

After a momentary delay, he was connected and a sleepy voice answered.

“Ingrid?”

“Sandro.”

“I’m sorry to wake you.”

“What is it, Sandro?”

“I just… wanted to check you were all right.”

“We’re fine. Michael is still asleep.”

“Will you stay in the hotel today? I know it is hard, but if it is possible…”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Just stay inside if you can.”

“Have you seen Dmitri?”

“No.” Ruzsky tried to sound untroubled. “But I’m going to look for him now. There’s something I need to talk to him about. He’s probably staying in the barracks, or perhaps he’s taken a room at the yacht club.”

“Of course.”

“Go back to sleep.”

“Goodbye, Sandro.”

Ruzsky went to find one of his father’s thick woolen overcoats from the cloakroom and took a new sheepskin hat from the shelf. As he put them on, he glanced once more around the darkened hallway, his gaze resting upon the scabbard on the wall just inside the drawing room door.

He hesitated only a moment more and then walked forward and out into the street, the front door slamming shut behind him.

It was snowing harder than ever. An Arctic wind chafed his ears as it whistled down from Palace Square. Ruzsky pulled down the flaps of his hat and began to walk, his eyes half closed against the driving snow. At this time and in this weather, the city was deserted; his only company was his pursuer.

Ruzsky deliberately walked through the Summer Gardens, forcing the Okhrana man to leave the sled and follow him on foot.

At the iron gates to the main Preobrazhensky barracks opposite the Tavrichesky Garden, a sergeant in the guard box eyed him suspiciously before wiping away the condensation that had gathered upon his window and pulling it back. “Yes.”

“I’m looking for Major Ruzsky.”

“At this time in the morning?” He was one of the old school. On his top lip, he sported a long and elegant mustache with fine, waxed curls at its tips. He consulted his list. “No. Not present.”

“Has he been at all, during the night?”

“Do I look like his mother?”

“You haven’t seen him?”

“Who is asking?”

“His brother, Alexander Ruzsky.”

The man shook his head.

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

Ruzsky retraced his steps past the Summer Gardens, through Millionnaya Street, and across the lonely expanse of Palace Square to St. Isaac’s, the Astoria, and finally the yacht club. It was the same story here. The doorman knew Dmitri well-they all did. But he had not seen him for several days.

Ruzsky checked his watch once more before continuing on his cold and lonely walk down Morskaya, past the gilded window of the jeweler Fabergé, and the dusty premises of Watkins, the old English bookseller.

As he turned toward the Tsarskoe Selo Station, Ruzsky had almost forgotten that the man from the Okhrana was behind him, but when he looked around, he was only about twenty yards away. He had abandoned all pretense of concealment.

Waiting by the ornate gates of the Alexander Palace at Tsarskoe Selo little more than an hour later, Ruzsky pulled his coat tight around him. He was cold now, through to his core.

The palace grounds were deserted. The sentry had retreated to his box. In the building overlooking the gate, an officer of the palace police watched him.

Ruzsky tried to light a cigarette, but soon gave up. He had lost all feeling in his feet, and bashed his boots hard to try and restore it. His welcoming committee was taking a damned long time.

At length, the guard instructed him to proceed. He pointed at the near corner of the palace. “They are waiting,” he said.

Ruzsky began to walk, his head tipped forward against the wind.

Another uniformed guard was standing outside the large wooden doors to the family’s private wing, and he ushered Ruzsky up the steps and into the hall. He took off his hat, coat, and gloves and tried unsuccessfully to prevent the snow from falling on the polished wooden floor. A footman removed them from his arm.

Colonel Shulgin strode down the corridor toward him. His face was like granite, but his eyes communicated a different message, perhaps, Ruzsky thought, comradeship or compassion. “Come this way, please,” he said.

Ruzsky followed.

Shulgin led him to the antechamber and they sat in a pair of upholstered chairs beneath the portrait of Marie Antoinette. Ruzsky glanced up at it. He had once been told that it hung over the Empress’s desk.

They waited. Shulgin examined his hands. “I’m sorry about your father,” he said beneath his breath. He stared dead ahead. “I had not imagined…”

“I must speak with you.”

They heard footsteps from the direction of the Empress’s private apartments. She swept into the room, wearing a dark dress with a cream brooch at the neck. Shulgin and Ruzsky both stood and bowed low.

The Empress waved them back to their seats and took one opposite. She was about to start speaking when they heard a child’s cry in the distance. She began to get up, then chose to ignore it and sat down, smoothing the front of her dress.

There was another scream, a boy’s, high-pitched and heartfelt. This time the Empress stood, turned, and departed without a word.

Ruzsky listened to her rapid footsteps. “Colonel Shulgin. I very much need to-”

“Later, Chief Investigator. Please bear in mind where you are.”

At length, the Empress returned. She offered no explanation, nor apology, and after they had repeated their bows and seated themselves once more, she stared at the floor. Ruzsky wondered if she was having difficulty remembering why he was here, or even who he was. A phrase from his father’s letter echoed in his mind: She has become quite unhinged…

What struck him most was how tired she looked; in fact more than tired. He himself was exhausted, and so, by the look of it, was Shulgin, but the fatigue in the Tsarina’s eyes was of a wholly different nature. Her face and mouth were pinched, her eyes hollow. She gave the impression of having to exert a gigantic effort of will simply to articulate a question.

“You have not recovered…” She sighed and placed her head in her hand for a moment, as if once again having to steel herself to think straight. “You have not recovered the girl’s possessions?”

Ruzsky did not answer. He could not imagine what he was supposed to say.

“The chief investigator is primarily conducting a murder investigation,” Shulgin said. Ruzsky noticed the tension in his voice and face. He wondered whether any of them had had any sleep.

The Empress did not appear to understand. She frowned heavily at Shulgin.

“This is the chief investigator, ma’am. Chief Investigator Ruzsky. He was assigned to investigate Ella’s murder. Since then, there have been three more victims.”

“But you have still not recovered her… possessions?”

Ruzsky stared at the Empress. He wondered if she was on some kind of sedative. “No, Your Majesty.”

“Then why have you come here?”

There was silence.

“You instructed me to summon him, ma’am,” Shulgin said. The strain in his voice was barely hidden now.

“He has not got to the bottom of it.”

“No, ma’am. He has not.”

They heard a soft patter of feet. Ruzsky caught his breath. For a moment, he thought he’d seen a ghost. A girl with a shaven head, dressed completely in white, hovered in the doorway.

Anastasia. It was the Grand Duchess Anastasia.

Ruzsky could not take his eyes off her. She looked pale and unwell. There were deep shadows under her eyes. It had been two weeks ago that he’d seen her playing in front of the Alexander Palace with her brother and sisters, her long, dark hair framing a face of exceptional beauty.

“Mama?”

Anastasia came to her mother and whispered something in her ear.

The Empress hugged her, and Ruzsky noticed the way in which her mother’s fingers dug into her back as she held her.

The Tsarina released her daughter reluctantly. Anastasia smiled shyly at Ruzsky and Shulgin and then withdrew, glancing once more over her shoulder as she reached the doorway.

The Empress stood and followed.

“Measles?” Ruzsky whispered, pointing at his hair.

Shulgin nodded.

Ruzsky waited. The minutes ticked by, but Shulgin did not meet his eye. “Why am I here?” he asked.

“Because the Empress summoned you.”

“But why-”

“No reason is required, Chief Investigator.”

“May I be assured that you will speak to me when this audience is at an end?”

Shulgin sighed. “Your father’s death will be discussed at the Imperial Council tomorrow morning. In the meantime, I am empowered to offer my most profound condolences.”

They heard the Empress’s footsteps. As she reentered the room, she appeared to be in some pain.

She sat awkwardly, and looked at him. “You have not found the girl’s possessions?”

“I was not aware, Your Majesty, that we were looking-”

“So, you have not found them?”

Shulgin’s eyes flashed a warning.

“No, Your Majesty,” Ruzsky said.

“You have found nothing, then?”

They endured another lengthy silence.

“Have you spoken to Mr. Vasilyev?”

“On a number of occasions, Your Majesty.”

“You are working together on the case?”

“Together… yes.”

Shulgin leaned forward. “The chief investigator’s father was the assistant minister of finance, ma’am, if you recall…”

“Yes,” she said.

Ruzsky waited for condolences to be offered, but the Empress continued to look straight through him.

“Very reliable family,” Shulgin added.

“Is that reliable in the general sense, or the specific?” she asked. “As reliable as most of our reliable families?” The Empress glared at Shulgin before turning her attention back to Ruzsky. She seemed more alert now. “Your father met with an accident?”

Ruzsky hesitated. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry for it.”

“That’s kind of you, Your Majesty.”

“Does this mean you will give up on the case?”

“Of course not.”

Her expression became opaque once more. “But you have not yet recovered any of the girl’s possessions,” she said again.

“No, Your Majesty. We were not aware any were missing.”

“Has he spoken to that filthy newspaper?” she snapped at Shulgin.

“No, ma’am. Vasilyev has taken care of that.”

“But they will not be publishing what the American took to them? We have a guarantee of that?”

“Yes.”

They heard another cry. It was fainter now, but Ruzsky could see the son’s pain mirrored in the mother. “Yes,” she said, distracted. “Well…”

For a moment, Ruzsky saw the despair in Shulgin’s eyes, before the colonel lowered his head and stared at the floor. The Empress stood. “I wish to be informed immediately when you have recovered the girl’s possessions. I wish this matter to be given the most urgent priority. I don’t want to have to go through this again.”

Anastasia and one of her elder sisters had returned to the doorway. They stared silently, round-eyed, at the two men who had been occupying their mother’s attention. As the Empress reached them, she bent and placed her arms around their shoulders, ushering them gently from the room.

Ruzsky watched Shulgin staring into the empty doorway.

The court official forced himself back to the present, sighed deeply, and stood. He muttered something under his breath, before leading Ruzsky back down the corridor. All the doors were shut, but Ruzsky could still hear the young boy’s whimpering.

In the hallway, Ruzsky accepted his coat.

“I’m sorry,” Shulgin said.

“The American took the material Ella stole to a newspaper?”

Shulgin glanced around him to be sure they were alone. “The Bourse Gazette.” He hesitated. “I’m sorry I brought you here, but she insisted.”

“I had the impression that you and my father were old friends.”

Shulgin stared at him with hollow eyes. “Your father knew too much, Sandro. And so do I.”

“As the minister responsible for the State Bank, he had to sign papers authorizing any movement of the gold reserves from the central vault?”

“If he told you that, then he should not have.”

“He was reluctant to sign the papers?”

“I simply cannot discuss this.” Shulgin sighed. “He had his reservations.”

“Vasilyev persuaded you all that this was necessary?”

“Mr. Vasilyev is in possession of much intimidating and unpleasant information.” A muscle in Shulgin’s cheek had begun to twitch. “I needed little persuading of the seriousness of our predicament.” Shulgin looked over his shoulder again, aware that he had raised his voice.

“So my father signed the papers?”

Shulgin avoided Ruzsky’s eye, but he did not deny it.

“But he wanted to countermand his order? That’s why he called the meeting with Vasilyev?”

“He did not telephone me before the meeting.”

“You must know that Vasilyev’s intention was-and is-robbery. He had assembled the group, of which Ella was a part, for precisely that purpose.”

“The group you refer to has dedicated itself to creating great difficulties for the government and its servants, and in that, I may say, it has been very successful, thanks largely to the activities of that silly, misguided girl.”

“Vasilyev knew all of these people in Yalta. Borodin may appear to be their leader, but Vasilyev-”

“He has infiltrated the group most successfully, for which we should all be grateful.”

“He controls them.”

“He is able to provide substantial reports on their activities, which the Emperor, in particular, appreciates.”

“They’re Vasilyev’s creatures. I have seen the evidence with my own eyes.”

“Well, then, present it. I am not at liberty to mistrust a government colleague upon whose advice so much now rests.”

“He has convinced you that today or tomorrow will bring revolutionary activity on such a scale that the regime’s wealth must be put beyond the reach of the mob?”

“That is a matter upon which I cannot and must not comment.” There was a stubborn determination to Shulgin now.

“My father didn’t trust him,” Ruzsky said.

“That’s not a matter for me.”

“And neither do you.”

“I have no choice,” Shulgin hissed, his face moving closer to Ruzsky’s, his eyes blazing. “The publication of the material stolen from the Empress’s private quarters would have the most damaging possible consequences.”

“What was stolen?”

“I cannot say. And do not press me. As the Empress has indicated, the details are not a matter for the city police department.”

“She brought me here only to ask about her stolen possessions.”

“She is naturally concerned and, at times, confused, about to whom she has spoken, and to whom she has not.”

Ruzsky looked at Shulgin. He could see the futility of his task. “Whatever Ella stole could be the final nail in the Romanov coffin,” he said. “Or so Vasilyev has claimed. But my father realized what he really had in mind.”

“Good day, Chief Investigator.”

Ruzsky turned away, but as he did so, he caught a glimpse of Shulgin’s unguarded expression. He had the look of a man who has felt someone walking across his grave.