The White Russian

54

A nother crowd of protesters was streaming past the entrance to the city police headquarters. The demonstrations seemed to Ruzsky to be getting bigger, but quieter. This one was led by a group of Tartar waiters carrying a banner demanding “fair tips” and he would have laughed, but there was nothing amusing about the hunger he saw in every face.

Ruzsky glanced over his shoulder at the automobile that had pulled up behind them. Vasilyev’s men were also momentarily distracted by the protest.

The last stragglers passed by and Ruzsky and Pavel crossed the road. A constable stood between two men in handcuffs in front of the incident desk.

Ruzsky climbed the stairs fast, pulling away from Pavel. In the central area of the Criminal Investigation Division, he passed Maretsky, who stood at his own window, watching the march.

Another pile of papers had accumulated upon Ruzsky’s desk, on top of which was a note from Veresov, headed Bodies on the Neva.

Veresov had found no match for the fingerprints on the dagger in their files, so, whoever the killer was, he did not have a criminal record. Perhaps it was his imagination, but it seemed to Ruzsky that the present uncertainty was seeping into every corner of the city. No one was concentrating.

He poked his head around Maretsky’s door, ignoring the sporadic shouts from below. “What about the knife?”

The little man turned around, his porcine eyes examining Ruzsky as though he were a complete stranger. “I’m sorry?”

“The knife. The murder weapon.”

“Oh. Professor Egorov will be back soon,” he said.

“I thought you said he was due to return several days ago?”

“He has been delayed.”

Maretsky faced the street again and Ruzsky returned to his office, closing the door quietly behind him. He picked up the telephone. “Could you put me through to the university?” he asked.

There was a long wait.

“Porter’s lodge,” a voice answered.

“Might I speak to or leave a message for Professor Egorov.”

“Professor Egorov?”

“Yes.”

“We have no Professor Egorov.”

Ruzsky stared at Pavel, who stopped riffling through his own paperwork.

“Are you there?” the voice asked.

“Yes. You’re sure?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you,” Ruzsky said.

The professor was sitting behind his desk, staring at his hands. He looked up as Ruzsky returned, and closed his eyes.

Ruzsky took a seat opposite and waited for an explanation.

“I admire you, Ruzsky,” Maretsky said quietly, opening his eyes. “You’re honest. And you don’t judge people.”

“That’s not true.”

“You don’t judge me.”

Ruzsky looked at Maretsky with compassion. “Who am I to judge anyone?”

“Anton is a good man.”

Ruzsky did not see what the professor was getting at.

“He has tried to protect us. But they know everything that we do, so it is hard for him.”

“I don’t see-”

“We have to be careful what information we bring into the building, don’t you see that?”

Ruzsky inclined his head.

“I gave the knife to a colleague. His name is not Egorov. I will take you to see him.” Maretsky stood and put on his coat.

They crossed the bridge from Palace Embankment to Vasilevsky Island, where the cab turned left and slithered down toward the Twelve Colleges building at the far end of the street. Ruzsky made a point of not looking around to check whether they were still being followed, but Maretsky could not restrain himself. “It’s all right, old man,” Pavel told him jovially, but Ruzsky could sense the tension in his voice, too.

There were two black automobiles on their tail now.

They were not far from Ruzsky’s dilapidated rooms here, but their surroundings could not have been more different. Built to house the government of Peter the Great at the foundation of St. Petersburg, the beautiful red and white buildings of the Twelve Colleges had long ago been taken over by the university. Like so much of the landscape of the city, they had been designed to project the power and majesty of the Russian Empire.

As the three of them climbed down from the droshky, the Okhrana’s vehicles pulled up on the other side of the street. The still-falling snow blurred the day’s journey into night.

Maretsky led them through the stone archway and up to a long, cavernous corridor. They passed a handful of students wrapped up against the cold.

Maretsky stopped, knocked once on a door to their right, and, upon receiving a reply, opened it to usher them in.

Professor Egorov’s alter ego was a tub of a man, with a drooping white mustache and steady, pale blue eyes. His dusty rooms gave the impression of someone rarely troubled by a world beyond its four walls, and for a moment, Ruzsky envied him the tranquillity of his environment.

The professor knew immediately who he was. He emerged from behind his desk and produced the murder weapon from a drawer. He handed it to Ruzsky. “It’s Persian. The date suggests it was inscribed during the period of conflict over northern Azerbaijan, which lasted through 1812 and 1813.”

“What does it say?” Ruzsky asked.

“It bears the name of a Russian general.”

“Which one?”

The professor did not relish the question. “Nicholas Nikolaevich Ruzsky. Your great-grandfather, I assume. Or a generation before?” He shook his head. “It belongs to your father?”

“Sandro,” Pavel called as Ruzsky marched down the outer corridor. But Ruzsky was no longer listening. He moved rapidly away, eager for the cold night air to clear his head.

“Sandro, wait,” Pavel called again, his voice echoing in the hallway. Ruzsky did not stop.