THIRTY-THREE

A space of two weeks. Two weeks of waiting, fulfilling his non-duties as an Internal investigator. Two weeks of rising summer. In the sticky heat of the morning Ryzhkov went to Kryukov Street. Jekes and Dziga were packing up all their papers into pasteboard boxes. There was a boy, big for his age, smoking at the top of the stairwell. He stood up when Ryzhkov went up there. Inside everything had been torn down and was being packed up. There were trunkloads of transcripts, cabinets that were being secured by Ministry of Justice seals, mountains of file boxes containing photographic copies of the principals’ personal correspondence. Dossiers full of testimony. All of it, evidence.

In the glass offices Sinazyorksy had a troika of secretaries typing around the clock. Everyone looked exhausted.

Tomlinovich was asleep, halfway dressed in his formal clothing, collapsed upon a shelf of boxes beneath the windows beside the loading lift. Beside him was a rack of clothing and Fauré was methodically getting dressed and watching himself in the mirror they’d used to tailor Vera’s gown.

‘Ahh . . .’ he said when he saw Ryzhkov coming over. ‘A very auspicious day, Inspector.’

‘I certainly hope so,’ he said.

‘If God is willing by the end of the day we should be in the Winter Palace getting a signature from the Tsar himself. The government might fall, Ryzhkov,’ Fauré said, turning from the mirror. ‘Do you realize that? You are making history here. Or, actually, you aren’t because I’ve erased you from all our records, and I’ve used a code name for the divine Mademoiselle Aliyeva. I hope that will be sufficient?’

‘Thank you,’ he said, surprising himself with the relief in his voice.

‘You’ve done a good job in a dirty business, Ryzhkov. If this works out you might come over to the Ministry, eh?’

‘I am not thinking that far ahead, excellency.’

‘Can’t say as I blame you. I am not thinking past lunch myself. Wake him up, would you?’

‘Good luck up there this morning, I mean that,’ he said as he shook Tomlinovich awake.

‘Thank you, Ryzhkov.’

‘What time is it?’ Tomlinovich woke up groggily and took in a long wheeze to clear his head.

‘It’s time,’ Fauré said.

‘So what if the gods do shine on your proposal?’

‘Let’s put it like this, Ryzhkov. A trial is going to be a very real problem for all of the people in that—’ He pointed to the office where Sinazyorksy was hefting one of a series of red, leather-bound volumes into a leather trunk.

‘That’s it?’

‘Twelve bloody volumes,’ muttered Tomlinovich as he took up a stance beside Fauré and began doing up the buttons on his waistcoat.

‘There are no guarantees, not with this list of people. We did what we had to do, we move forward . . .’

‘Forward, forward, ever forward . . .’ Tomlinovich moaned.

‘Do you want me to accompany you?’ Both of them looked over at him, then eyed his rumpled suit.

‘I think not, eh?’ Tomlinovich said. ‘Besides you are gone from here, you are a non-person. His supremacy General Gulka is very happy, the Minister of Justice Baron Double-Fart-fart is very happy. The only one who isn’t happy is you; why aren’t you smiling, Ryzhkov? Forgotten how?’

‘What time is it?’ Fauré said over his shoulder as he turned from side to side, checking the drape of his jacket.

‘It’s time,’ said Tomlinovich. ‘Well, Ryzhkov . . .’ They shook hands and Tomlinovich clapped him on the shoulder. Fauré turned from the mirror and did the same.

‘I know that this has been very difficult, a very arduous process, Inspector.’ Fauré’s expression was as serious as Ryzhkov had ever seen him before. ‘I’m very proud to have known you, Ryzhkov. If Russia had more like you, then we might have a golden age yet again.’

‘We’re all very proud, proud as mother hens. Get out of here, I never want to see you or hear your name, understand?’ Tomlinovich put in quietly. Then Fauré gave him an awkward embrace, stepped back, and then smiled his famous smile—the charming, confident smile that had won so much for him over his young life.

And then the two of them were gone.

He followed them out. The carriage was dark and gleaming. Jekes had dusted off his boots and was wearing a clean greatcoat for the occasion.

Just as they pulled away from the kerb, Fauré raised one finger as if pointing towards heaven, and then winked. Ryzhkov waved and watched as the carriage moved off.

A curious emptiness had come over him. He found himself staring at the street, the patterns in the cobbles, the fluttering of the awnings above the open windows, a fine view to the east and the ornate cupolas atop the Church of the Resurrection, a touch of pure Russian architecture amidst the rectilinear apartment buildings that stretched towards the river. Beyond, the Vyborg side of the city faded away to the misty horizon. For one long moment he drank in the beauty of a summer morning in St Petersburg; the warmth of the air, the clattering of carriages, the chuffing of the steamers plying the river, the factory whistles from far away, the piping of the newsboys hawking their sheets . . . all of it blending and harmonizing as the city growled and bustled into life.

So, finally it was over, and suddenly his hatreds, his horror over the girl, the visions that refused to die when he closed his eyes—suddenly it all began to float slowly away, like clouds dissolving in a clear blue sky.

He took a step, his throat suddenly constricted and he laughed. It came out sounding like a cough, and tears sprang to his eyes. He pulled out his handkerchief, blew his nose loudly, and looked back up the stairs where the new kid was laughing at him.

He stood there wondering which way to go. Spinning on the pavement like a weather vane. Back to 17 Pushkinskaya? Undoubtedly a service as big as the

Internal branch would be able to find something for him to do.

He began heading down Kryukov Street thinking that he would find Vera, try to tell her . . . Try to tell her what? That he loved her, that he wanted to marry her, to at least try. That he didn’t care about her past and that he hated his own, that none of it mattered. That they could both just stop. He could resign, they could leave Russia. He could end the marriage with Filippa and the money from his share of the apartment would get them somewhere . . . somewhere else. Anywhere else. They could go to London, learn English. Settle down there. He could always translate. He was still relatively young. Young enough to start all over again, he thought.

He would find her.

And that was when he heard the explosion.