THIRTY-FIVE

Ryzhkov, Hokhodiev, and Dima Dudenko pulled their carriage behind the Kleinmichel mansion and through the trades entrance, officiously demanded from the keeper a secure place to park. Dangling from the pannier was a large sign that proclaimed ‘No Smoking—Explosive Displays!’

‘I didn’t know there were fireworks,’ the old man said.

‘Oh, yes,’ Dima said.

‘Do you have a boy to watch this wagon? No one closer than fifty metres,’ Ryzhkov called out. A member of the house staff was approaching. He was dressed formally.

‘No, no. Keep away!’ Hokhodiev jumped down and put himself between the man and their carriage. The gatekeeper reflexively drew back into his kiosk.

‘Just no smoking! That’s the important thing. If this goes, it will take half the house along with it,’ he smiled.

‘You can pull up over there, is that what you need?’ the old man said, still sheltering in the doorway.

‘That will be fine.’

‘Nobody goes near this wagon, eh?’ Hokhodiev jabbed a finger and the servant retreated back toward the kitchens.

And they were through and across to the far side of the lawn.

They spent the afternoon, carefully placing terracotta tubes in prominent locations around the lawn, liaised with the gardeners, and met one of the junior butlers, who was perplexed that he hadn’t been informed of the display.

‘Something last minute, I guess. It might be a gift, who knows?’ Ryzhkov grumbled at the man. ‘They told us where to go and we were up all night putting this show together.’ Down at the gate a wagon was loading in an ice-sculpture packed in straw.

‘And, look, they can’t stop there. This whole lane all the way to the gate has to be kept open for us. I’m sorry, but the fire department makes us do that, eh?’

‘Certainly, yes,’ the butler agreed and turned to head back.

‘And we need a place to change.’

The man stopped and turned. Hokhodiev stood on the step of the carriage displaying his costume, the armour of a fifth-century Mongol warrior.

‘Oh . . . yes. I’ll show him.’

And they were inside.

By midnight the colossal, fabulous party that had been so carefully organized by Countess Kleinmichel was gathering momentum. That it was a costume party made their task easier.

Ironically, for the head of the Okhrana, personal security was almost non-existent. In some ways it was a vanity, in others a mark of true confidence. Gulka had made himself a victim of his own ruthlessness; his Internal branch agents had infiltrated every terrorist cell in the empire, his provocateurs had even created their own cells of bombers and assassins in order to better entrap dissidents and neophyte revolutionaries. And besides, unless you were a member of the royal family, to show up at a society party with an entourage of detectives would be a breach of etiquette, tacit implication that the countess was not loved by one and all.

All evening Ryzhkov had followed Gulka around the party, even stood beside him at one point and laughed at his jokes.

At eleven Hokhodiev touched off the first of the fireworks. Just simple rockets they had purchased that morning. The idea was to get Gulka and get out before they had to do anything fancy.

Inside the crowd started heading toward the lawn. Ryzhkov went ahead and waited in the shadows, looking around until he saw Dima, who was in his costume and standing cloaked by the shadows of the carriage. Kostya would do the driving. Both men avoided looking at Ryzhkov, he had been nervous from the beginning.

‘He’s so old,’ Dima said. ‘What if he has a heart attack?’

‘It will be lucky for him,’ Ryzhkov said, and he didn’t ask any more questions after that. Now he was living the angry life of a policeman, again. Waiting, wishing for it to be over. Yes, yes . . . a heart attack. Or what if Gulka simply didn’t want to go outside? He’d have to go in and find him, entice him somehow. If that didn’t work, they’d have to try another day. What if he got tired and took the opportunity to rest his feet, watch the show from one of the windows? What if he was with friends, or someone wanted to tag along?

‘There—’ Ryzhkov said as the man they were waiting for—General Alexandr Ivanovich Gulka, waddled toward them through the great doors. He was wearing an ornate costume fashioned in the style of a sixteenth-century boyar.

‘Is that him?’ Dima whispered.

‘Yes.’

‘You first. Good luck,’ Ryzhkov said, pulling his mask down as he followed Dima out of the shadows, transformed suddenly into a happy drunk. Timing his approach across the yard as Gulka was coming down the stairs. ‘Alexei!’ a warm embrace . . . ‘Alexei, my God! What are you, the devil?’ A laugh to elicit an even greater exhausted laugh from those nearby. Gulka looked at him, smiled, tried to recognize the voice.

‘Ay! Good heavens!’ Behind them there was a sudden shriek—a woman jerking her skirts out of the way as a man costumed as Napoleon had suddenly vomited all over the terrace.

Ryzhkov took the opportunity to steer Gulka away from the mess, to call for someone to come help quickly. The sick Napoleon was causing a panic.

Behind them Hokhodiev touched a match to a rocket, then climbed up and took the reins. Ryzhkov breathed softly in the old man’s ear, ‘This way—this way now, or I’ll cut you right here.’

The man whose name Gulka could not quite remember was dressed as some sort of demon, a seagod, or could it be the kikimora, the devil who lived in the tower of Trinity Church and whose cry foretold the destruction of the city? Gulka tried to interpret it all, frowning as he was led along, searching for the name of the monstrous prankster, even laughing nervously.

‘Ahh . . .’ The rheumy eyes opening wide. Now he knew. Shaking his head, the eyes frowning, trying to focus after too much iced champagne. ‘It’s not going to work, you know . . .’ Gulka whispered.

‘Come on . . . one step at the time, that’s the way,’ hissed the sea-god, and Gulka complied with a gasp, his knees suddenly gone weak. Ryzhkov had to hold him up, thinking as he did so, that this was the worst moment, the most dangerous time, when it could all go wrong, if one of the general’s friends were to call out, to look around, to see them. What if he had the heart attack now? If anything went wrong he’d kill Gulka, kill him right there on the grass. Then finally it would be done. Done and over.

‘Quickly, quickly . . . everything is going to be fine.’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry!’ The sick Napoleon was apologizing profusely, screening the two of them as they crossed the lawn. Hokhodiev pulled the carriage around and there was a sudden flurry as they rushed toward the carriage.

‘Hurry up,’ he called down to them. ‘The fuses are lit.’

‘Step up!’ a generous shove in the ass, and then they were inside the closed carriage and lurching away. Suddenly Dima jumped into the opposite side of the carriage and came up with a sharp sword stick held rigid just below Gulka’s chin. Ryzhkov clipped the manacles on, ripping off the jewelled boyar head-dress, and replacing it with a cloth bag which he knotted around Gulka’s neck like an executioner as Kostya pulled the carriage through the back gates, a ripple of explosions echoing behind them.

And they were away.

There was no way to know when Gulka had discovered their investigation, or how long they had been under surveillance. Ryzhkov thought that everything had probably started to fall apart once Tomlinovich had made his report but it was a gamble. He made a careful telephone appointment at the clinic where he’d been interrogated by Fauré, and, once they arrived, warned the doctor to make himself scarce. The man didn’t say much, hovering in the background while they replaced the bag with a blindfold made of gauze bandages, and then led Gulka up to the bed in the upstairs room.

‘When do you want to start?’ the doctor whispered.

‘Right now,’ Ryzhkov said and watched while the man moved forward with his needle, pushed the drug into Gulka’s arm, unbuttoned the beaded vestments and then put a stethoscope to Gulka’s heart for a few moments. Satisfied, he stood and held the vial up so Ryzhkov could see it, pointing to a mark on the barrel of the syringe. ‘No more than this, eh. You have to wait at least three hours. Too much and . . .’ He shrugged and made a face. Perhaps it was supposed to be a smile. ‘Day after tomorrow, then?’

‘If we’re here, we’re here.’ Now it was Ryzhkov’s turn to smile.

‘Good luck.’ Ryzhkov waited until the doctor had left and then he moved a chair closer to the bed.

‘He’s not asleep, is he?’ Dima said.

‘We’ll wake him up soon enough. The plan is I talk, you listen, if you think up questions, you pass me notes, yes?’

‘Yes . . . yes . . .’

Ryzhkov went down to the kitchen, poured himself a thick coffee and drank half of it. Then he gathered his papers, and climbed back up to the attic room. Gulka tried to raise his head but Dima pushed him back down on to the pillow.

‘Hello, Alexei,’ Ryzhkov said quietly.

‘Yes . . .’ Gulka said. His voice was dreamy. The breathing regular.

‘We’re almost ready.’

‘Good, Sergei, good . . .’

Ryzhkov looked over at Dima, shrugged. Gulka’s eyes would open, then close slightly. Dreaming while he was awake.

‘I just wanted to go over . . . everything, is that all right with you?’ For a moment Gulka said nothing. Perhaps the doctor had given him too large a dose. Dima reached over and tapped him on the cheek.

‘I wanted to check with you, Alexei, I wanted to confirm our plans.’

‘Mmm . . .’ Gulka breathed.

‘So . . . when, exactly should we be ready?’

‘Have to hurry.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Always ready.’

‘Of course, but the date.’

‘Everything move . . .’ Gulka began turning his head to the side, like a man looking at a panorama.

‘We’re all ready, right now, just as you said,’ Ryzhkov continued in as reassuring a voice as he could manage. Trying to mimic his mother’s tones when he’d been sick as a child.

‘Good . . .’

‘Who should I contact?’ he asked and looked up at Dima. The younger man raised his eyebrows. It was as good a tactic as any. For a moment Gulka seemed to struggle with the question and Ryzhkov asked him a second time. ‘Is there anyone I should contact, anyone who needs to know?’

‘I’ll tell Nestor . . .’

‘Nestor?’ he said, feeling the skin at the back of his neck beginning to prickle.

‘Mmm . . .’ Gulka sighed.

‘Nestor is right here, do you want to tell him now?’ Ryzhkov said and nodded to Dima.

‘Ah . . . what is the, ah . . . status of the, um . . . operation, Alexei?’ Dima said rather too firmly, Ryzhkov thought. Hokhodiev had come up the stairs and was lingering there, his face looking like death.

‘We are . . . sailing,’ Gulka said blissfully.

‘Yes, good, good.’

‘So . . . everything is on schedule?’ Dima asked gruffly.

‘. . . dead before sunset . . .’ Gulka’s voice had a singsong quality to it, like a child walking along a sunny lane, humming nursery rhymes.

‘Tell me everything,’ Ryzhkov said. ‘Nestor wants to go through it one step at a time, just to be certain. Don’t you Nestor?’

‘Oh, yes. Yes, I do,’ Dima said.

‘Fine. Now, Alexei, where exactly is the . . . act, the iskra, taking place?’

There was a grumbling from Gulka’s chest, a sound like a cough and a laugh mixed together. His belly shook like an Easter pudding as the spasm ran through him, beneath the blindfold the lips curled back in a wide smile.

‘Clever boy,’ Gulka said. ‘You too, Sergei.’ The rumbling went on until Gulka forgot what was so funny.

‘Just tell me, Alexei. Tell me now,’ Ryzhkov said quietly.

Gulka’s eyes opened and it seemed that he was looking up at the ceiling. ‘. . . the gateway . . . the gateway to the east . . .’

‘The gate?’ Dima looked up at Ryzhkov and frowned.

‘Mmm . . .’ Gulka cooed. The smile subsided only for a moment and then he began to hum.

Dima frowned. ‘What’s that?’ he whispered. Gulka’s lips were moving, but the words were slurred.

Ryzhkov reached out and grasped his shoulder, put his lips close to Gulka’s ear.

‘Where, Alexei, where? You must tell me where. It’s terribly important.’

‘. . . sun rises, above . . . the new Sla-vi-a . . .’ he sang.

Ryzhkov sat back in the chair. The blood had drained from his face. His fingers were trembling. Gulka was keeping time with one foot against the iron frame of the bedstead.

‘. . . Sa-ra . . .’ Gulka sang, his voice crackling with phlegm. ‘Sa-ra, O, beautiful, beautiful Sa-ra-jevo . . .’

They argued but it was Hokhodiev who killed him. They led Gulka out into the green woods behind the clinic, tied him to a tree and let him watch while they dug a hole. There wasn’t enough time to make it deep. Then they argued about who was going to do it, but Hokhodiev wasn’t listening to reason and didn’t even really reply, shoving them both away. Ryzhkov and Dima went back towards the clinic, picking their way through the underbrush and waited up on the porch while he did it.

Hokhodiev came back and they talked while he was washing his hands, a quick meeting to agree to travel separately across the border, reasoning that Gulka or Evdaev might have men at the stations.

But time was running out and the idea was to meet at the station in Riga and, from there, if everything looked clear, they would purchase tickets for the Warsaw train.