Alex followed Major-General Durnov into a meeting behind closed doors with the hastily summoned General Roskov. As Alex drew the door closed, he caught sight of Gennady and Ivan near the refreshment table, appearing greatly relieved that Durnov hadn’t detained Gennady for more questioning on the matter of Count Kalinsky.
Alex stood near a window with blue drapes, looking across the snow-clad park in the direction of the Romanov palace, where the lights were all aglow.
“What’s this about?” General Roskov asked, scowling. Alex knew he didn’t approve of interruptions during social events.
Durnov produced a scarred leather satchel from which he withdrew a police file he’d brought from St. Petersburg. The general snatched it and went behind the desk. Alex turned up the lamplight, keeping an immobile face, though his unease was growing.
“Well, sir, the Kiev gendarmes sent us this file on Policeman Grinevich’s death,” Durnov said.
“Grinevich?” Roskov raised his reddish gray head with a mutinous scowl. “That debacle took place in August!”
A twitch of Durnov’s wide mouth unmasked his personal offense. “Debacle?”
Wait a minute, Alex thought, uneasy. Durnov’s no fool. A man of his military experience wouldn’t dare show such boldness toward General Roskov. Alex couldn’t remember a time when Durnov had stood against his superior. Something was different about the major-general—about the way he spoke. He used all the right military manners, but there was a flavor of stubbornness about him. He had a cigarette between his fingers, but it went unlit. Usually Alex lit his cigarettes, as was expected, but in the presence of the general, he did not.
Alex glanced at General Roskov to see if he was noticing Durnov’s insolence. The general’s shoulders had stiffened.
“Yes, Major-General Durnov, a debacle! The wrong man pines away in the stinking Peter-Paul fortress—my wife’s brother. We’re in an endless process of trying to free him. While you and members of the Okhrana wile away the time trying to dig up proof to include my wife’s nephew, Sergei Peshkov.”
“General! Sir! That has never been my intention, nor is it now. It’s not the Peshkovs, but the wife’s side of the family—the Menkins.”
Alex turned his head sharply.
“Menkins?” General Viktor looked incredulous. He leaned across the desktop toward Durnov. “It’s Lenski I want arrested, Durnov,” he gritted. “Lenski is behind it, working hand in glove with the Bolsheviks.”
“Yes, General, just so! Petrov Lenski. And he’s fully involved with Karena Menkin, as I shall call her. They are lovers.”
Alex could have wrung Durnov’s thick neck. But one fiery word of protest, and Durnov, who may already suspect him of an interest in Karena, would be onto him like a vulture. Silence.
“Karena?” General Viktor repeated, dumbfounded. “That is absurd. I know the girl. She’s no more a murdering Bolshie than is my own daughter.”
Durnov straightened his shoulders. “I risk myself, General, to respectfully disagree.”
General Viktor growled, “Go on.”
“The Menkins are Polish Jews, only connected to your esteemed Roskov family by the marriage of one Madame Yeva Menkin. The report on her family history in Poland and Finland points to much interaction with revolutionary groups.” He gestured to Alex. “Colonel Kronstadt has delved into their Warsaw history. Is it not true, Colonel, that Professor Menkin spent two years in a work camp for revolutionary endeavors at Warsaw University?”
“Just so.”
“His niece, Karena, is not Josef Peshkov’s child.”
So Durnov knew. But did he know about Dr. Zinnovy?
“I know that,” General Viktor snapped, flipping closed the file Durnov had brought and dropping it with a smack on the desktop. “I’ve known for years, through Countess Shashenka, but that in no way links the girl with Grinevich’s death, nor with the idea that she’s involved with Lenski.”
Durnov stood like a bull, shoulders back, his square neck looking wider. “General, I have been sent here by the supreme head of the Okhrana to inform you that Miss Menkin is working with Lenski. We believe Lenski’s Bolsheviks were behind the bombing of Count Kalinsky’s coach at the train station this morning in Petrograd.”
Alex waited for the words of doom: “And Karena Peshkova was there at that station.” But did Durnov know this, or was he fishing?
The general said, “Lenski’s involvement in Kalinsky’s death? Yes, that is likely. And it is Lenski we want arrested. But the Kalinsky bombing in no way connects Karena with Lenski. She and her mother are both in Kiev at the manor house, awaiting news on Josef’s trial.” Roskov held out his cigarette toward Durnov.
The match Durnov held between thumb and forefinger snapped in two. The general stared at it without moving.
Alex struck a second match and held the flame to the general’s extended cigarette.
“You were there at Kiev when all this took place, Alex,” General Roskov said with an irritated voice. “You investigated thoroughly. What are your conclusions on Karena and Lenski? Working together, do you think? Lovers?”
Aware of Durnov’s watchful eyes, Alex looked for a moment at the burned-out match.
“As I wrote in my report to the Okhrana, General, I interrogated Miss Peshkova and Professor Menkin at the manor house back in August. I do not believe either of them is a Bolshevik revolutionary. Professor Menkin is a cadet in his political beliefs and a friend of the democratic historian Miliukov, but other than that, there was nothing to link him or his niece with the death of Grinevich. The professor’s political days in Warsaw are over. He writes history now and critical works on religion. As for Miss Peshkova and Lenski, you would be the best witness, sir. Your family has, I believe, long stipulated that there was to be a marriage between Karena and the farmer Ilya Jilinsky, who is now, sir, fighting for Russia on the front lines.”
Durnov’s mouth spread back over his yellowing teeth. “And this morning, Colonel Kronstadt?”
Alex coolly met his cynical gaze. “This morning, sir?”
“You did not see Karena Peshkova?”
General Roskov looked sharply from Durnov to Alex. “This morning? That’s impossible. She’s in Kiev.”
Durnov fixed Alex with the same cynical smile.
Had Durnov discovered she was in Petrograd? Alex affected calm. “As I reported to you this morning, sir, I heard the blast that killed Count Kalinsky and arrived on the scene a few minutes later to find the count dead. I did not see anyone who might have been involved in the assassination.”
Durnov turned to Roskov. “There’s more in this report, sir. Grinevich’s assistant policeman at Kiev, a man named Leonovich, was discovered dead. Kiev is now linking the two deaths as to motive, done by the revolutionaries to avenge the death of Professor Chertkov and the arrest of Josef Peshkov.”
Leonovich. Alex concealed his alarm. Leonovich was the thug asking Karena questions about Grinevich in the kitchen at Matvey Menkin’s bungalow.
“Leonovich?” The general frowned, unable to recall the name to his memory, as he leafed through the papers.
“He was one of those involved in the investigation of Grinevich’s death.”
“And an enemy of Grinevich, sir,” Alex added.
Durnov shot him a frown. “Why do you say so? I’ve heard nothing of it.”
“A number of people mentioned a dislike between the two men. It’s in my report, sir.”
Durnov rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “That’s news to me.” He turned to the general, who was still leafing through the information. “Leonovich was murdered—shot—and apparently struck on the back of the head as well. They found his body in a ravine beside the road to the village.”
General Roskov dropped back into the leather chair and turned sideways to stare out the window, puffing the cigarette and holding a sheet of paper. “The report says Leonovich was first reported missing about a week ago.”
“There’s no telling whether he died from the bullet or the head injury, but it’s more likely the bullet. A hunter and his dog came upon him at the bottom of a gully.”
“The gun used?”
“Kiev found a 7.62-millimeter bullet, sir. They think it was likely from a model 1895 Nagant revolver.”
Dead about a week ago. About the time Karena and her mother had to have departed the manor to bring them to Petrograd. Did either Josef Peshkov or his son have a Nagant at the manor?
General Roskov slapped the report back down on the desk.
“Well, he’s dead, like many better men on the front facing the Huns.” He looked up with impatience at Durnov. “And what has Leonovich’s death to do with anyone in my family, especially my niece Karena?”
“Leonovich was closely associated with Policeman Grinevich, sir,” Durnov said with equal frustration, as though the general should understand without his explaining the reasons.
“I am fully aware, Durnov.”
“The office at Kiev is convinced it was the Bolshies both times. The same Bolshies. And now, this morning, it was Count Kalinsky.”
General Roskov shook his head. “No no. The count’s bombing has no factual connection with Grinevich or Leonovich. The Kiev gendarmes were small fry, but Kalinsky was a powerful supporter of the Romanovs, therefore a target.”
“You’re right, General, but it’s the work of the same group under Lenski. That’s what I’m getting at, sir.”
The same group. Durnov’s effort put Alex on edge.
“Yes,” Roskov said, “I can see Lenski being involved in the count’s death and in Kiev, but for far different reasons.”
“It’s Lenski and his Bolshevik friends all over again, General. We think Lenski’s in Petrograd. That he was at the train station this morning.”
Alex was deep in thought over the gully where Leonovich’s body was discovered. He remembered the roads around the village, as well as the direction Karena and her mother would have traveled to reach the train station.
Durnov took out a folded drawing from his coat pocket.
“With your permission, General. If you take a closer look at this map—I drew it myself.” Durnov marked the region on the map around what, until recently, was the Peshkov wheat farm and manor house. Next he drew an X in the region of the road in question, evidently the area where Leonovich’s body was discovered. Alex judged the distance between the manor and the gully to be about a mile.
“What does this prove?” Roskov snapped. “The village is small. Everyone living there is in close proximity to the gully!”
But Alex began to worry. Not because he thought Karena had anything to do with Leonovich’s death, but because it looked as though they could have been involved, and that was all Durnov needed.
Was Durnov notifying the general to prepare his wife for another arrest in her family? Alex didn’t think Durnov particularly worried about Madame Zofia, but he did worry about his own position. Despite Durnov’s confrontation with the general a few minutes earlier, Durnov wouldn’t want to move against a relative of Zofia. This would account for his assertion that the Menkins were not members of the honorable Peshkov or Roskov families.
“And they found Leonovich’s body about here”—General Roskov tapped the map—“in a ravine?”
“Just so, General. About a mile from the Peshkov manor house.”
Alex kept his gaze on the map. Durnov had shrewdly managed to link the manor occupants to where the body was discovered. He was either digging his own grave or slowly convincing the general.
“Why isn’t Leonovich’s death a simple robbery?” Roskov asked roughly. “Not every murder is the work of Bolsheviks.”
“If a robbery, sir, there’s the problem of why nothing was taken from Leonovich’s pockets. Then again, sir, we should ask how Leonovich’s body ended up in the ravine.”
“What about Leonovich’s horse?” Alex asked. “Was it found nearby?”
“Now that you mention it, no,” Durnov said.
“Then that’s a sign of robbers. They might have come upon him late at night on the road.” General Roskov crushed the end of his cigarette in an ashtray and stood. “All right, Durnov. Well done.”
“Sir?” Durnov wrinkled his brow.
“I’ll have another look at the report tomorrow. At this stage, however, some of your conclusions appear to lack both evidence and credibility. In the meantime, I want Lenski found and arrested. No more excuses.”
He lifted Durnov’s report from the desk and placed it under his arm.
“What about Kiev, General?”
“Forget Kiev.”
“I should like to go there and question Madame Peshkova and her daughter again. It may be they have seen Lenski.”
“You’re a bulldog, Durnov. Request denied.”
Alex felt a surge of relief but knew Durnov too well to think the bulldog would give up until satisfied. Since Durnov had requested to return to Kiev, it must mean he did not suspect Karena and Madame Peshkova of staying at Professor Menkin’s apartment.
Alex needed time, and he was running out of it. He would have preferred the general to authorize Durnov’s journey to Kiev. It would have gotten rid of him for a few weeks and made it easier for Alex to quietly pay Professor Menkin a visit.
A light rap on the door interrupted. “See who it is, Alex,” General Roskov said.
Alex went to open the door. An ensign stood at attention. He saluted, “Colonel, I have a message.”
Alex stepped aside and gestured toward the general, standing before the window. When Alex shut the door, he turned.
“You have something to report, Ensign?”
The ensign gave a smart salute. “Yes, General. The countess, Madame Shashenka, requests an immediate audience with Colonel Kronstadt in her private office. She waits there now, sir.”
Alex took his leave and walked through the ballroom to speak with his stepmother. That she would send word to interrupt a meeting with the general and fetch him to her company was curious.
Alex entered Countess Olga’s office. He shut the door, turned, and stopped abruptly. To one side of the room stood his rival and opponent, Captain Karl Yevgenyev, son of the count, standing erect, hands behind his back. Beside the countess stood Karl’s father, Count Yevgenyev.
The countess came forward with a rustle of satin. “Alex, dear, I should like you to meet a friend of mine, Count Andrei Yevgenyev. Andrei, my son of whom I am most proud, Aleksandr.”
Count Yevgenyev gave a precise bow with a little click of his polished heels.
The tense moment continued, despite the countess’s attempt at niceties. At last, she sighed and tugged on the Belgian lace handkerchief in her hand. “Well, I see we need to get straight to the reason for our meeting like this.” She turned to the count, obviously handing over the situation to him.
Count Yevgenyev looked at Alex, who returned a level gaze. “Colonel Kronstadt, my son made a grave and foolish error when he publicly insulted your honor in Kazan at the Roskov summerhouse.”
Alex looked across the room at Karl and could almost have felt sympathy for him, had he not been so arrogant. There was a faint flush on his face, and he was staring at the toes of his polished boots.
“My son wishes to withdraw his challenge to your honor, to apologize, and to end the challenge to duel.” He turned toward his son and gestured him forward. Captain Yevgenyev did so as straight shouldered and stiff as a wooden toy soldier in Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker. Yevgenyev bowed and removed a letter from inside his uniform. He presented it to Alex with another bow.
“My written apology, Colonel Kronstadt. It will be published in the newspapers, if you so request, for all to see. I was drunk that night. I retract my words questioning your integrity and honor.”
Alex accepted the letter. He smiled. “Forget the newspapers.”
Yevgenyev showed faint surprise. His gaze measured Alex with a spark of admiration.
Count Yevgenyev approached with a silver tray, a bottle of expensive wine from the countess, and a single glass. His solemn face might have been carved in marble.
Alex looked at the tray. “There’s only one glass to toast the victory of Russia.”
The count exchanged glances with his son. Countess Olga laughed in her tinkling voice and seemed delighted with Alex as she beckoned Konni forward with three more crystal glasses.
“Colonel Kronstadt,” the count said with a brittle smile, “we thought surely you would wish to take a glass of wine and throw it in retribution in Karl’s face. As you can see, he has on his dress uniform.”
Except for the loud ticking of the grand clock on the mantle, there was silence.
Alex took the glass of burgundy Konni had poured, sniffed it, and smiled. “I’ve always been a frugal man, sir,” he said to the count. “This wine is too good to waste on Karl’s uniform. Not only that, the stain is most devilish to get out. You can ask Konni.”
The stiff smiles eventually broke free on the faces of the count and his son, and there was a dry chuckle from Konni.
“To the victory of Imperial Russia!” Alex said, raising his glass.
The others responded in unison. “God save the czar!”