To Kill A Tsar Part 6

'Drop it,' he shouted again. 'You're under arrest.' Where was that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Kletochnikov? Fire then, d.a.m.n you. Fire.

But Popov gave a small high-pitched whimper like a child and staggered back against the wall. With a rigid jerk like a marionette, he lifted the gun to his own head. It hovered at his temple for a fraction of a second then 'crack'. Blood erupted from the side of his head, plastering window and walls, his lifeless body crumpling to the boards with a sickeningly final thud.

'Are you all right, sir?'

Someone was holding Barclay's arm but he paid no attention. His gaze was fixed on the window, the sun s.h.i.+ning through a coagulated ma.s.s of pink and white brain matter sliding slowly down the dirty gla.s.s. The spark of life lost in one foolish moment. An impulse. But he owed his own life to that impulse. An accident of time, place, circ.u.mstance, and on a different day it would be his tissue the gendarmes would sc.r.a.pe from the corners of the room.

He let Kletochnikov help him to his feet. His knees were shaking. The gendarmes had crowded into the room to gaze at the body of the student.

'Go on, get out until I call you,' he shouted. Surely they had seen a dead man before? 'Not you, Kletochnikov. I want you to see if he's got anything on him.'

The agent began pulling gingerly at the dead man's jacket, while Barclay shuffled about the room in search of anything that might be a clue. The student must have been preparing to leave his flat that day, his personal belongings were packed into a small suitcase he had left at the door. In spite of the earliness of the hour, Popov was dressed and had eaten the remains of a stale loaf and a gla.s.s of tea were on a table close to the window. The bed was stripped, the blankets neatly folded at the bottom of it. Barclay picked up the case it was surprisingly heavy and threw it on to the bed. Books. The usual texts; Marx, Chernyshevsky, Bakunin, a novel by d.i.c.kens and some threadbare and rather dirty clothes.

'Anything?' he asked, turning to Kletochnikov.

'Only this ticket,' he replied, rising stiffly to his feet. 'Today's train to Moscow, and another for Voronezh. Some money. A photograph.'

'Let me see?'

It was of a woman in her late forties or early fifties, elegant, conservatively dressed, her figure a little matronly, perhaps Popov's mother, but in any case not a terrorist. But then who could be sure these days?

'Have you checked his boots and hat?'

Kletochnikov turned back to the body and began pulling clumsily at the dead man's boots. The student's navy blue cap had been thrown to the floor by the force of the bullet bursting from the side of his head and was sticky with blood and flecks of tissue. Barclay ripped at the cotton lining and it came away with ease. Nothing. No prisoner, no papers. It was a fiasco. For a few unpleasant seconds his thoughts turned to the interview with Dobrs.h.i.+nsky that would follow later in the day. Picking one of Popov's s.h.i.+rts from the bed, he wiped the blood from his hands. Kletochnikov was still grunting over the student's legs, making very heavy weather of a simple task.

In his effort to prise boot from foot, the agent had dragged the body from the window, leaving a crimson trail across the boards. Barclay's eyes were drawn to a slash of sunlight flickering across the floor close to the student's shattered head. The wood was scorched black.

'Leave it, will you.'

There was a brutal thump as Kletochnikov dropped a booted foot.

'Help me roll him over.'

Beneath the student's body was a crushed heap of damp ashes and fragments of charred paper. Crouching beside it, Barclay took a pencil from his coat and stirred the pile for something worth salvaging. Popov had done a good job. There were only five pieces with anything he could decipher. Handwritten on the largest strip were a number of dates and the names of cities in the south Kiev, Kharkov, Voronezh. The student was about to set out on his travels. There were two small fragments from an internal pa.s.sport, almost certainly Popov's own. A wanted man, he would have travelled on forged doc.u.ments, although Kletochnikov had found none on his body. But it was the last two fragments that proved the most intriguing. They were from the same distinctive light blue letter paper and written, Barclay noted, in a cultured hand. Mikhailov's? He would be able to establish that beyond doubt because a handwriting specimen collected from the revolutionary's family was sitting in the top drawer of his desk at Fontanka 16.

Kovalenko will meet you at the station at precisely . . . The time was lost . . . money and instructions for you. Destroy all your papers then leave at once, and under no circ.u.mstances return to your apartment. It is being watched. We will deal with . . .

'. . . with the informer,' Barclay muttered.

'Your Honour?'

'Find the dvornik and ask him when Popov last received a letter. Take a description of whoever delivered it.'

So the student knew he was under surveillance. Mikhailov had warned him. How on earth did he find out? And Kovalenko that was one of the six names on Bronstein's list. Who was he? And the names of cities contacts or meetings? Questions. Questions Barclay would have put to the fool at his feet if he had not blown the little brain he was blessed with about his shabby room.

'All right,' he shouted irritably to the gendarmes. 'You can come in now.'

He would have them take the place apart, but he was quite certain they would find nothing more. At least the student had spared the empire the expense and trouble of a trial for murder. Sadly, the collegiate councillor was unlikely to take quite such a generous view of the morning's events.

9.

Hadfield remembered why the address was familiar over a breakfast of coffee and warm rolls. Fontanka 16. Foolish to forget. The Third Section of the tsar's private chancellery. Goldenberg was watching a secret policeman or officer of the Gendarme Corps. Who? He worried at it like a dog with a bone. The answer came to him as he was brus.h.i.+ng his jacket. Someone had attempted to take the life of the head of the Third Section. Hadfield had heard mention of it at the opera a few weeks before. A revolutionary fired two shots through the window of General Drenteln's carriage and narrowly missed with both. Goldenberg was watching the general, no doubt with a view to making a better fist of it next time. But if that was the case, what on earth should he do about it? He was pondering this question before his dressing mirror when there was a sharp knock at the door of the apartment. Sergei, the dvornik, was on the step with an armful of birch logs for the fire, at his back three serving women in peasant smocks with stiff brushes attached to the soles of their boots.

'The floor, Your Honour,' he said, reaching awkwardly for his cap. 'You said it would be convenient?'

Hadfield let them pa.s.s, then retreated to his bedroom to finish ministering to collar and tie. Gruff instructions and the squeak of furniture on the move reached him through the door and when, a moment later, he stepped back into the drawing room, it was to find the women gliding across his parquet like patineurs in an ice waltz. By the time he returned from the hospital the floor in every room would be polished to gla.s.sy perfection.

A little after eight o'clock the cab rattled to a halt before the main entrance to the Nikolaevsky. Hadfield was so caught up in his thoughts that the driver was obliged to jump from his seat and stand at the front wheel with his dirty palm open for the fare. What was there to decide? Hadfield asked himself as he counted out the kopeks. That he should go to the police was quite unthinkable. A few careless words and he would condemn not only Goldenberg to years in a Siberian camp but Anna and Evgenia too.

'Very generous, Your Honour.'

The broad smile on the cabby's face suggested Hadfield should have concentrated harder on the fare. He knew it would be wiser to have nothing to do with the clinic in Peski. Inevitably, he would be drawn into further contact with Goldenberg or men very like him. Resolve to have no more dealings with her while it is in your power to do so, he thought. Resolve now, here in this hospital on this bright morning.

'Good morning, Your Honour.' It was the old porter who kept order at the main door, cap in hand like a peasant on rent day. The long benches in the entrance hall were already crowded with soldiers and their families waiting to see a doctor. Nurses in stiff white pinafores and scarves bustled about them taking names and regiments and the symptoms of their complaints. The Nikolaevsky had opened as a military hospital in the reign of the tsar's father and grown steadily ever since, its imposing yellow and white frontage creeping year by year down Slonovaya Street. In the few months Hadfield had spent there he had formed the impression that it was well run, clean and surprisingly progressive. Most of his patients were on the general wards, but his departmental superior was familiar with a paper he had written on public health and the pathology of diseases, and he had been asked to carry out a discreet review of general practices in parts of the hospital. It was his duty that day to visit the department for the treatment of mental diseases for the first time. The Nikolaevsky was an unforgiving place and although he asked for directions more than once he was still wandering its maze of broad white corridors half an hour later. Finally losing patience, he pressganged a porter into service as a guide. From the main buildings, he was led along a path through a rough garden to the hospital's boiler house. Two low workmen's huts had been built against its high wall, their roofs of rusty iron, their rough timber walls weathered and bare but for a few sloughs of green paint, their windows partly boarded.

The porter pointed to the door of the first hut.

'That's Department 10? Are you sure?'

'Yes.'

Hadfield knew a little of its reputation from a Russian colleague who had threatened him in jest with exile to Siberia or worse Department 10. Knocking at the first hut, he was greeted by an oath then the sc.r.a.ping of a key in the lock. The door was opened by a ruddy-faced man in his early sixties with the broken veins and bloodshot eyes of a heavy drinker. He was wearing a faded green army uniform, the jacket stained with food and unb.u.t.toned to the waist. He took Hadfield in at a glance.

'Ryabovsky, Your Honour. Fyodor Ivanovich.' He made a low insincere bow. 'Warder, porter, nurse and general dogsbody.'

There was an insolence in his manner that made Hadfield's hackles rise. 'Where are the patients?' he snapped.

Ryabovsky turned to the inner door behind him and unlocked it with a key that was hanging from the chain on his belt. Even before it was fully open, Hadfield was revolted by the overpowering smell of stale urine. Reaching for his handkerchief, he stood in the doorway, his eyes slowly adjusting to the gloom. By the light of a single oil lamp he could see the hut was laid out as a ward, but in place of beds the floor was strewn with rough straw mattresses. And it was heaving with bodies, young men for the most part, military coats fastened over dirty hospital gowns. The plank walls were caked in soot and smoke hung thick about the hut, although the two primitive stoves that were the only source of heat were unlit.

'Who are these men?' he asked, turning again to Ryabovksy.

'The war with Turkey. They're sick in the head.'

'Why don't these men have proper beds?' It was a sordid unsanitary scene that brought to his mind an engraving of the hospital at Scutari twenty-five years before.

Ryabovsky gave a careless shrug: 'Perhaps no one knows what to do with them, Your Honour.'

Frightened faces, empty faces, hollow faces, half-dressed, bare chilblained feet, some with dirty bandages or undressed bed sores, some curled tightly into whimpering b.a.l.l.s like children, others defiant. Hadfield stepped among them, stopping to examine those with symptoms of a condition he was qualified to treat, but most were beyond his help. Perhaps they were lucky not to have been shot. He had read enough of these strange war injuries to know there was precious little sympathy in the army for casualties like these. He knew what Anna and Evgenia would say: 'Fool! See how the tsar treats his most loyal servants.'

'And is it the same in the other hut?'

'A few less, Your Honour.'

'This is a disgrace!' Hadfield spat the words at Ryabovsky. But the old man merely shrugged again.

Hadfield was still shaking with rage five minutes later as he stood among the brambles in the boiler-house garden, the June sun warming his back. Cross with the army for neglecting the men, and with the hospital authorities, but cross most of all with his medical colleagues for making a joke of such a place. But he knew too that if he confronted them they would give him a very Russian shrug of resignation. 'How can you be surprised?' they would ask. 'Such places exist in Russia. What would you have us do?'

The superintendent's suite was on a bright first-floor corridor above the main entrance. It was the one place in the hospital that did not smell of ammonia or boiled cabbage but of floor polish and gentleman's cologne. Military clerks in immaculate green uniforms glided from panelled room to panelled room through perfectly weighted mahogany doors that swung silently to behind them. It was as remote from the day to day business of the hospital as his uncle's ministry.

'Have you an appointment?' the superintendent's secretary asked. 'As you can see, Doctor, there are others waiting.' He turned to indicate two uniformed public servants and an elderly man in a frock coat whom Hadfield had seen in the corridors of the hospital and knew to be a surgeon.

'It is a matter of great urgency,' Hadfield replied calmly. 'One that affects the reputation of the hospital.'

The secretary frowned. 'May I suggest you go through the usual channels, Doctor, and speak to your head of department?' This was clearly meant to be his final word on the matter. Turning to the surgeon, he opened his leather-bound file and was on the point of handing him an official-looking letter when Hadfield gripped him firmly by his upper arm.

'I really think you should speak to him,' he said, tugging him to one side. 'Believe me, you'll regret it if you don't.'

'Why will I regret it, Doctor?'

'You know, of course, that my uncle, General Glen, is a good friend of the superintendent's?'

He had promised himself he would never use his uncle's name for advantage but he had to admit to a quiet satisfaction as the supercilious expression on the secretary's face changed in the blink of an eye.

'Of course, of course. I understand.' The secretary's words pattered like gentle rain.

'And did reason prevail?' Dobson asked.

Exhausted, Hadfield had collapsed into one of the leather smoking chairs in the correspondent's office at a little after six o'clock that evening. He was still angry, but satisfied too that a day of frantic activity, of threats, flattery and cajoling, promised to make a difference to the lives of seventy very sick men.

'Not reason. Nepotism and naked self-interest. And you know, George,' he said, as Dobson pressed a gla.s.s into his hand, 'I was surprised by my own mendacity.'

Dobson laughed. 'You're an educated man, Hadfield. You used the weapons available to you for the benefit of those men. Besides, there is nothing you can teach a public servant in Russia about lying he doesn't already know. '

'But where does one draw the line?' Hadfield had spoken to the superintendent of public scandal, of a friend on the St Petersburg Gazette who was pursuing a story on the treatment of casualties in the recent war. He had mentioned a confidential visit his uncle was hoping to make to the hospital with other members of the government. And he had told the bucolic old superintendent that the general had told him a prominent member of the royal family had expressed his concern.

'I even mentioned the foreign press and my friend on The Times.'

'You snake,' said Dobson with a short barking laugh. He took a cigarette from a silver box on his desk, lit it then flopped into the armchair opposite Hadfield. 'And what is going to happen to Department 10?'

The superintendent had promised beds and nursing care, that he would gradually transfer the men to the body of the hospital and contact their families. 'And those who do not recover will be moved to an asylum although I suppose that will be like jumping from the frying pan into the fire.'

'But you've done what you can,' Dobson replied, leaning forward with the wine bottle to fill Hadfield's gla.s.s. 'And risked a good deal to do so.'

'Not really.'

'Well, what about good relations with General Glen? It would be unwise to rub him up the wrong way. You will forgive me for saying so, I hope, but your uncle is not a man to cross.'

It was rumoured the general was pursuing newspapers that had the temerity to criticise his stewards.h.i.+p of the empire's finances and that the censor was on the point of stepping in to suppress further adverse comment. 'At least the general has helped you do a good turn, even if he is threatening to put the rest of us out of our jobs,' he said with a cheerful twinkle.

It was entirely typical of Dobson to find humour and the kernel of something positive in even the grimmest of situations. In a relatively short time, he and Hadfield had become friends. They were much the same age, Englishmen who considered Russia to be home, they shared a pa.s.sion for the language and a fascination with the people and their customs. Dobson had taught himself Russian, then persuaded The Times to accredit him as a war correspondent, and had reported with distinction on the recent conflict with Turkey. His father owned a small cotton mill in one of the new manufacturing towns in the Midlands. Less fortunate in his education than Hadfield, he had more than made up for his shortcomings by becoming a ruthless autodidact. He was a little on the plump side, but his flabby good-humoured face and high forehead leant him a certain ageless quality. One of the second secretaries at the emba.s.sy had likened him cruelly to Mr Pickwick. But anyone who took Dobson for a gull was a poor judge of character. He was not only resourceful but determined, with a reputation at the emba.s.sy for clinging to a story like a ferret to a rabbit. In politics, he was a new town liberal, in favour of universal suffrage for men but not for women, an admirer of Mr Gladstone and a pa.s.sionate supporter of a free press. In his column for The Times, he was a discreet critic of Russia's despotic government but had no time for 'nihilists' or 'socialist revolutionaries'. As they sat in the correspondent's comfortable study, surrounded by piles of Russian newspapers, books and maps, and his prints of Petersburg, Hadfield wondered what his friend would say if he knew the sort of people he had been consorting with at the clinic. A little heady after two gla.s.ses of wine on an empty stomach, he was almost tempted to confide in him, but Dobson would speak sharply to him of the risk he was running, would advise having nothing further to do with Anna and the Figners and might even suggest reporting Goldenberg to the police: in the end he chose to keep his counsel.

'Let me ask you again, Dobson, where does one draw the line beyond which the means cannot be justified by the ends?'

Easing his heavy frame from the chair, the correspondent reached across the desk for another cigarette, lit it and inhaled a long thoughtful stream of smoke: 'Are you suggesting one is obliged to draw a different line in Russia?'

'Yes, I suppose I am.'

'Of course one has to be guided by conscience . . .' Dobson paused to flick a little ash from his cigarette, 'but perhaps we can be forgiven for taking a few more liberties with the truth in this country. It would be quite impossible to change anything for the better otherwise.'

When Hadfield visited Department 10 the following day, things had already changed markedly for the better. Most of the men had been moved to other wards, but those that remained were in beds, the floors were clean, the rooms well lit and workmen were fitting gla.s.s to the windows. Warder Ryabovsky had been replaced by two large and efficient-looking middle-aged women in blue uniforms who were dispensing Hadfield's prescription of pota.s.sium bromide and morphine to the patients. Some of the men were sitting on benches in the suns.h.i.+ne, watching a work gang cutting back the brambles and burdock in the garden. The story of the 'English doctor's' triumph was already known throughout the hospital and military doctors he had never met stopped him in the corridors to offer their congratulations. He took particular care to ensure a favourable report reached his uncle by visiting his aunt and cousin during the day when the general was at his ministry. 'But he will want to hear all about it,' his aunt said, holding his hand between hers. 'How on earth did you manage to persuade the hospital?' In reply, Hadfield was fulsome in his praise for the superintendent 'a most reasonable and caring man'.

His aunt pressed him to join the family for a carriage ride into the countryside on the Sunday, but he made his excuses. Although he had resolved more than once not to go to the clinic, he went to some lengths to be sure he had no other commitments. He was still debating the wisdom of his promise to Anna in the droshky that afternoon as it rattled and swayed across the Nikolaevsky Bridge, and even while he stood in the fine summer rain before St Boris and St Gleb, waiting for his guide. The boy with red hair who had met him on his first visit was his silent companion again. After twenty minutes weaving through the streets of the district, they reached the clinic at last to find a crowd gathered about the entrance. His guide drew him by the sleeve round the throng to where Anna was standing a little apart. She glanced up at him as he approached, then away without a word, the intense frown that never left her for long troubling her brow. A frosty sort of welcome, Hadfield thought, and particularly galling after a week in which she had often been in his thoughts. He stared at her for a moment, hoping she would register the frustration in his face, but her attention was fixed on the circle of men. Turning to follow her gaze, he caught a glimpse of what he took to be a man kneeling, crumpled forward at their feet, and he pushed forward, parting the shoulders of the men in front of him: 'I'm a doctor.' The circle began to close, heads straining to see what the gentleman was doing. A woman was shouting at them to step back and as he sank beside the slumped figure he was conscious of Anna standing above him.

'Can you hear me?' he asked, and he shook the man gently. But it took only a few seconds for Hadfield to realise he was never going to hear anything in this world again. By a quirk of fate the man had collapsed to his knees as if in prayer. Too late for that, Hadfield thought, lifting his head to look into his lifeless brown eyes. Early forties, grizzled beard, florid face, his mouth a little open, revealing black and broken teeth, a dribble of blood at the corner. A broad man reduced in death to a malodorous ball.

'No one wants to touch him,' said Anna in a low voice.

Hadfield looked up to find her bending close. 'Do you know who he is?'

'They say he's a drunk, a vagrant,' she said hesitantly. 'He's been seen loitering in the district, sleeping rough.'

'Well, why on earth doesn't someone move him or call the police?' He realised at once that this was a foolish question to ask.

'It's bad luck.'

There was a murmur of a.s.sent from those close by.

'For G.o.d's sake! Do you believe that?'

'Of course not,' said Anna. The colour rising in her neck and cheeks suggested this was a half truth.

'We can't leave him here for people to step over. You and you,' said Hadfield, pointing at two men in the crowd, 'help me, will you?'

It took an hour of bullying and coaxing in equal measure before they were able to persuade willing souls to help them move the body into the school. And in that hour a waiting room packed with the sick and anxious began to empty.

'It's him,' said Anna when they were alone, and she nodded at the corpse on the table before them. 'It's bad luck to be in the same building.'

'Superst.i.tious nonsense. I'm going to look at him. He wasn't struck down by a devil.'

'Does it matter what he died of?'

The wariness in her voice surprised him: 'Well, for one thing it's important to know if it was something infectious. You can leave this to me if you like?'

'No,' she said firmly.

'Here . . .' He tossed her a surgical mask.

It took only a few minutes for Hadfield to be sure they were in no danger of catching a disease. Beneath the dead man's jacket, his s.h.i.+rt was stained with a ragged circle of congealed blood. A thin blade had been driven into his heart.

'Murdered,' Hadfield muttered, 'and by someone who knew what he was doing.' He turned to look at Anna: 'Are you all right?'