The Third Section Part 20

Her profession lying here now, beside a grand duke was also a deferral. How many more years did she have? That a man like Konstantin should find her attractive was something that became less and less likely and men like him were a rarity anyway. She had money saved, and Konstantin had hinted that he could give her more. She did not know whether she would take it. Having wealth meant merely that she would not starve, but not to die was one thing; to live was another. To live was to have a reason to live.

She had had a reason, and it had fulfilled her utterly to be a mother. To be a wife had been a joy, but to be a mother was a purpose. She felt a sudden urge to go there now, march across Petersburg to their home and grab Luka and run away with him, to raise him as she should have been doing all these years as they should have raised her. Kostya would help her; he had power the power of the entire nation, almost. He knew how much she loved her son, and he'd let nothing come between them.

She let out an audible sigh a mournful sound. It was all a rambling dream, like finding her parents, like finding the killer of Irina Karlovna a way of escaping from the life that she had made for herself. She looked over again at Konstantin. Many women would think of this as a dream, and one to be welcomed, and for Tamara it was now a reality. She had been right last night to give herself to him, to yield to the moment. A momentary escape was better than none.

She sat up and slid her feet on to the floor. It was cold. She felt around the room for her clothes and began to dress. She knew that outside the door a servant would be waiting for her, just as Konstantin had ordered him. Once she was dressed, Tamara had merely to step outside and summon his attention and he would lead her across the landing, down the stone steps, down the wooden steps, along the corridor and back out into the real world.

Dmitry had not slept. Perhaps he had. It was hard to believe that he could have lain here for so many hours without drifting into unconsciousness, but he could recall no moment of waking, and he was awake now. What he could recall were the same thoughts, echoing through his mind in a weary, predictable procession.

Svetlana lay beside him. She wasn't sleeping peacefully, but at least she slept. He'd noticed her turn many times, and occasionally heard her mutter some incoherent phrase. Once or twice his own name had emerged from somewhere in the babble that fell from her lips. He could have blamed her for keeping him awake, but it had nothing to do with that.

Even a separation of two years had not been enough to arouse his pa.s.sion for her. At the first touch of her body against his, he had been reminded of Tyeplov and experienced a sense of guilt. He considered what Svetlana would think of it a matter of such greater substance now that she lay beside him. He knew for certain that she would be horrified. Had he been unfaithful to her with another woman, she would have been upset, but she would have blamed herself.

He knew it for sure because it had happened in Warsaw. Then it had only been a kiss that Dmitry had stolen from the daughter of a brigadier. Someone had seen, and the story had got back to Svetlana. Dmitry was lucky it wasn't the girl's father who had been the recipient of the gossip. Svetlana had been angry, for sure, but in the end had said she understood. She was getting older, and though she tried her best, she knew she was not the woman she once had been. It was soon after that that she had returned to Petersburg. Dmitry suspected that she hoped he would insist on her staying, but he had been happy to see her go; not because he wanted to be free to consort with the daughters of brigadiers, but simply because he wanted to be free.

And so today he felt confident that, if he told her he had slept with another woman, she would react in a similar way. But that it had been a man she would be disgusted. There would be no prospect of her competing, no way that she could blame it on her age and argue that once, in her youth, she could have been that muscular figure whom Dmitry had clasped to his chest. She had made her att.i.tude plain enough, in conversations with friends about the supposed predilections of other friends. Dmitry had always been relaxed about it but he had been happy to let Svetlana have her views. She was only a woman.

Of course, even if Dmitry had told her that he had slept with a man, it would have been a lie. He had slept with a voordalak, although he'd had no idea of it at the time. How long would that have taken to explain to her? By the time he had told her all he knew, what had been told him by his father and what he had witnessed for himself, would she have forgotten the actual transgression? And, in the end, did it make any difference? Dmitry had not been attracted to Tyeplov as a vampire, but as a man. At least he hoped so. The idea that there was something in Tyeplov as an undead creature that had entranced Dmitry was as revolting to him as the concept of one man's attraction to another was to Svetlana. Dmitry felt a momentary impulse to go out and find another man a verifiable human man to sleep with, just to prove the point.

From somewhere the image of Raisa had again forced its way into his mind. In many ways she was like Svetlana; a similar figure, similar hair. Their faces were not unalike, though Raisa was prettier than Svetlana had ever been. And yet in Dmitry's mind, Raisa did not supplant Svetlana, but Tyeplov. There were no comparisons to be made between them that Dmitry could see not of themselves but the thrill that each had caused in him on their first meeting was similar, as was his desire for them to meet a second time. With Raisa, it would come to nothing, but at least it was a more healthy predilection.

And at that moment, Dmitry had turned away from his wife and told her to go to sleep and that they would try again later. He'd complained that his ankle was hurting, and she'd not been so ingenuous as to ask how an ailment in that extremity could spread to the rest of his body. She had gone to sleep quickly. The problem was that thoughts of Raisa had aroused him, and he had suddenly felt that he could not betray Svetlana by using the image of another woman to hide her face from him as they made love. Now, as he lay there in the dark, he wondered if the reverse might not be true that it was better for him to deceive her, and thereby to flatter her, by reacting to her ageing body as he would do to the younger, lither one that he pictured in his mind, and fooling her into believing it was all down to her. He knew that he would not get much pleasure from the deception, but it wasn't only about him.

Yet it should be about him. How quickly he had forgotten his new-found zest for life after escaping Sevastopol. He knew that during the siege he had been foolhardy in so many ways, trying to make his existence more exciting by toying with its abrupt ending. Now as he began to glimpse the earliest, pre-dawn light peeping through a tiny gap in the curtains, he understood. If Raisa Styepanovna found her way into his dreams, why should he reject her? If chance dictated that they met again, why should he avoid it? And if not Raisa, then why not some other beauty who was happy to offer herself to a wounded hero? Why not a dozen?

He closed his eyes and imagined the future.

Yudin loved the twilight in the morning, before dawn, even more than in the evening. In five days' time, as dawn broke, it would mark thirty years since he had last been able to enjoy the sensation of the sun's rays upon his flesh. He had gone out that morning with no knowledge of what would befall him, but with the certainty that, whatever came his way, he could control it. The dark blue-black of the sky now was the closest he could ever again come to the sun, but his sense of mastery over events was absolute.

He sat in the arch of the window, high in the wall of the church; behind him, the snow-covered cemetery and the grave in which he would sleep. Immediately beneath him, close to the outer wall of the church, lay the font, just where he had dropped it. It was empty now, but Yudin had made good use of its contents.

Ahead he looked down on the interior of the church. The candles that Mihailov had lit were burning low, but still they illuminated the nave, and caused the gilt of the iconostasis to glitter. Soon, the light of the rising sun would make them redundant, but Yudin would not be able to stay and witness it.

The drunken man from the tavern had once again crawled a little closer to the door. Viewing from high above, Yudin found his gait fascinating. Obviously most of the effort went through his arms, but even with his legs broken he had found some way to at least make use of their upper part. Where his feet could not be lifted to find purchase on the floor, somehow he achieved some little amount of grip with his inner thighs. He had struggled on like that for over a minute, before collapsing, exhausted. Yudin had watched as a pool of his own urine had spread around him. That would make it harder for him to find purchase again, once he had recovered his strength.

He was sober now, and with his wits recovered had tried calling out for help. Yudin had let him holler until he was exhausted, and now he was quiet again. There was the risk that the sound of his voice might alert the others, as they returned, that something was amiss. More likely it would whet their appet.i.tes for the meal that Mihailov had provided for them to share. They couldn't be long now. The sun would be up in twenty minutes. But the closer they left it, the better.

Yudin clutched Mihailov's body close to him. The catheter still dangled from his thigh and an occasional drop of blood would slowly form at its tip, swelling until it became too heavy to support its own weight and so breaking free to fall gracefully to the black and white tiles of the floor below. There was quite a puddle gathering there. With luck they would notice it before understanding its source. Mihailov's hands were still tied, and he had no strength to try and break his bonds. His feet were tied now too, to the end of the rope that had supported the horos. The tangle of the iron framework and the icons it supported now sat in the middle of the nave, the rope stretching up and, ultimately, leading to Mihailov's ankles. They would certainly notice that before they saw him.

It was a disappointment that Mihailov would perceive so little of what was going on. Dmitry had described in a letter how the doctors had used ether to reduce the pain as they set his ankle. In a human, Yudin supposed, there was some sense in it. Too much pain could kill a man, however strong or brave. The same was not true of a voordalak, and so Yudin found that, though he enjoyed their suffering less than that of a human, he could indulge himself in the infliction of it with less need for restraint. But it was time for Mihailov to recover a little. Yudin plucked the catheter from his thigh and threw it over his shoulder into the churchyard. The wound healed slowly, and blood still dripped for a few moments, but at last the tiny puncture sealed itself. Now, as Mihailov's body continued to manufacture blood, it would at least be of benefit to him. But he would not grow strong enough to be a danger to Yudin not before dawn.

The building began to shake, not violently, but enough to make Yudin tighten his grip on Mihailov. It was only a train pa.s.sing on the track nearby, something that Russians the whole world would have to get accustomed to. Again it reminded him that the city outside was awakening.

'I take it they'll be coming here,' he whispered in Mihailov's ear.

'They'll come,' said Mihailov sleepily. 'They like to leave it late.'

'Proving to each other how brave they are.'

'I suppose,' said Mihailov. Yudin put a hand to his cheek. Already it was a little warmer, and the colour was returning. Yudin would have to be careful. He glanced sideways and verified that his knife was to hand.

They certainly did leave it late. It was only a few minutes before sunrise when Yudin heard a key rattle in the door and the two other vampires entered. Between them they carried a bundle that might be mistaken for many things, but that Yudin could easily guess was a body unconscious, but not dead. Tyeplov was instantly recognizable by his height, even before Yudin could clearly see his face, and so by elimination the other creature was Ignatyev.

'Take that down, quickly,' said Tyeplov, dropping his end of the body. Ignatyev began to drag the load towards the stairs of the crypt. Only then did Tyeplov turn and see the state of the church.

He surveyed the scene for a moment, not looking up towards where Yudin was perched, and then shouted.

'Mihailov!'

Mihailov stirred in Yudin's arms, but did not respond. Tyeplov approached the body of the drunk, still close to the iconostasis. The man's face was to the floor. Tyeplov prodded it with the toe of his boot. The man awoke suddenly and tried to stand; only as he felt the pain shooting through his legs did he remember that he could not. He wailed incoherently and pointed upwards, straight towards where Yudin and Mihailov were perched, where he had earlier watched Yudin make his preparations.

Fortunately Tyeplov's wrath denied him the chance of learning anything that might be useful. He kicked the drunk hard in the temple and the man's head flipped in an instant to one side. Yudin fancied he heard the click of his neck breaking. He certainly remained quite still after that. It was a pity to see him put out of his misery so swiftly.

'Put that down,' said Tyeplov. Ignatyev dropped the bundle he had been dragging and came over. The two of them stared at what was the most obvious incongruity in the church: the fallen horos. As though they were marionettes, controlled by the same set of strings, their heads rose in unison to follow the rope that still stretched upwards from the horos and towards the ceiling. Yudin had little time now. He reached for his knife and, holding Mihailov's head with a hand across his mouth, used the sharp, parallel blades to cut into his throat. Normally with a vampire it was an insipid form of torture; either the wound would heal or the head would be severed and the creature would die. But with Mihailov weakened as he was, although the wound would heal, it would heal slowly. Yudin cut right back until he felt bone. It was all quite unnecessary, but it added piquancy. For the others to see one of their own kind unable to repair such a horrible wound would introduce one more stratum of fear.

Throughout, Yudin kept his eyes on the two vampires below. In the time it had taken him to cut Mihailov's throat they had traced the rope to an anchor at the apex of the church's ceiling, then followed it down, across the emptiness beneath the vault to where Yudin sat.

As their eyes fell upon him Yudin pushed Mihailov away. The body swung in a slight ellipse, going out just to the right of its pivot in the ceiling and coming back an equal distance to the left. The head, inverted, was almost exactly at the level of the voordalaki standing beneath. All the way, it spewed out blood from the gaping wound to its throat, not a huge amount, for it could not manufacture very much, but sufficient for both to be splattered with a little of it as it pa.s.sed. As they watched its graceful orbit, they didn't appear to notice Yudin, still at the window. That would come.

'Don't just stand there; get him down!' shouted Tyeplov. Ignatyev raced over to where the rope was fastened to the horos and started to chew at it with his fangs. Tyeplov grabbed at Mihailov to try and stop his motion, and perhaps bring him down. The only effect this had was to tear open the wound at Mihailov's neck, and Tyeplov let go, as if stung. Mihailov began a new orbit, a different ellipse, but around the same centre.

Yudin could sense now that sunrise was very close. Those below would know it too, distracted though they were, but would not fear it too much inside the building, with the crypt so close. Yudin pictured the Earth turning in s.p.a.ce and remembered a recent experiment he had read of, conducted by a Frenchman named Foucault who had used the movement of the plane of a pendulum as the day pa.s.sed to demonstrate the Earth's rotation. It would have appealed to both sides of Yudin's character to stay and watch Mihailov's body precess around the nave of the church, but there were other laws of nature that prevented it.

'Prometheus!' he shouted. The vampire turned and looked straight at him. There was recognition in his eyes, not just of Yudin's face but also of his handiwork. Their stares locked for only a moment, but it was all that Yudin required.

He dropped down into the churchyard, his feet kicking occasionally against the wall to slow his descent. As soon as he hit the ground he began to run. He only needed to go a little way before he reached the vault. Where he had earlier dug at the earth, a brick arch was revealed, like the upper part of the eye of a toad, peering out of a bog. He slipped inside and peeped through the opening, back in the direction he had come. He had chosen this tomb in particular because it was due east of the church. Thus when the sun rose, it would be behind him. He would be protected from it by the back wall of the vault, but would still be able to see its effects before him.

Seconds later, the sun did rise. Yudin could see the shadows of the graves as it cast them against the side of the church. Higher up the wall, free of shadow, the sun's illumination was clear, as it was upon the church's wooden roof.

It was Mihailov's screams that Yudin heard first, if only by a fraction of a second. His throat must have healed well for him to be able to make such a noise. He wondered if they had managed to get him down. If so, his sudden agony would be even more bewildering to them.

It was only a moment later that the roof erupted in flame. It was soaked in Mihailov's blood. Yudin had dragged the font right to the very top and emptied it down the slope. The snow had soaked it up, red streaks running through it like a raspberry sauce on an iced dessert. It was all to the good, holding the blood in place. Some made it down to the gutters, but at this time of year the drains were blocked with ice, so it could not escape. The blood itself would have frozen quickly, but that would make no difference to the sun's effect on it.

As the blood began to boil and combust, Mihailov would feel the pain as though it were still running in his own veins. It was a trick Yudin had employed more than once before, but in those cases the amount of blood involved had been just a smear. Here, with the entire body's blood supply exposed to the sunlight in a single instant, the pain would be unimaginable. Yudin could only guess that it would be the equivalent of walking into the daylight and exposing one's body. Except that in that case pain would end in moments with death. Here it would last, until all the blood had burned.

Only then would follow the full exposure to the sun's rays.

That stage was almost upon them. Yudin could see from the colour and height of the flames on the church roof that it was now mostly wood that was burning, rather than blood. From within, Mihailov's screams had subsided. When, Yudin wondered, would they realize? They must be aware by now that the roof was ablaze. They wouldn't dare leave it was far too light outside. They would make for the crypt, hoping that the flames would not penetrate so far down. Only then would they discover the door blocked. Perhaps they would break through, perhaps not. Yudin cared little.

With a huge crunch, part of the roof caved in. Yudin heard a scream, loud but suddenly curtailed. It could have been any of them. Then another segment collapsed. Now the whole of the nave would be filled with light. He imagined them in there, scrabbling for any bit of shadow, fighting among themselves for a dark corner where the sun did not penetrate. They might find something, but it would not stay safe. The sun would move throughout the day, and what had been in shadow would be restored to light and what had lurked therein would be no more. It was just a shame that the sun was so low in the sky at this time of year.

Yudin stood and watched until almost midday, when the sun at last became a danger to him. The hue and cry was soon raised, and groups of men came and threw water on the fire. They managed to put it out, but it would have consumed itself eventually. None of the men went inside they would be afraid of the walls collapsing. It happened a little later; the eastern wall fell inwards, no longer able to lean against the roof. Yudin slunk back into the tomb. There were two coffins in there, and he lay between them to sleep.

It had been fun much better than anything he had planned at the beginning of the night. That couple with their little child would have come nowhere near it. But there had been a purpose to it as well. It was a warning. Why warn creatures that would minutes later be dead? Why not kill them more simply and more certainly? The answer was straightforward. It was none of the three voordalaki who had perished in that church that he was attempting to warn, but a fourth such creature, many versts away.

Zmyeevich could see through Tyeplov's eyes, and Tyeplov through his. That was how Tyeplov had known where to locate Yudin and Raisa and Dmitry. And that meant that Zmyeevich would have seen all of this, and heard it, and hopefully felt it. He needed reminding of just how resourceful an opponent Yudin could be. It would be no more than a bee sting to him; but it might make him keep away from bees.

But as Yudin fell into slumber, there was one question that still puzzled him. Tyeplov had brought the others to Moscow because he had known that Yudin was there. Tyeplov had known because, through their joined minds, Zmyeevich had told him. But that was not the end of the chain, only a link in it.

Zmyeevich might have informed Tyeplov, but how did Zmyeevich know?

CHAPTER XVI.

DMITRY REMINDED HIMSELF of his father. He itched to be in Moscow again. He yearned for it. And soon he would be there. Aleksei had been just the same, although at first Dmitry had been too young to realize it. As a boy, he'd been sad whenever his father had left their home in Petersburg, but he'd understood that it was necessary. Aleksei had hugged him, and kissed Marfa, and promised to write and promised to be home as soon as he could possibly manage, and to a growing boy it had all appeared genuine.

It was only on that last trip, in 1825, when Dmitry had been eighteen and off to join the cavalry and he and his father had travelled down together, that he understood the truth. Although Aleksei had displayed the same emotions as ever to Marfa when they left and she had been sadder still for also losing a son once they were en route, Aleksei had cheered up no end. As they arrived in the city, Aleksei had been scarcely able to contain his enthusiasm. Then, of course, his father had had to put up with a journey of four days on the stagecoach, whereas Dmitry could achieve it in less than one. There was something to be said for the old ways, though. He remembered the coach taking them right into the heart of the city and how Aleksei had chattered incessantly, pointing out every sight. The train's approach, though faster, came through the dreary outskirts, and would deposit its pa.s.sengers on the very rim of civilization. There was nothing to tantalize Dmitry, except in his own mind.

Even back then, in 1825, Dmitry had known the primary reason for Aleksei's zeal. He had a mistress in the city, a former prost.i.tute by the name of Domnikiia. It was Yudin who had warned Dmitry of her existence. At the time, he despised his father for it, and hated the woman more. Eventually thankfully before he and Aleksei had parted for ever he had grown to see that his father's weaknesses vanished to nothing when set beside his strengths. And as Dmitry had grown older he had learned that few men were in a position to judge their fellows. Dmitry was not one of the few.

The train was slowing now. Dmitry looked out of the window at the buildings rolling past. Some were familiar, others less so. They pa.s.sed the remains of a church no more than a burnt-out ruin and Dmitry tried to remember whether it had been like that when he left, at the end of the previous year. Whatever the changes, this was Moscow. He didn't stand yet, but sat up a little straighter, his cane pressed between his knees. His ankle was almost healed now, but he kept the stick as an affectation. He could even pedal at the piano, though it would ache if he forgot himself and played for too long. That would pa.s.s.

But whatever reasons Dmitry might personally have to embrace the future with excited antic.i.p.ation, he was not alone in his optimism. It was mid-March now and spring was here not just as a season of the year, but for the whole of Europe; the whole of the world.

The war was over. Many himself included had said it was over on that terrible day in August when the French had taken the Malakhov, but it had gone on a little longer in the eyes of the leaders of Russia, Britain and France. The last major action, an attempt by the Russians to retake southern Sevastopol, had failed in January. February had seen an armistice and a peace conference opening in Paris. The latest news was that a treaty would be signed within days. The terms were intended more to humiliate Russia than to enfeeble her. The loss of southern Bessarabia was a petty territorial adjustment. The destruction of the Black Sea fleet was an unprecedented act of vindictiveness. But neither of them justified a war so long, so b.l.o.o.d.y and so brutal. At least the French emperor had what he wanted: revenge for Russia's humiliation of his uncle, four decades before. But in the end, for all sides, peace was a greater booty than any territorial gain. Peace was what Russia needed; what Europe needed.

But in that regard, there was one new cloud on the horizon. Napoleon III, warmonger and self-appointed emperor of the French, now had a son to continue his dynasty. He had, of course, been named Napoleon. One day, just like his father and his great-uncle before him, he would grow up to plunge the whole of Europe into a pointless war. Dmitry felt sure of it. He wondered if he would live to see the day.

He was old already; older than he had been three days ago. That had been his birthday; his forty-ninth. He'd stayed in Petersburg just long enough to celebrate it with Svetlana. Then he had been off to Moscow, feeling as though he were nothing like that old, and with a wealth of ideas for how to prove it ideas and an enthusiasm that he wished he had possessed as a younger man. He'd landed a convenient posting a place on a committee to organize the cavalry parades for His Majesty's forthcoming coronation. It was the best he could hope for with his injury, but it meant he would be in Moscow. Just as his father had been drawn to the old capital, so now was he.

And, of course, back in 1825 there had been one other reason that Aleksei was so thrilled to return to Moscow one of which, at the time, Dmitry had been totally unaware. If he had, back then, known of that reason that person he would have despised her perhaps more than he did her mother. Thankfully, Dmitry had changed. Aleksei had travelled to the old capital to visit his daughter, and now Dmitry would be able to visit his sister. In each case, it was the same individual: Tamara Valentinovna.

The year so far had been busy. The end of the war, though not yet formalized, allowed the pa.s.sions of the soldier to be directed more towards his fellow woman than against his fellow man. For the most part, Tamara had managed to avoid being the object of that pa.s.sion herself, but had still found her time fully occupied organizing the other girls, buying wine, vodka and food for the clients, stocking up on willow leaves as a prevention and pennyroyal as a cure. Over the whole year she had been at Degtyarny Lane, there had been only three suspected pregnancies. Most of the girls used a pessary soaked in vinegar in addition to the willow leaves. Some of them had their own methods, but where possible, Tamara ensured that those were additional to what she told them to use. She'd learned it herself from Vitya a doctor naturally knew these things when they'd decided that with three children their family was perfect and complete.

Of the three girls who had fallen pregnant, one had proved to have been imagining it, and one had been dealt with successfully using pennyroyal. The third had gone back to her family to bear the child, and had returned to work within two months, explaining that she had left the little boy in the care of her sister. Tamara hoped she could believe it.

It was only Raisa who made no specific efforts at all towards avoiding the risk that came with her profession. Tamara had asked her about it.

'I can't,' Raisa said.

'Can't take willow leaf?' Tamara replied.

'Can't have children.'

'You're sure?'

Raisa had nodded sadly. Tamara grasped her hand. 'I became pregnant when I was very young,' Raisa continued. 'My father was horrified. He sent a woman to me. She removed the baby and more besides.' Raisa had looked up at Tamara and blinked, but no tears formed in her eyes. 'It's a blessing in this job,' she concluded. Tamara couldn't imagine anything more awful.

Today though, for the first time in many months, Tamara had managed to go back to the archives and continue her research. There was a specific reason for it a note from Gribov telling her he had discovered something. It seemed he had taken pity on her, watching her plough through the reams of paper with little success, and had asked her who and what most interested her. She had drawn a blank on Aleksei, but her visit to Petersburg had brought up the name of Vasiliy Denisovich Makarov, so she'd asked Gribov if he could follow that up. Then, for want of any other names, she had mentioned to him Natalia Borisovna Papanova, the old woman who had first set Tamara down the path of investigating the original murder at Degtyarny Lane the one in 1812.

It was a fine afternoon when Gribov met her beside the tapestry behind which the stairs to the archives descended. A little snow remained, scattered in a few patches around the Kremlin, but it seemed that spring was truly upon them. He picked up a lamp and led her down the steps, along the dark, low corridor and, once they had entered the library, to a table where several papers had been laid out.

'You don't come up with easy requests, Madame Komarova.'

'You wouldn't have it any other way,' she teased.

'I do enjoy a challenge,' he said, allowing a rare hint of emotion to creep into his voice. 'Let us deal first with Vasiliy Denisovich Makarov.'

'Yes?'

'A difficult man to find. We have no official record of him. That is to say "we" as the Third Section or any of its predecessors.'

'So he's never been political.'

'Not that we suspected. I can find no record of his birth, and only a few mentions of him on a number of commercial invoices and legal doc.u.ments. The earliest is in Petersburg,' he said, handing her a rental agreement for a building.

'When?' she asked, without really looking at it.

'1812.'

She bit her bottom lip and considered. 'He must have been an adult then. That would make him in his sixties now at least.'

'Had he lived,' said Gribov. Tamara felt deflated. Gribov replaced the doc.u.ment in her hand with another. 'I say he had not been suspected of political activity, but I did find this. It's from an interview with a Decembrist rebel.' He pointed to about halfway down the page of small, tight handwriting. Tamara read: The prisoner was asked to comment on reports of him being seen on the Great Neva, comforting a man who appeared to have been shot. The prisoner replied that the man had been shot, but had not died, and that his name was Vasiliy Denisovich Makarov. The prisoner was asked if Makarov had been with the rebels and responded that he had been, adding that he had been one of those keenest to bring about the death of Nikolai Pavlovich. The prisoner's claim of Makarov's survival contradicts other witness testimony which states he fell beneath the ice. No trace of Makarov, alive or dead, has been found.

'The witnesses were wrong,' said Tamara. 'He's still collecting rent for properties in Saint Petersburg.'

'Interesting,' said Gribov, at his most non-committal.

'Who was the prisoner being interviewed?' asked Tamara.

'I'm glad you asked that.' Gribov flicked back through the doc.u.ment and showed her the cover.

Tamara clicked her tongue in wonder at what she saw.

15 February 1826 Commandant's Office Peter and Paul Fortress Interview with Colonel Aleksei Ivanovich Danilov 'I never saw this,' she said.

'It was misfiled,' he explained.

'I have to read it all.'

'Now?'

Tamara said nothing. She had already sat down and pulled the lamp towards her. Her eyes began scanning back and forth across the pages.

'I'll leave you to it.'

Tamara scarcely noticed him depart. It took her only ten minutes to read the short doc.u.ment, but she read it through again immediately. There was no mention of any of the murders not even the one that Aleksei had witnessed outside the Maly Theatre, but that would have been more than she could hope for. There was only one further mention of Makarov, when the interrogator asked how Aleksei knew him. Aleksei said that he had only encountered him a few times, at meetings of the Northern Society. It seemed to Tamara like a lie, but the interrogator chose to accept it.

Aleksei was also asked about his son, Dmitry. Tamara thought back. Dmitry would have been just eighteen then. Aleksei denied that his son had anything to do with the uprising, even though the boy had been in Petersburg at the time. Again the interrogator accepted this. Here there was a note added in the margin: P. M. V. confirms.

There was no mistaking the initials: Pyetr Mihailovich Volkonsky, the man who had watched over her and paid for her upkeep until his death four years before. For whatever reason, it seemed he had been watching over Dmitry too.