Andrew Williams - To Kill a Tsar

Not content with ringing the new electric bell, the clerk from the Justice Ministry was banging his fist on the door and making enough noise to wake not only Dobrshinsky’s respectable neighbours in Furshtatskaya Street but the devil himself. The bleary-eyed porter opened it in his nightshirt. Certainly, His Honour was at home but, like every good Christian, in his bed at such an hour. The clerk was insistent: he was required to deliver his message at once. It was a matter of the utmost importance.

The long case clock in the hall was chiming half past three as the young man was shown into the special investigator’s study. Anton Dobrshinsky was standing at his desk in a flamboyant Chinese blue silk dressing gown which would have surprised those familiar with his sober public persona. He had just struck a match and was on the point of lighting a cigarette.

The clerk stepped forward at once with the letter: ‘Compliments of His Worship Count von Plehve.’

Dobrshinsky examined the handwriting on the envelope for a second, then picked up a paperknife and with a single easy motion slit it open. Five polite but deliberately vague lines that left him in no doubt the count had received serious intelligence:

My Dear Anton Frankzevich,

I am sorry for the lateness of the hour, only a matter of the greatest importance to the Fatherland would lead me to request a meeting. I have sent a carriage with instructions to bring you to my home. My dear fellow, please make haste, there is much of a confidential nature that we must speak of at the earliest opportunity.

An attack? Dobrshinsky wondered. This new terrorist organisation, the arrest of the Jew with a suitcase of dynamite: he had warned the head of the Third Section there would be an attempt on a member of the imperial family or the government. The dogs had been barking a warning in the streets.

‘I’ll be down shortly,’ he said, slipping the letter back in the envelope.

It was only a matter of a few minutes’ drive through the empty streets to von Plehve’s home on the Moika Embankment. The count greeted Dobrshinsky in the hall and, with the face of an undertaker, led him to his study.

‘My dear fellow, terrible news,’ he said as the polished mahogany doors closed behind them. ‘It concerns His Majesty…’

Dobrshinsky looked at him impassively for a moment then said: ‘I warned General Drenteln the imperial train was in danger.’

‘How did you know?’ demanded von Plehve.

‘The gendarmes arrested a Jew called Goldenberg at Elizavetgrad Station eight days ago. He was carrying a large quantity of dynamite.’

‘You mean this could have been prevented?’ The count gestured angrily towards one of the English armchairs in front of his desk. ‘The Emperor’s Council will want to know why the train wasn’t stopped.’

He slumped heavily into the chair opposite Dobrshinsky and with his elbows on the arms, placed his fingers to his lips and stared coldly over them at the special investigator: ‘The second attempt on the tsar’s life this year. It will be me who has to answer for this.’

That was not, strictly speaking, true. Dobrshinsky knew the names of half a dozen ministers and more senior civil servants who would be asked to account for a failure in security before the count — the head of the Third Section, General Drenteln, for one.

‘It would be helpful if Your Worship told me what has happened.’

‘As you’ve clearly surmised, the emperor has not been hurt,’ said the count dryly. ‘But the imperial baggage train was derailed by an explosion outside Moscow this evening. The order of the trains was changed, the emperor’s was to have been the second train but at the last minute it was agreed he would travel before the baggage.’ The count rose again and walked over to the fire to ring the bell to the right of the mantelpiece. ‘A piece of remarkably good fortune — His Majesty has probably declared it another miracle — you see, the bomb went off beneath the fourth carriage. The emperor’s saloon was the fourth on the imperial train. If he hadn’t insisted on switching the order of the trains he would be dead. And…’ the count lowered his heavy frame back into the armchair, ‘and you and I would be eking out a living in a provincial city. Thankfully no one was hurt, but the royal supply of jam was a casualty.’

There was a knock at the study door and a servant entered with a delicate china tea service which he placed on a table by the fire.

‘They’re very well informed,’ said Dobrshinsky with a frown.

‘The terrorists?’

‘It’s possible they were watching the imperial train in the Crimea…’

‘But you think there’s more?’ said the count, accepting the cup offered by his footman.

‘I am afraid I do.’

First the dead informer, Bronstein, in the hotel. Then the student who had blown his brains out to avoid arrest. Someone must have tipped him off because he had destroyed his papers and was on the point of leaving Petersburg. And the local police informer in Peski too — the vagabond — he had been stabbed outside a church school on a Sunday. ‘You see, Count, every time we try to place someone in this new party, they are murdered. Every time we try to make an arrest, the bird has just flown. Our promising leads come to nothing?’

‘But you’ve arrested this fellow with the dynamite,’ von Plehve pointed out sceptically.

Dobrshinsky’s face stiffened a little. Was the chief prosecutor implying he was making excuses? ‘It was pure luck. Goldenberg was dragging a bag of dynamite along a station platform. Even the local gendarmes were able to identify him as a suspicious character.’

‘I see.’

For a minute, neither of them spoke but sipped their tea and stared at the crackling fire.

‘Just to be clear,’ von Plehve said at last, ‘you think someone is giving this “People’s Will” intelligence — they have a spy somewhere?’

‘Perhaps,’ Dobrshinsky replied cautiously. ‘Some of them come from noble families. They have influential friends.’

‘This woman, Sophia Perovskaya?’

‘And others. The Volkonsky woman has given us a few names and descriptions, although she was trusted with very little.’

‘The foreigner she mentioned, have you been able to identify him?’

‘Not yet. She thinks he’s German or perhaps English.’

‘A plot to destabilise the country?’ Something in the tone of this question suggested the count’s subtle mind had fastened on an interesting new possibility. ‘It might be useful to brief our newspapers. They could suggest something of the sort.’

‘I am more interested in the Jew, Goldenberg,’ replied Dobrshinsky. ‘We suspect him of being involved in the murder of the governor of Kharkov.’

Von Plehve put his cup back on his saucer. ‘I am sure you will do all you need to do to extract the truth from him.’

Ah, spoken like a true Russian, Dobrshinsky thought, and he could not help a sardonic little smile.

‘Does that offend you?’

‘Not in the slightest, but it won’t be necessary. I have my own methods.’

Von Plehve grunted. ‘That’s up to you. I don’t care how you break him. Just be sure you do.’

…We are convinced that our agents and our party will not be discouraged by this failure… They will go forward with new faith in their strength and in the ultimate success of their cause…

‘No comfort for the authorities there,’ said Dobson with a short laugh. He was standing in front of the fire in his study, a dogeared leaflet in his hand. It was a bleak Petersburg evening, dark at five o’clock, a wind from Siberia driving all but a few from the streets, snow rattling at the window.