Andrew Williams - To Kill a Tsar

The door closed behind them and they stood in the small hall.

‘Does Sophia know?’

‘Yes. She’ll be here soon.’

Poor Perovskaya. She loved him deeply. Everyone would share her grief, hug her, speak to her with sympathy, but there will be no word for me, Anna thought.

‘Can we go ahead without him? Is there word from the shop?’

‘No. I don’t know… oh, Anna, what is happening?’

There was still no report from the Malaya Sadovaya when the executive committee gathered at three o’clock. Long faces, frustrated, frightened, and so many comrades missing. This time there were chairs in Vera’s little sitting room for all. There was no comfort they could give Sophia and she was impatient with those who tried, but she accepted Anna’s hands and offered in return a weak smile. Her face was white and strained, and appeared even more so in her simple black dress. But there was no mistaking her composure, and she was the first to speak.

‘There is no turning back. Whatever happens we must act tomorrow.’ She paused to look about the room, defying any of them to challenge her: ‘The mine must be laid and the bombs primed by morning.’

‘What if they’ve discovered the tunnel?’ asked Figner.

‘We still have the grenades. And we must act for the people. Do we act?’ Sophia asked quietly. ‘Vera, do we act?’

‘Yes. We act.’

‘It’s suicide. The police will be everywhere.’ It was the young naval lieutenant, Sukhanov. He was sitting at the edge of his seat, his hands pressed over his ears in a gesture of incredulity. ‘The grenades are not properly made. The gendarmes are in the shop… suicide.’

Sophia Perovskaya gave him a steely look: ‘Do we act?’

‘What will be left of the party after this?’

‘Do we act?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said with a shake of his head. ‘We must hear from the shop before we can decide.’

Sophia Perovskaya stared at him coldly for a moment, then turned to Anna: ‘Annushka, do we act?’

Dead comrades, comrades in prison, the isolation, fear, so much sacrifice in the two years they had been fighting. Zhelyabov would never feel the warm southern sun on his shoulders again. There was no longer a choice.

‘Annushka?’ Sophia asked, again.

‘Yes. We shall act…’

‘Will you help us, Doctor?’

‘If I can.’

‘Then where will we find Anna Kovalenko?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But you would tell me if you did know?’

Hadfield did not reply but folded his arms across his chest and stared impassively at the special investigator. They were sitting on either side of an iron table in the House of Preliminary Detention. The interrogation room was larger than his cell but with the same bleak grey walls and asphalt floor, lit by an unscreened gas flame. They had given him an ill-fitting prison uniform with trousers he was obliged to grasp like a village simpleton to prevent them falling to his ankles. The duty doctor had made a respectable job of cleaning and stitching the wound in his head, but a little blood was seeping through the bandage. It was not how he would choose to dress for an embassy soirée but there was little chance of his name appearing on the guest list for a while.

‘Why did you visit the Sunday parade?’

‘To see the emperor.’

‘Were you helping your terrorist friends with information?’

‘No.’

‘Then why were you there?’

‘To see the emperor.’

Dobrshinsky sighed with exasperation: ‘I don’t think you understand how serious your situation is, Doctor. Consorting with a terrorist — the old Ukrainian woman has told me of your meetings — resisting His Majesty’s servants in the line of duty…’

‘He wasn’t in uniform.’

‘Doctor, that’s quite insulting.’ Dobrshinsky leant forward earnestly, elbows on the table: ‘You’re an intelligent fellow — if misguided — you know Anna Petrovna and her comrades are going to make another attempt on the emperor’s life. Isn’t that why you went to see the Sunday parade?’

Hadfield did not reply.

‘Do you think killing the emperor will solve anything in this country? ’

‘No,’ said Hadfield emphatically. ‘I’m opposed to terror, whether it’s directed at or by the state.’

‘Said with creditable frankness. But then you must help me prevent another outrage.’ Dobrshinsky paused to let him answer, and when none was forthcoming: ‘Didn’t you make a promise to preserve life?’

‘You asked me if I would help you if I could and I said “Yes — if I could”.’

‘You’re not telling me what you know,’ said Dobrshinsky. ‘Is she worth the disgrace and imprisonment? What about your principles?’

‘If I could, I would help you.’

‘A facile mantra. You think you’re trapped, but you have a choice. You’re a doctor, a gentleman, a man of reason — please use it.’

Dobrshinsky paused again, his little brown eyes watching Hadfield intently, perhaps hoping for a flicker of weakness — of sense. But there was nothing Hadfield could say. He could own that he used to be a man of reason and even some principle, he could admit to his confusion, to terrible doubt, he could say he had not made a decision to pursue this course, that it was a feeling, a compulsion he was in thrall to. Would a man who struggled with an irresistible impulse of his own understand a little of this?

‘No one knows you’re here,’ Dobrshinsky continued. ‘Help me and you will walk free. You can return to your patients and to society. If you don’t help me you’ll be sent to trial and then to a convict settlement, a disgrace to your family and your country.’

‘This is my country.’

‘Then serve her.’

‘If I could, I would help you,’ Hadfield repeated.

‘We will catch Kovalenko and the rest, Figner, Perovskaya. We’ve arrested Zhelyabov. You have a choice…’ Dobrshinsky paused, then, almost as an afterthought, added: ‘Perhaps I should arrange for you to speak with your uncle?’

‘As you wish,’ said Hadfield with exaggerated composure.

Dobrshinsky’s thin lips twitched a little with amusement: ‘Of course that would have unfortunate consequences. You understand the choice you must make. I urge you to think on your future and the right course.’ He pulled a gold timepiece from his waistcoat pocket: ‘Four o’clock. I’ll return in a few hours.’

Rising stiffly from the table, he smoothed the creases from his frock coat with great care and turned to the door. He knocked sharply then turned once more: ‘Did you read those volumes of Mr Dostoevsky’s I lent you, Doctor? There’s a line, I can’t remember it precisely but it is something like, “Do not underestimate how powerful a single man may be.” That power is given to you now. Choose wisely.’

They were saved by a cat. Yakimova had left as soon as she was able and hurried to the flat on the Voznesensky. The gendarmes had arrived at the cheese shop with a surveyor of buildings.

‘Not just any old surveyor. He was a general,’ Bashka reported.

They had searched all three rooms but were most interested in the cellar. The general kicked at the pile of coke they had placed in front of the gallery entrance but did not ask for it to be moved. Nor had the gendarmes taken the trouble to look under the shopkeeper’s bed and in the barrels where they would have found the earth from the gallery. The general had been on the point of asking for one to be opened when Bashka’s cat had bounded down the steps into the cellar and rubbed against his shiny boots.