David Dickinson - Death on the Nevskii Prospekt

‘Of course you can, my child,’ said the Empress. ‘I have no doubt you will find opinion in the city even firmer against the rabble than my own.’

Lord Francis Powerscourt was confident enough now of his knowledge of the geography of central St Petersburg to make his own way to the Shaporov Palace to collect Mikhail for their second meeting at the Interior Ministry. Snow had fallen during the night, obliterating the last stains of Bloody Sunday. Bits of clothing flapped about the streets, fragments of hats and caps were stuck on the railings, the front of a shirt, the sleeve of a jacket now shrouded in white. Dogs patrolled the area, still seeking, and occasionally finding, pieces of human flesh. Small scraps of proclamation still fluttered around the Neva. There was a bitter wind and the sun was in hiding. Powerscourt was just turning into Millionaires’ Row when two men in dark greatcoats stopped him.

‘You are to come with us,’ the taller one said in broken English.

‘Please,’ said the smaller one, though he didn’t sound as if politeness was his normal stock in trade.

‘I’m terribly sorry,’ said Powerscourt, trying to walk on, but finding his way barred, ‘I’m going to meet a friend just up the road here.’ If he shouted, he thought, they might just hear him in the palace.

‘Later you meet friend,’ said the taller one, who seemed to be the chief spokesman. ‘Now you come with us.’

‘Please,’ said the smaller one again, ‘no trouble. We no want trouble.’ Powerscourt felt something hard and round pressing into his side from the pocket of the smaller one’s coat. This was trouble.

‘Do you mind telling me who you are?’ said Powerscourt angrily, as he was frogmarched back the way he had come. ‘The British Embassy will hear about this.’

‘British Embassy!’ The taller one laughed. ‘This is St Petersburg, not London. British Embassy go to hell!’

They left him at a tall building on the Fontanka Quai by the Fontanka river that flows through the centre of the city and whose banks are graced by many fine buildings. A bald man shook him warmly by the hand and brought him indoors. ‘I think you will find it is warmer inside today,’ he said, in flawless English. ‘I hope my men did not inconvenience you too much.’

‘I have been inconvenienced quite enough,’ said Powerscourt, ‘and I demand to be released. It is barbaric to go around threatening people like this. And who the devil are you?’

‘I thought you might have worked that out for yourself by now, Lord Powerscourt, a man with your reputation as an investigator. My name is Derzhenov, Anton Pavlovich Derzhenov. I am a general in the army of the Tsar, and Chief of the Okhrana, the secret police charged with the responsibility of defending the person of His Majesty and the integrity of his state. At your service.’ He bowed deeply to his visitor.

De Chassiron had told Powerscourt about the many different secret organizations charged with extirpating terrorism, special sections of the police, of the military, of the troops guarding the imperial family, even of the customs. None, in his view, could compare with the Okhrana in the cruelty of their interrogations or their determination to achieve their goals. Not that General Derzhenov looked like a secret policeman. People seldom did. His most distinguishing characteristic was that he was completely bald. Powerscourt didn’t think he had ever seen a man so bald. He looked as though he had never had any hair at all. Perhaps, Powerscourt thought, he had been born bald and nothing had ever grown on the top of his head. He was of average height with a small goatee beard and he was conservatively dressed as if he was going to a board meeting. Powerscourt felt he would not have looked out of place in an Inn of Court, relentlessly harrying opposition witnesses and flattering the jury.

‘Let me give you a very brief tour, Lord Powerscourt. Our visitors are always curious about what goes on in the Okhrana.’ Derzhenov laughed an ominous laugh.

With that he led the way down a flight of stairs to a very long corridor in the basement. Powerscourt saw that the building went back a very long way. There was a series of doors in antiseptic green on either side of the passageway, some with small glass peepholes near the top. There was a very bad smell that might have been rotting flesh. Powerscourt thought he could see a trail of blood oozing out of one of the doors at the far end.

‘It’s a lot quieter since we taped up all their mouths, Lord Powerscourt.’ Derzhenov spoke as if he was showing a potential purchaser round a desirable residence in Mayfair. ‘The neighbours used to complain about the screams. One or two of the guests manage to free themselves of the tapes but not for long.’

He talked, Powerscourt thought, as if he were discussing a new method of producing pig iron or some other industrial process rather than the torture techniques of the Russian secret service. He shivered slightly.

‘We’ve been trying out some new methods,’ General Derzhenov went on, peering in through one of the grilles and making approving noises. ‘We’ve recruited a number of former peasants recently. They have a remarkable aptitude for the work.’

The General tapped lightly on the glass and made winding movements with his hand as if he thought the rack or the press holding the victim should be made even tighter. Then he waved happily as if his suggestion had worked.

‘Do you know what goes on in the peasant villages, Lord Powerscourt? No? Fascinating, quite fascinating. Some of the miscreants in these places,’ Derzhenov went on, walking slowly along his corridor, ‘were known to have had their eyes pulled out, their nails hammered into their body, legs and arms cut off, and stakes driven down their throats. We find most terrorists are only too happy to talk before they get to the end of that.’ This time Derzhenov beamed happily at his visitor.

Powerscourt saw to his horror that the man was worse than a sadist. He was a connoisseur of torture, discussing its refinement as Johnny Fitzgerald might compare the more expensive brands of Bordeaux.

‘Another favourite punishment in the peasant village,’ Derzhenov went on, smiling slightly at the cruelty, ‘was to raise the victim on a pulley with his feet and hands tied together and to drop him so that the vertebrae in his back were broken; this was repeated several times until the victim was reduced to a spineless sack.’

They were halfway up the corridor now. Powerscourt was feeling sick. Through the door to his left he could hear the swish of a whip. It sounded as if two were being applied at the same time.

‘One last example, Lord Powerscourt, one of our most successful imports from the peasant village.’ Derzhenov was smiling broadly now, rather like a wolf, Powerscourt thought, as he looked at the dirty teeth of the secret policeman. ‘The naked victim is wrapped in a wet sack, a pillow is tied around his torso, and his stomach is beaten with hammers or iron bars, so that his internal organs are crushed without leaving any external marks on his body. Not a single one! Neat, don’t you think?’

A single piercing scream came suddenly from the last cell on the right. It was followed by a second, even more agonized than the first. Then Powerscourt heard a terrible thump as if somebody had hit the victim in the stomach with tremendous force. Then the General disappeared into the cell himself. Again Powerscourt heard the sound of whips applied in a frenzy. Derzhenov was sweating slightly as he came out, rubbing his hands together.

‘Sorry about that, Lord Powerscourt. Fellow was quite out of order. Now then, pity we’ve got to leave here but you mustn’t be late for your appointment with the Interior Ministry. Come, we’ll talk in my office upstairs.’