David Dickinson - Death on the Nevskii Prospekt

‘I’m damned if I’m going to crawl out of this country like a criminal,’ said Powerscourt. ‘The important thing at the moment is to rescue Natasha. I’m going to rouse Johnny Fitzgerald and then he and I are going to pay a visit to General Derzhenov at the Okhrana headquarters on the Fontanka.’

‘And what are you going to do when you get there? Pop yourself into one of those nice cells they have in the basement?’ De Chassiron looked as if he thought his friend had gone mad.

‘Let me try to put it into diplomatic language for you, de Chassiron. I am going, on behalf of the British Government, to conduct a negotiation aimed at the speedy release of Miss Bobrinsky who has been a great friend to the British Foreign Office and the British Government.’

‘That makes her sound like a spy, an English spy,’ said de Chassiron. ‘That might not do her any good at all. I think you have to let events take their course. There’s nothing we can do. Talk of going to the Okhrana is so much pie in the sky. Why should they lift a finger to help us?’

‘I think you are wrong there. In fact I’m sure of it. Derzhenov has already asked to see me to discuss my conversation with the Tsar. I propose to tell him something, but not necessarily all of what was said, in exchange for the immediate release of Natasha.’

‘But he’s not going to interfere with another of Russia’s intelligence agencies.’ De Chassiron sounded very certain.

‘My dear man,’ said Powerscourt with a smile, ‘this is one of the problems of having competing intelligence agencies. They usually hate their rivals far more than they hate their enemies. I bet you the Okhrana loathe the late Major Shatilov and his organization. Anything they can do to bring them into disrepute brings more power to the Okhrana.’

‘And how much do you propose to tell him? More than you propose telling our Ambassador here, or myself? That would be rather treacherous conduct.’

‘That’s unfair,’ said Powerscourt angrily. ‘You know perfectly well that I am specifically instructed to give the results of my investigation to the Prime Minister and to him alone. At present, however much I might want to fill you in, de Chassiron, I just can’t do it. Anyway, we shall see,’ said Powerscourt, rising from his chair. ‘Please come too, Mikhail, Derzhenov speaks very good English but I have no idea who else we might meet on the way.’

Derzhenov was alone in his office on the fourth floor. The villainous Colonel Kolchak, Powerscourt thought, must be kicking people to death in the basement cells.

‘How good of you to call, Lord Powerscourt!’ the head of the Okhrana purred. ‘And you must be the famous Johnny Fitzgerald. And Mikhail, of course, in case I forget my English. You come just as you said you would, Lord Powerscourt, the morning after your interview with the Tsar. How kind! How very kind!’

Powerscourt felt as though a month had elapsed since his interview with the Tsar. ‘Now then, my friend,’ Derzhenov went on, ‘I understand you have had some interesting adventures since your interview. Is that not so? Interesting adventures?’

‘I will tell you about those in a moment, if I may, General Derzhenov. But most of all I want to ask for your assistance.’

‘My assistance, Lord Powerscourt? How can the son of a humble schoolteacher possibly be of assistance to the representative of the greatest empire on earth?’

Powerscourt felt that American or German historians might take issue with the last statement but he did not think the time or the place were appropriate for a discussion on the rise and fall of empires. ‘It is a very simple matter, General. It concerns a young lady called Natasha Bobrinsky. She is a friend of Mikhail. She has been helping us in a general sort of way, in the inquiries about Mr Martin, for example. She has done nothing whatsoever to harm or betray her country. She is employed part-time as a lady-in-waiting to the Empress at the Alexander Palace at Tsarskoe Selo. For the past few days she felt she was being followed by members of the Imperial Guard, Royal Palaces Security Division. This morning she has disappeared.’

Derzhenov frowned deeply at the mention of the Imperial Guard. ‘And you would like my help to find her?’ he asked. ‘Is she one of the – how do I put it? – the Bobrinsky Bobrinskys?’

‘She is,’ said Powerscourt, ‘and with your help I am sure she would be released by lunchtime.’

Derzhenov laughed a rather alarming laugh. ‘I’m not sure about that, Lord Powerscourt. I think you are exaggerating my powers. But tell me,’ Derzhenov began running the tips of his fingers together, ‘what information do you bring me this morning, the morning after your interview with the Tsar?’

What was Natasha Bobrinsky worth? How much should he tell the head of the Okhrana? None of it? Some of it? All of it? Powerscourt had been running these questions through his mind on the way to the Okhrana headquarters. He still had no answers. He knew nothing that would endanger British national interests. In fact, some of what he knew damaged Russian national interests rather more than his own. Yet somehow he found the prospect of telling his secrets to the head of a foreign intelligence agency who was not allied to Great Britain very hard to take. It would have been different if it had been the urbane head of the French secret service, weaving elegant plots with his Watteau in the Place des Vosges.

‘If I tell you, General, will you secure the release of Miss Bobrinsky?’ said Powerscourt, hoping to be saved by the non-specific nature of his statement. But Derzhenov was too wily a bird to fall for that one.

‘I’m afraid, my friend, you will have to do better than that. I might promise to secure the release of the young lady – if I can – and you would tell me nothing. Why don’t you tell me what transpired and then I will tell you what I might be able to do to release the young lady.’

‘But then,’ now it was Powerscourt’s turn, ‘I could tell you all I know and get nothing in return. Assuming,’ he smiled at the General, ‘you were an unreasonable man. Which you’re not.’ Oddly enough, Powerscourt was certain that this man opposite, who whipped his prisoners for fun, who had the more unfortunate of them killed in ways that replicated classical paintings, would, nevertheless, keep his word.

‘We could go on like this all day,’ said Derzhenov. ‘I suspect that in our careers we often have. Lord Powerscourt, I ask you to trust me. If you tell me what happened and I think you are telling the truth we will see what can be done with this Natasha Bobrinsky. If you do not trust me, then I suggest you leave now. That way you will not compromise yourself or your mission. Your knowledge will remain with you. Miss Bobrinsky will remain locked up. But I hope you do not leave.’

There was a pause. Neither Johnny Fitzgerald nor Mikhail spoke. Then Powerscourt held out his hand. One part of his brain said, You’re shaking hands with a mass murderer. The other part said, ‘Very good, General. I accept what you say. Let me begin with the original nature of my mission to St Petersburg, the question of who killed Roderick Martin.’ Powerscourt saw that Derzhenov had begun taking copious notes. Perhaps he and his information were going to end up as dusty footnotes in the Okhrana files. Information supplied by the English investigator Powerscourt.

‘The last we knew of him was that he left the Tsar at about ten o’clock. The Tsar declined to say anything at all about the nature of their conversation. Martin appeared to vanish until the appearance of his corpse on the Nevskii three or four hours later.’

Powerscourt paused and poured himself a glass of water. Water shall wash away their tears, he said to himself. ‘I now know what happened to him. He was apprehended by members of the Imperial Guard, Royal Palaces Security Division under the control of a Major Shatilov.’