Tom Bradby - The White Russian

He didn’t answer.

“She wishes to have a dress for the Vorontsov ball.”

“Of course.”

“She said you would not be accompanying her.”

Ruzsky stared at the floor.

“She says you were once handsome, but she does you a disservice.”

Ruzsky looked up. He could hardly credit the fact that this harsh-faced woman was attempting to flirt with him in front of two half-dismembered corpses. “Thank you for coming in, Madame Renaud.”

Pavel was silent as they walked upstairs to the office.

The dagger had been placed on the corner of Ruzsky’s desk, with a tag attached stamped Petrograd City Police, Criminal Investigation Division. Alongside it was a set of crime scene photographs, which they examined in silence.

Ruzsky opened the drawer, took out the notebook, and slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket. He replaced it with the piece of paper on which he had drawn the outline of the footprint traced from the snow.

“What do you want to do?” Pavel asked.

“Go down to the embankment and start checking all residential buildings in the neighborhood. Go to the Winter Palace and try and get hold of the head of the household. See if there is any chance anyone did see anything. And if you have time, try the embassies. British, French, American. Ask if they’ve received any reports of a missing national. We’ll see if Sarlov was right about the man being a foreigner. I’m going to go out to Tsarskoe Selo.”

“You don’t want me to come with you?” Pavel didn’t sound enthusiastic.

“We’ll make more progress if we split up.”

“Who are you going to see?”

“Count Fredericks. One of the other senior household staff. Vyrubova herself.”

“Why don’t you telephone?”

Ruzsky frowned at Pavel’s caution. “If I call, they will decline.”

“They will decline to see you anyway.”

Ruzsky looked up and saw Maretsky going into his cubicle. He picked up the dagger and walked around to join him. Pavel followed.

Maretsky was scanning a document, his glasses pushed to the top of his head. He looked up at them, chewing his lip, as if concentrating on something else, his round, piggy eyes staring into thin air.

Ruzsky held up the knife.

“It’s a dagger,” Maretsky said.

“Correct.” Ruzsky handed it to him.

“It has blood on it.”

“That’s not uncommon in murder cases.”

Maretsky pulled his glasses down and glanced at Ruzsky. He held it up to the light.

“There’s some writing on the blade,” Ruzsky said.

“I can see.”

Ruzsky waited as Maretsky turned the knife over in his hand. The professor handed it back without comment.

“And?” Ruzsky asked.

“And what?” Maretsky glanced at Pavel. For some reason, Ruzsky thought, the professor never felt as comfortable when Pavel was around.

“Have you ever seen this kind of knife before?”

“You’re the chief investigator, Chief Investigator.”

Ruzsky shook his head. Ever since the professor had joined the department, they’d had a strong protective bond. Maretsky had once been a highly regarded academic at St. Petersburg University -a professor of philosophy-but an incident with a young male student had destroyed his career. Anton had offered him a home here, and for some reason Maretsky thought Ruzsky was the only other member of the department who did not judge him. Over the years it had paid dividends more often than Ruzsky could remember.

“The Black Bands?” Ruzsky asked. “Political organizations? Revolutionaries? Does this kind of knife, or the inscription, have any connection with any of them?”

“I’ve not seen anything like it.”

“What is the script?”

Maretsky shrugged.

“Can you find out?”

The professor sighed, which Ruzsky took as a sign of acceptance. He examined the knife once more. “It’s an unusual weapon.” Ruzsky looked up. “Do you still do liaison work?”

Maretsky had been made responsible a long time ago for liaison with the Okhrana, but since Vasilyev’s appointment, relations between the two organizations had grown so hostile that there was virtually no communication at any level.

“I never wanted to.” There was a note of bitterness in Maretsky’s voice.

Ruzsky looked at the professor. Perhaps it was his imagination, but all of his colleagues seemed more evasive these days. Was it his fate that had frightened them? Or something else? “Have you heard any whispers about this case?” Ruzsky asked. “Has anyone called you?”

“No.”

Ruzsky nodded at Pavel, who returned a minute later with the photographs. Ruzsky spread them out on the desk and waited as Maretsky examined them. The professor shook his head. “No,” he said.

“You don’t recognize either of them?”

“No.”

Maretsky was saved from further questioning by the appearance of one of the constables, his face puce with exertion and alarm. “Sir. You had better come.”

S arlov’s voice was audible from the top of the stairs.

Three men in long dark overcoats waited outside the laboratory. Sarlov and Anton stood between them. “This is outrageous,” Sarlov said, his face red with anger.

Ruzsky pushed past them. Ivan Prokopiev was standing in the center of the room, smoking a cigarette. He was a tall man, bigger even than Pavel, with a bulbous, ruddy nose and closely cropped hair. He wore only a shirt which, despite the cold, was open to the middle of his chest, dark trousers and high leather boots. The head of the Okhrana’s Internal Division still held himself with the swagger of the Cossack officer he had once been.

He was watching two of his officers wrap the bodies in a single canvas sheet.

“What are you doing?” Ruzsky asked.

“Prince Ruzsky. What a pleasant surprise. Welcome home.”

There was a moment’s silence as they stared at each other. Prokopiev made no attempt to offer an explanation.

Ruzsky took a step closer. “You’ve no authority to do this.”

“Sandro,” Anton said, taking hold of his arm.

Prokopiev’s expression was dismissive.

“Let’s see your authorization.”

“Sandro,” Anton said again. His and Pavel’s faces were white with shock. Only Sarlov echoed Ruzsky’s anger.

Prokopiev finished his cigarette and stamped it out under his boot. From the inside pocket of his jacket, he took a piece of paper and handed it to Anton, who looked at it before giving it to Ruzsky. It contained a single sentence instructing the Okhrana to remove the bodies for urgent political investigation. It was signed by Major General Prince Alexander Nikolaevich Obolensky, the city mayor and titular head of all of Petrograd ’s police departments.

“Did Obolensky even see this?” Ruzsky asked. “Or did you just sign it yourselves?” In theory, Obolensky was the most senior police official in the city, but they both knew he’d never dare stand in the Okhrana’s way. Prokopiev might easily have forged his signature to save time.

Prokopiev lit another cigarette, then pointed at the pile of clothes on the side. “Where are the contents of their pockets?”

“Are you assuming control of the investigation?” Ruzsky pressed.

“I don’t believe any mention is made of it.”

“Then why do you wish to remove the bodies?”

“You have emptied their pockets?” Prokopiev countered.

Ruzsky shook his head. “They had been stripped of all personal items by the time we arrived.” He omitted to mention the discovery of the roll of banknotes.

Prokopiev nodded, his face expressionless. Ruzsky thought it was the answer he had expected, or wanted.

Anton stepped aside and forced Ruzsky to do the same, as Prokopiev’s men took hold of the canvas sheet and began to carry the corpses out of the room and down the corridor. Prokopiev clicked his heels. “We shall return them when we are done. Good day, gentlemen.”