Tom Bradby - The White Russian

Ruzsky followed them, shaking off Anton’s restraining hand. Pavel stared at the floor as he passed.

Upstairs, Ruzsky’s constables stood and watched as the corpses were carried out into the courtyard and thrown into the back of a large truck. The Okhrana men climbed up beside them. Prokopiev made his way around to the cab.

“Urgent political investigation,” Ruzsky said. “What does that mean?”

Prokopiev turned back.

“Who were they?” Ruzsky asked.

“I have no idea.”

“Then why do you want them?”

“They were murdered in front of the Winter Palace. That will do as a reason for now.”

“So, in your estimation, it was a political murder?”

“I didn’t say that, did I?” He raised his finger. “You mustn’t misquote me, old man.” He took a pace back. “I’m glad you’re home. See how our city has changed?”

Ruzsky did not respond.

“You haven’t, perhaps, but you will. You’ll telephone me if you ever need anything, won’t you?”

Ruzsky still held his tongue.

“So much crime, such difficult times. We need to help each other, isn’t that so? How is your son, by the way?”

Ruzsky went cold. “He’s fine, thank you.”

“Michael, isn’t it?”

“Michael, yes.”

“A good name. Perhaps if I ever have a son, I’ll call him Michael.” Prokopiev looked at him with his piercing blue eyes. “Good day, Prince Ruzsky.” He climbed up into the truck. “And, once again, welcome home.”

The engine started up and diesel fumes billowed across the courtyard.

Ruzsky watched until it had disappeared from view. He turned to find Anton standing on the step behind him. “So, we let them get away with it?” he asked quietly.

Anton stared up at the sky. “Sometimes you’re not very bright, do you know that? If they had the power to send you into exile before, imagine what they could do to you now.”

“Was the dead man one of theirs?”

“How should I know?” Anton turned toward him. “If you want to be a martyr, be my guest, but be careful of Pavel.”

“Why?”

“He bears a huge burden of guilt. He carries it like a yoke.”

“He shouldn’t.”

Anton sighed. “Don’t take me for a fool, Sandro. I know what happened. He’ll follow you into the jaws of hell if it comes to it. Remember that, please.”

Ruzsky shook his head.

“You know what I mean, and don’t pretend that you don’t. Your desire to take the blame places others in your debt, but you’re stubborn and, in these times, that is dangerous.”

“So, what do you want us to do?”

Anton didn’t answer.

“It was only authorization to move the bodies. We still have responsibility for the overall investigation.”

“Well, then it’s up to you,” Anton said, before walking back into the building. Pavel passed him on the lintel, making his way out into the courtyard.

“Do they frighten you?” Ruzsky asked Pavel.

“It’s you they should frighten.”

“I won’t be their lapdog,” Ruzsky said.

“No, well…” Pavel shrugged.

“What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know. You’re the boss.”

Ruzsky sighed. “It’s still our investigation to run.”

Back at his desk while Pavel went to the bathroom, Ruzsky thought of the fear he’d seen in Pavel’s face, and even Anton’s.

He glanced at the clock, then took out his wallet and removed the photograph of Irina and Michael that he still kept there. He put it on his desk, switched on the lamp, and bent over it. He told himself Prokopiev was dangerous only if he made another mistake. He would just have to be careful. Tackling the thugs of the Black Bands this morning would have been unwise.

Ruzsky stared at the face of his son.

Michael was a handsome boy, with straight dark hair and a solemn face. He was shy, just as his father had been, stubborn and affectionate. When he was difficult-which he had become more frequently as his parents’ arguments increased-he would cling to his rebellion tenaciously, only to cry his heart out once it was over.

Irina smiled with an easy, lopsided grin that now completely failed to touch anything within him.

Ruzsky thought of their departure from Tobolsk six months ago. He recalled Michael’s desperate affection and Irina’s impatience.

He thought of her standing in the tiny kitchen of that house, screaming, “I wasn’t made for this!”

Michael would think his father had abandoned him. At only six years of age, it was a terrible conclusion to reach.

Ruzsky stood and, just as he had done at home, rested his head against the damp cold glass of the window.

It was not possible, surely, that a boy could be better off denied a father’s love. Wasn’t he himself testimony to that?

Ruzsky put his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out an old printed program from the Mariinskiy Theatre. He opened it to the relevant page and then turned around and placed that over Irina on the desktop, so that Maria and Michael both looked up at him.

He gazed at their faces, allowing his fantasy free rein for a few moments. To have a happy family; was it so much to ask?

Ruzsky noticed the pile of newspapers next to Pavel’s desk and he walked over and pulled off the top copy, which turned out to be Friday’s Petrogradskie Vedomosti. He ignored the war news and flicked through to the theater section. Romeo and Juliet in the Mariinskiy, it announced, but there was no reference to her.

Pavel came back into the room and Ruzsky pushed aside the newspaper, scooping up the photograph and the program into his pocket.

Pavel had recovered and his manner was businesslike, but he still had an uncanny knack of perceiving his partner’s mood. “You’ve been dreaming?”

Ruzsky leaned back against the window. “No. But it’s not a crime.”

“Depends who you are. In my case, no. I dream only of the possible. More vodka, more money, more sex. But with you, I’m not so sure.”

“Sex with you? I’m not so sure either-”

“You’re a dreamer by nature. You dream of the impossible, I think, and that is a kind of prison.”

“Tobolsk was a prison. Without dreams, I’d have been dead from the neck up.”

Pavel stared at the floor. “So, where do we go?”

Ruzsky leaned back against the edge of his desk. “The thing is, political murders don’t involve someone being stabbed seventeen times.”

Pavel didn’t answer.

“Do they?”

“It depends on the motive.”

Ruzsky left the building five minutes later, and he nearly collided with a man who barely reached his chest. “Sandro!” the man exclaimed. “They let you back!”

Ruzsky recognized Stanislav instantly. The wind had dropped and snow was falling in big, fat flakes, some of which perched on top of the journalist’s head.

“They let you stay!” Ruzsky countered. “I can hardly believe it.”

“Well, you know…” Stanislav shrugged. “Even a sinking ship needs its rats…”

Stanislav was a small, lean man with greasy hair, a long nose, round glasses, and oily, pockmarked skin. Pavel called him “the rat” and the name had stuck. He had been a journalist originally. He still called himself one, though he had been employed by the department for more than a decade. His official job was to provide information on the city police’s activities to the newspapers-which mostly meant murder cases, since that was all they were interested in-but Ruzsky had other uses for him. Stanislav, more than any of them, was at home in the city’s sewers.

“I heard you’ve got a case for me,” Stanislav said, revealing an atrocious set of yellowing teeth. He wore woolen gloves with the fingers cut off.

“Possibly.”