Ian Hocking - The Amber Rooms

‘Later, perhaps. We need to leave.’

‘Of course.’

He offered his arm. She took it and they moved with particular slowness into the station building.

‘And as for your role,’ he continued, ‘in the … difficulties experienced between my father and my mother, I am afraid that I have misjudged you. I know now that your course is a true one by your own compass—though not mine.’

‘I’d like to see what your father wrote about me. It could be important.’

‘Perhaps that is something you should read for yourself,’ said Pasha, ‘as we travel to Geneva.’

‘We?’

Pasha’s reply faded from his face. He looked to the right of Saskia and smiled coldly at a group of three men who were moving to intercept them. Saskia kept her expression neutral. The middle of the three was an officer of the Protection Department’s Security Section. That was obvious from his demeanour and the practised relaxation in his approach. He was flanked by two monolithic creatures dressed in the blue frock-coats and parade helmets—complete with horse hair in a sultan spike—of the Special Corps of Gendarmes. Saskia understood that she and Pasha were trapped. The gendarmes were physically fit, armed, and experienced. She had already surveyed the hall. Its muted lighting illuminated thirty-five more men, arranged in successively larger groups. A dozen soldiers from the nearby barracks joined them as she watched. The competitive divisions between the groups of men were emphasised by indiscreet coughs, raised eyebrows, and long exhalations of smoke.

Saskia turned from them to the officer who now blocked the route to the arch of the exit, and the bustling square beyond. The man wore a charcoal suit beneath a skirted coat not unlike the Georgian chokha . He was middle-aged, and this gave his eyes a paternal cast. Saskia took this as a deception.

‘A good evening to you both,’ he said. ‘I am Inspector Berezovsky and these are my associates. As you can see, there has been some trouble tonight. You will not object to an inspection of your papers.’

Earlier, Saskia had been carrying a certificate of conduct for the German alien Frau Mirra Tucholsky. These were now in the Neva. She had not dared risk being caught with them, since the identity would be on the Protection Department watch list.

‘I understand entirely,’ said Pasha. Saskia wondered if he understood the proximity of exile or execution. In a conversational manner, he said, ‘This isn’t a repeat of the recent troubles, I hope.’

‘Nothing in that line,’ replied Berezovsky.

‘These are my papers,’ said Pasha, taking an expensive wallet from his jacket pocket, ‘as well as those of my sister, Ludmilla.’

With a gloveless hand, Berezovsky pinched the end of his tongue and opened the passport.

‘As a Nakhimov,’ said the Inspector, casually, ‘your family has a long history in the Hussars.’

Pasha accepted the compliment with a nod.

‘That is correct.’

In the same casual tone, Berezovsky continued, ‘And yet you are not on duty tonight, I find.’

‘I injured my back last month. I hope to resume active duty by Ascension Day.’

‘Ah.’

Berezovsky turned to the passport in the name of Ludmilla Nakhimov. He ran his thumb over the Imperial eagle on its cover. Saskia noticed that the larger of the two gendarmes had stopped blinking. His companion was relaxed but alert. It was clear that all three were veterans of these stop-checks. Something in the body language of Berezovsky had communicated unease to him. Saskia was not surprised at his next question.

‘You were born in 1884, Countess Nakhimov?’

In all likelihood, he was lying. The date was plain to him, but he had misread it deliberately. He smiled at her. It was an acknowledgement that the game, if this conversation were a game, had begun. Saskia smiled back. She did not know what to do. There was not enough light to see the date reflected in Berezovsky’s pupils.

‘I believe it is 1882, Inspector,’ said Pasha. He shared a man-to-man look with the Protection Department officer. ‘My sister has had a long day. We are travelling home directly.’

The Inspector had the grace to bow. ‘Thank you for that correction. But now I must ask the Countess for her middle name and place of birth.’ After a pause, he continued, ‘I will press you for that, Countess.’

He never asks , she thought. He only states.

‘I feel ill, Pasha,’ she said. ‘Let us go home.’

The Inspector feigned concern. ‘With a blessing, Countess. There is no sense extending these proceedings. Do you not agree, Count?’

‘Of course,’ said Pasha. There was a false note in his voice. Added to this, the conviviality of the Inspector’s approach had transformed from courtesy to play. The gendarmes were black doors poised to slam on them both. ‘Now, Lidka. Answer the gentleman and then I can take you home.’

‘What was the question?’ she asked quietly.

‘Come,’ said Berezovsky, as though to a reluctant child. He raised his eyebrows and smiled. ‘It is the simplest thing.’

‘Inspector,’ said Pasha. ‘Allow me to explain. My sister had a fall earlier this evening. She is feeling unwell.’

‘Did she?’ The inspector looked from Pasha to Saskia. ‘Perhaps we can have one of our doctors examine her. They are the best, or so I am informed.’

Saskia looked at him. She did not blink.

‘I asked you to repeat the question, sir.’

Berezovsky turned to the taller of the gendarmes.

Just then, there was movement inside her blouse. Saskia thought of a trapped bird, then the sparrows of the absent i-Core. The flutter slowed to a series of taps not unlike the percussive palpations of a doctor, but ghostly.

‘Your middle name,’ said the Inspector, growing firm in his tone. ‘Your date of birth, and place.’

The invisible taps came like a second heart, fast-slow: lub-dub. Saskia smiled. Lub-dub. Dub-lub-dub-dub. Dub-lub-dub-dub. Lub-dub.

It was the simplest of codes: Russian Morse.

А.

л.

л.

а.

Ego , she thought. Thank you .

‘Aliya,’ she said. Before she drew her next breath, the taps accelerated through a new sequence. The movement was as fast as a card sharp ruffling a deck. But Saskia understood as though the words had been whispered in her ear. ‘1st August, 1882. Rakitnoe.’

The face of the Protection Department agent did not change. But the gendarmes seemed to feel that the tension had eased. One of them offered a bored look to the ceiling. Saskia followed his gaze to the vaulted darkness and heard the quiet but echoic conversation of the men around the terminal hallway. St Petersburg might have been a toy city, with Saskia and Pasha no more than miniatures trapped in its pretend streets, stalked by imaginary forces of a revolution that was itself the idle fiction of a spoiled child.

They bowed to the frustrated Protection Department officer, and his gendarmes, and Saskia let Pasha lead her from Finland Station into the night. They joined a crowd heading north. Saskia sagged against him. As they walked, she tied a kerchief around her head.

‘Lenin is in Geneva,’ he whispered. ‘That is as much as I know.’

‘When can we leave?’

‘Tomorrow morning. In the meantime, my family keeps rooms at the Grand. I’ll take you there and return for breakfast. Tonight, I have some business explaining my absence to my superiors at the Palace.’

‘What about your father?’

‘Lidka will make the arrangements and tell everyone that I have taken to my bed with auras. You recall that I was incapacitated often as a child. No-one will doubt the story.’ He sighed. ‘I only hope I can return in time for the service.’