Kate Furnivall - The Jewel of St Petersburg

Yet still his feet wouldn’t walk away. As he leaned against a wall in the shadow of Kazan Cathedral he cursed that he had ever crossed paths with the Ivanovs. The father emerged first from the massive cathedral doors, but Arkin gave him no more than scant attention. He was the kind of man who called for revolutionaries to be hanged from lampposts as a warning to others. His day of reckoning would come.

Beside him stood his wife, head bowed, a heavy veil hiding her from sight. He wanted to rip the veil from her face, to look into her eyes. To see what lay in her mind. She moved slowly as if it were an effort, but behind her the daughter did not drop her head or lower her gaze. The moment she emerged into the autumn sunlight she stared intently at the crowd of strangers who had gathered outside the cathedral to watch. Her eyes scanned back and forth, clearly searching for someone she expected to see, and Arkin sank deeper into the shadows.

Because he knew that someone was him.

ARKIN HID IN THE SECRET CHAMBER WHEN VALENTINA came to Morozov’s church once more. It was a small airless scrap of space behind a panel in the basement room, and the moment he heard her voice with the priest at the top of the stairs he vanished inside it.

“You can see, my dear, it is exactly as I said. He is not here.” Father Morozov’s voice was gentle.

There was a long silence, and Arkin could hear her footsteps prowling the room. At times they stopped and he pictured her, listening for the faintest sound, scenting the air for any trace of him.

“The place smells of cigarettes,” she pointed out.

“Many come here and smoke, but not Viktor Arkin. Listen to me, my dear, and believe what I say. He was in Moscow and returned to Petersburg for a few days, but now he has gone. I’m not sure where. He mentioned Novgorod, so maybe he’s there. I gave him your message that you are looking for him. So now go in peace, my child, and forget our friend.”

“Father,” Valentina said, and Arkin smiled because he’d heard that tone before, “that man is not my friend. Tell him there are not enough days in the year or enough towns in this country for him to hide in, tell him I will find him, tell him…” Her words stopped, and the sudden silence seemed to bang on the walls. When the words started again her voice had changed. “Tell him,” she said so softly he barely caught it, “that I need help.”

JENS DID NOT LIKE MINISTER IVANOV’S STUDY. IT WAS BOASTFUL and showy. Displaying success in trophies and swords and gilt-framed paintings of mammoth Russian battles, but like the man himself it was starting to fray at the edges. The impressive desk bore scars of cigar burns, there was an ink stain on the carpet, and a patch on one wall was paler than the rest where a painting had been removed. No doubt claimed by a bank. Jens was seated on a chair opposite Ivanov who sat on the other side of the desk, puffing with annoyance on a fat cigar.

“You cannot force Valentina into a marriage she doesn’t want,” Jens stated.

“The answer is still no, Friis. She has to marry into money; she knows that.”

“I am not poor.”

“The answer is no.”

Jens controlled his anger and said coolly, “I work closely with Minister Davidov. I believe you know him.”

“Yes. What the hell is he to do with this matter?”

“He lost his wife earlier this year.”

“I know. A sad matter. So what?”

“So Minister Davidov has no interest in his private life anymore. Yet he is still ambitious, despite his age. Last month he inherited the extensive estates of his elder brother, who was killed in a motor accident.”

Ivanov narrowed his eyes. “Go on.”

“He is looking for ways to invest it in furthering his career, broadening its scope. I heard a whisper that he is interested in heading several of the committees that you control, so perhaps I could drop a word in his ear if…” He left it there.

Ivanov could not keep the greed from his eyes. Jens flipped open the mahogany cigar box on the desk, removed a cigar for himself, and held a hand out to the minister, who seized it like a lifeline.

Ivanov smiled and shook it hard. “Welcome to the family, Friis. I always wanted Valentina’s happiness.”

Jens lit his cigar. Yes, he thought, I’m sure you did.

JENS WAS WORKING IN HIS OFFICE WITH YOUNG KROSKIN, the surveyor who lost a part of his leg after the tunnel explosion. They were bent over a set of plans on his desk, discussing the latest expansion of the tunnels, when the telephone rang. Jens gave a grunt of irritation at the interruption, walked over to the wall, and lifted the earpiece.

“Friis here.”

“Friis, you cunning bastard!”

It was Davidov. “What is it you want, Minister?”

“To congratulate you.”

“On what?”

“On your engagement, for one thing. I heard it from Ivanov himself. And for a second thing, for arranging my deal with him. He’s one hell of a greedy bugger, so it has cost me a fortune, but I shall enjoy…”

Jens stopped listening. Valentina was standing in the doorway of his office. “Excuse me, Minister, I have to go. Thank you for calling.” He hung up.

Kroskin was staring at Valentina. “Miss Ivanova,” the young man said, blushing, “I’m so pleased to see you. I always wanted to thank you for your help down… down in the tunnel.”

She nodded, but her eyes were on Jens.

Kroskin gathered up his crutch and limped to the door. She let him pass, then entered the office, closing the door behind her.

“Jens,” she said, and despite the black coat and hat that she was wearing, she brightened the dull room. “I know how we can do it.”

THEY WAITED TILL AFTER DARK, UNTIL THE FACTORIES spilled out their work shift and shops locked their doors at the end of the day. Valentina loved moving through the city at Jens’s side, her shoulder feeling the solidity of him. He was not going to vanish. Not like Katya. Not like Arkin. Jens would be a part of her life forever.

The street hadn’t changed at all; the door with the cracked panel was still unmended. Jens knocked loudly and when it remained shut, he knocked on it harder until the panel flapped loose. Only then did a man yank open the door no more than the width of his head, and in the dim light they could see it was a young man’s face with quick curious eyes.

“Yes?”

“We’re here to see Ivan and Varenka Sidorov,” Jens said as he slid one foot into the gap.

“They’ve gone.”

“No,” Valentina insisted. No. Not vanished . “I think you’re mistaken.”

“No mistake.”

Jens took a hand from his pocket, and between his fingers lay a five-rouble note. “May we see for ourselves?”

The note disappeared into the man’s jacket. “Of course,” he smiled, amused. Easy money. He stepped back and they saw that the door on the left stood open, a kerosene lamp burning inside, as the sound of a woman singing trickled into the hallway.

“Take a good look,” the young man offered.

Valentina walked into the room. It was still dank and small, still with a cracked ceiling and mold on the wall, but it had been transformed. The furniture was cheap and worn, but a scattering of material in rich colors gave the place a life it had not possessed before. Golds and ambers, magenta and scarlet, colorful swathes of it were draped over chairs and table and bed. Valentina stared. In the middle of the room a young woman with long black hair and gypsy eyes was swaying as she sang softly, an old folk song that belonged in the wilds of the Russian steppes.