Jasper Kent - Thirteen Years Later

‘It’s from your Uncle Maks.’ His father’s voice cut through the room, louder than was necessary, monotone and grating, as if he was trying hard to keep it under control.

Dmitry did not remember his Uncle Maks. He’d been told by his parents that Maks had been a frequent visitor to their home when he was young, but he could not have been more than four years old at his last visit. Both his mother and father had shown a great affection for him, but they had not spared their son the truth about him – he was a traitor, a French spy. The other thing Dmitry remembered with certainty about Uncle Maks was that he had died in 1812.

‘Maks is dead,’ said Dmitry.

‘I hope so,’ said Aleksei. Dmitry glanced round at him, but Aleksei did not explain what he meant by the comment. ‘The trouble is,’ he said instead, ‘that everyone who knew what that code means is dead: Vadim, Maks, Dmitry Fetyukovich, and the others – all of them, except me.’

‘What does it mean?’

‘It’s very simple. Those first three numbers are a date and time: month, day, hour. Then there’s a letter and number combination indicating a place, then a final initial, by way of a signature.’

Dmitry looked at the message again and spoke his thoughts out loud. ‘So that’s 22 September, the fourteenth hour – two in the afternoon. And it’s from Maks. How do you decode the location?’

‘There’s no real system there,’ said Aleksei. ‘It was just a list – dozens of places in Moscow, and all around it.’

‘Do you still have it – the list?’

‘We destroyed it once we’d memorized it.’

‘Forgotten now, I suppose,’ said Dmitry.

‘Mostly. But I remember 4. It’s a woodsman’s hut, near a town called Desna, south of Moscow. At least it was – it’s been a long time.’

‘Why do you remember that one?’

Aleksei paused. Dmitry had always thought his father an unemotional man – a temperament quite different from his own – but the fact was that Aleksei did not lack emotions, he merely concealed them, desperately. Dmitry only understood that now, as he saw that concealment beginning to break down. Finally, Aleksei spoke.

‘Because that’s where Maks is buried – where he died. That’s the only place he could meet anyone.’

‘It’s not from Maks, Papa.’

Aleksei’s rigid posture relaxed suddenly, as though Dmitry’s assertion had at last brought rationality back to him. He leapt to his feet. ‘You’re right. It can’t be from Maks. So who is it from?’

‘You said everyone who knew about the code is dead – except you.’

‘I believe so, but that doesn’t mean no one told anyone else. Not one of us – one of them.’

‘Them?’ asked Dmitry.

‘The Oprichniki – that’s what we called them. Twelve mercenaries from Wallachia. But they betrayed us. Maks was the first to see what was happening.’

‘So Uncle Maks wasn’t spying for the French?’

‘Oh, he was. And at the time, that’s all we could think about – all I could think about. I left it to the Oprichniki to execute him.’

‘In Desna?’

Aleksei nodded. ‘Later they killed Vadim.’

‘And Uncle Dmitry?’

‘No, the Russian winter killed him,’ said Aleksei, ‘but it was still down to them.’

‘Who might they have told?’

Aleksei shrugged. ‘Perhaps their leader, Zmyeevich.’

‘He survived?’

‘We only met him briefly. He delivered them to Moscow and then returned home – I presume. They wouldn’t have had a chance then to tell him, but they could easily have sent him the information. But why would he want it? And why use it now?’

‘You’re going to go and find out, aren’t you?’ Dmitry might have resented his father’s willingness to abandon his family in pursuit of adventure, but he knew him well enough to understand that he could not change it.

Aleksei gave his son a smile that Dmitry didn’t think he’d seen since he was four years old, not directed towards him at least. ‘Do you want to come with me?’

Dmitry scarcely needed to think about it. ‘I have to go to Moscow anyway.’

Aleksei smiled broadly. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now go and get some water and a couple of brushes.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t think we want your mother to see this, do we?’

It took almost two hours to get the walls completely clean. Dmitry had not felt as close to his father for many years.

Aleksei had been in a hurry to set out for Desna, but his appointment was set for the twenty-second, and no rushing across the country at breakneck pace would change that. For him, a sudden departure from Petersburg such as this was nothing unusual. For most of his life he had been prepared and able to pack up the most meagre selection of his possessions and leave one city for another without more than a moment’s consideration. An emergency supply of gold coins sewn into his belt provided for most things he could not bring with him.

And so if it had just been down to him, Aleksei would have been happily ready to depart within hours of reading the message – and happier still that such haste would give him even more time to spend in Moscow. But he knew that for his son the departure from his home was a much more serious step. Dmitry had spent the last two days visiting his tailor, traversing the city saying goodbye to friends and attempting to console his dismayed mother. Now that there were only a few hours remaining before their departure, he was doing what he should have been doing all along – packing.

Aleksei went into his son’s room. Dmitry was on his knees, bent over an old trunk full of books and toys and childhood memories which, in truth, probably evoked greater feelings of nostalgia in the father than they did in the son. Dmitry heard the footsteps behind him and turned briefly to smile at Aleksei.

Aleksei walked closer to peer over Dmitry’s shoulder and into the box. There was a model boat, a wooden whistle – his first musical instrument – and a book of Perrault’s fairy tales. Each item brought a different smile to Aleksei’s lips. He bent forward to see more, squinting to focus on the dark mass of items. Suddenly his blood ran cold.

‘My God, Mitka. What are you doing with that?’

Dmitry turned again. In his hand he clutched a sword – a short, wooden sword, no longer than a large dagger. The tip was whittled to a point which time had blunted, but which could easily be made once again fit for purpose. The guard was merely another short strip of wood lashed to the blade with twine, intended less to protect the wielder’s hand than to allow it to apply greater force. Aleksei had made and used such a tool before. It was designed to kill, but not to kill a man.

‘Don’t you remember, Papa?’ said Dmitry, standing up. He began fencing with the sword against an imaginary opponent. ‘You made this for me, years ago – when I was a kid.’

The recollection came back to Aleksei. When he whittled away at those vampire-killing swords, he remembered having made a similar one as a toy for his son. The form was much the same, however different the purpose.

‘You loved the idea of being a soldier back then,’ he said.

‘I grew up,’ said Dmitry, then relented. ‘But I’m sure I will enjoy it.’

‘If I’d been better at woodwork, I’d have made you a piano.’

Dmitry smiled, but said nothing.

‘Are you taking it with you then?’ asked Aleksei.

‘I think I’m old enough for a real one now.’

‘Do you mind if I keep it?’ The request was not a sentimental one. Aleksei had no idea what he would find in Desna, but he knew it had some connection with the creatures he had met thirteen years before. It was reassuring that the meeting was to take place in daylight, but with such a weapon he would feel far more comfortable. ‘Just as a reminder,’ he added, for his son’s benefit.