Jasper Kent - Thirteen Years Later

Aleksei almost burst out laughing. ‘God, no!’ he said. ‘Believe me, between a man and his wife, there are some things best left secret.’

‘Really? It’s just that… No. I see what you mean. But what would she think if she knew?’

‘In politics, women follow their husbands,’ said Aleksei. For him it was not a prescription of what should be, but a description of what was, not just in Russia but everywhere – even America. It would certainly be the case with Marfa. Maks had once told Aleksei to read a book on the subject by an Englishwoman called Mary Wollstonecraft, but he never had. It was an issue over which Maks would have disagreed with the current leadership of the Society. ‘“Woman cannot be the subject of political rights; she is even barred from attending open sessions of the legislature.”’ Muraviev had written that.

‘And their sons,’ said Dmitry with a smile. No, thought Aleksei, not if it came to it. Marfa would stick with her husband.

‘How long have you been with the Society?’ asked Aleksei.

‘Oh, not long. Two years. Ryleev may have graduated from the Cadet Corps, but he’s not been forgotten. I bet you’ve been there from the start though.’

‘Not quite but…’ Aleksei paused. ‘Look, Mitka, I don’t think we should be talking like this. The Society is founded on secrecy – survives on it. We can’t make exceptions, even between father and son.’ Again, it wasn’t a lie, but Aleksei knew that he would have to plan very carefully before prising his son from the clutches of the revolutionaries. To rush in now could ruin everything.

Dmitry nodded earnestly. ‘You’re right, of course, you’re right.’ There was a lot in him that reminded Aleksei of Maks, but the humourlessness so often found when the young discovered politics was a trait he’d never known in Maksim Sergeivich. Dmitry would grow out of it. ‘Though you know they’re trying to blame the murders on us?’

There was only one murder Aleksei had heard of recently. ‘That bloke up in Tverskaya? What’s he got to do with the Society?’

‘It’s more the Poles people are trying to pin it on. But it’s the new one that’s really got them talking.’

‘Another one? When?’

‘They found him yesterday morning. His throat ripped out just like before. Some people are saying it’s part of a Masonic ritual – that points the finger at us too; at some of us.’

‘Bollocks,’ said Aleksei, a little too vehemently. Though what did he know? He had no doubt about the nature, even the identity, of the killer. But Freemasonry? Did they allow vampires to join? ‘What’s so ritualistic about having your throat cut?’ he asked.

‘It’s part of the punishment – you know that.’

‘And did he have his tongue ripped out and buried in the sand?’ Aleksei despised and ridiculed it all in equal measure. In a way he regretted that the Union of Welfare had dropped the Masonic trappings of the Union of Salvation from which it had evolved. It was much easier to have an opponent that could be laughed at.

‘No,’ Dmitry conceded, ‘but the place they found him was obviously ritualistic – if not specifically Masonic.’

‘The place?’ asked Aleksei, but even as he spoke, he understood what his son was saying. He’d been at the very spot, only two days before.

‘They found him in the Lobnoye Mesto, Papa,’ said Dmitry. ‘At Golgotha.’

As Aleksei had noted the previous night, the midpoint of the Stone Bridge provided a fine vista of the area around it. But to see is to be seen, and any man standing at that position, even though the crescent moon was on the point of setting in the west, could not avoid being observed.

So although Kyesha had arrived early, and stood on the bridge staring down at the water that flowed below and occasionally glancing around, Aleksei had arrived earlier. Again, history was repeating itself. In 1812, on a Wednesday night, Aleksei had hidden away on the south bank of the river and watched as two of his friends met with two of his enemies – though he had not yet known them so to be. It had been that very evening, thirteen years and one month ago, that he had discovered the truth, by following the Oprichnik Matfei and seeing him feast on the body of a French soldier. Matfei had died that night by Aleksei’s hand, as had another of them: Varfolomei. Tonight he would prove beyond his own doubt that Kyesha was a voordalak – a doubt which had already vanished to almost nothing.

The news he had heard from Dmitry of the body at the Lobnoye Mesto – the body of a Kremlin guard whose colleagues had last seen him striding over from the Saviour’s Gate claiming he had seen a flickering light – had convinced Aleksei of Kyesha’s guilt. He had spoken to the guard, however briefly, and could almost pinpoint the moment at which his life was extinguished, along with the flame of his lantern. He should have begun tailing Kyesha that night, but now he would make amends. And when he caught up with the monster, he had ways of dealing with him.

He had his sabre, with which he might behead him, his wooden sword – newly sharpened – to drive through his heart and, most useful of all, the patience simply to wait until dawn and let the sun’s rays do his work for him, at no risk to himself. The short wooden sword was easy enough to conceal, and his sabre hung from a loop of cloth around his shoulder, so it could not be seen beneath his long greatcoat. It was a technique he had devised when trying to hide the weapon from the French, but it would work just as well against a voordalak. If Kyesha got close enough to see it, Aleksei would be close enough to use it.

There had been some degree of rebuilding work along the Sofia Embankment, but Aleksei found a sidestreet, very close to where he had stood before, and watched the bridge, hidden by the corner of a house. Kyesha waited for over an hour, his movements becoming increasingly impatient. Aleksei felt the bizarre sensation that he was being rude. He’d arranged to meet Kyesha at a certain place and at a certain time, and now he was keeping the man waiting. The fact that their conversations had always taken place with almost complete politeness added to the feeling. Any antipathy had been only an undercurrent, and therefore could have been purely one-sided; Kyesha might feel nothing but friendship for Aleksei. It seemed unlikely, but years of being taught to behave properly were difficult to overcome.

Eventually, Kyesha walked irritatedly away. He headed north. Aleksei had betted against that – by placing himself on the south side of the river – on the basis that it was the direction he had gone the previous night. If he rushed back to the bridge now – and over it – he had little chance of catching up with Kyesha, and a lot of being seen by him. Instead he waited – there was still a possibility that he would be able to keep up with his quarry. He watched the figure reach the far end of the bridge and then disappear from view. A moment later, he could see him again, heading east along the embankment, dwarfed by the Kremlin’s looming, red walls. Now there was no possible turn-off for him until he reached the Moskva Bridge, but it would do Aleksei no good to be seen running parallel to his prey along the south bank. He turned away from the river towards the canal. He would have to sprint; Kyesha was moving at a brisk pace. He passed Bolotnaya Square and then turned to run alongside the canal before heading north again to the foot of the Moskva Bridge. The curve of the river gave him a slight advantage, and when he reached the bridge, he could see Kyesha still some distance away, not yet clear of the Kremlin.

Now Aleksei had to take another chance. If he waited where he was to see which way Kyesha headed, he could well lose him. He would have to start crossing the bridge. But that in turn meant that if Kyesha did go south, they would undoubtedly meet. There was no real choice. If Kyesha had been going south, he would have done so immediately, when leaving the Stone Bridge. And even if they did come face to face, Aleksei could simply apologize for being late and say how pleased he was to have caught up with Kyesha. The wooden bridge did not provide much cover, but Aleksei would not stand out amongst the individuals and groups crossing in both directions, and it was unlikely that Kyesha would be looking that way.