Field of Mars (29 page)

Ryzhkov had seen her for about five minutes since then. There wasn't much to say. She'd lied the whole time. Strung him along pretty well. She'd blubbered, she'd cried, protested and fought it all the way. Trying to minimize her own role in the plot. Well, she was an actress and a whore. She could get very emotional. As far as the death of Katya Lvova was concerned, she'd confessed that she should have seen it coming.

Maybe he should have, too.

When it was all over Fauré had let her go. Warned her, or paid her off. Ryzhkov wasn't sure about the arrangements. He'd tried to stay away from most of it. Maybe that was better. There were things he would never know, Ryzhkov realized. Things he would never understand. Things that he probably ought to put out of his mind.

So, maybe it was time to put some illusions aside, forget about the girl, and follow the spy.

It was good to get down to work on something that was substantial. A real human being instead of a memory or a rumour. It had only taken them a few days to develop a perfect schedule for Smyrba. So far his habits had been inflexible; breakfast at the Astoria Hotel, either in his suite or in the restaurant. From there he was driven to his office at the Embassy of Bulgaria. Often there were meetings at various locations around Petersburg. Often these took the form of luncheons at fine restaurants, mostly along the Nevsky, although twice Smyrba had been tempted across the bridge to Dacha Ernst which was located in the park near the Fortress of St Peter and St Paul.

‘. . . the evidence: copies of Putilov munitions contracts, dummied-up shipping orders to Odessa . . . bribes distributed in order to secure contracts to construct an entire series of dreadnoughts. As a result of Count Smyrba's machinations, these contracts were awarded to the German shipyard Blom & Voss. Imagine! A German shipyard building Russian battleships! I'm sure we'll get the very best . . .'

 

Now Smyrba was strolling along the Fontanka, his little shined boots picking their way past the icy patches, tipping his hat to the younger women, nodding to the gentlemen, keeping to the sunny side of the street, a newspaper under his arm, and Pyotr Ryzhkov stopped directly behind him, stood there inhaling his smoke. The cigarettes were expensive, sweet. Across the street a horse bolted and for a moment everyone looked. A droshky slewed sideways and a driver screamed out a curse. As quickly as it happened, it was over. Smyrba turned to his neighbours there on the kerb . . . laughing.

‘. . . fixing of bids from three different firms . . . contracts for rubber belts, tyres for military vehicles. Boots for infantrymen. A series of orders for rifles. Most of this matériel was purchased with Bulgarian funds, but diverted to Serbia at a time when Smyrba's own government was at war with them!'

‘We have military corruption, fraud, and embezzlement. Obviously this is of absolute importance. What's Russia's situation? Do we have any guns at all? Or is it only a charade? Only a set of tin soldiers waiting to be led into hell?'

 

Smyrba's shoulder, a fine spray of dandruff on the overcoat, or maybe it was only ash from the cigarette. Now Ryzhkov was walking across the street, too close he knew, but actually touching the man, brushing against the fine woollen sleeve, all the time looking for signals, following Smyrba's gaze, trying to think his thoughts and see what he saw.

A sudden flight of pigeons and above them the bells rang out in the dome of St Isaac's, calling to God for a blessing, calling the faithful to prayer. Smyrba crossed the street to the ornate doors of his mistress's house, where he would while away the holy afternoon.

 

‘Altogether, more than eleven million roubles worth of treason against his own nation and ours . . .'

 

Smyrba was a milkmaid, Ryzhkov had told them: no matter how far he went, he'd always come back to tend the cows. That was the way to work it, follow him, don't arrest him, just let him go, give him slack. He wasn't trying to hide anything, he was too confident for that. We watch him, we make a list of his friends, where he goes, who he meets. We stay in the shadows, understood? If Tomlinovich wanted information, that was the way to get it. Mark down all the dates and times, get any observable evidence, friends, addresses or whatever occurred that might make it easier to elevate the investigation to the next step.

The next step was Ryzhkov and Tomlinovich using a pass key to get into Count Ivo Smyrba's fashionable suite at the Astoria.

The rooms were immaculate. Ryzhkov looked at the desk, checked around the edges of the drawers with a torch to see if the count had left any ‘seals'. Nothing. Nothing in the obvious places, under the bedding or beneath the edges of the carpet.

‘The Serbs pay him, but not enough to live like this. He's supposed to be a military attaché but he doesn't do anything . . .' Tomlinovich went on, talking to himself. Ryzhkov had succeeded in picking the lock on the secretaire that sat beside the windows that looked down on to the plaza.

‘Here we are, then,' he said. Tomlinovich came over to look. Inside the drawer were cheque books, stationery. The edge of something that looked like a journal. Ryzhkov started to pick it up.

‘No.' Tomlinovich moved his hand away and, extracting a pad from his jacket, diagrammed the position of the articles of everything in the drawer. Only when he was finished did he pick up the journal, grunting to himself when he encountered a particularly inept passage.

‘A literary genius?' Ryzhkov had put the cheque stubs back inside.

‘No . . . not at all. But a dangerous man nonetheless.' ‘He doesn't seem all that dangerous to me,' Ryzhkov said. He'd found a pistol, a little silver-plated four-shot revolver, the kind of gun a woman would carry in her muff. Tomlinovich looked at it and shook his head and returned to his reading. A few seconds later he snorted, ‘Now he's moaning to himself about how much he misses his fucking dogs.' Tomlinovich snapped the journal closed for a moment and rolled his eyes. ‘It's people like this who are going to destroy us all.'

‘This might be useful.' Ryzhkov smiled and held out a thin leather-covered book to Tomlinovich. The count had kept it sheltered under his expensive lambskin prophylactics. It was full of phone numbers and addresses.

Tomlinovich smiled for the first time that morning, raised himself from the windowseat, came over and riffled through the little book. ‘Yes . . .' he said, eyes glinting like a little boy who'd found something particularly naughty. Then Tomlinovich took the book over to the coffee table, re-positioned a lamp so that it wouldn't cast a glare on the paper, reached in his jacket pocket, and came out with the smallest camera that Ryzhkov had ever seen, even more miniaturized than the ones they had used at Mendrochovich and Lubensky. ‘That's nice,' Ryzhkov said, coming closer so he could see the gadget. It was narrower than a packet of cigarettes, the lens smaller than his little fingernail.

‘Very special, very expensive . . .' wheezed Tomlinovich as he extracted a tiny chain from the body of the camera and began photographing the pages.

Ryzhkov watched for a moment, then finished looking through the drawers, carefully used a handkerchief to wipe his fingerprints off Smyrba's toy revolver. After he'd done all that he went into the bathroom, rolled up his sleeves, stepped up on the seat of the toilet and reached into the tank. Inside was an oilcloth package which was so heavy that it had sunk to the bottom.

When they opened it they found a thick stack of French banknotes, all in new bills, and neatly tied up beneath were three passports.

The telephone rang. It was Hokhodiev calling from in front of the Stroganoff Palace. ‘Our milkmaid is on the path,' he said and rang off.

‘What's our time like?'

‘We're all right,' Ryzhkov said. ‘We're going to do as much of this as we can and then we're leaving.'

He helped while Tomlinovich photographed the passports and leafed through the francs checking the serial numbers. The notes were nearly all new ones, they had come straight from a bank. All of comparatively large denominations. There was too much for them to count accurately. They got to up to eighty thousand francs before Pyotr stopped it.

There was a knock on the door, three, two, one, and Ryzhkov let Sinazyorksy in. Even Sinazyorksy lost his composure when he saw the pile of money on the bed. ‘We're almost ready,' he said.

‘Try and buy us a little more time—five minutes, eh?' Tomlinovich said.

‘Yes, sir,' Sinazyorksy said. ‘Don't let any of that stick to your fingers, eh?' he said to Ryzhkov and then he was gone, out the door in an instant.

‘Yes, very good advice,' Tomlinovich smiled and made another exposure with his tiny camera.

Outside Sinazyorksy bought them the five minutes by holding up the rest of the cabs, so that Smyrba would have to either wait in the queue or jump into a huge pile of filthy snow. The infuriated little man finally reached his rooms and changed, dashing straight back out again. Angrily fleeing the Astoria in a state of anxiety about being late for his next engagement—a dinner meeting with business associates and embassy officials. The day had left its mark, however, and listening, Dima Dudenko heard him complain loudly about the condition of the fish, and, citing its bitter quality, return a bottle of wine to the kitchen.

The skies over the city dark and lowering, the wind rising and a fire lit in the stove in the corner of the shoe factory on Kryukov Street. Boris Fauré poised in front of a map of Europe, standing in the fading light from the dusty factory window, urging them on:

‘Serbia is divided. Divided between two groups: the first—those who want to slowly build enough military power to re-claim the provinces that Austria-Hungary has taken from them. The second—a shadowy faction made up of terrorists and disgruntled militarists. This second group is actually in control of the situation. And now they will do anything for guns. Anything. They are desperate to create a war with the Austrians. They even think they can win. And while we Russians may sympathize with our fellow Slavs and agree with their natural tendencies to overthrow the Habsburg yoke, this second group is nothing more than a collection of fanatics, willing to shed whatever blood is necessary to further their ends,' Fauré said sadly.

Fauré looked directly into Ryzhkov's eyes. ‘We've arranged for Smyrba to be recalled to Bulgaria. He suspects nothing, but he'll be detained, arrested, and hanged. That's something that should make you smile, Inspector?'

‘Yes,' Ryzhkov said, but he didn't actually smile about it.

‘So, we've found and effectively eliminated our Mr X—Ivo Smyrba: a traitor and a spy. Vermin. As reprehensible as they come, but now we see he is only one of a group of maniacs who are getting stronger every day. So, please accept my apologies, but there are still larger fish to lure into our nets, eh? Smyrba and his friends have allies within our government, those who want Russia to play big brother to the Serbs and protect all their nationalistic dreams of revenge. You know these crazy Serbs. They have long memories which go back six hundred years.' Fauré gave a bitter chuckle, ‘They remember their sacred defeat at Kosovo Field like it was
yesterday
. But now the Serbian cart is driving the Russian horse.'

Ryzhkov shook his head, turned away from the coloured map of Europe, tried to get a glimpse of the street outside. The grey snow had begun again. Somewhere out there was a wonderful land where children should be safe in their beds, being given warm milk and being sung lullabies. But where was that place, he wondered?

‘
Yugo-Slavia
, they call it. That's their great dream and the cross that they bear, their blood lust and their obsession. Smyrba is draining our strength to fuel

Serbian militarism, to push us into joining in a third Balkan war, and make himself rich into the bargain. Imagine their joy should they succeed! With Russia standing behind Serbia, they're invulnerable. They can get away with anything.'

‘
Anything
,' Fauré said again, just to make sure they'd got it.

TWENTY-SEVEN

In the dark of morning the monks had come.

To level the pavilion atop the ice, to ensure the carpeting was dry, brushed, and comfortable to walk upon. They had seen to the incense, to sweeping the ice around the pavilion, removing any waste paper or cigar stubs forgotten by the carpenters, twigs blown in by the wind, droppings left by animals or men. So careful had they been, that an immaculate arc had grown around the pavilion, dozens of metres out on to the river. Their brethren bent themselves to the cutting of a circular hole in the ice, its dimensions scribed with geometrical precision, sawn out and extracted with surgical care. The ice a little thinner this year, some said, quietly under their breath as they worked to ring the hole with a wreath of velvet. All to prepare for the Tsar's blessing of the Neva's waters.

Awnings had been secured, the stairs sanded and everything swept yet again. All over the city important personages were getting dressed, having breakfast, emptying themselves in preparation. Stablemen were grooming their best animals, boys were polishing the carriages. Workers were spreading sawdust on the streets.

In the barracks the soldiers were bathing, shaving, polishing, receiving their orders, checking their route through the chaos to come. Theirs was a grim celebration, the best and the worst of duties—stand there and glisten. Woe to the poor soldier who slipped in an icy puddle, whose breastplate had acquired a scuff. Appearance was truly everything today.

In the Winter Palace, now humming with activity, the Tsar and Tsarina were awake, had been fed, and were beginning to dress. A little later than everyone else, since they had the least distance to travel. From their windows, low on the west side of the building, they could nearly see the pavilion down on the quay below, curtained by the priests to waist height in an effort to mitigate the wind should gusts arise.