Field of Mars (54 page)

He could feel him moving inside the boat, fiddling with the catch on the bottom of the hatch and pulling it open, starting to say, with a touch of anger, a touch of gruffness in the voice, ‘Yes, what is it?' but instead, opening the hatch to see the dark little hole in the end of the pistol, the brusque enquiry stopping in his throat, the eyes travelling up to see who was holding the gun, the beginnings of a frown, and then the moment of recognition when he remembered the face on the handbills.

‘Ahh . . .' was all Andrianov said, stepping back now, a spatula in his hand.

Quickly, before he could slam the hatch, Ryzhkov stepped down into the cabin, sat at the top of the stairs on the narrow threshold, levelled the gun at Andrianov's chest. He was still standing there with the spatula in his hand, looking empty.

‘You'd better do something with your eggs,' Ryzhkov said. Andrianov blinked and looked towards the tiny stove. Reached out and turned the eggs over. Stared at them for a moment. The smell was making Ryzhkov hungry. There were two sausages on a plate.

‘Put those in too,' he said, and Andrianov looked at him for a moment and then did it.

‘Is there anyone else here?'

‘No.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Yes.'

‘All right, get dressed. Hurry up.' Andrianov stood blankly for another moment and then put the spatula down on the edge of the skillet, turned and began to walk toward the narrow bow of the boat. There was a triangular bed built in there. Fine wood panelling, polished brass fittings, shelves tucked into every available space. Even a little ikon in the corner. Andrianov unlatched a cupboard and took his jacket off a hanger.

‘No, not that,' Ryzhkov said. ‘Something else. Not so formal, something so you look like everybody else.' Andrianov had to think about it for a moment. He closed the door and started towards Ryzhkov. Stopped, looked up at him with his eagle's eyes, a little anger coming out of him, habitually not used to having someone standing in his way.

‘Excuse me,' he finally said, and Ryzhkov stepped back to let him pass. Andrianov pulled out a set of raingear, thick canvas trousers and a jacket that had been treated with rubber, held it out.

‘That's good enough. Give it to me, first.' He took the clothes one at a time and went through the pockets looking for a knife. Handed them back. Andrianov paused for a moment and then opened his robe, turned slightly, letting Ryzhkov see his nakedness, the flat belly, the spray of fair hair across his chest and around his penis, shrunk now with fear and the morning chill.

‘You'd better turn that cooker off,' Ryzhkov said, once Andrianov had put his jacket on.

‘I have money . . . if you want money. I can get you out. We can get out today, we can sail out and . . .' Andrianov turned from the stove and looked at Ryzhkov, shrugged.

‘Money? How much?' Ryzhkov said, wondering how far Andrianov would go, wondering if he would bargain for his life or just cough everything up at once. Watched his eyes flick towards the drawers behind the chart table.

‘There's maybe ten thousand roubles here, on board—' and thinking that it wasn't enough to buy his life back, Andrianov blurted, ‘—but we could get more! We could go to a bank.' As if Ryzhkov had never heard of that peculiar institution.

‘I thought you'd sold everything. I thought you were running away?' he said, and when Andrianov stood there, saying nothing— ‘All right get it then,' he said, and watched while Andrianov got down on his hands and knees and reached up under the galley sink. ‘Slowly . . .' Ryzhkov said, pushing the muzzle down so that it was inches from Andrianov's face.

‘Yes . . . here. Take it. I can easily get more, if you—' Then stopped when Ryzhkov shook his head.

‘Do you have a fork?'

‘Yes, of course.' Andrianov pushed himself back up and got him a fork.

He took the money, reached over into the pan and started eating the sausages. ‘Finish with your boots, we're leaving,' he said between bites, and pointed with the gun towards the hatch.

They walked along the dock, Andrianov in front and Ryzhkov quietly steering him towards the boathouses. It was bright now, the gulls were swooping above them. They walked along a muddy path that led out toward the marshes at the end of Krestovsky.

‘You can't escape, you know. Everyone has your photograph, at the border, at the stations. You should listen to reason,' he heard Andrianov say to him over his shoulder. And a few moments later, ‘You should be practical.'

A few metres later he tried again, ‘I have people, later they're meeting me, they'll see I've gone missing.' His voice floated back to Ryzhkov. It seemed like Andrianov

was walking faster, trying to get some space between them, thinking about making a break for it. Ryzhkov, right behind him, could see him looking from side to side. Maybe he thought a magic door would appear that he could walk through.

‘No, you don't. You don't have people, you don't have anyone,' he said and they walked along a little further.

There was a low buzzing sound, the sound of an engine growing louder and they both turned to watch an aeroplane with floats attached to its landing gear, take off from the river. Speeding along with its pontoons slapping on the water, lifting into the sky just opposite them, the fragile wings carrying it steadily higher, banking in a long gradual turn that would take it over Kronstadt.

‘That's Sikorsky,' Andrianov said and looked back and smiled. ‘Now there's a real hero, eh?' His eyes were full of admiration.

‘Keep going,' Ryzhkov said and pushed him on the shoulder with his free hand.

‘You think you know everything,' Andrianov said after a few paces. His voice was sullen. The anger was starting to well up; any minute now he'd run, Ryzhkov thought.

‘I know enough.'

Andrianov laughed at that, shook his head. ‘You know nothing. People like you. Pansies like Fauré, people that think they're patriots. People that believe that because they've become vegetarians they have ideals.'

‘I know that you've started a war. I know you did it to get rich.'

‘You think that's it?' Andrianov lifted his hands like a criminal who had been arrested for breaking a shop window. ‘Everything I've done has been for Russia, but of course you're so caught up in your own notions of what it means to love your country—'

‘You're saying you did it for Russia?'

‘Of course. Look at us, limping along into the twentieth century with a Tsar like Nicholas? He thinks he's an autocrat? He'd choke if he ever met an autocrat. Don't make me laugh. People like you can't see the future . . . Money? I'm insulted.' He turned around so that he was walking backwards. Andrianov's face was clear, handsome and perfect, his chin held high, a slight smile. ‘What are you going to do, shoot me?'

‘Yes, why not? Because of a little girl, a little girl named Katya. That's enough of a reason, isn't it?'

Andrianov's expression suddenly changed, he looked at him blankly, the beginnings of a frown. ‘What?' he said. His voice was weak, lost.

‘Just a little girl. A little
vertika
. Ekatarina was her name. Say it.'

‘I . . . don't know what you're talking about—'

‘Say it,' Ryzhkov said. He was getting angry now, coldly furious and he tried to tamp it down, tried to regain control. They hadn't got far enough out on to the marsh yet. ‘Say her name . . .' he growled raising the pistol so that it pointed to the bridge of Andrianov's aristocratic nose.

‘Ekat-Ekatarina . . . Look here, I don't understand—' ‘Just someone you used and threw away, just a little angel that fell to earth one night, remember?'

Andrianov's mouth opened and he went pale. ‘You can't be . . . serious,' he breathed.

‘Oh, yes. I'm serious.'

Andrianov gave an involuntary laugh. ‘This is . . . look, this is truly absurd, I'm sure we can make some kind of arrangement, the idea of you coming after me because of some whore—'

Ryzhkov pushed the pistol out so that it was almost touching the rubber sleeve of Andrianov's jacket and pulled the trigger. Andrianov's eyes opened wide with surprise for an instant and then he crouched over with the pain of it, not quite falling to his knees.

‘Keep going, it's not far,' Ryzhkov said, and slapped the man hard against his ear. When he stood up he had tears in his eyes. Blood was running out of the sleeve of the rain jacket.

‘You fucking bastard . . . you fucking little shit,' Andrianov said between his gritted teeth. ‘You think you have any idea at all about real justice? You think you can even begin to
appreciate
true morality or what is right and wrong? You're a child, an infant!'

And that was when Ryzhkov shot him again, low down, through the kidney. So that Andrianov fell into the mud with a great moan and rolled over, sighing, the game over, his face gone white. ‘Oh, God . . .' he puffed.

‘Get up. Keep going,' Ryzhkov said, standing above him. Andrianov looked up at him for a long moment, the face slack, like a child waiting for the lights to be turned down. Ryzhkov reached out and prodded him with his shoe. The second shot would kill him, but it would take a while. ‘Go on.'

Andrianov rolled over, braced himself with his good arm, and managed to get to his feet.

They only walked a couple of steps before Ryzhkov heard him say something, something garbled that he couldn't understand, and then Andrianov finally decided to make his run.

Ryzhkov let him go, watching him lumber down the pathway, Andrianov taking his hand away from his bloody shoulder so that he could keep his balance. He let him run off, opened the cylinder of the pistol to check how many bullets were left.

Enough.

Andrianov was crashing along, stumbling through the bushes, trying to find a place to hide in the reeds. There was enough blood and stamped-down vegetation that Ryzhkov could follow along easily. Ryzhkov could hear him groaning, the labouring of his breath as he tried to slog through the marsh by the side of the raised path.

He walked through the crushed reeds until he found Andrianov, stood there watching him, sunk in the mud up to his mid-thigh. Watched him struggling until the man looked over his shoulder and saw Ryzhkov waiting. Then the fight went out of him and then he stopped, knowing that in the end there was no escape.

‘Do you want to say a prayer, before?' Ryzhkov asked the man in the mud. Andrianov stared at him for a moment, looked out towards the Gulf, towards the place he'd thought he would be sailing this morning. Towards all the different banking houses in which he had hidden his monies, towards the promise of an America beyond the gathering storm.

From a long distance away there was a rumbling of the salute being fired to cement the alliance between France and Russia, fireworks for Poincaré's departure.

‘Well, all right then. It probably wouldn't do much good anyway,' he said to Andrianov, who was just planted there in the mud, slumping over now, his head slowly bowing as if he were falling asleep. He looked like he was inspecting some tiny plant that had just emerged from the slime.

Ryzhkov checked Kostya's gun to make sure there was a bullet in the chamber, stepped down and squatted on a hummock of grass and watched Andrianov die. It was as if he had gone to sleep and then he would suddenly wake up and have to figure everything out anew. Then he would try to pull himself out of the muck. He did it three or four times, but it didn't work. Behind him the mud was stained red from his bleeding.

‘There is nothing . . . nothing . . .' Andrianov said. His voice was almost a whisper and he was staring down at the mud as he spoke. Maybe he was already gone, Ryzhkov thought. He remembered the way the gendarme had put Fauré's horse out of his misery, and he raised the gun and pointed it at the crown of Andrianov's blonde head. His finger tightened on the trigger.

‘Nothing . . .' Andrianov moaned. Maybe that was all he was left with, or maybe it was all he could imagine. A horse pulled loads all day, never complained. A horse could be your friend, would run itself to death under you if you asked for it. Had Andrianov ever done anything to deserve the mercy you gave a wounded horse?

Ryzhkov uncocked the hammer and stood up, thinking about it.

He stood for a long, long moment without coming up with a single thing, watching the man go through his feeble swimming motions, listening to his muddy whispers.

He climbed back up to the path and looked out over the Gulf. There was a cacophony of whistles, horns and bells as the low angry silhouette of
France
steamed past the forts. There was a gargling sound; below him Andrianov had sagged over, his face pressed into the mud, his arm outstretched, trying to reach something that would always be beyond his grasp.

So . . .

The walk back seemed longer. There was a low fog that kept rising over the little Nevka. He heard a low rumbling and the sharp screeching of metal and he looked over to see a train easing through Staraya Derevnya, just across the channel, the shabby little fishing town where most of Petersburg's smugglers lived.

He thought about going back to
Firebird
, maybe untying the boat and seeing how much of his nautical expertise came back to him. He thought he might be able to make it out past the Kronstadt forts, lose himself in the exuberance of the regatta. But Andrianov might really have friends on the way, and with the extra money in the pocket of his jacket Ryzhkov had enough; enough to see him into the woods, to see him on his way beneath the darkness of the firs, to see him across the border. Enough for bribes, for fresh documents, for anonymity. Enough for a future.

He knew the future. He could see it, see himself walking all night into the darkness of the forests. Yes, he would take Andrianov's money and escape first to Finland and then . . . Then . . .