As they disembarked outside the dimly lit entrance to Alexanderovsky Prospekt, they heard a dull mechanical roar and turned to see a green liveried car sliding to a halt behind them.
The nearside door opened and Vasilyev stood for a moment on the running board, his outstretched arms and wide black cloak making him look like a bird of prey.
He stepped down and began to stalk toward them with the slow, deliberate gait that Ruzsky recalled so well.
Vasilyev drew level and stopped. His hair was short and deep crow’s feet at the edge of his temples led down to hooded, pale blue eyes that were washed out with too much knowledge. A man who could look the devil in the eye without blinking, Anton had once said. He had a pronounced scar on the right side of his forehead.
“Chief Investigator,” he said. His voice was low and measured. “Welcome back.”
Vasilyev led the way up into the gloomy hallway. Just as in their own headquarters, a reception desk faced them. The corridor was full of newspaper sellers and cabbies and tramps-men from the External Agency, or the Okhrana’s street surveillance division. As Vasilyev walked in, their conversation became instantly subdued.
They marched down the long corridor behind him. Ruzsky glimpsed giant black presses in noisy operation as they passed the print room. He saw several leaflets scattered on the floor, but read only one headline: Vermin of Russia. The Okhrana’s notorious anti-Jewish propaganda machine appeared to be in full swing.
Ruzsky glanced at Pavel, who was staring straight ahead, determined to avoid any chance of confrontation.
They walked into the elevator and the attendant pulled back the cage, pushed the button, and stood ramrod straight as they ascended to Vasilyev’s office; it did not stop at any other floor.
Anton was already at the round wooden conference table, alongside Maretsky. There was a bespectacled official next to him-perhaps the man from the Ministry of the Interior-whom nobody bothered to introduce and who avoided Ruzsky’s eye. Next to him sat Prokopiev, in a shirt and thick leather suspenders.
Vasilyev’s protégé might have been wrought in his image. They were physically different-Prokopiev was tall and lean, where his master was stocky and short-but they had the same hair color, cropped close, and a similar intensity in their eyes that gave no hint of warmth or humanity. Prokopiev was head of the Internal Division, the section of the Okhrana responsible for running agents within organizations hostile to the state.
As they sat down, Pavel leaned toward Ruzsky. “Be careful,” he whispered.
“Would you care to share your thoughts with us, Deputy Chief Investigator?” Vasilyev asked. He was standing behind his desk, with his back to a tall window that afforded an astonishing view of the fortress, and the frozen river beyond.
Pavel flushed.
“He told me to remember to be respectful,” Ruzsky said.
“Ah,” Vasilyev responded. “No need to stand on ceremony.”
The chief of the secret police moved a round metal weight from some papers and shuffled them to the center of his desk, before walking over to the bookcase and leaning back against it. Above him hung a line of religious icons and pictures of the Tsar and Tsarina. Vasilyev took a silver case from the inside of his pocket. “Cigarette, anyone?”
No one answered. Ruzsky studied him. He was immaculately turned out, from his neatly groomed mustache to his highly polished shoes. His manner was precise and meticulous, and he still had the habit of obsessively removing small specks of dust from his waistcoat as he spoke.
“Would you like some English tea?” Vasilyev asked. It was a question to all of them, but directed at Ruzsky.
“No.”
“Your father is well?”
Ruzsky hesitated. He wondered if the question was designed to humiliate him. “I believe so.”
Vasilyev lit his cigarette. He held it away from his body, so that the ash did not fall upon his suit. “Anton Antipovich has told me a little, but perhaps you would care to expand. You found two bodies on the Neva. Who were they?”
Ruzsky scrutinized the table in front of him. It was inconceivable that Vasilyev had called the meeting in ignorance; he wondered how much he already knew, and how little he could get away with telling him. “You have the bodies,” he said caustically.
Vasilyev betrayed no visible reaction. “But you have still been working on the case, is that not so?”
“The girl was called Ella.”
“Her family name?”
“Kovyil.”
“Kovyil?” Vasilyev frowned and glanced at Prokopiev. “Does that sound familiar?”
Prokopiev shrugged, but Ruzsky could see that it was a charade. They both knew precisely who she was. “She worked in the nursery out at Tsarskoe Selo,” he said, since he was certain they must know that, too.
“You should have informed me immediately that the girl was a palace employee.”
“We only found out this afternoon,” Ruzsky lied.
“And the man?”
“As I said, you have the bodies.”
“We wished to ascertain that the murder was not the work of a political assassin.”
“And have you done so?”
“Indeed we have. But I repeat. It is your belief, is it not, that the course of the overall investigation remains under the jurisdiction of the Petrograd City Police Department.”
To buy himself time, Ruzsky pulled out his own cigarette case and lit up. “We believe the dead man was probably an American called Robert White.”
Ruzsky watched Vasilyev’s face for a reaction.
Apparently unperturbed, Vasilyev drew deeply on his cigarette. “An American?”
“So it would appear.”
“How did you discover this?”
“Sarlov thought he might be, from his dental work. So we went to the embassy and asked.”
“And they confirmed it?”
“Yes.”
“How could they be so sure?”
“They were looking for him.”
“Looking for him? Here?”
Ruzsky watched his opponent. “He was a criminal and labor agitator.”
“A labor agitator?” Vasilyev turned back to Prokopiev. “Ivan?”
Prokopiev shrugged again.
“You’ve never heard of him?” Ruzsky asked.
Prokopiev blinked, but did not feel the need to reply.
“You’ve spoken to Shulgin?” Vasilyev asked. He clearly knew that they had.
“Yes.”
“What did he have to say?”
“Ella worked in the nursery at the Alexander Palace. She was from Yalta. Perhaps you remember her?” He noticed a muscle twitch in Prokopiev’s cheek. “I believe you were chief of police in the city at the time, and Ivan your deputy?”
“Why should either of us remember her?” Prokopiev asked.
“No reason.”
They were silent. The man from the Ministry of the Interior stared at his notepad. Ruzsky needed no further evidence that the city’s overall chief of police, Prince Obolensky, was no longer in control. In the deteriorating political climate, all power had passed to the man in front of them.
“Go on,” Vasilyev said.
“Ella was dismissed for stealing.”
“Stealing what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Money?”
“Probably.”
Vasilyev was now standing with his back to them, staring out of the window.
“The man had a small branded star on his right shoulder,” Ruzsky said.
The official from the Ministry looked up and scribbled something on the notepad in front of him. But Vasilyev remained unmoved.
“In addition to which, the killer went to considerable effort to strip them of anything that might identify them.”
“So you are saying it was a political crime,” Vasilyev went on.
Ruzsky shook his head. “The man was stabbed seventeen times…”
“But the girl was a palace employee.” Vasilyev’s tone was emphatic.
Ruzsky glanced around the room. Anton shifted nervously in his seat. Pavel stared dead ahead.
Vasilyev took a pace forward. “Thank you, gentleman. That will be all.”
For a moment, nobody moved, then Pavel stood, looking relieved.
“A word in private, Sandro,” Vasilyev said, as he turned to leave.
The others filed out, but the man from the Ministry of the Interior stayed where he was. He seemed to relax a little, leaning back in his chair.
Vasilyev still had the remains of the cigarette in his hand. He stubbed it out in a big silver ashtray on his desk then lit another. He picked at his suit. “It is difficult,” he said, “isn’t it, when we cannot be certain of the victims’ identity, especially in these times, when our manpower is stretched so thin?”
“Criminal investigations are rarely as straightforward as we would like them to be.”
“But times have changed, Sandro. Our concerns are so…” Vasilyev spread his hands, “broad. I think we could view this as a lover’s argument. A man, a woman…”
“So, they killed each other?”
“Don’t play the fool with me, Ruzsky.” Vasilyev chose his words carefully. “I had a telephone call this morning, from the Alexander Palace. From the Empress herself. You can, perhaps, imagine my dilemma.” Vasilyev stubbed out his cigarette, in a manner that hinted at the anger bubbling under his cloak of self-control. “Or could if you weren’t so damned arrogant.”
Ruzsky fought hard to keep his voice level. “This is a murder. A criminal case, and therefore under the jurisdiction of the chief of the city police, according to the dictates of the Ministry of the Interior.” He paused. “There is no sign of political motivation. As soon as there is, we will pass over the evidence we have accumulated to this department.”
Vasilyev glared at him.
“Will that be all?” Ruzsky asked.
“There are other matters that require your attention, I’m sure.”
“But none as important.”
“So the Tsar is no longer to be obeyed?” Vasilyev’s voice was like velvet. “Is that what you think?”
“I think that now, more than ever, there is a need for justice.”
Vasilyev’s face darkened. “It is the Tsar or the mob, Ruzsky. You would do well to remember that.”
Ruzsky turned away. He could almost feel the fury at his back, propelling him down the corridor.
17
A t the headquarters of the Petrograd City Police Department, they were waiting for him in Anton’s office. Ruzsky sat down heavily, staring at the picture of Napoleon’s retreat on the wall opposite. He could see that the others were nervous and apprehensive.
“He invited me to close the case on the grounds that it had proved impossible to establish the identities of the victims,” Ruzsky said solemnly.
No one replied.
“He said he had received a call from Tsarskoe Selo, and that I must understand his dilemma.”
Pavel leaned forward. “Do you think that’s true?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Shulgin seemed concerned to me, and uncertain, rather than hostile.”
They considered this. Ruzsky looked into the eyes of his colleagues. They wanted to appear defiant, but none could entirely hide their fear.
Anton sighed deeply. “Vasilyev is a powerful and dangerous enemy, now more than ever.”
“But still not omnipotent.”
“I’m not so sure.” Anton suddenly looked old. “It has a pleasing hint of irony about it, don’t you think? In the dying hours of the regime, we loyally carry out the tasks assigned to us in the name of a tsar that none of us believes in, while those who once professed fanatical loyalty to the absolute monarch now prepare themselves for the moment when he is no longer with us.”
“I don’t understand,” Ruzsky said.
“What do you think our friend Vasilyev has been doing these past weeks?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“He’s been a very, very busy man. Meetings and telephone calls. Reading telegrams and letters. Those to him and those intercepted. He speaks to the generals, the politicians, and the grand dukes. He even talks to the revolutionaries.” Anton raised his hand. “You won’t believe it, but trust me, he does. How can I manage this for maximum advantage, he asks. He could stay loyal to the Tsar, as he claims, but he knows it’s moving beyond that. Change is coming, so which way is it going to blow and how can he be seen to assist it? Strikes, demonstrations, protests; the appearance of disorder. He can orchestrate them all. The generals and politicians and grand dukes could then claim they were forced to take resolute action. But, of course, if Vasilyev and his agents get it wrong… then who knows what could happen?”
“He just told me that the choice was between the Tsar and the mob.”
“And he is right.”
“If he is that preoccupied, then why bother to interfere with us?”
They sat in silence again. None of them could answer this.
“It doesn’t smell good,” Pavel said. “They were warned this American was coming back. And when he does, he gets seventeen stab wounds for his trouble.”
“And yet,” Ruzsky went on, “we cannot get away from the fact that, to all of us, their deaths still feel personal.”
They looked to Maretsky. He examined his chubby hands. As a professor of philosophy at the university, he had developed a passionate interest in the criminal mind and had been brought in by Anton-after his disgrace-on a part-time basis to assist in investigations. Shortly afterward, Vasilyev had seen the value of his work and had requested-or rather, they believed, coerced-his assistance too. “I see only files,” Maretsky said, “and sometimes individuals. I would be the last person they would tell.”
“What do you think lies beneath this case?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never heard of White or the girl. Never seen any paperwork on either of them. But then, if it was something they wanted to keep from you, I wouldn’t see it either.”
“Why have they warned us off?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did they-”
“Sandro, I can see the questions. I just don’t have the answers.”