“I don’t understand. What are you saying? The implication is… you think Vasilyev… what?”
“It’s possible he was involved with the group in some way, or became involved. I cannot say exactly what transpired.”
“And the three corpses we have here were all members of this group?”
“Yes.”
“So what happened to them?” Anton asked. “What were they doing in Petrograd?”
“It appears they had gathered here for some purpose. We don’t yet know exactly what it was.”
“Who are the other three?”
“A man named Borodin. Michael Borodin.”
“He’s a Bolshevik.”
“Yes. A woman named Olga Legarina.”
They were silent.
“And who is the sixth?” Anton asked.
“We don’t know.”
Pavel looked at Ruzsky sharply. Ruzsky instantly regretted the lie, but found himself unable, or unwilling, to correct it.
“You don’t know?”
“The name was impossible to read.”
“Did you bring the documents with you?”
Ruzsky shook his head. “No.”
Anton stared at the glasses in his hand. He rubbed his forehead and Ruzsky could see the immense strain in his eyes.
“We have three bodies,” Ruzsky said. “Before long, we may have more.”
“What evidence do you have for that claim?”
“The American was stabbed seventeen times. Markov almost had his head severed. Three of the group have been murdered, but three remain.”
“They’re revolutionaries,” Anton said.
Ruzsky imagined Maria’s body sprawled on the ice as Ella’s had been, a knife wound to her chest. He recalled the fear in her face on the night he had followed her outside the Mariinskiy.
Anton seemed to make a decision. He pulled his seat to the edge of his desk and reached for the telephone. “We have to go and see Vasilyev.”
“Vasilyev?” Ruzsky asked.
“Shulgin is with him. They telephoned me about an hour ago. They want all of us to go over; Maretsky and Sarlov, too.”
“I can’t,” Ruzsky said, standing. “I have-”
“Sit down, Sandro,” Anton said. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Pavel, Maretsky, and Ruzsky waited in their office for Sarlov to arrive. Maretsky stood by the door, smoking, while Ruzsky and Pavel began to sort through the paperwork that had accumulated in their absence.
Ruzsky found a thick wad of internal memorandums, a few more-belated-responses to the All Russias missing persons bulletin he had posted, but nothing that related directly to the case. He opened the drawer and took out the roll of banknotes they had found on the dead American. He sifted through them again, carefully examining the numbers that had been marked.
“Did you come up with a translation of that inscription?” Ruzsky asked Maretsky.
The little professor frowned.
“I gave you the knife. It had an inscription on the side.”
“Oh, yes. I… er, I gave it to a former colleague at the university.”
“Who?”
“Professor… Egorov.”
“What did he say?”
“He’s out of town today. He promised to call me tomorrow.”
There was an unusual degree of hesitation in the professor’s voice. Ruzsky leaned back in his chair. “You know Borodin?”
“Of course.”
“He’s a Bolshevik or a Menshevik?”
“Oh, a Bolshevik. A colleague of Lenin’s over the years.”
“You’ve discussed him with the Okhrana?”
“No, no.” Maretsky shook his head. “Too sensitive.”
“So in their definition, he’s a revolutionary, not a criminal.”
Maretsky shrugged. “It has never been discussed, Sandro.”
Ruzsky held up the role of banknotes. “Do the Bolsheviks use ciphers?”
“What do you mean?”
“These numbers on the banknotes.”
Maretsky shook his head to indicate he did not understand.
“I think these numbers could represent some kind of code. Have the Bolsheviks used ciphers to communicate in the past?”
“I don’t know… yes, I’m sure.”
“Would the money have been sent to him by mail? Would it have been left for him somewhere? How is it done?”
Maretsky shook his head again.
“What about the reference book? He would have carried it with him in his luggage?”
“They will almost certainly go into a library to decode anything they receive. It’s safer.”
As Ruzsky thought, Maretsky knew more about this subject than he wanted to let on. Pretty much all revolutionaries, so far as he knew, used some kind of cipher to communicate. Since the Okhrana intercepted and checked most letters, it was the only reliable means of relaying a message in secret.
“If Borodin is the leader, he would have chosen the code reference book?”
“Perhaps. I don’t know.”
“The American must therefore be able to go into a library and decode a message sent by his leader. Correct?”
Maretsky shrugged.
“Are you sure he could not have kept the reference work on him?”
“There would be no security in that.”
“So he might have received a new message anywhere. He would have had to go to a library to decode it?”
“I suppose so.”
“He might have picked up a new message here. When he arrived, perhaps?”
“Perhaps.”
“An English text in a Russian library?” Ruzsky asked.
“Who is to say it was an English text? White must have spoken Russian.” Maretsky did not understand what his colleague was driving at.
“You would commonly find English texts in a Russian library, but not Russian texts in an American or European one.”
Maretsky thought about this. Despite himself, he was being drawn into the conversation. He put his glasses back on and stared at the floor, deep in thought.
“Major works of English fiction,” Ruzsky suggested.
“Perhaps.” Maretsky shook his head. “The Bible’s too complicated-too many different editions and they wouldn’t have an English Bible in Germany or France. Academic books… hard to think of too many that you could guarantee you’d find everywhere.”
“So which author would he choose?” Ruzsky said.
“I see your train of thought, but it’s an impossible task.”
Sarlov put his head around the edge of the door. “Come on. He wants to go.”
38
O n the top floor of the Okhrana’s headquarters, the dull afternoon sun fringed Vasilyev’s head, his office silent but for the ticking of a clock on the far wall.
The chief of the secret police stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his shoulders hunched, his squat, round body blocking light from the window.
“Good day, gentlemen,” he said.
Ahead, about eight or nine chairs had been assembled in a circle. Colonel Shulgin was already seated, and next to him, the assistant minister of finance, in a dark morning suit. Prokopiev stood behind them and Ruzsky knew instantly that he and Vasilyev were gauging his reaction to his father’s presence.
Ruzsky nodded toward Shulgin, then his father. “Your High Excellency,” he said. He sat and the other members of the city police took their places on either side of him. Shulgin shuffled his papers, glancing through them as if to refresh his memory.
Vasilyev and Prokopiev followed suit. As they did so, Ruzsky caught his father’s eye and saw the deep unease that lurked there.
Ruzsky adjusted his overcoat. He had his revolver in one pocket and the police department crime scene photographs in the other and both were digging into his ribs.
“Gentlemen,” Vasilyev said, surveying them carefully. “We know why we are here. Perhaps the chief investigator would like to tell us what he has discovered?” The head of the Okhrana took a white handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his face. Ruzsky detected the scent of cologne.
Vasilyev ran a finger across his forehead, along the line of his scar.
“We have continued to investigate the case,” Ruzsky said carefully. “By express order of Her Imperial Majesty.”
The room was hushed, but Ruzsky saw a muscle flexing in Vasilyev’s cheek. “You have been to Yalta?” he responded.
“Yes.”
“And what took you there?”
Ruzsky looked at the pale blue eyes, as steady and inanimate as crystal. “We had reason to believe that there was a connection between all three murder victims.”
“And did that prove to be correct?”
Ruzsky looked at Prokopiev, then Pavel. “Yes,” he said, “it did.”
“Perhaps you would like to give us a few more details?”
Ruzsky hesitated. Prokopiev, he calculated, would have spoken to Godorkin in Yalta. They must know exactly what he’d discovered. “The victims were all members of a cell of the Black Terror.”
Vasilyev glanced at Shulgin, then his father, and Ruzsky sensed that this was all for their benefit. “You once kept them under surveillance,” he added.
No one responded. Ruzsky realized that Shulgin and his father were already aware of this fact. “The American,” Shulgin said, turning toward Vasilyev. “From…”
“ Chicago,” Vasilyev responded.
“Yes. How did he first meet the girl Ella? How did he come to be in Yalta?”
“White’s mother bore the maiden name Kovyil.”
Ruzsky frowned. Was it the case that even Mrs. Kovyil had been lying to him? Hadn’t she given the impression that the American had been a stranger?
“So, White’s mother was originally from Yalta?” Shulgin asked.
Vasilyev nodded.
“How did she end up in Chicago?”
“She met a sailor.”
“White and the girl Ella were not lovers then?”
“They were cousins. That doesn’t stop them being lovers.”
Shulgin considered this. He looked at the papers in front of him.
“We were told by the Americans,” Vasilyev went on, “that there are some influential people back at home who would have liked to talk to White, had they been given the opportunity. Executives of a large steel company for one.”
“What did he do to them?”
“He kidnapped one of the men’s sons,” Prokopiev interjected, “a boy of six, then cut him into small pieces and delivered him to their door in a canvas sack.”
Prokopiev turned toward Ruzsky. Was that intended as a threat?
They were silent again. Ruzsky’s father stared at the table.
“This Friday,” Shulgin said. “In three days. That is…”
Vasilyev nodded gravely. “That is what our intelligence would suggest.”
Ruzsky wanted to ask a question, but held his tongue.
“We expect it to begin on Friday?”
“Friday or Saturday, yes.”
“What to begin?” Ruzsky asked.
Shulgin turned to face him. “It is of no import to the investigation.”
“But how can we-”
“It is not.” Shulgin’s tone was emphatic. “There is intelligence to suggest that antisocial elements will try to stir up trouble at the end of this week. It is not your concern.” Shulgin turned back to face Vasilyev, indicating he would brook no further discussion. Ruzsky wondered why he had chosen to bring the subject up. Was Shulgin deliberately trying to make him aware of something? “And this man…” Shulgin went on.
“Borodin,” Vasilyev responded.
“Yes, still no sign?”
“No.”
Shulgin sighed. “The murders.” He turned toward Ruzsky. “Were all three committed by the same man?” His tone had grown impatient.
Ruzsky deflected the question to Sarlov. The pathologist sniffed and pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose. “Yes,” he said, “I would say so.”
“Could you expand, Sarlov?” Anton asked. Ruzsky formed the impression, as he glanced at him, that his superior had been aware of the exact direction this conversation would take.
“I cannot say for certain.” Sarlov took off his glasses and began to use them to make his points. “I did not see the body from the Lion Bridge, but from a conversation with my colleague, I should say it is likely that all three victims were stabbed by a man of a similar height. More than six feet tall. The particular nature of the wounds”-Sarlov indicated with his glasses-“is the same in each case.”
“The murderer was a man?”
“Without doubt.”
Ruzsky’s father leaned forward. “If the dead are revolutionaries, as you say, then the question as to who is killing them is immaterial, isn’t it? Their deaths can hardly be considered a matter of the gravest concern.”
“We do not wish to give the impression that the state is indifferent to murder,” Vasilyev said, with heavy irony. It was a reference to Rasputin’s aristocratic killers and the Tsar’s lenient treatment of them. Shulgin did not react.
“The savagery of these murders makes them a cause for public concern,” he responded evenly.
They all looked at Ruzsky.
“What do you think lies behind these murders, Alexander Nikolaevich?” Vasilyev asked.
The chief of the Okhrana stared at him, his head bent forward. Ruzsky remained still, refusing to look away. Were the murders the work of this man? Had he been settling old scores?
“Thank you for your time, gentlemen,” Vasilyev said. “Naturally, we will need to continue to work together.”
It was a moment before Ruzsky realized that they were expected to leave. As they did so, Shulgin and his father remained seated.
Outside, Ruzsky began walking swiftly away, but Pavel caught up with him.
“Sandro,” he said, out of breath. “I know what you’re going to do.”
Ruzsky did not answer.
“If these murders are about what happened in Yalta, then you think she will be next.”
Ruzsky stopped.
“In any case, what was that all about?” Pavel’s face was earnest and well meaning and Ruzsky’s affection for him swelled again. He took out his cigarettes and offered his friend one.
They smoked them together, side by side, moving their feet against the cold and watching the group of their colleagues fifty yards away.