Zugzwang (15 page)

Kavi laughed. ‘He has a lot to learn about policemen, doesn't he?'

A horse-drawn cab in front of us, which had been going at a sharp trot, slowed as the driver turned left. Kavi braked gently.

This was my chance.

I hurled myself against the passenger door, at the same time grabbing for the handle. Lychev swore and clutched at my coat. I heard the fabric tear as the door swung open.

A second later I was sitting on the wet cobble. I had landed in such a manner that I was facing away from Kavi's car and staring into the oncoming traffic. One of Ivanov's new buses was bearing directly down on me. To my right a tram was coming in the opposite direction. A woman saw me and screamed. I heard the screech of the bus's tyres and launched myself to the left. The onlookers were frozen in shock as I rolled clear and got to my feet. A small crowd was gathering. A man in a bowler hat came forward to assist me. Glancing up the avenue, I saw Lychev hopping out of the car.

‘That man is my prisoner,' the detective shouted as he ran towards us. ‘Stop him!'

I shook off my confused helpers and started to run. If I could reach the Gostinny Dvor I would be able to lose myself among the shoppers. I glanced back to see Lychev throw the bowler-hatted man out of his way and pull a pistol from his coat.

‘Police!' he shouted. ‘Stop that man!'

The Gostinny Dvor was no more than twenty
sazheni
away. My heart was pounding, my chest tight. Cold sweat trickled down my back. I dodged blindly right and left, muttering curses at the people who got in my way. Complaints and oaths came after me. I think I knocked down a young woman.

I ran into a brick wall. Or so it seemed, for I staggered backwards, stunned and understanding nothing except that I
had come up against something immovable. It was a gendarme, as powerful and solid as Kavi. He threw an arm round my neck and forced my head down almost to my knees. I began to choke.

‘I am Inspector of Police Mintimer Lychev,' I heard Lychev pant. ‘This man is my prisoner.'

I tried to speak but the gendarme only increased the pressure on my throat. I thought I was going to die.

‘Do you need help with him, sir?' the gendarme replied.

‘I have him now,' Lychev said, taking hold of me. ‘Thank you – well done.'

Lychev yanked me along, brusquely pushing aside the curious pedestrians who paused in our way. I gulped in air and tried not to vomit.

Kavi had doubled back. He pulled up alongside us. Lychev pushed me inside the car.

Lychev ran his finger along his collar, tugging at the front to ease his breathing.

‘Why did you kill Semevsky?' I gasped. ‘Who was he? Why did you kill him?'

Lychev heaved a sigh. ‘Semevsky was a vicious street thug who liked nothing better than to beat up Jews and burn their houses. Three years ago in Moscow, he took an iron gas-pipe to a local Bolshevik leader – Bauman – killed him, then raped his sister. He was arrested but never prosecuted. That's who Semevsky was.'

‘I don't believe you,' I said.

‘I don't care,' Lychev said, still drawing in deep breaths and speaking with difficulty.

‘Why was he not prosecuted?'

‘Because by then he was working for the Okhrana.'

‘Why would a policeman kill an agent of the Okhrana?' I said. ‘It makes no sense.'

Lychev began to splutter and cough. ‘Semevsky was recruited personally by Colonel Gan.'

Lychev dropped the name casually. It needed no emphasis for he knew the effect it would produce.

‘You know who I'm talking about, don't you?' he said.

I recalled the scarred but grandfatherly figure I had seen at the Imperial Yacht Club, resplendent in the uniform of the Household Cavalry. Colonel Maximilian Gan, head of the secret police, was as legendary as Berek Medem the terrorist was notorious.

‘After Semevsky was recruited,' Lychev went on, ‘Gan continued to make use of his particular talents. He carried out a dozen or more secret murders on the orders of the Okhrana. Gulko's was one of them.'

‘You're asking me to believe that the Okhrana ordered Semevsky to kill a newspaper editor?' I said.

‘Gan personally ordered the assassination.'

‘Why?'

‘Gulko obviously found out something the Okhrana wanted to keep secret.'

‘What did he find out?'

‘I don't yet know,' Lychev said phlegmatically, ‘but I will find out. Everything always comes out in the end.'

That Lychev's high-pitched, nasal monotone lent his account such a natural, unforced credibility seemed perverse: the voice should not have been trustworthy, and yet it was. Lychev should not have been convincing, yet he was.

We were continuing along the Nevsky. As we left the shops and theatres behind, the traffic started to thin out.

‘Why did Semevsky want to follow Rozental?' I said.

‘Gan has had Rozental under surveillance since he arrived in the city.'

‘What interest does Gan have in a chess player?'

‘This is something else I have yet to find out,' Lychev said. ‘But I do know that Semevsky's other job was to spy on you.'

At the Anchikov Palace, Kavi turned on to the elegant, granite-lined Fontanka Embankment, passing on the one side barges and boats and on the other great houses and palaces shaded by lime trees.

The car came to a halt near the old Tsepnoi suspension bridge leading into the Summer Garden.

Lychev lit another cigarette, turned to me and said, ‘Gan is trying to take over my investigation into the murders of Gulko and Yastrebov, at least one of which he himself ordered.'

‘Are you saying he also had Yastrebov killed?'

‘It's a possibility,' he replied. He smiled grimly before continuing. ‘I am not without supporters in the interior ministry but if I am unable to show results, if I can't show that I'm getting close to Yastrebov's cell, Gan will get his way.'

‘I will miss you,' I said, ‘terribly.'

In the front of the car, Kavi guffawed.

‘You speak truer than you know, Spethmann,' Lychev said. ‘You will miss me – because I am the only person standing between you and Colonel Gan.'

‘I've done nothing wrong. I am a psychoanalyst –'

‘With no time for political affairs – yes, we know,' Lychev cut in. ‘However, your daughter has managed to implicate not just herself but also her father in Yastrebov's plot.'

‘I am not implicated. Neither is Catherine. There is not the slightest evidence.'

‘The minute Catherine spoke to Yastrebov, the very second, both she and you became implicated. As soon as Colonel Gan gets the chance, he will order your arrest and, believe me, the experience will not be gentle.'

He paused to give me time to take this in.

‘I can keep Gan away from both you and Catherine – and I am willing to do so – but only on condition that you help me.'

I looked at him with a mixture of suspicion and loathing. ‘How?'

‘I need to know everything that Catherine knows about Yastrebov, starting with his real name.'

‘Catherine tells me only what she wants me to know,' I said.

‘Then you must persuade her that she wants you to know Yastrebov's name,' he said, reaching into a briefcase on the floor between us. He removed what I instantly recognised as Rozental's file.

‘I also want to know why Gan is so interested in Rozental.' He looked up at me and smiled. ‘Here our curiosity coincides, no?' He tossed the file into my lap. ‘I had hoped to learn something from this but it seems you had barely begun your analysis when Kavi and Tolya visited you.'

He drew on his cigarette and said, ‘I thought about arresting Rozental and interrogating him – and I may yet have to. But it would be complicated: Rozental is, after all, famous all over the world, and it would not look good to take him into custody with so many foreigners in St Petersburg for the tournament.'

‘He would be of no use to you,' I said. ‘Rozental's psychological condition is on a knife edge.'

‘I came to the same conclusion,' Lychev said. ‘That's why you must talk to him.'

‘You want me to spy on my own patient?'

‘Gan is not interested in Rozental for nothing. He must have a reason. As Rozental's doctor, don't you want to know what that is? Don't you think it might have some bearing on your patient's condition?'

I looked at him with distaste. Lychev knew what I was thinking but seemed unconcerned. Swivelling in his seat, he pointed across the street. ‘Do you see that house? Number 16?'

It was a handsome but otherwise unremarkable town house.

‘You're looking at the secret headquarters of the Okhrana,' Lychev said, keeping his eyes fixed on the nondescript frontage.

‘Colonel Gan is probably in there studying your file,' Kavi said laughing.

I stared at the building and tried to sort out my thoughts.

‘I can understand you wanting to think this has nothing to do with you, Spethmann,' Lychev said. ‘You would like it to be a game, the kind that children play and when they get frightened all they have to do is say I don't want to play any more. But this game is different and, like it or not, you are involved now. There is no way to stop other than to win or lose.'

He took out a card and scribbled something down.

‘When you've talked to Catherine call me at this number at police headquarters. If I don't answer, hang up and call later. Do not leave your name with anyone. And do not use the telephone in your house or your office.'

He rapped the window with his knuckles and commanded Kavi to get on.

‘Now,' he said merrily, ‘I believe you are expected at A l'Ours for dinner with Kopelzon. This is good. A normal place where the lights are on and people are relaxed and enjoying themselves – it will help you calm down.'

The lights were on, as Lychev had promised, and through the frosted windows the fashionable after-theatre crowd presented a friendly mass into whose sheltering depths I longed to dive. I reached for the car door, desperate to be out of the dark corners in which Lychev and Kavi dwelled.

The detective took hold of my arm. ‘Say nothing to anyone about what happened tonight,' he said.

I made to get out of the car but he did not let go.

‘Even if Semevsky's body is swept out to sea and gets lost in the Gulf of Finland, Gan will be missing an agent. The colonel is a thorough man and he will investigate his loss. Sooner or later, he will come to you. Make sure you have your alibi ready.'

I yanked myself free of his grip and stepped out onto Konyushennaya Street. I could hear the orchestra's muted playing from the restaurant as the car pulled away. I did not immediately enter but thought about going to Filippov's where Anna and I were supposed to have met at nine. I checked my watch. It was after ten. Anna would have waited, but not for an hour. As I approached the restaurant, a white-gloved attendant bowed and opened the door for me.

I saw Kopelzon at his usual table but made for the corridor on the left-hand side where the public telephones were and asked the operator to put me through to the Ziatdinov residence. A servant answered and I asked to speak to madam. Some seconds later I heard the telephone being picked up again.

‘Anna?' I said.

‘Who is this?' a male voice answered.

I said, ‘Otto Spethmann. I'm Anna's doctor.'

‘I know who you are,' the man said.

‘To whom am I speaking?'

‘Do you have a message for my wife?'

‘I was calling to arrange an appointment.'

‘At this hour?'

‘I apologise for the lateness. I had meant to call earlier but got caught up in some business.'

‘Isn't that why you have a secretary?'

‘If you would be kind enough to tell her I called,' I said.

The line went dead. Guilt and anxiety welled up inside me. I needed a drink.

The dining room buzzed with talk and laughter and the cheerful clink of champagne glasses. As I made my way to Kopelzon's table I kept thinking,
As soon as they see me they will know everything. How can they not? How can the inward testimony of murder not be etched in the witness's face?
But no. The maître d' greeted me with the working smile of his profession, declared how pleased he was to see me again and commented on the welcome mildness of the evening. The orchestra continued to play. The diners ate and drank. No one so much as cast a passing glance in my direction as I joined my dinner companion.

Kopelzon embraced me. Brimming over with his own high spirits, he didn't notice my frozen condition. This was not unusual with Kopelzon – his own enthusiasms, feuds, loves and hates always came first. Even when he asked, as a matter of formal course, how you were, you knew he was waiting for you to finish so he could launch into his own latest news. When Kopelzon was in this expansive mood – there were other, darker dispositions – it did not seem ill-mannered. Such
was the sheer performance surrounding everything he said and did that quieter, less certain personalities could only sit back and enjoy and envy him. In my present state I was only too happy to be distracted by his bravura.

For the first twenty or thirty minutes I heard him the same way I saw the white-coated waiters, elegantly turned-out diners and the conductor and musicians, which is to say vaguely and generally. Detail was still beyond me. My eyes were unable to focus, my hearing capable only of taking in rhythm and cadence. I do not remember ordering, I do not remember the wine being brought to the table.

While Kopelzon talked I tried to be as logical about Lychev's story as about the variations in a chess game. In chess it is easy to be panicked by a complicated position and the aggressive manoeuvring of an opponent. What is needed always is a cool eye and a clear head. Calculate. Calculate concrete variations. What do I do if my opponent does this? What do I do if he does that?