Zugzwang (26 page)

Lychev cast me a sideways look.

‘And so are you,' I said.

He shrugged, a nonchalant acknowledgement.

‘A Bolshevik spy in the St Petersburg bureau of detectives,' I said. ‘I seem to recall you telling me you were born the same day Tsar Alexander II was murdered? You came into the world to prevent such a thing happening again, so you said.'

‘If one is to play the part,' Lychev said with a shrug, ‘one must learn the lines.'

‘A servant of justice?'

‘That line is for real.'

‘I seem to be surrounded by just men,' I said, ‘which is odd.'

‘Why odd?'

‘Because I find just men utterly terrifying.'

We had turned on to University and were passing the Academy of Science. We would be at the apartment in less than five minutes.

He said, ‘How would you characterise this plot of Berek Medem's?'

‘I would call it amateurish,' I said.

‘Go on,' he said.

‘Kopelzon is an amateur,' I continued, ‘so it doesn't surprise me that he came up with something so unlikely. But Berek Medem is a professional. He's also ruthless and, from what I saw of him, highly intelligent. I find it hard to believe he ever really imagined it would work.'

Lychev smiled as if at a promising student, and, helping me to the correct conclusion as a good professor does, he asked leadingly, ‘But if he didn't think it would work, why did he go to so much trouble?'

‘I have no idea.'

‘Because someone wants him to succeed,' Lychev said. ‘Someone powerful whose interests coincide with his, on this issue at least.'

‘Who?'

‘Where do you think the Okhrana have been all this time? Do you think they don't know about Kopelzon and his political opinions? Or his sudden friendship with Rozental? Why do you think Colonel Gan placed an agent in your office building? Why do you think Semevsky was following you and Rozental that night?'

I was lost.

‘It isn't Kopelzon's plot. He didn't dream it up. Gan did.'

It was a moment before I could take this in. ‘What are you saying? Why would the head of the Okhrana want to kill the tsar?'

At the Imperial Academy of Art, Lychev turned right.
Ahead was the junction with Bolshoy Prospect. We passed a droshky, the driver whipping the little pony briskly. Apart from that there was no one on the streets.

‘Gan is a pro-German reactionary,' Lychev went on. ‘He is conspiring with his friend Zinnurov and the Baltic Barons and their pro-German allies to kill Nicholas, who is pro-French and who, in their eyes, isn't up to the job of defending the autocracy. It doesn't matter how many mistakes Kopelzon and Medem make. They are being given a free hand.'

‘Does Medem know he is being used by Gan?'

‘Medem is highly intelligent and it's possible he's worked it out. It wouldn't change things. Either way both he and Gan get what they want – to kill the tsar.'

‘What about Kopelzon? Does he know?'

‘Your friend has known from the start.'

‘Then why hasn't he told Medem?'

‘Because he doesn't want Medem to know that he's an Okhrana agent.'

I spun round to look at him. He flicked a careless glance at me.

‘Kopelzon has been spying on Polish émigreé groups in Paris, Berlin and London. Wherever he goes on tour he makes sure to meet Polish exiles. He's a hero to them and naturally they're talkative. And when he comes back to St Petersburg Kopelzon goes to meet Colonel Gan and tells him everything.'

‘Why is he doing it? What does Kopelzon get out of it?'

‘Money,' Lychev said simply. ‘Your friend likes to live well – or hadn't you noticed?'

I thought of all the expensive meals we'd shared at A l'Ours and the Contant. Kopelzon was recklessly generous. Did he give away his money out of guilt?

I directed Lychev to turn left.

‘After the assassination,' Lychev went on, ‘Gan and his friends will install a puppet on the throne. They'll close the
Duma, break the alliance with France, ally with the Kaiser and unleash a patriotic crusade. You have to admire their creativity: Gan is plotting a coup which they will pass off as a revolutionary uprising.'

‘Are you going to let this happen?' I said.

Here Lychev dropped the offhand tone he had deployed until then. ‘It's not my decision,' he said with a hint of bitterness. ‘The Central Committee of the Party has of course been kept informed of everything. They are analysing the likely consequences. When they make their decision, I will receive the appropriate instructions.'

‘The consequence will be a bloodbath,' I said.

‘There are two schools of thought within the Party leadership. One is against letting the plot go ahead. They say if the country is panicked by an assassination, Gan will be free to clamp down with an iron fist and set the revolution back by a generation.'

‘And the other school?'

‘They say that objectively we have reached the limits of what we can achieve in the present climate. They say our organisation is riddled with traitors and spies like King. They say we will only break through in an atmosphere of chaos.'

‘And you?' I said. ‘What is your opinion?'

‘My opinion is whatever the Central Committee decides,' he said.

What to make of such a man, for whom every moral choice was bent wholly to the needs of a machine?

‘The Central Committee's decision may yet be irrelevant,' I said. ‘If Rozental doesn't win the tournament, someone else will be going to the Peterhof – Lasker or Capablanca – and Medem's plan will fall apart by itself.'

The apartment block came into view. ‘Stop here,' I said.

Lychev ignored me and continued for another block before making a right turn into a side street.

‘What are you doing?' I said.

‘There was a car parked across the street from the apartment block,' he said. ‘Let's just be careful.'

We walked back the way we had come. The motor car stationed opposite the apartment building appeared to be empty.

‘What floor is the apartment on?' Lychev asked.

‘That's it,' I said, pointing to a darkened window on the first floor.

Lychev took a last look around and then approached the entrance. We climbed the stairs to the first floor. Nothing stirred. Lychev held his gun the same way Medem had held his, the barrel pointing down, parallel to the seam of his trousers. He was taking no chances.

‘When did you last see Anna?' Lychev asked.

I had to think for a moment. A very long time ago – this morning.

‘Is she expecting you?'

‘She asked me to come.'

He took the key and, beckoning me to stand to the side of the door, quietly slid it into the lock. The tumbler clicked, loud enough to wake the dead. The apartment was in darkness and the only noise was the sleepy ticking of a grandfather clock. Without waiting for our eyes to adjust to the gloom Lychev crept forward, disappearing into the kitchen on the left.

I inched forward, trying to recall the layout of the room and the placement of the furniture. There was a clear path, I remembered, from the front door across the length of the drawing room to the short corridor leading to the bedroom.

I bumped into something and fell awkwardly on what I immediately knew, though I still could not properly see, to be the legs of an overturned wooden chair.

Lychev sprang into the room, pointing his gun.

‘It's me,' I said quickly.

He turned on the light. I looked at the chair. Why was it here? Why was it lying on its side?

Getting to my feet, I saw it was not the only thing out of place. There was a broken teacup on the floor by the table, and a small writing desk had been upended; papers and pens were scattered everywhere.

My heart filled up with fear. I ran to the bedroom and turned on the Tiffany lamps. The heavy drapes were open and the bed was unmade. Anna's clothes were strewn everywhere. I whipped aside the blankets, as though Anna might be concealed beneath.

‘They've taken her,' I said. ‘Zinnurov has taken her.'

Suddenly, Lychev put a finger to his lips. Be quiet! I looked around but could not see what he had obviously seen.

‘I'm going to the kitchen,' he said, making his voice distinct. But instead of moving to the door he sidled up to a full-length closet to the right of the bed. Raising his pistol to head height, he reached for the handle and, in a rapid, simultaneous movement, pulled open the door.

The man inside was also armed and he fired once before Lychev, displaying more physical strength and agility than I had imagined he possessed, wrenched him out and threw him to the floor. The man's gun skidded to a stop at my feet. By the time I took it up, Lychev had dropped his right knee onto the man's chest, pinioning him. I dropped the pistol into my coat pocket.

‘Where is she?' Lychev shouted, pressing his pistol into the man's throat.

‘Don't shoot me! Don't shoot me!' the man pleaded, making no effort to resist.

‘Where is Anna Petrovna? Tell me, you bastard, or I will shoot you dead.'

‘I swear I don't know. She got away.'

‘What do you mean, she got away?'

‘This morning Zinnurov sent two men to get her but she got away from them. He told us to wait here in case the Jew came back.'

Lychev looked up at me then back at his prisoner.

‘Us?' Lychev said. ‘How many are you?'

The man swallowed nervously. ‘Three.'

‘Where are they?'

‘Outside.'

‘In the car?'

The man nodded.

There was a piece of paper on the pillow. Thinking it must be from Anna I picked it up. The note read:

My daughter has told me everything. You took advantage of an unhappy woman made vulnerable by illness. Your aim was to defile her, and you succeeded. Outwardly you pretend to be a Russian but you cannot disguise the stink of your race. You are despicable and revolting beyond measure. You will learn the lesson that your kind must ever be taught, and sooner than you think.

The brain does not take in such messages at a stroke. We get to the end without really having read the beginning or middle: single words only come off the page, a matter of tone and insinuation.
Stink. Defile. Despicable
. I started again. The words had not changed. ‘You will learn the lesson that your kind must ever be taught, and sooner than you think.'

I handed it to Lychev. He read it quickly, then said, ‘We have to get out of here now.'

He looked down at the man on the floor. Without warning he fired once into the man's head.

‘Let's go,' he said, starting for the corridor.

Transfixed by the sight, I hadn't taken a single step when
the window suddenly exploded, showering me with glass. I felt a sliver fall under the collar of my shirt and, instinctively putting a finger to my neck, I remember thinking,
I will have to be careful trying to get that out if I'm not to cut myself
. Then I noticed a cobblestone lying in the middle of the bed. I turned back to the window. A huge shard hung like a dagger from the top of the frame.

I heard Lychev shout, ‘Get out now!'

Through the broken window a second cobblestone now sailed as gently and gracefully as a leaf borne by the breezes. The huge shard dropped to the floor and shattered. The second cobblestone also landed on the bed, up by the pillows. It had a fuse and the fuse was burning. It was not a cobblestone.

I scrambled as fast as I could to the corridor. Lychev was ahead of me, half-running, half-throwing himself to get clear.

Someone picked me up and propelled me through the air and a great hot wind whooshed past me. There was a blinding flash of light. I passed through a furnace. I felt the hair on my head shrivel. There was a strange smell, like burnt wool. Then came the deafening roar.

What was I doing like this? It was desperately uncomfortable. I was upside down and in a very constricted space, my head pushed forward into my chest. Dust fell into my mouth and eyes and nostrils, it settled on my lips. My mouth was parched. Someone was trying to double me up. I thought my back would snap. I couldn't breathe. Then I began to slide a long way down.

In the beautiful White Hall of the Mariinsky, Kopelzon was playing Bach's Partita No. 3. How I loved his playing, the truth he brought to the music, the way he released and controlled its loveliness and melancholy. What a gift he had, what sublime comprehension. He followed the lines that drove the music but was never unbending. Flexibility – and cunning! – this was how Kopelzon made beautiful music his own. The tsar and tsarina were in the audience, and so were Zinnurov and Gan. Rozental suddenly jumped to his feet and said, ‘You are all in zugzwang, ladies and gentlemen. You cannot save yourselves.' One of the magnificent chandeliers fell from the ceiling, crashing on top of Kopelzon. But when I went to dig my friend out of the mountain of diamonds I found not him but Yastrebov's pickled head. I pickeditup, put it in my pocket and brought it home to Catherine.

Every now and then the bed tipped up violently, sometimes feet first, sometimes head first. Bile surged into my mouth. I wanted to wake up. I wanted to wake up very badly. But I lost my footing. I would have fallen into the pit had I not flapped my arms and started to fly. It was not the soaring, effortless flight of dreams but precarious and treacherous, and several times I almost crashed. I was a novice, really, at flying. Worse than the nausea was the awful confusion in my head, a reeling drunkenness that sleep did nothing to cure.

* * *

I could not stop thinking about chess. At first it only made the dizziness worse, but after a time things settled down. A single position came into focus and the visualisation without sight of the board that I had always found so difficult suddenly became possible.