The People's Will

Chapter XI



KONSTANTIN’S NOTE HAD been brief. ‘Take the 1.15 train. You will be met at Pavlovsk.’

The officer who met him there, a colonel of the Semyonovskiy Regiment, did not give his name, but escorted Mihail to a sled which took them from the station through the town to the gates of a large estate. This, it was easy to guess, was the Pavlovsk Palace, Konstantin’s country retreat. The sled took them through the estate and past the great palace itself, but stopped ultimately at a much smaller building in the grounds.

The colonel remained seated, but indicated to Mihail a door in the side of the modest house. It opened on to a long corridor, at the end of which Mihail saw his father in earnest conversation with a slightly built woman in her thirties. In the army Mihail had heard all the rumours and guessed that this was Konstantin’s mistress, Anna Vasilyevna Kuznetsova. Perhaps this was even the house he had set aside for her, so close to the home of his official family. It was an appropriate place for a man to make a rendezvous with his bastard son.

Konstantin noticed Mihail’s arrival and held up his hand, signalling that Mihail should not come any further. Mihail obeyed and Konstantin finished the conversation with his lover. She disappeared and the grand duke beckoned Mihail forward, then went through a door. Mihail followed.

Konstantin was not alone. Another man stood in the room – some sort of study – facing the hearth, his hands clasped behind his back. He was tall; immense in comparison with the diminutive Konstantin.

Konstantin strode across the floor, grasping Mihail’s hand in both of his and shaking it vigorously. He seemed warmer than he had done two days before.

‘It’s good to see you, my boy,’ he said.

‘You too, sir.’ Mihail did not know where the ‘sir’ came from, but ‘Papa’ still did not seem appropriate.

Konstantin turned to his companion. ‘Here he is then, Sasha.’

The tall figure turned to face them. Mihail recognized him immediately, though he had never before seen him in the flesh. He bowed deeply, driven by the same instinct that had made him call his father ‘sir’, but magnified a thousand times.

‘Your Majesty!’ he whispered.

Mihail straightened up to see Konstantin turning once again to his brother, Tsar Aleksandr II. ‘Sasha, may I introduce my son, Mihail Konstantinovich.’

The tsar looked Mihail up and down, but did not offer any form of greeting. He turned to his brother.

‘He’s a fine boy, I’m sure, Kostya, and I know you must be proud of him, but I really don’t see the need to be introduced to every one of your offspring.’

Mihail felt much the same. It was all a little excessive. He had revealed himself to Konstantin only for the sake of his mother’s memory, not to inveigle his way into royal circles.

‘There’s a little more to it than that,’ Konstantin explained, walking behind Mihail as he spoke. ‘This young man, you see, has a very illustrious grandfather.’

‘Well of course he does!’ snapped the tsar. ‘His grandfather is your father – and mine. He was a tsar of Russia as appointed by God. You don’t get much more illustrious than that.’

‘I was meaning on his mother’s side.’

The bemusement on Aleksandr’s face reflected Mihail’s own feelings.

‘I haven’t mentioned,’ Konstantin continued, ‘this young man’s surname. It’s Danilov. His grandfather was Colonel Aleksei Ivanovich Danilov.’

Aleksandr turned his head a little to one side, as though attempting to hear more clearly. He stood frozen in the pose for perhaps a second, then lunged forward, seemingly on the point of dropping to his knees, but then regained his composure. He grasped Mihail’s hand and pulled it to his lips, kissing the knuckle of his middle finger. He stepped back.

‘I never got to meet the man – to thank him on behalf of our family. I thank you in his place.’

Mihail had no doubt as to what the tsar meant. He’d heard it all from Tamara, who’d heard it from Aleksei in his dying hours.

Konstantin turned to Mihail. ‘I’m sorry to have deceived you the other day, but when you mentioned his name I was too shocked even to think. I could never have dreamed that Tamarushka was Danilov’s daughter.’

Mihail thrilled a little at Konstantin’s affectionate name for his mother. Suddenly, for the first time he could imagine his mother and father together as a single entity, and himself as their son, not just hers. And yet at the same time he couldn’t ignore how easily Konstantin had deceived him. Mihail prided himself on his ability to catch people in their dishonesty, and yet his father had been utterly convincing. It was a trait that had helped the Romanovs to survive the centuries.

‘I presume you’ve verified his claim.’ Aleksandr had become stiff again after his lapse. Mihail felt a glimmer of pity for him; in how many members of the Romanov dynasty did the blood of the father not run in the veins of the son? Mihail could at least be confident of his mother’s side of the family.

‘As soon as I heard I went back and looked at Volkonsky’s papers,’ Konstantin explained. ‘Danilov had a daughter, Tamara, who was put into the care of a man called Lavrov and her upkeep paid for by Volkonsky himself. This was when Danilov went into exile after the Fourteenth. The woman I knew was most certainly Danilov’s child, and I have no doubt that this is her son – and mine.’

The tsar looked at Mihail gravely. ‘Sit down, Mihail Konstantinovich,’ he said.

Mihail sat, as did the other two men. The tsar continued.

‘You know, I take it, of the great service that your grandfather did for our uncle, Aleksandr I.’

Mihail nodded. ‘He and Prince Volkonsky helped Aleksandr to counterfeit his own death. Aleksandr went on to live the life of a normal man. He called himself Fyodor Kuzmich.’

The tsar sat upright in his chair. ‘You even know the name he took?’

Mihail nodded. ‘Aleksei told Mama and she told me.’

‘But no one else?’

‘Iuda tortured my grandfather to get the name, but he failed.’ Mihail felt his face redden as he spoke. The image of Iuda ducking his aged grandfather beneath the water and screaming at him for a name was something that Mihail had never witnessed, but his mother’s description of it had been vivid. It was adopted memories such as this that kept his hatred for Iuda alive.

‘Iuda?’ interjected Konstantin.

‘Cain,’ clarified Mihail.

Aleksandr nodded. ‘You know why Cain was so interested in my uncle?’

‘Because of Zmyeevich. He believes Pyotr the Great betrayed him. He believes that if he can persuade one of Pyotr’s descendants to drink his blood and die with that blood in their veins then they will become, like him, a voordalak, and be sway to his will.’ Mihail felt momentarily foolish, just as when he had first spoken the word ‘voordalak’ in front of his schoolfriends, and they had laughed at his beliefs.

No laughter came from either of those present.

‘You can imagine what that would mean if the Romanov in question were tsar,’ said Aleksandr grimly.

Mihail nodded. ‘That was the genius of what my grandfather and your uncle planned. Once Zmyeevich had tried to wield his influence on Aleksandr – tried and failed – he had no power over any other Romanov of that generation. While Aleksandr lived, Zmyeevich was powerless against any other Romanov, and yet Aleksandr himself – Fyodor Kuzmich – was a nobody.’

‘Fyodor Kuzmich died almost twenty years ago,’ announced the tsar.

Mihail had guessed as much. ‘He outlived my grandfather, then.’

‘From what my father told me, Aleksandr regarded Aleksei as a friend.’

‘Tsar Nikolai knew, then?’

‘Volkonsky told him, but every tsar has known of Zmyeevich. Since the days of Pyotr the knowledge has been passed down. Every tsarevich must be told by his father.’ He paused and his face grew sallow. ‘It is a duty I have had to perform twice.’

Mihail understood. The current tsarevich, Aleksandr Aleksandrovich, was not the tsar’s eldest son. The first tsarevich, Nikolai Aleksandrovich, had died aged just twenty-one. ‘And your other brothers? They know too?’

‘Just Kostya.’

Mihail swallowed. How was he meant to put the next question? ‘And have you … heard from Zmyeevich?’

The tsar stood and walked across the room, his hands clasped behind his back once again. He stood in front of a tall mirror and gazed at Mihail in its reflection, as if to prove that Zmyeevich had not taken him already.

‘I have seen with his eyes,’ he said.

‘What?’ It was evidently news to Konstantin.

‘For the past few months I have seen things that I should not see. I have looked down at my hands and they have not been mine. They are old, and there is a ring shaped like a dragon.’

‘You should have told me,’ said Konstantin.

‘It was just as Papa said it would be, though he never experienced it himself. Aleksandr spared him that.’

‘But Zmyeevich has attempted nothing more?’ asked Mihail.

‘He has not approached me directly, nor sent his emissary.’

‘Cain, you mean?’

‘Cain must be dead by now, but Zmyeevich will have found another.’

‘No,’ explained Mihail. ‘Cain is not dead. He has become like Zmyeevich, though they’re no longer allies.’ He paused, unsure how they would take the news. ‘I believe that they are both here, in Petersburg.’

‘Here?’

‘Cain is Zmyeevich’s captive.’

‘Why hold him captive? Why not kill him?’

‘I think Cain has knowledge that Zmyeevich wants. It’s unlikely he’d kill him – he had the chance and didn’t take it.’ Mihail chose not to mention Dmitry. After the awe with which they had spoken of Aleksei, Mihail could not bring himself to reveal the fate of his son.

‘How can we help?’ asked Aleksandr, returning to his chair.

‘I really don’t know, not until I have more information. Perhaps you’re in a better position to find out than I am.’

‘This is not your battle,’ said Konstantin.

‘You’re right,’ Mihail answered without hesitation, ‘it’s not. But to the degree our interests coincide we can help one another.’

‘Your interests are not in saving your emperor?’ It was hard to tell whether Aleksandr was more astonished or amused.

‘I’m interested in only one thing: Iuda – Cain. All I ask is that you leave him for me to deal with. Do what you will with Zmyeevich.’

Aleksandr glanced at his brother, who replied with a shrug. The tsar considered for a moment.

‘We’ll see how things develop.’

‘How shall I contact you?’ asked Mihail.

Aleksandr thought for a moment. ‘If you need either of us, go to Fontanka 16. You know where that is?’

Mihail eyed his father ruefully and received an apologetic smile in response.

‘Ask for Colonel Mrovinskiy,’ Aleksandr continued. ‘He’s the man who escorted you here. He’ll convey your messages – or arrange a meeting.’

Aleksandr stood, as did Konstantin a moment later. Mihail took it that their conversation was at an end. He rose to his feet. ‘Just one more thing,’ he said. ‘What do you know about Ascalon?’

The two brothers exchanged glances. Evidently the word meant something to them. It was Konstantin who chose to explain.

‘It’s a part of the story that no one has ever understood – it may not even be true, but it’s been passed down through the family since Pyotr.’

‘Go on,’ insisted Mihail.

‘It dates back to Senate Square in 1712 – just a field then – when Zmyeevich drank Pyotr’s blood, and then Pyotr refused to drink his, and Zmyeevich fled. Well, the story also goes that Pyotr took something from him – took Ascalon – and it’s for that Zmyeevich hated him most.’

‘So you have it – it was passed down?’

Konstantin shook his head. ‘What Pyotr did with it, I’ve no idea. The whole thing may be nothing more than myth. It’s said that he hid it – buried it. We don’t know what it is, how big it is – nothing.’

‘Buried it? Where?’

‘Where else would he bury it,’ explained the tsar, ‘but in his new capital?’

‘In Petersburg?’

Aleksandr nodded. ‘We don’t know the street or the building, but somewhere, perhaps somewhere that you or I walk every day, Ascalon lies waiting.’

News travelled fast. It had been only hours since Iuda had tapped out his message, and now Luka stood before him. Who he might have bribed to gain access to a prisoner in the Peter and Paul Fortress, Iuda did not care to ask. The door slammed shut behind them, locking them in together. Luka walked over and embraced him.

‘It’s good to see you, Vasya.’

‘You too, Luka,’ Iuda replied, patting him on the back. They separated and Iuda held him by the shoulders, eyeing him up and down. ‘You look well.’

‘I wish I could say the same for you,’ said Luka. ‘It must be hell in here.’

Iuda could not tell how he looked, but he knew he was hungry, so it would not be good. His skin would be wrinkled and dry and his muscles withered. His hair would not have changed colour, but the human eye was happy to see blond as grey when it matched the tone of the skin. It was probably for the best. He had known Luka for over two decades, long enough for the question of his eternal youth to be whispered insidiously by Luka’s subconscious.

‘No worse for me than for any other comrade,’ he said.

Luka nodded. It was hard for Iuda to look at him and not think of Lyosha. The grandson was only a shadow of the grandfather, and yet Iuda feared him, just as Pelias feared Jason – as Pharaoh feared Moses. Luka was the last descendant of Lyosha; the last living descendant – Dmitry did not count. If Luka should ever make contact with his mother and discover the truth about Iuda, then his attitude might be very different.

That was why Iuda had befriended him. After his escape from the cells beneath the Kremlin Iuda had headed for Petersburg. And once in Petersburg he had sought out Luka. He knew the details; Tamara had been an employee of the Third Section and so all the information about her children – the two who died and the one who survived – was on file. Iuda, under yet another alias – though he’d grown to like the Christian name of Vasiliy – made his move. It was a variation upon a theme that had worked well in the past, not least when he inveigled his way into the lives of Lyosha’s wife and son, Marfa and Dmitry, so many years before. He worked on Luka’s adoptive father first, making a few business deals, then became a friend of the family. Then as the father was away more and more often, thanks to Iuda, he took a special interest in the son, Luka.

It was once Luka had gone to study in Moscow at the Agricultural Academy that he’d shown an interest in politics. He fell under the sway of the radical Sergey Gennadiyevich Nyechayev. Luka didn’t speak of it directly, but his occasional references to the lot of the peasants and the need for democracy were enough for Iuda to pick up on. Iuda displayed a little sympathy for the cause and Luka displayed a little more and soon each understood the other; the only hope for Russia lay in the overthrow of the tsar.

Even after Nyechayev had murdered one of Luka’s fellow students, the improbably named Ivan Ivanovich Ivanov, Luka’s faith in the cause had not been shaken, though he had turned against Nyechayev. Iuda had affected a greater degree of disillusionment, only to draw Luka in more. Before the war against Turkey both of them had been on the peripheries of various underground groups, but the war had changed a great number of things. Many of the revolutionaries, staunch Slavophiles, had gone to the Balkans to protect Serbs and Bulgarians from their Ottoman oppressors. It had thinned out their numbers, but those who returned knew better how to kill. Iuda had marched with the army – though for reasons of his own – while Luka had remained in the motherland. The three years of Iuda’s imprisonment had weakened his ties with the revolutionaries, but for Luka it seemed that time had only drawn him closer to their centre.

Today, Nyechayev was Iuda’s fellow prisoner, somewhere in one of the fortress’s many cells. Messages from and to him travelled through the pipes. He’d been so bold as to ask the People’s Will if they could organize an escape, but the reply was curt, pointing out that they had more important things to do. Perhaps Iuda should ask Luka for a similar favour. In his case they might at least give it a try, but in practical terms it was still an absurd idea – and an unnecessary one. Iuda would walk out when he wanted to.

‘I heard you were in Petersburg,’ Luka told him, ‘but I’d no idea you’d been arrested. Have they interrogated you?’

‘Not yet,’ said Iuda, ‘but it will come.’ His mind was already racing. How had Luka known he was in the city?

‘Do you think you’ll be able to stand it?’

‘I can only try. Fortunately, I know very little.’

‘You know me.’

‘Your name will never escape my lips.’

Luka shook his head. ‘You don’t know what they’re capable of.’

‘If it came to it …’ Iuda paused, feigning uncertainty. ‘You could smuggle something in for me; something that would mean I could not speak.’

‘No.’ Luka spoke firmly. ‘I’d rather die myself.’

Iuda mentally noted the offer. He changed the subject. ‘You said you knew I was in the city? How on earth could you?’

‘Through a mutual friend.’ Luka grinned. ‘Another of your “projects”, if I might so describe myself.’

Iuda smiled back. ‘You’re no project.’

‘You know what I mean. I know how you picked me out, in the hope of making something of me. You did just the same with Mihail Konstantinovich.’

‘Mihail Konstantinovich?’ Iuda’s ignorance of the name was genuine.

‘Mihail Konstantinovich Lukin. There’s no need to pretend, Vasya. He came to visit me.’

‘And what did he say?’ Iuda’s mind stepped through the possibilities. He had encountered a Lukin recently – one of the soldiers in Geok Tepe; a lieutenant. The name had been familiar, but any connection to the long-dead Maksim Sergeivich Lukin seemed unlikely. But if this was the same man who had been there in Turkmenistan then there was only one conclusion to be drawn – that he was working for Dmitry, and therefore, inescapably, for Zmyeevich.

‘He told me about how he knew you – how you kept an eye on him after his father died. He said how the two of you had planned to meet here in Petersburg. But he said there was no trace of you. Naturally he presumed you’d come to see me.’

Iuda nodded. It all reeked of Dmitry – he had learned from how Iuda had approached him and Marfa. Who else would know that, and use it to play upon Luka’s trust?

‘And did Mihail mention anyone else – any other “mutual friends” of ours?’

‘No, no one. You’re not forgotten though. There are still members of the Executive Committee who remember you and trust you. How do you think your message got to me so swiftly?’

It was true – there were far too many people who could connect him to Luka. Iuda tried to remember faces and names. It could be any one of them – almost anyone.

‘So how much did you tell Mihail about me?’ he asked.

‘Nothing – nothing that he didn’t already know.’

Iuda tutted. A clever interrogator could easily make it seem as though he already knew what he’d wheedled out of his subject.

‘Did I do wrong?’ asked Luka.

‘Luka, I’ve never heard of anyone called Mihail Konstantinovich Lukin in my entire life.’

‘My God!’ Luka’s hand went to his mouth. ‘So he’s … one of them?’

‘We can only presume so. Did he ask anything specific?’ Iuda tried to remain calm. It would do no good to puncture the façade of congeniality that he’d created for Luka’s benefit.

‘Whether I’d seen you. Where you usually stayed in the city. He said he’d tried your club – I didn’t know you had one.’

‘He asked where I stay? And did you tell him?’

‘I’m not stupid, Vasya. I remember what you told me.’

‘Have you been there recently?’

‘Not for six months – no one had been there.’

‘Were you followed?’

There was a flash of anger in Luka’s eyes, but it quickly subsided. ‘I’m not stupid,’ he repeated.

Iuda reached up and touched the young man’s cheek, the manacles he still wore forcing him to raise both hands. ‘Of course you’re not, Luka, but I worry about you – I always have.’

Luka smiled. ‘I know you do. But it’s you we should be concerned for. We’ve got to get you out of here. What did they arrest you for?’

‘Do they need a reason? They’re just fishing.’

‘You think you’ll be released soon?’

Iuda was sure of it, but he wasn’t going to tell Luka his plans.

‘I hope so. It always depends on who’s running things. I never met the bastard who arrested me before. Chap by the name of Otrepyev – a colonel.’

Iuda studied Luka’s face as he spoke, scouring it for a reaction, but none was evident. He could go further and use Dmitry’s real name, but Luka wouldn’t be ready for that. That all presumed he was lying; Iuda doubted it, but prepared for it.

Luka shook his head. ‘I’ve not heard of him. Must be from Moscow. I’ll ask around.’

‘You do that, Luka.’ It couldn’t make things worse.

There was a banging on the cell door and it opened to reveal the scowling face of the sentry. Luka stepped towards Iuda and embraced him once again, whispering, ‘Don’t worry, Vasya, we’ll get you out.’ Moments later he was gone, and the door slammed shut.

Iuda slumped to the ground, leaning back against the cold stone wall. It was a shame, but there was no other way. Luka was a useful ally, and if he was to die, Iuda had always hoped it would be in circumstances that in some way punished him for being a Danilov. But he had become too dangerous. He was the only person who knew the location of Iuda’s lair in Petersburg – where he kept his real notebooks and his more important blood samples. He hadn’t gone to all the effort of luring Zmyeevich and Dmitry to that abandoned cellar under Senate Square only to have them learn of his true hideaway from Luka.

He could have killed Luka there and then. It would have been pleasing to see the surprise on his face, and it would have satisfied Iuda’s growing hunger. But he would not have been able to hide the body from the guards, and even they would have guessed what he was. No, Luka must die remotely, by the mere tapping of a cup against pipework.

It was a short message, using codes that Iuda had learned years before when he had first infiltrated the revolutionaries. But on hearing it, no one would be in any doubt. Luka was a spy; an oprichnik; an agent of the Ohrana. What his punishment would be was down to the Executive Committee, but their motto had always been ‘pour encourager les autres’. There would be no more risk that Luka would tell what he knew of his Uncle Vasya.

But there was still the matter of Iuda’s freedom. There the People’s Will would not be called on for help – a higher power was required. Fortunately such a power was just as able to eavesdrop on the tapping of the pipes as any revolutionary. He would start with something simple, but something that would make them prick up their ears. No requests, no demands, just an announcement of who he was. He began to tap again on the pipe.

5,6 2,6 – 1,1 – 2,4 – 3,3

Я Каин

I am Cain