The People's Will

Chapter XII



LUKA MARCHED DOWN maksimilianovsky lane, his hands deep in his pockets and his eyes fixed on the snowy path in front of him. It was dark now. He had taken a circuitous route back to the apartment, but he’d seen no one following him from the fortress. It hardly mattered – the Ohrana knew about this place anyway. Titov, the dvornik – always sitting in his little room at the door, watching who came and went – was in their pay. Luckily, he was in the pay of the People’s Will too. That didn’t mean he kept quiet to the authorities, but everyone was aware of what he’d told them. At least he was honest in his treachery. Luka preferred that to what Mihail Konstantinovich had done, the way he’d played on Luka’s friendship with Vasya.

His thoughts were interrupted by a sharp, penetrating tapping sound, three reports, then a space, then three more, repeatedly. He looked up. The sound was coming from the tavern on the street corner. Someone was at the window, banging against it with a coin or something similar. In a moment he realized who it was: Mihail. Luka returned his gaze to the snow and carried on walking.

He was almost at the door of the house when Mihail caught up with him.

‘What do you want?’ asked Luka, making no attempt to hide the bile in his voice. He knew that he should string the man along, make him think he was trusted and then use him against his paymasters, but it was too sickening even to be in his presence.

‘I wanted to talk to you again,’ Mihail told him. ‘I’ve not been entirely straight with you.’

‘Really?’ There could be no mistaking the cynicism in Luka’s voice.

They had stopped at the door of the building. ‘Can I come in?’ Mihail asked.

Luka felt the urge to spit in his face, but what good would that do? Perhaps it would be better to take him up to the apartment and then kill him. There was a pistol up there – it would be very easy. But he shouldn’t be too hasty. He must report what he had learned to the committee. If Mihail were to die, they would decide and would deal with it safely. If not, they would turn him to good use as a conduit for false information back to the Ohrana. Even so, it would be worth taking him up to the rooms, sitting there with him for a little while to hear him spin out his lies, knowing that the revolver was just a short reach away, hoping that he would force Luka into doing something delightfully rash.

‘If you must,’ he said.

They went up the stairs and sat down in the living room. This time Luka made no offer of tea.

‘So you lied to me,’ he said.

Mihail nodded. ‘I did, though not entirely.’

‘Not entirely?’ It was typical of the equivocation of an ohranik.

‘My connection to you is not through Vasiliy Grigoryevich.’

‘You astonish me. Not in that you don’t know him, but in that you have the honesty to admit it. But then I suppose you already know that I’ve been to see Vasiliy. Your spies at the fortress would have told you that. I’m only surprised you heard so quickly.’

‘You’ve found him?’

‘Don’t play games,’ sneered Luka.

‘He’s at the fortress? The Peter and Paul? A prisoner?’

‘A prisoner that you put there – or at least your boss Otrepyev did.’

Mihail’s reaction to his colonel’s name was evident. He rose to his feet and turned away from Luka, preventing his face from revealing the truth. ‘What did Vasiliy say to you?’

‘I’m sure there’s nothing he could tell me that you don’t know already – being such a close friend of his.’

‘I’ve already told you I lied about that.’

‘Well then, none of what we said is any of your business.’

Mihail nodded in acceptance. He turned back to face Luka. ‘I’m not what you think I am,’ he said.

For a moment Luka almost fell for his sincerity. He examined the man. There was not a huge difference in their age – ten years perhaps. They would certainly be considered to be from the same generation. From the way Mihail spoke, he guessed they’d had a similar level of education. Luka was a little taller, though Mihail looked the stronger. What was it that made them different? What event in their early lives had made Luka choose to be a champion of the Russian people and Mihail the acolyte of their oppressor?

‘What did you mean earlier?’ Luka asked. ‘When you implied an association with me other than through Vasiliy?’

Mihail didn’t reply. He stood in silence for a full half-minute, looking directly at Luka but deep in thought. When he spoke, the question was obscenely personal.

‘Did you ever go to look for your mother – your real mother?’

Luka felt his face redden – in anger more than embarrassment. ‘My real mother is the woman who raised me,’ he explained coldly.

Mihail gave half a nod. ‘Thankfully I’ve never had to make the distinction.’

‘No distinction needs to be made.’

‘You think so?’

Luka had thought about it often. ‘I am my mind – nothing more. My mind was made by my experience, my parents contributed much to that.’

‘As did Vasiliy?’ Luka could not account for the cynicism that Mihail managed to inject into his question.

‘More so than my birth mother, certainly.’

‘But don’t you ever wonder about other things, where they might come from? You wouldn’t question that your hair or your eyes come from your parents. What about other things, not your whole mind but parts of it perhaps; small parts? Your sense of right and wrong?’

Mihail spoke with a passion that Luka could only admire, enough for him to wonder if, in other circumstances, they might have been friends. And his argument might also serve to answer Luka’s original silent question: were the contrasts between them down not to the unique events of their lives, but to difference in their parentage? It was not the way Luka wanted to see the world. He believed that all men were created equal, and moulded as they grew. He had to believe it.

‘I told you, my mother went mad. Would you want to inherit that?’

Mihail’s lips lost their colour as he pressed them tightly together. His eyes became misty and he turned away from Luka, suppressing an anger whose cause could not be fathomed. He stared down from the window on to the gas-lit street below, his hands clasped behind his back, the thumb of one squeezing so hard on the fingers of the other that they had become white and bloodless. He remained silent for several seconds. When he spoke, it was not to answer Luka’s question.

‘Shit!’

The emission of the word from Mihail’s throat was accompanied by a sudden galvanization of his body – his whole mood. He spun round on his heel.

‘What?’ asked Luka.

‘An ohranik,’ spat Mihail. ‘Out there, on the street.’

Luka glanced involuntarily across the room at one of the faded paintings that hung on the walls. He was not interested in the picture, but hidden there were documents that must not be allowed to fall into the hands of the police. That was where the gun lay too, if needed. In an instant he was looking back at Mihail.

‘You’re sure?’

‘It’s Otrepyev, for God’s sake!’

So Mihail did know Colonel Otrepyev, just as Vasiliy had predicted. Even so, his reaction was not what might be expected.

‘Is he coming up?’ Luka asked.

Mihail looked again. ‘No. No – he’s moving on. He was just talking to the dvornik.’ Even as he spoke, Mihail was crossing the room, heading for the door. ‘Stay here, I’m going after him.’

Luka had no intention of going anywhere. At the door, Mihail paused.

‘We still have to talk,’ he said earnestly. ‘I’ll come and find you. I know you don’t trust me, but you will, I promise.’

With those words, steeped in faux sincerity, Mihail was gone.

‘Where’s Luka?’

The question came from Dusya, and was to be expected.

‘Don’t worry about Luka,’ said the chairman sternly. ‘He’s doing other work essential to our cause.’

Dusya said no more. She was like that. They were all like that – obedient to authority even within an organization dedicated to overthrowing authority. Their only freedom was to choose whom they would obey. But the need to obey someone was what made them, underneath it all, serfs. Most of the aristocrats of Europe were serfs in that sense. Only a select few ruled themselves.

This meeting of the Executive Committee was held in a different apartment, this one on Voznesensky Prospekt, the long, straight thoroughfare that split Petersburg into east and west, meeting with Nevsky Prospekt as they converged on the Admiralty. There was only one item of business. The chairman was not happy with it, but there was nothing he could do. There were some matters over which even he would not be obeyed. He glanced at Sofia and she stood up. She dared look at no one as she spoke.

‘As some of you may already have heard, Comrade Kletochnikov has been arrested.’

Gasps filled the room, though not from everyone. For some the name Kletochnikov meant nothing – such was the need for secrecy. Sofia explained.

‘For the past two years Nikolai Vasilyevich Kletochnikov has worked as a filing clerk at Fontanka 16, first for the Third Section and now for the Ohrana. In all that time, he has in truth been a loyal member of the People’s Will. Some of you may have heard of him as the Protecting Angel. He reported whatever came across his desk that might be of use to us. He’s saved many from arrest with his information.’

‘But not himself,’ said Kibalchich grimly.

‘There’s been too many arrests recently,’ said Bogdanovich. ‘Somebody’s been talking.’

The chairman raised a finger to silence him. ‘Let Sofia proceed.’

‘We think you’re right,’ said Sofia. ‘And we think we know who it is.’ She looked at each face in the room in turn, as if testing each one to reveal its guilt, though she knew that the traitor was not present.

‘Kletochnikov was arrested on Wednesday,’ she continued. ‘In the early hours of Friday morning another arrest was made, that of a comrade who has been away from Petersburg for many years, but who has always remained loyal. He was taken to the Peter and Paul Fortress. His name is Vasiliy Grigoryevich Chernetskiy.’

A few faces around the room nodded in recognition of the name, as well they might.

‘What was he doing back in Petersburg?’ asked the chairman, though he would be surprised to receive an answer.

‘We don’t know,’ admitted Sofia, ‘but we believe that the reason for his arrest is that he was about to unmask the collaborator who betrayed Kletochnikov.’

‘We all know who Vasiliy Grigoryevich would visit first on his return to the city, don’t we?’ said Zhelyabov.

Sofia glanced at Dusya, but her eyes were glued to the floor.

‘We can’t make guesses like that,’ said Kibalchich. ‘Now they’re both locked up, we’ll never know.’

‘We can and we do know,’ countered Sofia. ‘Kletochnikov is incarcerated where he worked, at Fontanka 16. We won’t hear a word from him. But the Pyetropavlovskaya Fortress is a different matter. We received a message from Chernetskiy today.’

‘Saying?’ asked Kibalchich.

‘Saying that Luka Miroslavich Novikov betrayed both him and Kletochnikov.’

‘No!’ The word came as a whisper from Dusya’s throat – more of a prayer than a denial.

‘Can we trust Chernetskiy?’ asked Kibalchich. ‘Especially after so long?’ He was addressing the chairman.

‘I’ve never met Vasiliy Grigoryevich,’ the chairman admitted, glad not to be forced to make the decision. ‘He was before my time.’

‘I’d trust him with my life,’ said Sofia firmly.

‘I too,’ added Zhelyabov.

There were general nods of the head from those who knew the man. Only Dusya dared object.

‘Can we be sure it was Chernetskiy who sent the message?’ she asked. ‘A prisoner tapping against a pipe has no face.’

‘He used a codeword that we recognized, Dusya,’ Sofia explained. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘What was the codeword?’ Dusya asked.

‘“Susanna”.’

Dusya nodded meekly and returned her eyes to the floor.

‘So what do we do?’ asked the chairman, though he could already guess the decision of the committee.

‘We should question Luka,’ said Kibalchich firmly.

‘And let him tell us more lies?’ countered Sofia. ‘We can’t even risk him guessing we’re on to him. We must be swift and brutal.’

‘Sofia’s right,’ agreed Zhelyabov. ‘Luka doesn’t know our exact plans for the tsar, but he knows all of us. If we deal with him now we may be able to cut out the rot. If he thinks we’re about to act, he might have us arrested en masse.’

‘What do you think, Dusya?’ asked the chairman gently.

‘I can’t question your reasoning,’ she replied. ‘And we can’t allow sentiment to turn us from our course. If Luka is guilty, he must die. If he is innocent, he would understand the sacrifice he has made.’

The chairman almost sniggered at the perversity of her logic; these people had managed to delude themselves quite thoroughly.

‘There’s only one thing to do then,’ announced Sofia. ‘We vote.’

The chairman could not prevent it. ‘Very well,’ he agreed. There was nothing like democracy to wash the blood from one’s hands.

There was only one place to be in Petersburg on that morning, Sunday 1 February: at the funeral of Fyodor Mihailovich Dostoyevsky. He was to be interred at the Tihvin Cemetery at the Aleksandr Nevsky Monastery, alongside Glinka and Krylov and other great Russians, but none so great as him.

Mihail followed the path beside the Yekaterininsky Canal and then turned on to Nevsky Prospekt, named after the monastery to which it led. The road was densely packed, the rich in carriages, the poor on foot – all heading in the same direction; all to pay honour to the same man.

As he walked, Mihail considered his encounters of the day before; one with his father and his uncle, another – two others – with his brother. Speaking to the tsar Mihail had realized what he should always have known: that it was impossible to surgically isolate his search for vengeance against Iuda from Zmyeevich’s vendetta against the Romanovs. Zmyeevich and Iuda might no longer be allies, but their lives were intertwined. Mihail would gladly help the tsar in his fight against Zmyeevich, as long as their two fights were the same.

But there was always another possibility. Aleksandr and Iuda were both enemies of Zmyeevich, and might each not think that his enemy’s enemy was his friend? Then where would Mihail be? Would he be able to take on Aleksandr and even perhaps his own father if they sided with Iuda? He would have to, though he prayed events wouldn’t come to that. And yet the Romanovs would always do what was best for their dynasty.

He was equally torn over Luka. At their second meeting yesterday he had been on the brink of revealing the truth of their relationship – that they were half-brothers – but had funked it at the last moment. Seeing Dmitry out on the street below had been a shock, but it was probably to the good. Now wasn’t the time to tell Luka. It would have been easier if Mihail hadn’t lied in the first place. Luka naturally had greater loyalty to Iuda than he would have to a brother he didn’t even know existed. But Mihail needed to discover where Iuda was – and in that he’d succeeded. Why Dmitry should have had him locked in the fortress was beyond Mihail’s understanding, but he would be safe there for now.

And Luka would come round eventually, however much his politics made him fearful of all those around him, and however much he insisted that the ties of blood meant nothing to him. A brother could not be separated from a brother. All it would take was time, and they had plenty of that.

Mihail’s pursuit of Dmitry had been short-lived. By the time he had got to the street the voordalak had gone. Mihail had chosen a direction at random, and then another at the next junction, but he wasn’t in luck. He wondered what Dmitry had been doing there. Perhaps he’d come to visit Luka but had learned of Mihail’s presence from the dvornik and changed his mind. It certainly went to prove that there was a connection between him and Luka. It was another thing he would talk to his brother about when the time was right, revealing to him not just a long-lost brother but an uncle to boot; though not an uncle to be proud of.

And there was one other benefit to Dmitry’s visit the previous day. Mihail now knew that there was something hidden in that apartment. It might be papers, or explosives, or both. And Mihail knew pretty much exactly where it was. He’d seen Luka’s furtive glance at the picture on the wall, wondering if his secret would be revealed. Soon Mihail would find an opportunity to see just what lay behind. Brotherly love was not strong enough to stop him in that.

After the Nikolaievsky Vokzal, the station where Mihail had first arrived in the city, Nevsky Prospekt kinked slightly to the right before heading directly to the monastery. From here Mihail, and those around him, could see the folly of their journey. Not far ahead, the road was packed. Those in carriages had no hope of progress; those on foot might squeeze forward a little further, but would have to fight their way through to get anywhere close to the ceremony, the speeches and the burial itself. There must have been tens of thousands trying to say their farewells to the great novelist. Mihail felt a little pride at being Russian. In what other nation would a man of words instil such affection in the common people?

But Mihail knew he did not need to push his way through the throng in order to mourn – that could be done anywhere. He turned round and headed back towards the centre of town. The crowds quickly thinned as he made his way up Nevsky Prospekt, finally slipping between the Winter Palace and the Admiralty to gaze out on the great white expanse of the frozen Neva. Across the ice the fortress could be clearly seen, the spire of the Peter and Paul Cathedral looming inside it. Somewhere in there, in a deep, dark cell, unlit by the winter sun, lurked his enemy. It was safe enough to leave him there for now, but soon Mihail would have to act.

He turned left and strolled along the quayside. He had been in Petersburg for less than a week, but he was beginning to gain some sense of familiarity with it. Tamara had told him much about the place, and every street he walked down, every river or canal he crossed, he had only to associate with the name that was already lodged in his mind. Soon he found himself on the edge of Senate Square, the place where his grandfather’s life had changed for ever – both his grandfathers’ lives.

He looked out across the ice again and tried to imagine the precise spot at which Aleksei had shot Iuda, and then cradled him, and then realized that he would not die but become undead. It was close to there too that he had been arrested, to be sent into exile in Siberia for thirty years. It had ruined Tamara’s life, but she had forgiven him for it. Mihail saw the man with better perspective – saw his flaws as well as his patriotism – and knew how both existed in Mihail himself, much as he might fight them. It was what he’d been telling Luka the previous day. They were both sons of Tamara and grandsons of Aleksei. Mihail was the lucky one; he was aware of it, but in the end Luka would not be able to elude his destiny.

Mihail looked at his injured hand. There was no need for a bandage any more and there was only a slight scar, which would heal. It still hurt when he flexed his fingers, but like the scar the pain would fade. He was luckier than Aleksei, who had lost two of his fingers when only a little older than Mihail, and then later the tip of a third. He turned inland and tramped across Senate Square. It had snowed recently and his were among the first footsteps to break through the glistering whiteness of what lay before him. Soon he was at the foot of the statue of Pyotr – the Bronze Horseman, as Pushkin had unintentionally named it.

‘Not going to the funeral?’

The question was posed in French. Mihail turned. An old man had emerged from the far side of the statue, where he had been hidden from view behind the Thunder Stone. The word ‘old’ was inadequate. Even ‘wizened’ did not quite do him justice. He was bent forward and moved his feet by only the smallest amount on each step, though he carried no stick. A thick, woolly ushanka was pulled down tight over his head, hiding whatever hair he might have had. He was clean-shaven but for a long moustache of purest white, scarcely paler than the wrinkled skin that sucked into his hollow cheeks. He was almost too old – like a younger man in stage make-up, though close up Mihail could see that his flesh was quite real. He was certainly eighty – possibly ninety.

‘It’s too busy,’ Mihail replied, sticking with French. Given the age of the man, he might have grown up at a time when that was the first language of the aristocracy. ‘Fyodor Mihailovich will be buried well enough without me.’ The old man gave a short laugh. ‘How about you?’ Mihail asked.

‘I’ve stood by enough graves in my time.’

‘A soldier?’

‘For a while.’

Mihail wasn’t in uniform, and didn’t feel the need to point out his own, so far insignificant military career. ‘Were you here?’ he asked instead, on a whim. ‘When it all happened?’

‘Here?’

‘14 December 1825.’

The man shook his head with a tight, rapid motion. ‘No, I was somewhere else. But I heard tell of it.’ Mihail wondered whether, even now, the old soldier was lying to hide his part in a rebellion against his tsar. ‘Three thousand men standing against Nikolai Pavlovich,’ the man continued. ‘But they didn’t have a chance. Nikolai was strong. Just like him, up there.’ He nodded towards the statue of Pyotr, mounted on horseback.

‘He was a great man,’ said Mihail, instantly regretting the platitude.

‘Funny way to pose him though – pretending he’s Saint George.’

Mihail turned. No one other than his mother had ever mentioned the similarity before. ‘How do you mean?’ he asked, happy to let the old man share his memories, and curious too.

‘Don’t you see it? Victorious; on horseback; with the vanquished serpent at his feet. Just like in all those icons. Of course, you see them more in Moscow than round here. And have you noticed how they always show the dragon’s tail just curling around the horse’s leg, as if he’s about to topple George from it, even as he raises Ascalon high in the air to deliver—’

Mihail’s heart pounded. ‘Ascalon?’ he interrupted.

‘Ascalon. Nobody remembers. It was George’s sword. Like Arthur’s Excalibur or Beowulf’s Hrunting. Though some say it was a lance, not a sword, but I don’t suppose that made too much difference to the dragon, eh?’ He emitted a wheezy laugh.

‘I suppose not,’ muttered Mihail, deep in thought. At last he had a meaning for the word, though it was hard to see how it was connected to Iuda or Zmyeevich. And yet it had come about from a discussion of the statue of Pyotr. It was too much for coincidence.

‘I can tell you’ve had enough of me,’ said the old man. Mihail tried to object, but the man raised his hand. ‘Anyway, I’m starting to feel the cold. It’s been pleasant talking to you.’

Mihail murmured a goodbye and watched as the old man hobbled across the square in the direction of Saint Isaac’s, his shadow a long black streak across the snow. Mihail watched him for a little while, then turned back to the statue, pondering what, if anything, he had discovered.

Luka looked at the note once again.

My dearest Luka,

Meet me at two o’clock on the corner of Nevsky and Kalashnikovsky Prospekts. It is urgent. Tell no one; your life may depend on it.

With my undying love,

Dusya

It was a quarter past now. It was a stupid place to meet, but Dusya had probably not considered the masses that would be attracted to the monastery by Dostoyevsky’s funeral. They were close here and the crowds were thick; still slowly trudging along Nevsky Prospekt. Luka tried to examine every face, in search of Dusya, but she was small and might easily get lost among the jostling bodies.

He had seen one face that he knew – the ugly, flat nose of Rysakov, or was it Glazov? One name was genuine, the other an alias, but Luka couldn’t remember which. They might both be fake, such was the need for security. They hadn’t spoken much recently; Rysakov had been given some covert assignment by the Executive Committee and secrecy was deemed essential; an honour for one so young, only nineteen. It wasn’t so surprising to see him there, hoping to pay homage to the great novelist. The revolutionary movement had always been in two minds about Dostoyevsky. Without question they saw him as a writer of genius, a man who understood the heart of the Russian people; and they knew of his younger days as a radical, of how he’d even stood in front of a firing squad for his beliefs, only to be reprieved and exiled to Siberia. But he’d become a reactionary, loving God and, worse, loving his tsar more than he did his fellow man. And he’d grown to hate revolutionaries.

Devils – that’s what he called them; made it the title of a novel. It was only a slight exaggeration. Luka had been there, at the Agricultural College in Moscow in 1869. He’d been a follower of Nyechayev, but only on the periphery. Their fellow student, Ivanov, had seen through Nyechayev sooner than anyone else and questioned his authority – and his honesty. Nyechayev and a few of his cronies – not Luka – had murdered him for it. Dostoyevsky had turned it into fiction, but all who read it knew the truth. But it was an exceptional case, not the general rule. Nyechayev was a charlatan – there were a few in the movement, but they were rare. The People’s Will was prepared to kill – but it would only be for the good of the people.

Even Dostoyevsky had come to see it, if the rumours were true. His next novel had been planned to follow on from The Brothers Karamazov, where the pious Alyosha would leave the monastery and himself become a revolutionary. But Fyodor Mihailovich would not have kept things simple. Who could say whether Alyosha’s new calling would be for good or ill? Only one man knew, and soon he would be in the embrace of Russia’s soil.

And then through the crowd Luka saw a head of blonde hair that he recognized. It was not Dusya’s glimmering flaxen, but a little darker. Beneath it was the unmistakable high forehead of Sofia Lvovna. She of all people was unlikely to come to an event such as this. Luka remembered the words of Dusya’s note. ‘Tell no one; your life may depend on it.’ By ‘no one’ she could only mean members of the Executive Committee. Luka wondered what he could have done to arouse their displeasure, but he could think of nothing. It must be a mistake.

He looked again and Sofia was at his side. She held something hard against his ribs. A gun? A knife? He couldn’t tell. He heard her voice in his ear.

‘Come with me, Luka Miroslavich. Don’t make a fuss.’

It was a straightforward enough request. Why shouldn’t he just go with her? They would talk. They’d sort things out. All of them were reasonable people. But he remembered what had happened to Ivanov. Things had got worse since then. Sofia was desperate – they all were. He could hear it in her voice. She was afraid, and that meant he should be afraid of her. She wasn’t here to talk; she was here to kill – unless he could prevent it. He shoved with both hands and she stepped back away from him. Soon the crowd had enveloped her like waves coming in from the sea. Luka turned down Kalashnikovsky Prospekt and started to walk briskly.

The crowds began to thin. A few figures milled around, looking for a better route to the monastery along a side street, but Luka stuck to the prospekt. He glanced over to the other side of the road and saw that a figure was shadowing him, and realized in the same instant that it was Zhelyabov. Luka quickened his pace, but Zhelyabov’s long strides easily kept him level.

Luka briefly turned his head to glimpse what was behind him, and saw three figures that he knew: Sofia and Rysakov, whom he had already seen, plus Mihail Fyodorovich Frolenko. None of them bothered to call out to him, or even to raise a hand in greeting. Conversation was not their intent.

Luka broke into a run. The road itself had become a trap, with the high walls of the Cattle Market meaning he could not turn off to the left. On the right Zhelyabov, now running too, prevented any escape and behind Luka knew that Sofia and the others would be keeping close. His only chance was to move forward. Ahead lay the river. With luck there would be people on it – walking as they did every winter when it was frozen. He was there moments later, but the river was quiet. Not empty, but with none of the swarming masses that there had been on Nevsky Prospekt. He should have stayed there, in the crowd – but even there a silent blade slipped between the ribs would have allowed the assailant to steal away unnoticed.

The bank down to the river was steep; it would take too long to negotiate. Instead Luka turned left, sticking to the wall of the Cattle Market. There was no real path here, just snow-covered, frozen mud. It made for slow progress, but it would have the same effect on the others. He risked turning to look, and saw that they were now some way behind, further hindered by having to move in single file. Luka could count only three of them, but didn’t waste time trying to spot a fourth. He pressed on, seeing that the end of the wall was in sight and knowing that there he would be able to turn back inland and perhaps make good his escape.

But then the path was blocked. It was Frolenko. He must have cut through the Cattle Market – closed and abandoned on a Sunday – and found some gateway out to the river. As Luka approached he could see the narrow gap in the wall. He slowed to walking pace and then finally stopped a few paces in front of Frolenko. They were of about the same stature. Luka might get past him, but in the time it took, the others would be upon him. He turned. They were close now; Zhelyabov in front, Sofia and Rysakov at the rear. Rysakov carried a revolver in his hand, but had not raised it.

Now it seemed there was no option but to talk, to try to clear up whatever confusion had led them to this moment. He opened his hands in a gesture of friendship and breathed in, preparing to say he knew not what. But he could see in none of their eyes the willingness to talk. He chose not to speak but to shout.

‘Help!’ he screamed. He had never produced such a sound before, but neither had he been so close to death. ‘Murder!’ There were still a few passers-by, walking or skating along the river, trying to get to the funeral by a back route. They were some distance away, but surely they’d hear him.

He felt Frolenko’s hand across his mouth and then the full weight of Zhelyabov’s shoulder hitting him in the chest, knocking him backwards into the Cattle Market. Frolenko landed underneath him and wriggled away as Zhelyabov moved forward, sitting on Luka’s chest and pinning his arms. Luka was winded but still managed to shout and scream, not knowing or caring what words came out of him, hoping only to attract some attention and the chance of salvation.

He felt a hand pressing against his mouth, trying to silence him – a small, dainty, female hand. He looked up into the eyes of Sofia, but saw only malevolence in them as she pushed down to stop his screaming. He tried to think of the kindness and simplicity in Dusya’s eyes, and prayed that he would live to see them again.

He bit hard and tasted blood. Sofia emitted a startled yelp and withdrew her hand. Luka began to scream again, louder even than before. He felt the back of Zhelyabov’s fist catch him heavily across the jaw. Now it hurt him to scream, but still it didn’t stop him. He kicked and thrashed, but he was no match for the huge frame that held him down. He heard Sofia speak.

‘Give it to me.’

He looked and saw Rysakov handing her something – the gun he had been carrying. She held it to the left-hand side of Luka’s head.

He heard the sound of the blast in his right ear and felt burning to the side of his face. In the other ear there was nothing – he could sense the absence of sound like a void. He noticed too that he had stopped screaming. He could feel his mouth and his throat, but had forgotten how to command them. He could now only see with one eye, though whether the other was filled with blood or whether he was blind, he could not tell.

He felt Zhelyabov relax his hold, and chose the moment to kick with all his strength. The big man fell sideways and Luka was on his feet. His head was exploding with pain and he could barely see. He ran forward, hoping it would take him back out on the river, where he might get help. The ground vanished and he was slipping down a slope, then he felt hard smooth ice beneath his fingertips. He crawled forward, but then hands grabbed him. He hoped for a moment that they might be friendly, but found himself being dragged brutally along.

Then the ice vanished and Luka sensed cold, flowing water close to his nose. A hand grabbed his hair and pushed his head downwards. His face became instantly numb as the river enveloped it. Cold tendrils of water infiltrated his nostrils and mouth. He pushed upwards and found himself for a moment above the surface and able to breathe. He heard Sofia’s voice whisper in his ear.

‘Thus perish all traitors.’

At last he rediscovered the ability to scream, but at the same moment the water took him again, absorbing the sound and snatching the air that created it. Luka lay still, his lungs empty, the hands on his back and head preventing any movement. He willed himself not to breathe, and managed it for a few seconds.

But then his body rebelled, his mouth opened and his lungs howled as the icy water hit them.