The People's Will

Chapter XV



IUDA WAS A cautious creature. He had been so as a man and had become more so as a voordalak. He expected problems. He did not always know where they would come from or what their nature would be, but he accepted that the world was unpredictable, and so he prepared. He hadn’t known specifically that someone would find his rooms at the hotel and steal the one blood sample that was most precious to him, but he had known that to have only one sample would be the error of a fool.

Had they been trying to hide the fact that they had taken Zmyeevich’s blood, he wondered. All those vials, emptied away. Was he supposed to think that Zmyeevich’s blood too was now mingling with sewer water and being flushed into the Neva? Where then was the empty bottle with Zmyeevich’s name on it? And the greater question remained: who had been in his rooms? The obvious culprits were either Dmitry or Zmyeevich, but the description that Sazanov had given matched neither. Moreover, whoever it was had arrived in daylight, but they could easily have recruited someone to do their work for them. Sazanov – desperate to redeem himself – had mentioned the letter of permission. That linked the whole thing back to Luka. Dmitry had known about him, and might have been able to get hold of the letter. The intruder had worn the uniform of a lieutenant. What about the fellow that Luka said had been sniffing around – Lukin? Sazanov’s description could match the man of that name that Iuda had seen in Geok Tepe. It seemed ever more likely that he was working for Dmitry.

It all made Iuda’s meeting more vital than ever. The message had been clear; the place, the time, who to ask for. The place was very familiar. Iuda had worked there himself in his early days at the Third Section, before he had moved to Moscow. The time was in a quarter of an hour; eight o’clock on the evening of Sunday 8 February. He left the Hôtel d’Europe for what he suspected would be the last time. All his remaining possessions there – what was left of the notebooks and the money, along with some of the clothes – were crated up ready for transportation to the luggage depot at the Nikolaievsky Vokzal. Where he would have them sent from there he did not yet know.

He walked along the slippery compacted snow of Nevsky Prospekt, heading south-east towards the Fontanka. The moon had not yet risen, but the city was strangely bright. On the main thoroughfares there had been gas lighting for several years, and some experiments with electrification, but the light they produced was weak – helpful to humans, but of little benefit to a vampire who could see clearly even with only the light of the stars to help him. This was different though; a bright, white light that almost mimicked that of the moon. As Iuda walked on, the source of it soon emerged from behind the Imperial Library.

It came from Aleksandrinsky Square. Tall lamp-posts stood there, topped with the sources of this strange, disconcerting light. In the square below, the people seemed comfortable in the glow. Iuda watched them as he walked. His attention as a scientist had always been focused on biology and sometimes, like today, he regretted that he was not au fait with the latest developments in the field of electricity, undoubtedly the power source for this strange radiance. He would find out about it. There was a chance it would prove helpful to him, or any vampire, providing a safe form of bright light for those occasions when it was needed, such as for use with a microscope.

But even as he walked by, separated from the square by the wide Nevsky Prospekt, he began to feel uneasy. His stomach knotted and from it spread a sense of nausea that permeated his body. His skin began to itch. He turned his face away from the light and pressed on towards his destination, but even that did not protect him. The glare of the light was reflected back at him undiminished from the snow all around. Worse than the physical discomfort he felt was the unaccountable fear that filled him, itself almost a sensation. It was the same fear that any vampire felt at the prospect of the rising sun and however much Iuda told himself that this was a manmade, artificial light that could do him no harm, still he felt gripped by the urge to run away from it.

He did not, but he walked more briskly than he might have done, and soon he was beyond the square, and the light – along with his unease – began to fade. He tried to push the incident from his mind; he would need his wits about him for what was to come. The prospekt took him across the Fontanka and then he turned north along the embankment. Soon he was outside number 16.

At the guard post he asked for Colonel Mrovinskiy. The man soon appeared and led him along a dark, brick corridor. Iuda tried to remember the layout of the building, but there had been much work done in the thirty years since he had last been here. They came to a door.

‘Through here,’ said the colonel, holding it open.

Iuda stepped inside. The room was comfortably furnished – at a guess, the office of a civil servant of relatively high rank. There was another door on the far side of the room and near it a chair, in which sat the man who had invited Iuda here. A vacant chair stood near to where Iuda had entered. The only thing unusual about the room was the cage of heavy iron bars that fenced off the section that Iuda was in; to the front, to the sides and above. The only access was by the door through which Iuda had just come, a door which now slammed shut behind him. He heard bolts sliding home.

He had become an exhibit in a zoo, caged and trapped in his portion of the room while others could enter and approach the bars to peer and poke at the strange exhibit, never daring to come too close lest he lash out at them. But the zoo’s only visitor – or was he the zoo keeper? – remained seated, gazing intently at Iuda.

‘You release me from one gaol just to lock me in another?’ Iuda asked.

‘You’re free to go whenever you like, Cain. These bars are simply for my protection. I’m sure you understand.’

‘Why the bolted door?’

‘You just have to knock – it will be opened. Now sit down. I’d offer you some refreshment, but I don’t think we can cater for your tastes.’

Iuda accepted the offer and sat on the chair. It was soft and upholstered with leather, just like the one on the other side of the room. They could be any two gentlemen engaged in a quiet evening’s conversation, but for the bars that separated them. It was a sensible precaution; Iuda had no plans to attack but only a fool would take the risk, and the tsar was no fool.

‘I hope you’re not simply going to make me the same offer that you made my uncle,’ said Aleksandr. ‘I’d give you the same answer.’

‘You do not desire to become immortal, then?’

‘I do not desire to become Zmyeevich’s pawn.’

It was an interesting answer. Immortality under his own terms might still be on the table.

‘I no longer represent Zmyeevich,’ explained Iuda.

It had been fifty-six years since Iuda could say he represented Zmyeevich, but before that they had been close – allies rather than master and servant, though Zmyeevich would not have admitted it. They certainly weren’t friends. By then Cain had abandoned the concept of friendship. But before that – back in 1812 when they’d conspired against Bonaparte – they’d worked hand in glove.

After the call had gone out across Wallachia, Cain had made his way with the other vampires, still posing as one of their number, through the mountains to the ancient, ruined castle. Cain never knew if Zmyeevich – Dracula as he had styled himself in his home country – recognized him for what he was. It was unlikely that he cared. He had a mission for Cain – beyond that of helping to rid Russia of the French invaders. Once in Russia, Cain was to go to the tsar, Aleksandr I, and make him a simple offer: immortality, under Dracula’s terms. It was a proposition no sane man would refuse. And yet when Cain had finally made the offer, that was precisely what Aleksandr had done.

And now Iuda faced this second Aleksandr. This new tsar did not resemble his uncle physically – not in his face at least, though they were both tall men. What they shared, Iuda suspected, was the same resolution. To a degree it was a sign of stupidity, but it had served the Romanovs well through the years and they saw no need for change; not this generation of them, at least.

‘If you no longer speak for Zmyeevich, what can you offer me?’ asked the tsar.

‘Freedom from his power.’

‘He has no power over me.’

‘He has the power to make you see – make you see what he sees, even if only in your dreams.’

Aleksandr looked uncomfortable, as if Iuda had read his mind.

‘My dreams can’t hurt me. Zmyeevich can make me do nothing that I do not wish.’

‘True,’ replied Iuda. ‘But what of the tsarevich?’

‘Aleksandr is my son. Zmyeevich will get no further with him.’

‘I was speaking of the former tsarevich; your elder son, Nikolai. Which of your sons, do you think, would have better led Russia? Which of the two would have better resisted Zmyeevich?’

Aleksandr leapt to his feet. ‘Nikolai would have had no truck with him!’

It was just the reaction Iuda had expected. Now he played his ace.

‘Which is why they killed him.’

‘What?’ Aleksandr could only force a whisper.

‘Zmyeevich – and his henchman. They made Nikolai the same offer you think I came here to make you. He refused. And so they killed him.’

‘My son’ – Aleksandr breathed between almost every word, desperate to remain calm, his face close to the bars – ‘died of tuberculosis of the spine. Why the Lord chose to take him early I have no idea, but I can tell you it was not the work of Zmyeevich.’

Iuda emitted a short, sarcastic laugh. ‘Believe what you like, Aleksandr Nikolayevich. Whatever the truth is, it is your son Aleksandr who will become tsar. That’s very much to Zmyeevich’s advantage. If the Lord chose to arrange things in such a way then we can only speculate as to whose side He is on.’

‘How,’ the tsar asked with deliberate precision, ‘is it to Zmyeevich’s advantage?’

‘You weren’t surprised that Nikolai would refuse Zmyeevich’s offer.’

‘Of course not.’

‘Because you raised him to be tsar. You raised him to be wise. You told him that Zmyeevich’s offer would come and you told him to reject it. But more than that, you raised him to be a man who would reject any such ignoble offer, regardless of your instructions.’

‘Exactly.’

‘And did you raise your second son in the same way?’

The tsar grew pale. He walked backwards and fell into his chair. ‘Sasha will make a fine tsar,’ he muttered unconvincingly.

‘I hope he shares your confidence, but he wasn’t raised to be tsar, was he? You poured all your attention on to Nikolai, and kept nothing in reserve. Aleksandr was thrust into the role, quite unprepared, at the age of just twenty.’

‘There’s been time since for him to learn.’

‘Zmyeevich had already made his offer.’

‘You’re lying.’ The tsar spoke wearily.

‘Tell me’ – Iuda was enjoying his opponent’s humiliation, though he knew he mustn’t overplay it – ‘when did your uncle, Aleksandr I, die?’

‘You know perfectly well: 19 November 1825.’

‘You don’t have to keep up the pretence. Your family may have fooled me then, but not for long. I don’t know what name he took, but I know for certain that Aleksandr was still alive when you ascended the throne. Now when did he die?’ For all his confidence, Iuda was genuinely curious. He had never discovered the full truth of Aleksandr and Lyosha’s trickery.

‘1864. 20 January.’ The tsar’s fingers massaged his brow.

‘And in scarcely a year your son Nikolai was dead. Zmyeevich may plan for the long term, but he acts quickly.’

‘You’re saying Sasha was privy to this?’

‘Not at all. He loved his brother – you know that better than I. Zmyeevich would play things subtly in making his offer.’

‘Why turn on my son? Why not deal with me?’

‘You’ve already answered that; because you’d refuse.’

‘So will my son.’ It sounded more a hope than an expectation.

‘I can ensure that the question need never be asked.’

Silence filled the room. The tsar remained in his chair, his eyes fixed on Iuda, considering all he had said. Iuda had spun a good story, but he was not certain of any of it. But it was what he himself would have done in Zmyeevich’s shoes, and that made it likely to be true. He’d long ago heard rumours of Aleksandr Aleksandrovich’s acquiescence and now Aleksandr Nikolayevich knew of it too.

‘What can you do?’ the tsar asked.

Iuda smiled. He scented victory. The Romanovs would pay well for their salvation. They would give Iuda the protection he needed. And Zmyeevich would know once and for all that he was bested.

‘You’re aware, I take it, that Zmyeevich can only exercise his sympathetic influence on the Romanov bloodline once in each generation?’

‘That’s what I’ve been assured. That is why Aleksandr Pavlovich’s feigned death trounced you so thoroughly. It kept his brother safe as tsar.’

Iuda did not relish being reminded of how he had been tricked, but he let it pass.

‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘That is why Zmyeevich must be careful. He could not attempt to influence each of your sons in turn until he found one who would comply. The first failure would be a failure for all. We can exploit that.’

‘I will not sacrifice one of my sons to save another.’ The tsar had cottoned on quickly.

‘To save your entire dynasty?’ Iuda asked.

Aleksandr shook his head.

Iuda had expected as much; he was prepared. ‘What, might I ask, is Your Majesty’s opinion on the sanctity of marriage?’

The tsar shuffled in his seat. His infidelities to his wife were well known.

‘Nature, I assure you,’ Iuda continued, ‘is quite indifferent to the institution.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning that what applies to your legitimate heir would equally apply to a bastard child. They all carry Romanov blood.’

‘I love all my children.’ Aleksandr thought a moment before adding, ‘And I have no bastards.’

Iuda laughed out loud. ‘Oh, come on! What about all those kiddies that have sprung from the Dolgorukova girl?’

For the first time in their conversation, the tsar lost control of himself. He stood and strode towards Iuda, but regained his composure before speaking. Iuda decided it would be better not to goad him too much.

‘Princess Yurievskaya, as she is now titled, and I were married last July,’ he explained. ‘In secret.’

‘I apologize; I hadn’t heard. I’ve been rather out of touch.’ Iuda was genuinely ignorant, though there was much more that he could have said, not least to comment on the indecent haste with which they had wed – Aleksandr’s first wife, Maria Aleksandrovna, had died only in June. He might also have mentioned that it was common knowledge that there were other children by other mistresses. He couldn’t legitimize them all.

But Iuda held his tongue. The suggestion that the tsar should sacrifice one of his own children was not Iuda’s main thrust. He had suggested it merely to guide Aleksandr to the correct conclusion, to make that conclusion more palatable by comparison. Now he made things explicit.

‘The child in question need only be of the same generation as Aleksandr Aleksandrovich,’ he explained. ‘They do not have to be siblings.’

The tsar fell silent, deep in contemplation. Iuda studied his face, imagining his thoughts as his mind wandered over each of his nephews and nieces, dismissing those he loved, dismissing all who had a title, and then considering those born out of wedlock – pondering those of whose existence Iuda was not even aware. For his part, Iuda had no specific individual in mind – any of them would do.

‘How distant can they be?’ he asked. ‘Pyotr must have descendants all over Russia by now.’

‘True, but there is the question of certainty. There have always been pretenders to the Romanov name – look at the False Dmitrys who plagued your predecessors in the Time of Troubles. If we attempt this on someone who does not, in truth, carry Pyotr’s blood then Zmyeevich will detect our ruse and will not fall for it a second time. The closer our subject is to you, the safer we shall be.’

Aleksandr lapsed into silence again. For over a minute there was no sound in the room. Then he looked up.

‘I shall consider what you have said. Come back to me, here, in two weeks’ time. I’ll let you know my decision.’

He turned and made for the door. Before leaving, he tugged on a bell pull. Then he was gone. A moment later Iuda heard the bolts being drawn on the door behind him. He smiled. He had achieved all he could hope for. Aleksandr would come round, he felt sure of it. Even so, a fortnight was a long time to wait. Given all that Iuda had heard about the activities of the People’s Will, His Majesty might be dead within days.

The cowering body was dragged before the committee. He still wore the hood that had been used in his abduction, tied at the neck so that he could not remove it and might fear strangulation, though there was no real danger of it. They’d stripped him to the waist so that the cold would weaken him too. And then they’d left him – for almost a day.

Now he would be ready to answer their questions.

‘What do we know of him?’ asked the chairman.

Sofia replied. ‘We’re reasonably certain that he is the same man as the sapper who worked on the undermining of Geok Tepe. He was born in Saratov and studied at the Imperial Technical School in Moscow. While in the army he is not known to have expressed strong political views in any direction. However, he did with apparent spontaneity assist Yevdokia Yegorovna with her cover story when she was transporting explosives from Rostov.’

As Sofia spoke the chairman noticed how she nervously rubbed the outside edge of one hand with the other. Beneath her fingers he could see the red scab of a crescent-shaped lesion: a bite mark – caused by a human rather than a voordalak. It was too deep a wound to have been inflicted by Zhelyabov as part of some sexual frolic, but the chairman could take a good guess as to the terrified individual whose teeth had inflicted the injury.

‘You think he was aware of what she was doing?’ he asked.

‘She’d been careless,’ interjected Kibalchich. ‘I’d have been able to spot what she was up to. I’m sure he would.’

Sofia continued. ‘We also suspect that he was the man that Rysakov and I witnessed accosting Konstantin Nikolayevich as he left the Marble Palace. He was arrested and taken to Fontanka 16, but released the following day. He then made contact with the traitor Luka Miroslavich.’

‘Let’s begin there then,’ said the chairman, nodding at Zhelyabov, who gave Lukin a hefty kick in the ribs. Lukin fell on his side.

‘Why did you visit Luka Miroslavich?’ demanded the chairman.

‘I’d heard his name.’

‘When?’ asked Sofia.

‘When I was a prisoner – at Fontanka 16. I overheard that Kletochnikov had been arrested, and then they mentioned Luka.’

‘So you knew he was a traitor?’

‘No. I thought they were going to arrest him too. I went to warn him.’

‘Why would you care what happened to him?’

Lukin didn’t answer. Zhelyabov kicked him again and he coughed, but then spoke. ‘I thought he’d be grateful; let me help him.’

‘Help him to do what? Betray our entire group?’

‘I didn’t know that!’ Lukin shouted through the bag. ‘I wanted to help you to … to change Russia.’

‘Change Russia how?’ asked Sofia.

Lukin’s mumble was inaudible. Zhelyabov kicked him again. ‘By any means necessary,’ he said.

‘So why had you already made contact with Dusya?’ asked the chairman. ‘You expect us to think that was a coincidence?’

‘There are no coincidences. I helped her because I had sympathy for her. I’d help anyone who was up against the Ohrana.’

‘Helped her because she’s a pretty girl, too, I expect,’ said Sofia.

Lukin seemed to shrug, though it was hard to tell without seeing his face. The chairman scowled at her; the comment was a distraction. ‘That doesn’t explain Luka,’ he said.

‘I tried to ingratiate myself with one revolutionary on the train to Moscow. In Petersburg I tried again with another. The two knew each other. Is that a coincidence?’

‘What do you think of the tsar?’ asked Sofia.

‘He’s a tyrant.’

‘What about his reforms?’

‘He enacted his will – that still makes him a tyrant.’

‘You’d prefer if there were still serfs?’ asked the chairman.

‘I’d prefer to be a slave of the people than the servant of a king.’

There was silence. It was a powerfully simple statement, though that didn’t mean it was spoken with any sincerity. The chairman glanced at Kibalchich, who took up the questioning.

‘You’re a sapper,’ he said.

Lukin nodded.

‘You understand explosives?’

Again a nod.

‘Why is nitroglycerin a better explosive than gunpowder?’

‘With nitroglycerin the ignition front travels faster than sound. It explodes. Gunpowder just burns.’

Kibalchich looked at the chairman and nodded, with a hint of excitement in his eye.

‘So what’s the problem with nitroglycerin?’ he continued.

‘It’s unstable. It’s as likely to blow you up as … as whatever you’re using it for.’

‘What’s the solution?’

‘Mix it with something; sawdust, clay. I’ve used ground-up seashells. Nobel uses kieselgur, which is much the same. They mine it in Simbirsk.’

Again Kibalchich seemed satisfied, but he had more questions.

‘How much did you use at Geok Tepe?’

‘Just over 2,000 kilograms; that’s around 5,000 pounds.’

‘Let’s move on to tunnelling. At what separation should you place your props?’

Lukin laughed. ‘That depends on a dozen factors. The width and height of the shaft; the nature of the earth.’

‘And what’s the earth like in Geok Tepe?’

‘Sand, sandstone.’

‘And here in Petersburg?’

Lukin laughed again. ‘In a word – mud.’

‘That’s hardly specific.’

‘Enough!’ The chairman’s interruption cut through the room. ‘I’m confident the lieutenant knows his job. The question is where his loyalties lie.’

‘How can we know?’ asked Sofia. ‘It’s not worth the risk. If we take him in we’ll all be arrested within days.’

‘So what?’ asked Kibalchich. ‘If we kill him we’ll all be arrested in weeks anyway. This organization is on the brink of collapse. The question is what we do in that time.’

‘What can we do?’

‘If we can get that tunnel completed, the tsar could be dead before the month is out. I think this man could get it done.’

‘He’s army,’ said Zhelyabov. ‘He should be with the Fighting Services Section, not with us. He’ll be more use after the tsar is dead, when we need to take control.’

‘We’re too short of people to worry about that,’ pressed Kibalchich. ‘Since they got Goldenberg to talk the arrests haven’t stopped. There’s more of us in the Peter and Paul than out.’

‘It’s still a question of trust,’ said Sofia.

‘It’s a question of whether he’ll do it,’ said Bogdanovich, speaking for the first time. It was a good point.

‘So let’s ask him,’ said the chairman, bored with the prevarication.

‘Wait,’ said Sofia. ‘I want to see his face when he speaks.’

The chairman considered. It would not only allow Lukin to be seen, but to see. Did it matter? Did it really matter whether he lived or died? Did it matter if the tunnel was ever completed? None of it was relevant.

‘Very well then,’ he said. ‘Take off the hood.’

He leaned forward so that his face was just inches from Lukin’s. Lukin knelt, his hands tied behind his back. Zhelyabov held him by the shoulders as Sofia began to loosen the cord around his neck. Moments later, Lukin’s face was revealed. He blinked, becoming used to the lamp-lit room after a day in darkness. He turned his head, exercising his stiff neck. As his eyes adjusted he began to take in his surroundings. He glanced from face to face, trying to link individuals to voices, until his gaze settled on the one that was directly in front of him. His eyes met the chairman’s and he blinked again. His face showed surprise.

Surprise and, just as the chairman had expected, recognition.