The People's Will

Chapter XVI



IT WAS DARK and cold and damp and mihail’s head throbbed. But he was alive. Twenty-four hours before, that had not seemed like a probable outcome. Better than that, he had now been accepted – albeit tentatively – into the People’s Will. And he had discovered something that he had never expected: the identity of the chairman of their Executive Committee.

It was Dmitry.

Conversely, Dmitry had recognized him, but that – so Mihail hoped – mattered little. To Dmitry he was simply Lieutenant Lukin, the man who had so ably assisted his cause at Geok Tepe. There was no reason why Dmitry should have discovered his true identity. On the other hand, to Mihail Dmitry was in fact Colonel Otrepyev of the Ohrana, but clearly Dmitry did not fear being denounced. Why should any of them believe him? And why should Dmitry really care? Mihail doubted whether the assassination of the tsar was his primary concern.

The important thing was that for Mihail the trail was hot again.

He sat up and put his hand to his head. They had knocked him out a second time and he’d found himself here in the street. The last he had heard they were going to discuss him, but evidently the decision had now been made; otherwise he’d be dead.

Dmitry’s had not been the only face he recognized. There was the man who had greeted him at Luka’s flat, with the pince-nez and the battered top hat, and also the big man who had been keeping an eye on Dusya on the train. And then there had been the woman with the large forehead who had been watching Konstantin’s coach, who today had a strange semicircular wound to the side of her hand. How many more of the souls that Mihail had walked past on the city’s streets might also be connected with the People’s Will? Aleksandr should be afraid.

Mihail looked around and tried to work out where they had dumped him. It was a quiet back street; it could be almost anywhere in Petersburg. He pulled himself to his feet, his head still throbbing, and began to walk. The road sloped a little and he chose the downhill path; the key to navigating this city was to find a river or a canal. It wouldn’t be long before he came to one.

His senses gradually returned to him as he walked, and it was only a few minutes before he realized that he wasn’t alone. Someone was shadowing him, travelling on the other side of the street, always hanging a little way behind. He thought about breaking into a run, or doubling back around a block of buildings, but none of it appealed to him. If he was being tracked by an ohranik, then what did he care? If they arrested him he could simply appeal to his father for help. If he was being followed by the People’s Will, they would still learn nothing. And why should they bother? They’d only just let him go.

He continued along the road and then turned left, where the way sloped more steeply. Soon he hit a river that he could only guess was the Fontanka. He was south of it, so he followed its curve round to the right. Eventually he found himself on familiar territory, and headed north towards his hotel. Still his pursuer shadowed him and still he didn’t care. By now he felt confident as to who the diminutive figure was.

In twenty minutes he was back at the door of his hotel, but he didn’t go in. Instead he turned and marched swiftly towards where the tail stood watching him. He covered the distance between them in seconds, but there was no attempt to evade him. When he was close, he saw what he had suspected. It was Dusya. He hadn’t heard her voice during his interrogation, but when the hood had been removed he’d caught a glimpse of her, at the back of the room, her lips pressed tightly together and her eyebrows pinched.

‘Why don’t you come in?’ he asked.

She lowered her hood so that he could see her face more clearly, but shook her head.

‘So you’re just going to stand out here all night?’

‘I just wanted to see you safely home,’ she said.

‘They’re dangerous stairs. I might still not make it.’

She smiled. ‘I’d better make sure then.’

They walked back across the street side by side and went in. Mihail spoke briefly to the porter to ask him to send up some refreshments, then he and Dusya went up to his room. It was not the kind of establishment that asked questions concerning its residents’ guests. It would have been a quite different matter at the Hôtel d’Europe. Mihail still had the key to one of their rooms. Would Dusya be impressed by such splendour, he wondered.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said as soon as they were alone.

‘I’m not,’ he replied. This was no time to drop his guard. He was still being interrogated, simply in a more charming manner.

‘What do you mean?’ Dusya was removing her coat. She was an attractive girl, but tonight she looked something special. It took Mihail a moment to realize; she was wearing make-up. He’d never seen that before. It fitted his concept of why she was here.

‘Your freedom, your lives depend on you making sure that you can trust the people you work alongside. And if I join you, then my life depends on it too. So it’s nice to know just how seriously you take security.’ He too began to take off his overcoat. ‘That sort of peace of mind is worth a few bruises.’ He winced as he spoke, perhaps a little theatrically, but it hardly mattered.

‘Is it very bad?’

‘Nothing broken – I don’t think.’

She stood and went over to the washstand. ‘Take off your shirt,’ she instructed, dipping a flannel into the cold water.

He sat on the bed and complied.

‘And I’m sorry about last night – about tricking you,’ she said.

‘It was the smart thing to do. You couldn’t just invite me over for a chat; it would have given me time to work out my story.’ He glanced up at her and smiled. ‘If I’d needed to.’

‘I didn’t have to … you know. They told me it would distract you.’

‘It worked,’ he said with a laugh which he cut short, genuinely in pain.

She drew her breath over her teeth. ‘Those don’t look too pleasant.’

He turned and tried to see, lifting his arm. He could feel each point at which Zhelyabov had kicked him, more to his back than his side. He stretched to see further.

‘I wouldn’t if I were you,’ she said, then began to dab at him with the flannel. He relaxed and let her get on with it. The cold water stung at first, but then began to ease the pain.

The People’s Will had been right to grab him and take him by surprise for just the reason he had said. But then they’d made the mistake of leaving him alone for twenty-four hours. The idea, he presumed, was to make him sweat, and he’d done that for the first two or three, until he’d realized just where he was and why he was there. Then he’d had plenty of time to think – to do exactly what he’d said and get his story straight. He guessed they were unsure of him, seeing him as a possible ally. He worked out what they might know of him. What he had said to Dusya; what he had said to Luka. If Luka had revealed all then Mihail was doomed, but he’d not had long between speaking to Mihail and his death – and it seemed more likely that he would have reported to Iuda rather than to the others. Mihail’s only fear was if they had any inkling as to what had happened within Fontanka 16. Konstantin had told him of one spy they had just uncovered there; there could be others, but Mihail’s continued survival indicated not.

‘So is it true what you said?’ she asked. ‘About why you spoke to me, and then Luka?’

‘You’re asking me if I just lied to the Executive Committee?’

‘No, but … I thought there might have been another reason.’

She was more likely to mean in regard to herself than Luka. ‘I was brought up to be a gentleman. You were a lady in distress.’

She went back to the bowl and rinsed the cloth. Mihail could see his blood mixing with the water. He thought about the bathroom in the Hôtel d’Europe, and the blood he had washed away. In his trunk was Zmyeevich’s blood, and more besides. Much as he wished she’d go, so that he could examine it, he sensed she was here to do more than wash his wounds.

‘So what happened to Luka?’ he asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I read about it, Dusya. I’m not stupid. I can guess who did it.’

‘He was a traitor. He paid the usual price.’ She began tending to his wounds again.

‘I got the impression that the two of you were close.’

‘At times we were. But we don’t hold to the view that a man and a woman should be exclusively faithful to one another.’

‘We?’ asked Mihail. ‘So Luka agreed with the idea?’

‘He did, but I meant “we” in a broader sense; our movement. Marriage is a vehicle for the state to control us, just like poverty. Sex belongs to us, the people, the same as the land does.’

She turned as she spoke, placing her hand on Mihail’s and squeezing it. There was passion in her eyes, but he suspected it was not the personal attraction of one human being for another. Her fervour was for the idea; to her he was not a man but an audience.

‘I’d have thought any affection would be a distraction from the ultimate goal,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t it be better to postpone it till afterwards?’ It was a question he had asked himself often, though the goal he was speaking of was quite different from hers. His conclusion was that it did no harm, as long as it became no more than a distraction.

‘That could be a long time to wait.’

‘Not from what I heard today. It sounds like the end is very close.’ Again, he hoped that it applied to his own quest.

‘I’m not supposed to talk to you about that,’ she said.

‘Ah! And what are you supposed to talk to me about?’

She grinned. ‘All done,’ she said, returning to rinse the cloth once again. ‘I hear you studied in Moscow.’

‘That’s right.’ So this was what they were meant to discuss.

‘We have a lot of supporters at the Imperial Technical School.’

‘I know.’

‘And yet you weren’t one of them?’

There was a knock. Mihail raised a finger to his lips and then put his shirt back on. He went over to the door and opened it a crack. It was only a boy with the food he had ordered. He took the tray and handed back a few kopeks. He put the tray on the table and poured two glasses of the red wine, then grabbed a piece of bread and began to gnaw on it. It had been over a day since he had eaten.

‘Do have some,’ he said after a minute or so, through a mouthful of cheese.

‘I’ll let you have what you want first,’ she said. She sipped at her wine.

In the end, Mihail ate everything, leaving only an apple for Dusya out of politeness, though he would still have liked to devour it. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. She ate it at his insistence, but he guessed that she too was being polite.

‘You were telling me about Moscow,’ she said.

‘Don’t think I was,’ he replied, ‘but I can if you want.’

‘So why didn’t you get involved at the institute? From what we hear, you kept your head down.’

‘I mistrust youth,’ he said.

‘What?’ she laughed.

‘Even in myself.’ He leaned forward, speaking intensely. He was being honest, even though his purpose was to deceive. ‘Think about it. At the institute half of them, maybe more, claimed to oppose the tsar. Not openly – that was the fun of it. It makes them important – makes it clear to everyone that they care about something; really care. And that makes them popular. Then others see it work and copy; not just the action, the belief. But there comes a point where it’s obvious that it’s just a fashion and so there’s others – the richer ones generally – who have to react against it and say how much they love their tsar. But how many really keep their beliefs, on either side, as they grow older? They’ll pay lip service to them, to prove they’re not hypocrites, but in the end they just get on with their lives as best they can and hope the Ohrana don’t have their names on file.’

‘But that’s not you.’

‘No, but I thought it might be. How was I to know? I remember thinking to myself, if I still believe this at twenty-five, then I’ll know it’s right.’

‘And now you’re twenty-five?’

‘No, I’m twenty-three, but I bumped into a pretty girl on the train and I realized it might be my only opportunity to get involved.’

She smiled, averting her eyes. ‘And you think that I’m one of those who’ll grow up and forget it all?’

‘How old are you?’

‘I’m twenty-six.’

‘Well if I’m old enough, then you are.’ He noticed a twinkle in her eye and realized the other meaning of what he’d said. ‘You’re old enough to let the man you loved die,’ he added.

She leaned forward. ‘Does that bother you so?’

Mihail tried to hide his reaction. It was so preposterous a thing to say, and yet she believed it so sincerely – more than that, she expected him, and presumably the rest of the world, to see it in the same way. They called themselves the People’s Will, but they had no understanding of the people, no comprehension that such clinical decisions as to what was best meant nothing when stood up against the sense in men’s hearts of what was right. Though who was he to judge? He had no idea – nor very much interest – as to what lay in the hearts of ordinary men, but he felt pretty sure it wasn’t what Dusya stood for.

And yet for Mihail specifically, she was right. It didn’t bother him that Luka, his half-brother, was dead any more than it bothered her that Luka, her lover, was dead. Mihail had a singular destiny to fulfil and so did Dusya – and the rest could go hang. They were made for each other. He felt a sudden attraction to her. It was mostly physical, but also the realization that they were kindred spirits. That was probably a rarer thing for him to find than for her.

‘If it did, do you think I’d be here?’ he asked.

She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips. He pulled away and put his hand to the back of his head, which was still bruised.

‘I know what happens next,’ he said. ‘I don’t want another bang on the head.’

She giggled and leaned towards him once more. ‘Not this time.’ She kissed him again.

‘You don’t have to, you know, just because they’ve told you to.’ She looked at him intently. ‘Just because they told me to doesn’t mean I don’t want to.’

Mihail gazed back. Where would be the harm? It would make her – and therefore her comrades – more trusting of him. It wouldn’t hinder his search for Iuda in any way. And she was attractive and willing and … here; and it had been a long time. But however pleasant it might be, it riled him that this opportunity to exercise his passions came at the behest of the Executive Committee of the People’s Will. Christ, they’d probably even taken a vote on it!

A chuckle escaped him.

‘What?’ she asked.

‘They told you to say that too, didn’t they?’

The slap to his face was well deserved, but it didn’t make what he’d said untrue. Now she was on her feet and putting her overcoat back on.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘Don’t be,’ she replied. ‘You were right.’

‘Does that make a difference?’

She looked at him, puzzled, giving him one last chance.

‘Please don’t go,’ he said. It was only when the prospect of her departure had become a reality that he realized how much he wanted her, and feared that he had pushed her too far.

She considered, then took off her coat again. It was inevitable now. Mihail lay back on the bed, feeling content, but detached from his normal life – from his quest. She sat beside him, with her back to him. He ran his finger down her spine through the cloth of her blouse, enjoying the fact that she allowed him to more than the sensation itself. It was better that he had pushed her – better that they knew where they stood, each aware of the other’s insincerity. She reached to the table beside them and extinguished the lamp, leaving them in darkness.

‘Don’t stop,’ he heard her say.

He reached out again and this time only her bare skin stood between his fingertips and the ridges and valleys of her vertebrae. She turned and he managed to remain in contact with her, so that now he could feel the smooth flesh of her belly. Her lips pressed against his, and he silently thanked the Executive Committee for their efforts.

When Mihail awoke he was alone. He tried to think what had roused him, then he heard the sound again – a knocking at the door. It was only the maid, bringing hot water. Mihail washed and dressed. Looking in the mirror as he shaved, he noticed how broadly he was smiling, as memories of his night with Dusya played through his mind. He glanced over at the rumpled bedding. It was no surprise that she had gone – to have stayed might have suggested a depth to their relationship. She knew where her loyalties lay, but even so Mihail wondered whether he might in future gain some slight advantage if she had to make a choice between him and her beliefs. She pretended to be stalwart, but she was still human. As was Mihail. He knew that he too must take care that affection for her did not cause his determination to waver. But already he felt the urge to be with her again, if only to test that determination.

But that was for later. What was he to do next? He felt both energized and helpless. Now that he knew of Dmitry’s connection with the People’s Will, he felt sure he was a step closer to Iuda, but he knew also that there was little he could do but wait. He had, it seemed, been accepted into the organization. If he started investigating they would become suspicious – take him for an ohranik. But they would come for him. They needed him. He would uncover what he needed to know, but at their pace, not his.

Besides, he had another line of enquiry – perhaps a better one, but one that he had not had a moment to examine.

He went over to his trunk and opened it. He found the knapsack where he’d left it, underneath his clothes. He looked inside. The blood sample was still there, undamaged; Zmyeevich’s blood. He knew full well the power that it gave him. He could simply open the curtains and throw it out into the sunlight and Zmyeevich, wherever he might be in the world, would experience the most unimaginable pain. But the moment would be short-lived. There were better uses to which he could put his treasure. He grabbed the shirt he had been wearing the previous night. It was in a sorry state anyway. He ripped off a sleeve and used it to wrap the vial safely, then pushed it back among the clothes in the trunk.

Then he moved on to the papers he had taken. Iuda’s journals were written in English, as he had expected. The other documents were in a variety of languages, French and Russian mostly, but some English and even a few in what looked like Italian, which Mihail had never studied. He began to skim through the folder marked ‘Petersburg’, but did not learn much. Most of the Russian material related simply to Iuda’s rooms at the Hôtel d’Europe, some of which was new to Mihail – such as the fact that Iuda had first settled there on 6 December 1876 – but was of little value.

He was interrupted by a knock on the door. It was the maid again, this time offering him a note.

Dear Mihail Konstantinovich,

There is a basement shop on the east side of Malaya Sadovaya Street which sells a fine selection of cheeses from around the world. Please meet me there at 10 o’clock this morning.

Yours,

Yevdokia Yegorovna Nikonova

Mihail looked at his watch. It was after nine. For a moment he hesitated. The last time he had been lured away by Dusya it had ended in a great deal of discomfort for him. He believed he had been accepted into the People’s Will, but could he ever be sure? If they were to discern one tiny extra fact about him, it could change their entire attitude; and they would not hesitate to deal with him as brutally as they had Luka. What if he had talked in his sleep? But if he didn’t go, they would come and find him anyway, and worse, he might forfeit the opportunity to gain the knowledge he craved.

He packed the papers away and set off. The direct route was to head towards the Admiralty and then turn down Nevsky Prospekt. This would take Mihail past the Hôtel d’Europe. He wondered for a moment whether it might be tempting fate to go so close to where he presumed Iuda still resided, but he dismissed his fears. It was a sunny winter’s day. Iuda would be sleeping. Even if not, he wouldn’t dare even peek out of the window, and anyway those windows looked out of the back of the hotel, not the front; a voordalak would seldom ask for a room with a view. The thought of his pilfering of Iuda’s hotel rooms brought to mind the fact that he too could easily become victim of a similar manoeuvre. Dusya knew where he was staying, and therefore undoubtedly Dmitry did too, as chairman of the committee. There was no reason for him to search Mihail’s rooms, but if he did he would be overjoyed at what he found. Mihail would have to find himself a new den – for those stolen possessions, if not for himself. Another room in another cheap hotel would suffice. He had Iuda’s money to pay for it, and he could always sell that final sapphire. It occurred to him that it might already be too late – that Dusya’s letter had drawn him away from his rooms with the express intent of allowing them to be searched. There was no time to go back, but Mihail cursed his stupidity.

There was a little snow in the air as he pressed on down the street. He buried his hands in his pockets to keep them warm, wishing he had worn his uniform, but knowing that civilian clothes would be more appropriate for the day ahead. He passed the corner of Mihailovskaya Street and the hotel without incident and carried on past the frontage of shops and bars and the gateways that led to courtyards within the blocks of buildings. A break appeared in the façade, allowing access to a little blue and white church, set back from the street, behind the buildings. Mihail quickly realized what it was: the Armenian Church. His mother had often said that it was a place he should visit if he ever went to Petersburg, but as in everything to do with her there was a sadness to the truth behind it. She had always promised to take her other children there – Mihail’s half-brothers and sister – but it had never happened. Only Luka had survived into adulthood, and now he was gone too. Had he ever fulfilled his mother’s wish, Mihail wondered. He made a vow to himself that he would one day go in there and look around – but not today.

He pressed on across Sadovaya Street and finally turned into Malaya Sadovaya. It stood right opposite Aleksandrinsky Square and beside it the library where Mihail had been studying just two days before. The ‘Malaya’ of its name evidently referred to its length rather than its width. It spanned only one block, between Nevsky Prospekt and Italyanskaya Street, but for that short length was broad enough for perhaps six carriages to run side by side, without even taking to the pavements. About a third of the way along, Mihail saw it.

Склад Русских Сыров – Е. Кобозева

Russian Cheese Store – Y. Kobozev

The sign was at the level of his knees. Beneath it a set of stone steps with an iron railing led down to the basement shop. Barred, arched windows peeped just over the level of the pavement. As he descended Mihail noticed in one of them an unlit votive candle in front of a small icon depicting Saint George. He smiled; another connection to Zmyeevich – another coincidence.

He went inside.

He was immediately assailed by the aroma of cheese. Looking around, it was easy to see that the source of the smell was everywhere. Behind the counter stood a young woman, about the same age as Dusya and just as attractive. She gave Mihail a furtive glance, though he did not recognize her face. Over by the shelves stood a more familiar figure – Mihail had noticed him during the brief period he’d had to take in the members of the Executive Committee. He was explaining the merits of a particular cheese to another man who was a stranger to Mihail – presumably a customer. Soon the shopkeeper had cut a piece and had taken it over to the counter for his assistant to wrap and charge for.

‘Good morning, sir,’ he then said to Mihail. ‘And what might I interest you in?’ There was not a flicker of recognition in his eyes.

‘As it happens, I was looking for something French,’ replied Mihail. On his journey there he had not considered the possibility of putting on a show like this; his knowledge of the subject would rapidly dry up.

‘Soft or hard, sir? Or perhaps blue?’

Mihail rubbed his chin and narrowed his eyes to gaze at the range of cheeses in front of him, without the slightest idea what country they might hail from. With relief he heard the door close behind him and footsteps ascending, but he was wise enough not to turn and check they were alone. The shopkeeper, however, had a clear view.

‘You don’t know much about cheese, do you?’ he said.

Mihail grinned. ‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Neither do I, really. They call me Yevdokim Yermolayevich Kobozev – at least they do when I’m in here. Truth be told, it’s Bogdanovich. This is my “wife”, Anna Vasilyevna.’ He indicated the woman. She nodded at Mihail. He conceded a smile, noting that this revolutionary shared a name and patronymic with his father’s mistress. Whatever the other inequalities, names were common property to rich and poor in Russia. She turned and went to the window, lighting the candle in front of the icon with a match.

‘If it’s lit, the place is clear,’ explained Bogdanovich. ‘If not, just walk on by. The chairman’s idea.’

‘You certainly take security seriously,’ said Mihail.

‘That’s nothing.’ He glanced at Mihail’s cheek. Mihail could feel that there was a bruise forming there. ‘Did we do that?’ Bogdanovich asked, with a hint of concern.

‘Afraid so.’

‘Sorry. It must hurt. You should slap a bit of Brie on it.’

‘Does that help?’

Bogdanovich laughed. ‘God knows. It’s the sort of stuff I tell customers; seems to keep them happy. We’d be ruined if an ohranik came in who was a real expert.’

He led Mihail to a door at the back of the shop and opened it, but didn’t go inside. ‘That’s just a storeroom,’ he explained. ‘Some of the barrels really contain cheese, but we also keep the earth in here until we can shift it somewhere else. Through here is where the real action happens.’

They went across the shop to another door, which this time they went through. The room was smaller than the shop itself, and furnished with a table and a few chairs. On the table a ledger lay, with similar books on the shelves behind. Next to it stood a samovar and a parcel wrapped in newspaper. On one of the chairs a cat lay curled in sleep. On their arrival it looked up and then leapt on to the table, sniffing at the parcel. Bogdanovich shooed it away. The high windows did not let in much light, but afforded glimpses of feet passing on the pavement above. Beneath was the only unusual feature of the place: a gaping hole in the wall, two-thirds of Mihail’s height, leading out in the direction of the street. Mihail considered making a joke about them having trouble with mice, but guessed they’d have heard it from every newcomer who came down here.

Bogdanovich leaned forward and called softly, his hands cupped around his mouth. ‘Nikolai!’

The next instant the head and shoulders of a man popped out of the tunnel and into the room. The face was familiar, not least from the pince-nez perched on its nose. Mihail had seen it at Luka’s flat and again at his interrogation. The man didn’t bother to emerge fully, but held his hand outstretched from where he was. Mihail took it.

‘I’m Kibalchich,’ he said. ‘Nikolai Ivanovich.’ Mihail recognized his voice as that of the man who had asked the technical questions. ‘I’m very much hoping you’re going to be able to help us with a few problems.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

‘Come on in,’ said Kibalchich, before disappearing again.

Mihail bent forward and followed. The tunnel was surprisingly well lit. A string of electric light bulbs – of the Edison or Swan type – trailed along its low ceiling, fastened to the regular wooden struts, giving enough light to see to the end where Kibalchich was crouched, not very far away. The whole place stank. In the shop Mihail had put it down to the cheese, but here it was stronger, and fouler.

‘Very impressive,’ he said.

‘The lighting?’ replied Kibalchich, with a hint of pride in his voice.

Mihail nodded.

‘A little bit of showing off, I’m afraid. We don’t use them most of the time; the batteries wouldn’t last. Generally it’s just oil lamps.’

‘I’m surprised you’ve room for any batteries at all,’ said Mihail.

‘Ah! That’s what you’re supposed to think.’

Kibalchich reached out in front of him and for the first time Mihail noticed that the floor at that point was not mud, but a sheet of wood. Kibalchich levered it up to reveal a narrow vertical shaft. It was not a rough structure like the one they were in, but lined with brick.

‘We thought it was a well at first,’ explained Kibalchich, ‘but it turns out there was someone here before us.’

He sat with his legs dangling in the hole and then pushed himself forward. Now he stood in it with the floor at the height of his chest and began to descend more slowly. Evidently there was a ladder beneath him. Mihail gave him a few seconds to get to the bottom and then followed.

The passageway below was far more spacious than that above and far better built, reminding him of the change at Geok Tepe from roughly hewn tunnels to the stonework of the corridors that led to Iuda’s prison cell. Here the floor was paved with flagstones and the walls were of brick, curving to an arched roof that supported the weight of the earth above. The ladder and the shaft upwards were at the end of the corridor. Kibalchich was already making his way in the opposite direction, which Mihail judged went out under the street, but at an angle.

The path ended with three archways, one at the end of the corridor and one to either side. In each hung a rusty iron gate, but only the one on the end was closed. Beyond it there was no further light. Mihail could just make out a pile of collapsed stonework, but nothing more.

‘That one’s locked,’ said Kibalchich. ‘We could get through, but what would be the point? We’re not here for archaeology.’

He went through the doorway on the right. It led to a small cellar, constructed in the same style as the corridor outside and full of clutter. A figure whom Mihail could recognize even from behind was unpacking one of the crates.

‘He’s here,’ said Kibalchich.

Dusya turned and smiled at him. He reciprocated. There was nothing in her face to indicate what had happened between them the previous night. ‘You got my invitation then?’ she said. The hint of something in her voice could have been genuine or purely his imagination.

‘This is where we keep the majority of the batteries,’ Kibalchich explained, casting a hand across the room. ‘Most are like this one’ – he indicated a Leclanché cell on the workbench – ‘but we have lead-acid accumulators too. I’ll show you what we’ve got and then we’ll go back up and look at the tunnel.’

‘Security first,’ said Dusya, her coldness contrasting with Kibalchich’s enthusiasm. Mihail looked at her plaintively. She gave him the slightest shake of her head and pressed a finger briefly to her lips, so that only Mihail would see. Her need for reticence was not clear; perhaps she was in truth far more diffident about her liaisons than she’d made out. But that was not important. The simple act of secrecy itself was enough to make Mihail feel close to her.

‘Of course,’ said Kibalchich. ‘First a quick observation test. In the living room up there, what was on the table?’

‘Ledger. Samovar. Parcel.’ Mihail reeled off the items quickly. ‘And a cat,’ he added after a brief pause.

Kibalchich smirked. ‘Very good. And most of those items are just what they seem. The parcel, however, contains nitroglycerin – without any stabilizer. Just inside the entrance of the tunnel there’s a revolver.’

‘A dangerous combination,’ Mihail observed.

‘But a necessary one,’ Kibalchich countered. ‘If there’s a raid at least they won’t take us alive – and we’ll take a few of them with us.’

‘Who makes the call?’ Mihail asked.

‘Whoever’s nearest.’ Kibalchich saw the expression on Mihail’s face. ‘Terrible waste, I know.’ He picked up a saucer and offered it to Mihail. In it sat half a dozen hazelnuts, still in their shells. ‘Care for one?’ he asked.

‘No thanks.’

‘Good answer.’

He put down the saucer and picked up a single nut, turning it around in his fingers until he had it in the orientation he wanted. He pointed to it. ‘See there – that little blemish?’

‘Just about.’

‘That’s where we drilled it. Then we scrape out the kernel, fill up the shell and seal the hole with a bit of clay. Ingenious, eh?’

‘Fill it with what?’ asked Mihail, bewildered.

‘Prussic acid,’ Kibalchich happily explained. ‘Cyanide.’

‘And why do you do that?’ Mihail asked, though he could hazard a guess.

‘Again, it’s if we’re caught. It’s not something you’ll need every day, but there are times – you know – if you’re carrying a gun, or a bomb. Just keep one of these under your tongue or in your cheek and when they arrest you all you have to do is bite on it. It’s better than being tortured and hanged.’

‘Be quick about it though,’ interjected Dusya. ‘They know about them. They’ll try to stop you.’

Mihail shot her a look of distaste that he hoped she could tell was in jest.

‘We wouldn’t want you to suffer,’ she said, hiding a smirk.

‘Take one,’ said Kibalchich.

Mihail complied, slipping the nut into his pocket.

‘I’d say take two but it would be … superfluous. Though some of us like to have one under the tongue when we’re digging the tunnel. If there’s a cave-in and you’re buried it’ll be – well – quicker.’

‘You think of everything,’ said Mihail.

‘You haven’t heard the half of it,’ replied Dusya.

Both men looked at her, puzzled, before Kibalchich’s face revealed an understanding of what she meant.

‘Oh yes. One last thing,’ he explained. ‘We’ll need an obituary. Yours, I mean.’

‘What?’

‘We have our own newspaper – underground, of course. And if one of the heroes of the revolution dies we like to print something of the life that has led to such an act of noble sacrifice. But by then, of course, it’s too late. We don’t need anything now, but have a think.’

Mihail smiled ruefully. They really had thought of everything. Kibalchich was momentarily thoughtful, but quickly returned to his more familiar enthusiasm, which seemed almost as if projected to hide his fear.

‘But that’s enough of that,’ he said. ‘Let me show you our problem.’

Back in the corridor, he gestured towards the other cellar. ‘That’s just used for storage,’ he said, then led Mihail back along the corridor and up the ladder to the tunnel. The stench was stronger again, and Mihail recognized it as sewage rather than cheese. They walked along it a little way. It was low and tight, and neither of them was able to stand upright. Mihail was reminded of Dmitry, stooped in the tunnels beneath Geok Tepe.

‘Not much room down here,’ he said. ‘That chap who interrogated me – what’s his name? – I bet he’s not too comfy down here.’

‘Chairman Shklovskiy, you mean?’

Mihail nodded, pleased to have discovered Dmitry’s alias so easily.

‘He doesn’t come down here much,’ Kibalchich continued. ‘Not since we uncovered those cellars. But you’re right – it’s a bit cramped for him.’

It wasn’t long before the tunnel came to an end. Mihail recalled the width of the road above. As far as he could reckon they’d barely got beyond the pavement. From the mud wall ahead of them a curved wooden surface protruded. In the centre of it was an ugly mound of dirty rags, mixed with some sort of glue. The smell was strongest here, and a little dark fluid still dripped from the bottom of the rags.

‘A sewer?’ Mihail asked.

Kibalchich nodded. ‘Pickaxe went right through it.’

‘What’s the plan?’

‘We can’t go around. If we go over we’ll be up in the street. So we have to go under.’

‘Tricky,’ said Mihail.

‘Why?’ Dusya had come up behind them.

‘Because we’ll have to dig away the earth supporting the sewer,’ explained Mihail. ‘It might snap.’

‘That’s what we’re worried about,’ agreed Kibalchich. ‘Do you think it can be done?’

‘Why don’t you just use one of the cellars down there?’

‘Too deep. We’d have to dig up and that’s harder than digging across, especially since that brickwork might be structural to the street. And at that angle it would be difficult to judge when the carriage went over.’

‘Carriage?’

‘You don’t need to know,’ said Dusya, sternly. ‘It’s this tunnel we want you to fix. Can you do it?’

Mihail shrugged. ‘Get me a pencil and paper. I’ll work it out.’

They headed back to the shop. Kibalchich fetched some paper from a drawer and Mihail began his calculations.

‘How far does it need to go?’ he asked.

‘Twenty feet should get us to the middle of the street.’

‘And that’s where the carriage will be?’ Mihail asked, following on from what Kibalchich had said earlier.

‘That’s no business of yours.’ It was Bogdanovich who spoke, echoing Dusya’s words. ‘Not yet at least.’

Mihail returned to his work. The question had not needed answering. He’d been here before, or somewhere very like it. This was on a smaller scale, but the basic plan both here and in Geok Tepe was the same. First you dig a tunnel, then you lay your dynamite, then you blow it up. There the intent had been to bring down a city wall. It didn’t take a genius to guess what the plan was here.