The People's Will

Chapter XXIV



KIBALCHICH WAS SMOKING a cigarette. It was forbidden anywhere near the tunnel, and therefore even in the living room – a rule that Kibalchich himself insisted upon, knowing full well how easy it could be to set off the nitroglycerin. In the shop itself it was allowed. Mihail had declined the offer to partake, but he enjoyed the smell of the fumes; it reminded him of his mother. There were two smells he associated with Tamara; one pleasant, the other foul. Both had the same cause.

The pleasant one was what he experienced now, the smoke in the air, whether it wafted from the tip or was expelled from Kibalchich’s mouth and nose. Mihail breathed it in deeply, enjoying the way it tugged at his throat and lungs, a pale echo of the sensation he remembered from the few occasions when he had taken in the smoke directly from a cigarette. It had never become a habit for him, in no small part because of that other smell: the smell of his mother when she was not smoking; the stale, dirty stink that clung to her clothes, her hair and even her body. When she lit a cigarette the scent of the fresher smoke managed to hide the underlying stench, but added to it as well. Mihail always knew that it was there. When Tamara coughed he knew that her lungs were as filthy as her clothes. When she coughed blood he understood that such stains could not be washed away.

That same stale stench clung to Kibalchich most of the time, but it was only noticeable when he and Mihail were close – when they were together in the tunnel. Up here it was masked by the aroma of cheese, but when a cigarette was lit, its smell obscured everything.

Kibalchich was on his second now. There’d been scarcely a pause between stubbing out the first and lighting a new one. Mihail noticed how his hand shook. He’d seen the same in his mother, but only until those first clouds of smoke hit her lungs.

‘Nervous?’ he asked.

‘Of course not!’ Kibalchich snapped.

‘You seem on edge.’ It was not just Kibalchich. Sofia and Bogdanovich were the same.

‘Excited.’ It sounded like bravado.

‘Anything come up at the meeting yesterday?’

Kibalchich looked at him suspiciously. ‘Why should it?’

He seemed terrified, but Mihail did not press it. ‘Was Dusya there?’ he asked.

‘She was. But don’t worry. She’s all right.’

Mihail looked at him, puzzled, wondering why she might not have been all right. They fell into silence for a while. Kibalchich continued to smoke, but seemed to become calmer.

‘You’re happy to be here tomorrow?’ he asked at length, holding a lungful of smoke and then expelling it through his nostrils.

‘One of us has to be,’ Mihail replied.

‘So why did Sofia choose you?’

Mihail could guess. He didn’t want to hurt Kibalchich’s feelings, but the reason was obvious. ‘You’re a man of thought, Nikolai, not of action. I’m a soldier, remember. I’ve done this sort of thing with enemy shells raining down above me. If you were here, you might suddenly see something – a rat nibbling at a bit of cheese – and you’d have an idea. You’d start wondering – I don’t know – whether rats could be trained to carry explosives, or whether cheese would be the best foodstuff for men travelling to the moon. And lo and behold, the tsar would have paraded past and you’d have missed your moment.’

‘Frolenko’s the one who’s actually on the switch,’ protested Kibalchich, but with little enthusiasm. He flicked his cigarette butt to the floor and stubbed it out with a twisting motion of his foot.

‘True. But you know what I mean.’

‘So when that rocket goes to the moon, it’ll be a man like you on board, and a man like me sitting and watching, hoping his calculations were correct.’

‘Getting distracted by rats eating cheese,’ Mihail added.

Kibalchich laughed. ‘And you get all the fame?’

‘You want the fame for this?’ Mihail nodded in the direction of the tunnel.

‘I don’t know what I want from this – but no, it’s not fame.’

‘I think you’re going to be disappointed,’ said Mihail, ‘whatever happens.’

They were interrupted by footsteps on the stairs and then the ringing of the bell as the opening door caught it. The scenario had been discussed and practised many times. Neither Mihail nor Kibalchich turned to see who had entered. They peered intently at the truckles of cheese on the shelves, occasionally taking a sniff. What else was there that customers in a cheese shop would do?

‘This one has a little more pepperiness to it, don’t you think, Nikolai?’ Mihail said.

Kibalchich nodded in agreement. Mihail desperately tried to avoid catching his eye, knowing that it risked sending them both into fits of laughter, despite his comrade’s nervousness. He ran his fingers across the rind of the sample in front of him and then sniffed them, rubbing them together to release more of the aroma. The silence was discomfiting, but neither of them could do anything about it. Perhaps this would be his opportunity to get away.

Bogdanovich emerged through the door from the storeroom, appearing smooth and unruffled. He was far better at this sort of thing than most of them, certainly better than Mihail or Kibalchich; that’s why he’d been chosen for the role of shopkeeper.

‘You two gentlemen still all right?’ he asked as he passed Mihail and Kibalchich, turning his head a little towards them.

‘Still trying to decide,’ said Kibalchich. ‘You have quite a choice.’

Bogdanovich carried on towards the newcomer, still out of Mihail’s line of sight.

‘And how can I help you, sir?’ he asked.

‘Are you Yevdokim Kobozev?’ said a gruff, familiar voice that Mihail could not quite place. He turned to take a glance. It was Mrovinskiy, the colonel through whom Mihail arranged his meetings with Konstantin, though today he was not wearing his uniform. He did not look in Mihail’s direction.

‘Indeed I am,’ replied Bogdanovich. ‘I take it that my reputation precedes me.’

‘I don’t think anyone would be proud of the reputation that put us on to you.’

Mihail and Kibalchich both turned to look. Bogdanovich had managed to maintain his calm exterior, but it seemed impossible that this did not mean the end for operations at the cheese shop.

‘From what I hear,’ Mrovinskiy continued, ‘anyone swallowing a mouthful of cheese from here is likely to spend the next few evenings in the latrine, crapping their guts out.’

For the smallest fraction of a second an expression of relief appeared on Bogdanovich’s face, followed immediately by one of professional indignation. His cheeks reddened. He spoke through gritted teeth.

‘I would ask you then, sir, to get out of my shop and take your custom elsewhere.’

‘I think not,’ replied Mrovinskiy. He presented Bogdanovich with his papers, explaining himself at the same time. ‘My name is Mrovinskiy – from the Department of Sanitary Engineering. I’m here to perform an inspection.’

He stepped back towards the door and opened it, signalling up to the street. Two men thudded heavily down the steps to join him. They moved quickly. Mrovinskiy thrust the door to the storeroom open and one of his men went through. Another went across and into the living room, emerging moments later with Anna Vasilyevna.

‘Who’s this?’ Mrovinskiy barked.

Bogdanovich didn’t waver in his performance. ‘This is my wife. We run the shop together.’

‘Anyone else?’ asked Mrovinskiy.

‘No, sir,’ said one of the men, with a little more of a clipped, military tone than might have been expected from a sanitation official.

‘Begin the inspection.’

The men started to search the shelves, removing truckles and looking behind them. One took a pencil and began to poke at the cheese with it to see if there was anything hidden within. To Mihail it seemed obvious that the quality of the shop’s hygiene was not the true goal of the search, but he had the advantage of knowing who Mrovinskiy was. On the other hand, given how much was already known about what the shop was being used for, it was hard to understand why such artifice was needed. Why else, though, would Mrovinskiy be there?

Having finished with the shop and the storeroom the inspectors moved on to the living quarters. Mihail glanced through and saw that all was in order. The usual planks were covering the entrance to the tunnel and a barrel had been pushed in front of them. On top of that was a cheese. Mihailov and Frolenko had been in there, but there was now no sign of them. They must have hidden in the tunnel. One of them would have the revolver clutched in his hand. If they were discovered he would shoot, first to kill whoever it was that had uncovered the tunnel and then at the parcel which still lay there, filled with nitroglycerin, destroying everyone in the place. If it came to it, Mihail would have to shout a warning, even though that in itself might be enough to trigger the suicidal act; best for now to remain silent. He wondered if any of his comrades had cyanide-filled nuts poised between their teeth, preparing to bite down if discovered.

‘Bit of a stink in here,’ observed Mrovinskiy. The stench from the broken sewer still lingered, even though Mihail and the others had grown used to it.

‘An inevitable consequence of the trade we ply,’ explained Bogdanovich, raising his hand to indicate the cheeses surrounding them. It seemed to satisfy Mrovinskiy, though a genuine health inspector might have shown far more interest in the precise nature of the odour.

One of the men lifted the large round cheese off the barrel and the other tipped it away from the wall behind. Mrovinskiy peered at the vertical slats of wood that were all that protected them from their undoing. Mihail saw Anna Vasilyevna glancing desperately towards Bogdanovich, but thankfully no one noticed. Bogdanovich himself remained perfectly calm.

‘What are these?’ Mrovinskiy asked.

‘It’s the damp,’ explained Bogdanovich. ‘That whole section of the wall is sodden. You’d be able to smell the mildew if it wasn’t for the cheese.’

Mihail looked back towards Mrovinskiy, who must have guessed the true reason for the planks but was evidently keen not to discover anything untoward. Again Mihail could only wonder why he had come at all. It was a game of bluff which one side was bound soon to lose.

Assistance came from an unexpected source. At that moment the cat leapt down from one of the shelves and began to rub herself against Mrovinskiy’s legs. He bent down and held his curled finger to her nose, allowing her to rub her whiskers against it. Mrovinskiy nodded at his subordinates to move the barrel back into place. Mihail felt the urge to laugh at the amateurishness of it, but he was relieved. Bombs did not need to be exploded; poison did not need to be swallowed. Mihail tried not to relax, or give any hint as to a change of his mood – any suggestion that the inspectors were getting colder or warmer. Mrovinskiy’s attention was still occupied by the cat. He reached under her belly to pick her up, but stopped when he felt the unusual bulges within.

‘She’s been careless with her affections,’ said Anna Vasilyevna lightly. ‘We don’t know who the father is.’

Mrovinskiy smiled and stroked the cat, who straightened her tail and curled her back in response. He stood upright and took a last brief glance around the room before returning to the shop. Mihail and Kibalchich had moved over to the main door now, eager not to appear interested in what was going on. Mrovinskiy’s eyes passed briefly across Mihail’s face, but he was as good an actor as Bogdanovich and showed no hint of recognition.

‘This all seems in order, Mr Kobozev,’ said Mrovinskiy. ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you. Obviously someone has made a malicious report. Your sanitation certificate will be in the post.’

He opened the door as if to leave and for the first time looked Mihail in the face.

‘After you,’ he said, indicating the exit with an open hand.

At last Mihail understood the single, simple reason for the entire charade: himself. He had been looking for an opportunity to get away from the others and now he was being presented with it.

‘Thank you,’ he said. He stepped through the door and trotted lightly up the steps to the street, looking back when he reached it. If Kibalchich left too then his freedom would mean nothing; he needed to be alone. Mrovinskiy seemed to have anticipated the problem, and was engaging Kibalchich in conversation. Mihail did not wait to hear more. He pressed on down the street, with no doubt as to where he was heading. Mrovinskiy’s involvement could mean only one thing: Mihail had been summoned.

‘Cain has been to see me.’

Mihail nodded. It came as little surprise. Iuda was Zmyeevich’s enemy, as was Aleksandr. At some point one of them would attempt to form an alliance. Mihail’s plans assumed it – relied upon it. The only new information was that Iuda had evidently recovered from his ordeal at Saint Isaac’s. But if Iuda’s visit was predictable, the tsar’s reaction to that visit was quite unknown. On it hinged everything.

‘You should have kept him here for me,’ said Mihail. ‘It would have been my pleasure to kill him for you.’

‘I would not have shared that pleasure.’ The tsar spoke with slow caution.

Mihail looked up. Aleksandr’s face was inscrutable. He turned towards his father, but his gaze was not met. Konstantin rubbed his forehead and hid his eyes.

‘Explain,’ said Mihail.

‘This is nothing personal,’ Aleksandr was at pains to point out, ‘but you must understand that our enemy – my family’s – Russia’s enemy – is Zmyeevich. When Cain acted for him, he too was our enemy. But now …’

‘What did Cain say?’

‘He said that you … that you had saved my son. Is that true?’

‘I’ve saved him from Zmyeevich’s power. I can’t save him from death.’

‘Why did you do that?’ asked Aleksandr.

‘For God’s sake, Sasha,’ Konstantin interrupted. ‘What kind of question is that? Why do you think he did it?’

‘Do you love your tsar that much, Mihail?’ asked Aleksandr. Mihail paused. It would be easy to say yes, but it would not be true. ‘I love my grandfather,’ he said instead. ‘It’s what he would have done – what he did.’

‘Aleksei loved his tsar.’

‘My grandfather was the same as me.’ Mihail did not know how he knew it, but he believed it. ‘If he loved Aleksandr Pavlovich it was as his friend, not as his tsar.’ The difference was that Mihail had no friends.

‘I hardly think it matters,’ said Konstantin. ‘It’s what Mihail has done that counts.’

Aleksandr nodded sombrely. ‘And what he can yet do.’ Konstantin looked away again.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Mihail.

Aleksandr’s answer was obvious enough – almost too obvious given the tone of what he had said. ‘I’m talking about the terrorists. When do they plan to attack?’

‘Tomorrow,’ said Mihail. ‘As you return from the Manège. They’ll explode the mine under Malaya Sadovaya Street as your coach travels along it.’

‘Tomorrow?’ said Konstantin. ‘1 March 1881. It will go down as a historic day for Russia.’

Aleksandr gave half a smile. ‘Yes. Yes indeed.’

‘Not if we can stop it,’ said Mihail.

‘Not that,’ said Konstantin. ‘Tell him, Sasha.’

The tsar took a deep breath. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘before I go to the Manège, I shall sign documents establishing the beginnings of a constitution – two assemblies with powers to make law; elected, after a fashion.’ Tears formed in his eyes as he spoke – he was proud of what he had planned. ‘Konstantin, Loris-Melikov and I have been working on it for months. It won’t quite be England, thank God, but it’s a step. That’s all one can do – make small steps. This is what Aleksandr Pavlovich would have done, if it hadn’t been for the war.’

Mihail tried to take it in. It seemed like very little, but in a sense it was revolutionary. Even when the serfs had been emancipated it had been done at His Majesty’s command. He was still the unfettered autocrat, enforcing his will upon the nation. This, by the sound of it, would be different. If what Aleksandr implied was true, then he would no longer be the sole source of authority in Russia. It was hard to believe. Perhaps Mihail should go and tell Sofia Lvovna and the others that their plans were no longer necessary, that they would get what they wanted without the need for bloodshed. It would be a slower transition than they desired, but a peaceful one. He tried to picture the joy on their faces as he explained it to them, but it was laughable to imagine that they would welcome the news. They no longer sought liberty; they were too far gone. For them the means had supplanted the ends and the tsar’s death had become an end in itself; the goal towards which they struggled and for which they would lay down their own lives and the lives of others. For them reform was as much to be feared as for the reactionaries in the tsar’s own circle. Neither would flourish if the people were appeased.

‘And if you die tomorrow?’ asked Mihail. ‘Will the tsarevich enact your plans?’

Konstantin emitted a short, sharp laugh which Mihail took as a ‘no’.

‘I shall not die tomorrow,’ said the tsar. ‘I shall change the route of the carriage, as I have done before. After the changing of the guard I’ll visit my cousin the Grand Duchess Yekaterina Mihailovna. I’ll be nowhere near their mine.’

‘Even so,’ said Mihail, ‘I plan to go back there, presuming Mrovinskiy hasn’t had everyone arrested.’

‘Why?’

‘Because of Cain.’

‘Ah. I think this is where we came in.’

‘Indeed.’

‘He told me of what you have already done for my family; of how much more you can do.’

Aleksandr turned away as he spoke, walking towards his desk. Mihail looked at his father, but still his gaze was not returned.

‘You said that before.’

‘He told me that you are now the focus of Zmyeevich’s attention, but that this is not a permanent state of affairs.’

‘It will protect your son – all your children – as long as they live.’

‘I have grandchildren. I have a grandson Nikolai. He will be tsar one day. He will need protecting from the curse on his family’s blood.’

‘I can’t help him,’ said Mihail. He doubted he would even if he were able.

‘Zmyeevich’s blood is still in you?’ Aleksandr still had his back to Mihail.

‘I believe so.’ Mihail had read Iuda’s notes, but he could only guess.

‘In that case you can help him a great deal.’

‘How?’

The tsar turned swiftly, raising his arm to shoulder level as he did so. Mihail found himself looking directly down the barrel of the tsar’s revolver and saw his knuckle tighten around the trigger.

Clearly Aleksandr understood everything. ‘You can die,’ he said simply.

It was almost midnight now, on the last day of February. Already the signs of winter were fading. The ice on the Neva was no longer a solid, flat, white sheet. Gaps had appeared in the middle where its waters flowed freely, eating away at the ice that lingered. There was still snow on the ground, but it was mostly old. During the days it melted a little and soon no more would fall to replace it. In just over a week it would be the vernal equinox, and after that there would be more day than night. It would happen throughout the northern hemisphere, but here in midsummer daylight would last for almost nineteen hours. For a voordalak Saint Petersburg was a winter retreat – nineteen hours of darkness were more than enough to hunt – but in summer it was too bright.

It was time to be leaving the city, but there was still one thing that remained for Iuda to do. It was no great matter, merely the salvation of the Romanov dynasty. Most of the work had already been done. All that was required was for Lukin to die. But on that issue time pressed. The time in which Zmyeevich’s blood would remain in his body was impossible to calculate. It was almost a certainty that it lingered now, but in a week, two weeks – who could tell?

And so Lukin had to be found. There was one obvious source of information; someone who had a greater interest even than Iuda in ensuring Lukin’s death. The information should have come by now. He’d been standing here on the Admiralty Quay gazing out over the river for half an hour and he felt uncomfortable. It was too close to where Zmyeevich had stayed – to where Zmyeevich knew him to have stayed. He’d chosen the spot at which he waited with escape in mind. The Admiralty was at his back, but ahead was the expanse of the river. The ice was still strong enough to take his weight in most parts, though even then it might be better to escape beneath the water – as he had done before.

But all that assumed that Zmyeevich came alone. What if Dmitry had returned to him? Between them the two might easily capture Iuda, and this time Zmyeevich was sure to make certain of his death. But it seemed improbable. Dmitry – fool though he was – was not fool enough to go back to Zmyeevich. If he did, it was unlikely he would ever have the strength to leave him again.

Along the quayside, at the corner of the Admiralty, a figure appeared. It was neither Zmyeevich nor Dmitry; that was clear enough. The man approached and soon Iuda could see it was who he had been expecting. Moments later they were side by side.

‘Colonel Mrovinskiy,’ said Iuda.

Mrovinskiy did not acknowledge the greeting.

‘You have the information I requested?’ Iuda continued.

‘I’ve consulted with His Majesty. I have what you want.’

‘Well?’

‘Lukin will be in the shop in Malaya Sadovaya Street tomorrow – or beneath it,’ Mrovinskiy said.

‘At what time?’

The colonel shrugged. ‘At whatever time he chooses to go there. His Majesty’s coach is scheduled to pass by between one and two.’

‘You’re certain of this?’

‘It comes direct from the tsar. What more do you want?’

‘Very well,’ said Iuda. ‘You can go now.’

As Iuda had intended, Mrovinskiy hovered uncomfortably. He didn’t want to seem to be obeying Iuda’s instruction, but neither did he have any reason to remain. He stood for a few seconds then clicked his heels and walked away. Iuda waited until he had disappeared, then began to move.

To have Lukin down there in the cellars would be ideal. It would be dark and safe for Iuda, and Lukin would have far greater concerns. What mattered most was that thanks to Dmitry’s excavations, Iuda had an alternative way in.

It was still hours until dawn, but Iuda had already eaten. He would go there and prepare himself, get some rest, but first there was one visit to be made. The journey took him away from his final destination on Nevsky Prospekt and to the south-east, into the huddled, small, cheap apartments that provided accommodation for the city’s burgeoning industrial workforce. As far as he could make out, half of them were occupied by revolutionaries, not just from the People’s Will but from a dozen other organizations with similar aims, whose hatred for the tsar was surpassed only by their hatred for one another.

The dvornik scarcely looked up as Iuda went by, despite the late hour. He climbed the steps quickly up to the third floor and then rapped softly on the door – just like Susanna used to knock on his bedroom door, so many years ago.

There was no response. He knocked louder, but still there was nothing. It was a pity, but it would make little difference to his plans. He took out a scrap of paper and wrote a short note which he slipped under the door. If it was read before tomorrow, all the better; if not, he could manage very well alone.

He made his way back across town, to the east. He felt wary of the direct route, along Nevsky Prospekt, past the Hôtel d’Europe where, if anywhere, Zmyeevich might be on the lookout for him. He could head south and come to Nevsky Prospekt from the other direction, but that would involve going through Aleksandrinsky Square with its unpleasant bright lights.

In the end he chose to take Surovskaya Lane, bringing him out on to Nevsky Prospekt close to the hotel. He walked in the opposite direction and soon the gap between the buildings appeared. He turned off into the little square that housed the blue and white stucco façade and dainty cupola of the Armenian Church of Saint Yekaterina. It was no coincidence that Iuda had chosen rooms in a hotel so close to this building, nor that the tunnel had been dug nearby; Dmitry had been careful in his choice of location. For anyone interested in the fate of Ascalon, this church was at the heart of the city.

Iuda had no key. It had been with his possessions in the cellar beneath Senate Square, and he’d had no chance to retrieve it as he fled – nor had he foreseen the need. It did not matter. He began to climb one of the great neoclassical columns of the portico, the third from the right, and was soon clawing his way over the triangular bas-relief on the pediment. Then he was up on to the tower that supported the diminutive dome. This was nothing to match the grandeur of Saint Isaac’s, but then Iuda had played no part in its design. That did not mean that the entire building had not been laid out with just as much guile and to a far more singular end than the Orthodox cathedral.

Iuda smashed one of the arched glass windows of the tower and slipped inside, remembering how years before he had done much the same to get into the Peter and Paul Cathedral, only a couple of versts away. On both occasions his business had concerned the death of a Romanov; then with Tsar Nikolai, to confirm it – now with Lukin, to ensure it.

The tower did not open on to the nave. Inside there was a false dome, suspended lower than the one outside. Iuda remembered the way down. A flight of steps led to a gallery at the western end of the building. From there it was easy to climb down into the nave. The decoration was sparse compared with an Orthodox church – certainly when set against Saint Isaac’s. Even so they’d still managed to find room for that ubiquitous image – George killing the dragon. Here it was a separate painting rather than being etched on to the fabric of the building itself, but the message was clear. It was a message repeated throughout the city – throughout Russia. Iuda headed towards the altar and then to a side chapel, where a door he knew well stood waiting. It too was locked, but that would not stop him for long. He took a step back and prised up the flagstone on which he had been standing. It was too heavy to be lifted by a single human, and why would they bother? It had lain there for over a century, or at least so they thought. In truth it had been disturbed just once, by Iuda, in 1872 when he had hidden two keys there.

He raised the stone to the vertical and then looked beneath. There they were, just as he had left them. He picked them up and dropped the slab back into place. The only risk now was if they had changed the lock, but the key turned smoothly and easily. Iuda locked the door behind him and descended. Beneath was a maze of corridors and passageways, but he knew the route. He found his way to a long, eastbound corridor, its entrance blocked by an iron gate, much like the one that opened on to the crypt beneath Saint George’s in Esher. This time he used the second key and though it fitted, it was harder to turn. No one had been this way for many years – he was probably the last. Finally the lock gave way and the grille swung open. Iuda went through, again locking it behind him. The tunnel stretched out ahead of him, under the buildings and under Sadovaya Street. He walked on until the way was blocked by stone and rubble. The roof had collapsed. It had not been like that when he was last here. It might have taken a man hours or even days to clear a path through, but for Iuda it was a matter of minutes. Soon there was enough of a gap for him to squeeze through and continue along the passageway. It ended with another gate.

Beyond that the two small cellars stood on either side, with similar gates standing open. The corridor continued a little further, ending in a wooden ladder which led up to the cheese shop above. There would be someone there even now, on guard, so he knew he must be quiet. The same key should fit this lock as the last one, and so it did, offering similar resistance but again yielding eventually. He had merely wanted to test it. For now there was no need to go any further.

He locked the gate again and crept a little way back up the corridor, behind the pile of rubble, settling down in the darkness to await Lukin’s arrival.