The People's Will

Chapter XXV



Sunday 1 March 1881

ALEKSANDR DID NOT fire his pistol. He had, he explained, merely been demonstrating what a different man in the same circumstances might have done. It was a display of magnanimity.

Mihail wasn’t so sure. Konstantin had backed his brother up, but that was to be expected. Mihail trusted neither of them. Aleksandr had explained what Iuda had told him, how killing Mihail might save the whole Romanov dynasty, by making him Zmyeevich’s one and only Romanov offspring. He’d said that Iuda had wanted to do the killing himself. But then he had lowered the gun and laughed – said he would never allow such a fate to befall even a bastard Romanov. But when Mihail announced that he needed to confront Iuda and asked Aleksandr to help lure him down into the cellars beneath Malaya Sadovaya Street, His Majesty had agreed with little hesitation. He evidently thought that such a confrontation would be decisive, but was it Mihail or Iuda whose prospects he favoured?

It didn’t matter. Whether Aleksandr thought that he was luring Mihail or luring Iuda, it would still end up the same, with the two of them down there alone. Nobody would guess just how well prepared Mihail was. The one disappointment was Konstantin. Mihail had hoped his father would love him more than that. But did even Konstantin truly know what was in his brother’s mind?

Mihail spent the night in his hotel. He didn’t sleep much – he was too busy thinking, planning, preparing. Dusya slept soundly beside him. He hadn’t been expecting her – they’d not spoken the previous day and since his sudden departure from the shop he had not seen her or any member of the People’s Will – but she had crept into his bed some time after midnight. She had been more passionate than usual, thrilled, he guessed, at the prospect of the day to come. He could feel no such excitement – not at the death of the tsar nor even with regard to his own plans – but he forced himself to emulate her feelings. Now was not the time to stumble in his pretence of support for her cause. Neither of them had bothered to light the lamp, or even to speak to any greater degree than a few whispered entreaties.

At some time in the small hours he must have fallen asleep and when he awoke he was alone. He’d suspected that her reason for being there was to ensure his safe arrival at the cheese shop, but apparently not. It made his life easier; there were several items he needed to take with him that it would be better she did not see.

The trunk that had arrived from Saratov a few weeks before contained much that might be of use, but he chose carefully. He could only take what would fit into his knapsack and even then he had to worry that he might be searched. They would be suspicious of him after yesterday’s inspection and his departure. But what would they make of what they found in there? There was nothing that could be of much danger to them – the crossbow, perhaps, but if he was planning to start shooting, why not carry a gun?

He stepped out into the street. It was cold and gloomy. Clouds hung low in the sky. The piles of shovelled snow had a sheen where their surface had melted and refrozen. Underfoot the compressed flakes were slippery, but Mihail’s shoes had studded soles which found a good grip. It would be the same for everyone in the city, excepting a few foreigners who didn’t understand the Russian weather. Those who knew the cold knew how to adapt to it.

He arrived at the cheese shop just before noon. In the window the icon of Saint George still stood and the candle was alight. All was safe. Today Mihail would not quite be Saint George – he had no plans to deal with Zmyeevich – but he did intend to kill a monster. He descended the steps and went inside. The decision had been made that the shop would remain open even as they waited for Aleksandr to pass by. Anything else would have aroused suspicion. Anna Vasilyevna was inside, a smouldering cigarette clasped between her fingers. The smile which she set to welcome a customer soon fell as she saw who it was. Without greeting him she went and knocked on the door to the living room. Moments later the face of Sofia Lvovna, with its large, unmistakable forehead, appeared.

‘What the hell were you playing at?’ she asked.

‘What do you mean?’ Mihail understood her perfectly, but it would be better to feign a degree of ignorance.

‘You were meant to stay here.’

‘What was I supposed to do? I was just a customer. If I’d not left he’d have been suspicious.’

‘And why should a health inspector care?’ she asked.

‘Oh, come on! You really think he was from the Department of Sanitary Engineering?’

She paused, her lips pressed tight together. ‘Probably not,’ she conceded.

Mihail stepped into the living quarters. Bogdanovich was pacing nervously; Kibalchich and Frolenko stood still. Kibalchich looked like he needed to smoke, but was succeeding in obeying his own rules. The entrance to the tunnel was in plain view. ‘What happened after I’d gone?’ Mihail asked.

‘He chatted a bit more,’ explained Bogdanovich, ‘mostly about the cat. Then they just left. We’d passed the inspection.’

‘But Mihail’s right,’ growled Sofia. ‘It stinks to high heaven.’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Bogdanovich. ‘If they know what’s going on, why leave us be?’

‘So that we’ll incriminate ourselves a little further?’ suggested Sofia. ‘So that they can humiliate us in our failure?’

Mihail shrugged. ‘Maybe so, but I’m prepared to gamble a little humiliation, even for the tiniest chance of success.’

‘Hear! Hear!’ said Bogdanovich quietly.

‘Possibly,’ said Sofia. ‘Anyway, it’s too late now. We’re heading off. Anna will close up at the last minute. You make sure everything’s ready for Frolenko.’

‘Where are you going?’

Her nostrils pinched. The stress of command was clearly affecting her, but she managed to remain calm. ‘Someone’s got to keep an eye on which route he takes.’

With that she and Bogdanovich left, leaving Mihail, Frolenko and Kibalchich alone. Mihail crouched down to peer into the tunnel. The switch and its trailing wires sat there just where he had left them.

‘You came back,’ said Kibalchich.

It was an odd thing to say, but Mihail took it in his stride. ‘Of course.’

‘Let’s get ready then.’

Frolenko clambered up on to the table. His eyes were just level with the street as he peeped through the window.

‘Won’t it be suspicious if they spot you?’ Mihail asked.

‘Maybe, but how else am I going to see the coach? Anyway, I’ll keep down until I hear it coming.’

Mihail nodded. He bent forward and picked up the switch and its wires from the tunnel mouth, then handed it to Frolenko.

‘You know what to do?’ asked Kibalchich.

‘I’ve practised a dozen times.’ He held the little wooden box in his hand, then pressed the small lever on the side to horizontal. His lips silently counted to four, then he released it, allowing it to spring back to the vertical. Mihail and Kibalchich both glared at him. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I know it’s not connected.’

Kibalchich took out a small length of wire and touched its ends against the switch’s terminals to short out any charge that remained from Frolenko’s action. Then he connected the second long wire to the spare terminal.

‘It is now,’ he said grimly.

‘One final check?’ suggested Mihail.

‘I’ll do it,’ replied Kibalchich.

He crawled out along the tunnel, out under the street, and soon returned. ‘All OK there,’ he said.

‘Good,’ said Mihail.

‘What are my chances?’ asked Frolenko.

‘We’ve shored up the area around the explosives to force the blast upwards,’ explained Kibalchich, ‘so you won’t get anything back through the tunnel. The bigger problem will be through the window, so I suggest you duck. I can’t make any promises though.’

‘I wouldn’t hold you to them if you did.’

‘That’s about it, then,’ said Mihail.

Kibalchich and Frolenko embraced, then Mihail and Kibalchich went through to the shop. Anna Vasilyevna was waiting, ready to close up. Hugged to her chest she held the pregnant cat.

‘She can’t stay here,’ Anna explained. ‘Even if she survives the blast, no one’s coming back to feed her.’ She opened the door and gently placed the cat about halfway up the steps, giving it a brief shoo to get rid of it. Then she closed the door. ‘All ready?’ she asked.

Mihail nodded. He and Kibalchich in turn kissed Anna on the cheek, then faced each other. Kibalchich offered his hand and smiled. ‘I wouldn’t bet on us seeing one another again – but I hope we do. Good luck in … in whatever you need luck with.’

Mihail grasped his hand. ‘You too,’ he said.

Kibalchich climbed the steps up to the street and was gone. Anna followed him. At the top of the stairs the cat waited, peering down. Anna bent over and picked up a pebble from the ground, then hurled it at the cat. The creature squealed and ran. Anna turned back to Mihail, a look of irritation on her face.

‘It’s for her own good,’ she said. ‘It’s just a shame she can’t understand that.’

Mihail smiled and Anna made her way slowly up to the street, but he doubted if she could read his mind. It seemed to him that what she had said would have made a fitting motto for the People’s Will. ‘She’ was Russia.

He went back to the living room. Frolenko was sitting quietly in a corner.

‘How long have we got?’ he asked.

‘An hour or two,’ replied Mihail. ‘I’m going to make a few last checks.’

He crawled into the tunnel. It took him only moments to untwist the connection between two essential wires. Aleksandr might have been planning to change his route, but there was no point in taking risks. Afterwards it would be easy to reconnect them, and no one would be any the wiser.

Then he descended the ladder, down into the old cellars that Dmitry had been so keen to uncover, and began his own personal preparations.

Iuda awoke. He knew in an instant that it was a little after midday. Somewhere above him, through layers of mud and brick, the sun was high in the sky – or at least as high as it ever got in Petersburg at this time of year. From beyond the locked gate he could hear sounds – male voices – from the shop above. One was probably Lukin, but Iuda had only ever heard him speak a few words and didn’t know the voice well. Soon they fell silent. After a little while someone descended the stepladder. There were vague sounds, but Iuda did not need to know the details of what was going on.

It was still early. It could be Lukin out there, but it could be someone else. All he knew was that Lukin would be there by one o’clock. Even then he would wait. When everything was ready, he would be summoned.

The weather was an advantage. Zmyeevich could survive a bright sunny day; certainly here in the north, though he might not risk it closer to the equator. Even so, direct sunlight weakened him – pained him. Today it was cloudy, and though the filtered sunlight – which would be more than sufficient to obliterate a normal vampire – made him weary, he could easily tolerate it. Today would be a historic day for Russia, and he wanted to be there to witness it.

Dmitry was no longer his ally, but his mind was still a presence in Zmyeevich’s, and would be whenever they were geographically close. At the moment Dmitry was moving away, if slowly. Zmyeevich could hear what Dmitry heard: waves lapping against wood; the straining of ropes and canvas; the creaking of masts and yardarms. All that Dmitry knew was known to Zmyeevich.

He knew therefore that the People’s Will had chosen today to assassinate their tsar – he knew how, where and when they planned to do it. Zmyeevich would be there, or close by at least. The tsarevich, Aleksandr Aleksandrovich, was lost to him, but perhaps there was still some slight chance with the tsar himself, Aleksandr Nikolayevich – a deathbed conversion, as it were.

Zmyeevich also knew of Dmitry’s conversation with Iuda, and their talk of Ascalon. There was little news in it. They had already discovered that Ascalon was no longer buried beneath the Armenian Church – that was the whole reason for Dmitry’s directing the digging there. Cain claimed to have taken it to England, which had equal probabilities of being the truth or a deception, but at least it was a start. Perhaps there would even be the opportunity to reclaim the ring that Iuda had stolen from him as they fought, but it was as nothing compared with Ascalon. But all of that was for the future. Today was about Russia.

He set out around noon – challenging the sun to do its worst – and mingled with the crowds on Nevsky Prospekt. The best place to be, he reasoned, was outside the Imperial Library. There the royal entourage would turn off the prospekt and on to Malaya Sadovaya, if that was the chosen route. Otherwise it would continue and take the next turning towards the Manège. He knew from Dmitry that there was no certainty to Aleksandr’s route, and that there were plans for all eventualities.

A little before one, a great cheer arose from the people – those same people whose will was about to be enacted – as the coach and its retinue came into view. Six mounted Cossacks came first, one of them shouting to clear the few pedestrians who had not moved out of the street. After them came the coach itself. Another Cossack sat on the perch, to the left of the driver. As the cavalcade continued past, Zmyeevich got a glimpse inside. Aleksandr was alone. He looked sullen and thoughtful, barely bothering to raise his hand in acknowledgement of the ovation of his people.

Then his eyes lit upon Zmyeevich and his face fell in horrified recognition. He and Zmyeevich had never met face to face, but the tsar would have heard descriptions. Moreover, the tsar could sometimes see through Zmyeevich’s eyes – though how would that help him? Zmyeevich could not look upon his own face in a mirror. But at this moment Aleksandr could see himself riding past, as seen through Zmyeevich’s eyes. Was it that which told him the old man watching must be his nemesis? And what further horror would he feel to discover that Zmyeevich could walk in daylight?

The moment had passed. Aleksandr’s coach had continued down the street. More importantly, it had not turned into Malaya Sadovaya. The tsar would live, if only for another hour. Behind the coach came two sleighs, packed with soldiers and gendarmes. His Majesty was protected from the front and the rear. It was a pity no one had considered how to defend him against an attack from beneath.

Once all had passed, Zmyeevich crossed the road and began to make his way to the Manège. The ceremony would not take long and then Aleksandr would be on his way again, travelling along those dangerous roads. Zmyeevich’s route took him along Malaya Sadovaya. He did not know precisely where the shop was, but it was obvious once he saw it. Even through the low windows the racks of cheese inside were easy to see. He imagined what lay beneath his feet – and what had once been there. Then it had been Ascalon, before Iuda had carried it away. Now it was an enormous bomb. When it was detonated it would cause the cobbled street to erupt into the air, taking the tsar and coach and guards and their horses with it and then hurling them to the ground.

It would be quite a spectacle.

Mihail looked up from his work. He heard the sound of feet on the ladder and then on the stone floor. Thankfully, all was prepared. He stepped out of the cellar and into the corridor to find Frolenko nervously glancing around.

‘There you are.’

‘What’s happened?’ asked Mihail.

‘Nothing,’ said Frolenko petulantly. ‘Aleksandr’s gone past. He didn’t come down the street. He must be at the Manège by now.’

‘Damn,’ said Mihail. He doubted he was at all convincing.

‘There’s still another chance,’ said Frolenko, ‘on his return.’

Mihail nodded sombrely. ‘And if not?’ he asked.

Frolenko shrugged. ‘You sure you’ll be safe down here? When it goes up?’

‘I helped design the tunnel and the bomb. The blast will go upwards. I’m as safe as you are.’ It would have been true anyway – the additional fact that the switch was no longer connected to the detonators did not need mentioning.

‘I guess you know what you’re doing. I best get back up.’

‘How long do you think now?’

‘Half an hour,’ said Frolenko, ‘maybe a little more.’ He looked around as if seeking a reason to remain with Mihail, but he could find none. He gave a brief smile and then climbed up to the shop to continue his vigil.

Mihail went back along the corridor, all the way to the rusty locked gate. He looked out into the dark tunnel beyond, but saw only the rubble that had always been there. Perhaps it had been moved a little – that was no surprise. He returned to the ancient cellar where he had been working and sat down. It was clearer in here now that he had rigged some electric lights – nothing much, just the dim, incandescent bulbs that Kibalchich had so proudly shown him when he first came here. They didn’t use too many cells and he’d stacked the remaining jars of lead plates dipped in acid against the wall. The ones that really mattered were in the other room. He stared up at the strange writing above the alcove, clearer in the electric light, and tried to make sense of it. He made no progress, but it passed the time. For Mihail as for Frolenko, all that remained to do was wait – though what it was that the two men were waiting for was quite, quite different.

Zmyeevich stood at the corner of the square outside the Mihailovskiy Manège. It had been over half an hour since the tsar’s cortège had driven in. He had watched as other carriages with other dignitaries arrived: the tsarevich; two of the tsar’s brothers – Konstantin and Mihail. They arrived separately and would leave separately, all too aware of the dangers they faced from their own people, and wise enough to understand that their dynasty could survive the death of one, but not of all. After that, it had gone quiet, but for the distant sound of orders barked from within, carried by the wind.

Then suddenly there was movement. The gates at the side of the building opened and the six Cossacks rode out, followed by the tsar’s carriage and the police sleds. But they did not turn down Malaya Sadovaya. Instead they sped off along Italyanskaya Street. It could only be that they planned to go to the Mihailovskiy Palace. It meant that the tsar would not be riding over the mine that had been so carefully prepared for him that day, but it did not matter. Zmyeevich knew that the People’s Will had another card up its sleeve.

‘Still here?’

Mihail looked up. It was not the voice he had been expecting. Dusya stood in the doorway to the cellar, her hand resting on the iron gate.

‘Where else would I be?’ he asked, standing and walking over to her. He put his arm around her waist and bent forward to kiss her. She did not resist, but neither did she respond. All the passion of the previous night, and of every night they had been together before that, was gone. He stepped away from her.

‘It’s all over,’ she explained.

‘Over?’ Mihail did his best to feign surprise. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Aleksandr changed his route. He’s gone to the Mihailovskiy Palace to visit his cousin. He’ll be leaving there soon for the Winter Palace, but he won’t come this way.’

‘You saw?’

She nodded. ‘I told Frolenko to go. He said you were still down here.’

‘I’d better make the bomb safe,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘So that we can try again next Sunday, or the Sunday after. We only need to get lucky once.’

‘There won’t be any need,’ she said with a smile. She was acting strangely. She seemed smug, almost victorious, though Mihail could see no reason for it.

‘We’re not giving up?’ All he could do was stick to his role.

‘Not at all. There’s no need because the tsar will be dead within a few minutes.’

‘What?’ Mihail felt cold. ‘But you just said – he went a different way.’

‘You don’t really think this was the only plan, do you?’

‘There’s another tunnel?’

‘Nothing so sophisticated,’ she replied, but Mihail wasn’t listening. He leapt to his feet. There was still time. He did not know how long Aleksandr would linger at the Mihailovskiy Palace, but it was only a few streets away. Mihail could easily reach it and warn him.

‘Where are you going?’ Dusya asked him, all too innocently. She stood blocking his exit, one arm raised above her head, resting against the doorway. In other circumstances it would have been an alluring pose.

‘To warn him. Now get out of my way.’

She did not move. ‘Warn who?’ she asked. Again she seemed to be overplaying her naivety – it was almost as if she were gloating.

Mihail pushed her aside and charged out into the tunnel. In moments he was up the ladder and in the living quarters of the shop. He went to the door, but could not open it. Normally the key was left in the lock, but today it was gone. Dusya must have taken it. He charged twice at the door with his shoulder, but it would not yield. He leapt up on to the table where Frolenko had so recently stood, but the windows were too small for him to get through. He might shout and attract the attention of a passer-by, but it would take too long. He had to get the key from Dusya. She clearly knew now that his plan was to save Aleksandr, but it didn’t matter. If she did not give him the key, he would beat it out of her.

He dashed back to the tunnel, down the ladder and into the passageway where he had left her. She was not there, but Mihail was not alone. At the far end of the corridor the iron gate that no one had been able to unlock was open and in the archway stood a figure. Mihail had been expecting him, but at this moment it was the last creature on earth that he wanted to see.

It was Iuda.

Zmyeevich was more observant than any human – more even than most vampires. It was a predator’s instinct. He could look upon a crowd of people – potential prey – and not simply understand their individual movements but sense how they moved as a group, how the action of one member might lead to a specific response in another, even though ordinarily that response would be indistinguishable from the random jostling of the crowd. It was the same as the way that a wolf could watch a flock of sheep and see one of them bleat in panic, and know which of the others would run towards the waiting pack.

And thus it was that, only moments after the tsar’s procession had disappeared through the gates of the Mihailovskiy Palace, Zmyeevich noticed a young woman with an unusually prominent forehead reach into her pocket and pull out a white handkerchief which she allowed to flutter in the air for a little too long before applying it to her nose. To any observer who knew his business this was an obvious signal, but it would only be someone of Zmyeevich’s skills who would have been able to pick out from the crowd the three young men – the furthest at the other end of the street – who began to move in response, almost as a single entity dispersed through the crowd.

From there it was a matter of no talent whatsoever to notice that each of those three men carried – tucked under his arm or clutched against his chest – a parcel wrapped in newspaper. Each package was the same size and shape as the others. There was no question as to what was going on.

The woman had already moved on ahead. The three men did not seem to need to follow, they knew their destination based on the signal she had given. Without acknowledging each other’s presence they headed along Mihailovskaya Street and up Nevsky Prospekt. Zmyeevich followed at a distance. On Nevsky Prospekt he saw the last of the men turning back on to the embankment of the Yekaterininsky Canal. He continued to follow. When he got to the canal he saw that the woman had crossed over to the far bank, while her three lieutenants remained on this side. Evidently she planned no direct part in the attack for herself.

Zmyeevich stuck with the three men. Once past the end of Inzhenernaya Street they began to lose momentum, loitering rather than walking with any purpose, as if waiting for something – which indeed they were. After leaving the Mihailovskiy Palace the tsar’s coach would travel along Inzhenernaya Street and then turn on to the embankment. They were in the perfect place to trap him. It would be a delight to behold.

Zmyeevich loitered too – or rather sat, taking advantage of a bench which His Majesty had kindly provided for the benefit of the citizens of his capital. For once the appearance of age which the sun inflicted upon him would prove to be an advantage. He was a little way down from where the bombers stood in readiness, but that would be fine. He would wander over once Aleksandr arrived, and see what they had in store for him.

Mihail ran forward and darted into the cellar where he had earlier been waiting so calmly for Iuda. Everything that might protect his life was in there – he had not planned to encounter Iuda out in the passageway.

Inside stood Dusya. Mihail put his finger to his lips to silence her and then signalled she should step back from the door. She complied. Mihail was quickly across the room and snatched up the arbalyet from where he had left it. He turned and trained it on the doorway. Moments later, Iuda appeared. Mihail felt the urge to pull the trigger and release the bolt, but the weapon had proved ineffectual so far. Anyway, he did not want Iuda to die without knowing the reason.

‘We meet at last,’ said Iuda.

‘We’ve met before,’ replied Mihail. ‘In Geok Tepe. I thought you might remember, but I suppose you had other things on your mind; just like you did at Saint Isaac’s.’

‘Oh, I remember – I remember both occasions – but on neither were we properly introduced. My name is …’ He frowned. ‘But I have so many – which would you prefer?’

‘Iuda will do.’

‘Ah! My favourite.’

Mihail glanced at Dusya and tried to signal with his eyes that she should move away from Iuda, and get safely behind him. She began to move cautiously, her back against the wall. Iuda turned and saw her. She froze.

‘No, you carry on, my dear,’ he said. ‘I won’t stop you.’

She took him at his word and marched across the room to stand at Mihail’s side. The vampire could easily have reached out and grabbed her, but he did nothing.

‘You, I take it,’ Iuda continued, ‘are Mihail Konstantinovich Lukin.’

Mihail offered no reply. He was happy to let Iuda go on thinking that for now.

‘It’s the Konstantinovich in all that which makes it interesting, of course – your eminent father.’

‘What of it?’

‘It’s illustrious blood that runs in your veins.’

‘You have no idea,’ replied Mihail.

If Iuda was fazed by the remark, he showed it only momentarily. ‘In fact it was your father – and more importantly your uncle – who so keenly wanted us to have this little chat. You have something that’s rather troubling to them; and they’ve asked me to relieve you of it.’

‘What do you mean?’ It was Dusya’s voice from behind him.

‘I mean his life,’ explained Iuda.

‘This is nothing to do with her,’ said Mihail. ‘Let her go.’

‘But I’m doing nothing to detain her,’ protested Iuda. He stepped away from the door and offered an open palm to show her out. ‘She is free to leave whenever she pleases.’

Mihail raised the crossbow higher, making it obvious that he was aiming at Iuda’s heart. ‘Get a little further back first.’

Iuda retreated until his shoulders touched the wall behind him.

‘Further,’ said Mihail, nodding with his head.

Iuda edged along the wall, the foresight of Mihail’s crossbow tracking him as he moved. Now he was about as far from the doorway as he could be.

‘Dusya,’ said Mihail. ‘Get going. Quickly. Don’t worry about me. I’ll come and find you.’

She did not move. Iuda’s face broke into a broad smile. Mihail glanced over his shoulder, not wanting to take his eyes from Iuda for more than a second. He could see her standing – there was nothing to hinder her departure.

‘I said go,’ he hissed.

‘I’d rather stay.’

‘Trust me, Dusya, please. I know I’ve deceived you, but this is real. I have things under control. I know how dangerous he can be – but you have no idea, so please, do as I say.’

‘No.’

Iuda laughed broadly. ‘Oh, you’ve found yourself the perfect partner there, Romanov. You’ve got her twisted round your finger. I wonder what inspires her to be so disobedient.’

Mihail ignored him. ‘Dusya—’

Iuda interrupted him. ‘Dusya, my dear, why don’t you just do what the poor fellow asks and leave the two of us alone?’

‘Because,’ she explained, ‘I wouldn’t be able to do this.’

‘Do what?’ Mihail asked.

He heard the cocking of a revolver, and felt the cold steel of its barrel pressing against his neck.