The People's Will (55 page)

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.