The People's Will (56 page)

‘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.

IT WAS A
stir in the crowd that zmyeevich noticed even before he heard the trotting of the horses’ hooves, muffled in the compressed snow. He stood and walked along the canal, just far enough to look down Inzhenernaya Street. The cortège had set off from the Mihailovskiy Palace and was approaching at a gentle pace, first the Cossacks, then Aleksandr’s carriage. The sleighs behind were obscured from view. Zmyeevich tried to picture it not as the majestic parade of an emperor returning to his palace, but as the sombre procession that took his lifeless body to its grave. It would not be long before such a vision became reality.

Zmyeevich imagined the horses transformed from the bay and chestnut of those ridden by the Cossacks to a sleek coal black, with black feathers sprouting from their harnesses. He pictured the tsar’s coach elongated, so that His Majesty’s motionless body could recline in its bier. The crowds, lining the route in mourning dress, looked on and wept instead of raising their arms to cheer in celebration. The destination was not the tsar’s warm, comfortable home, but that place where ultimately every leader of Russia was destined to rot: the Peter and Paul Cathedral, just across the Neva. The tsar’s namesake, Aleksandr I, was not buried there. He had cheated death – or at least postponed it. The possibility was there for the current Aleksandr too, if he would only accept Zmyeevich.