Twelve (11 page)

'Why do you say that?' I asked.

'Apparently you think I look like her.'

'Apparently?'

'Maksim told me.' She spoke as if it was a confession of a sin. But that she and Maks had spoken about me was not a concern to me any more.

'Well, you do look like her.'

'So am I just a cheap substitute because you can't afford yourself a French empress?' she asked lightly.

I laughed. 'She's not French, she's Austrian.'

'That's not an answer.'

'And you're not cheap.'

'Neither's that, though I know it must be a strain on your pocket to pay for a courtesan.' She paused before adding, 'And a wife.' She said the words with a look of petulant envy which I could only regard as a pretence. The idea that Domnikiia was in some way jealous of my marriage, whether the feeling was affected or not, was flattering to me, but I was also irritated that she should attempt to bring reality into our cosy, delusional world.

'Maks again, I suppose,' I said.

She nodded and then added, 'You don't wear a wedding ring.'

'Not a good idea for a spy,' I replied. I absent-mindedly rubbed the base of the ring finger of my right hand, where it should have been. My wedding ring sat, as ever, in a small mother-of-pearl box on Marfa's dressing table. I only ever wore it when I was at home in Petersburg. Marfa said that she understood my reasons.

'Oh, I see,' said Domnikiia. 'What's her name?'

'Whose?' I asked.

'Your wife's.'

'Didn't Maks tell you that?'

'He didn't mean to tell me any of it.'

'She's called Marfa Mihailovna. And we have a son – Dmitry Alekseevich.' I sounded more annoyed than I meant to. I just wanted to get the details over with as quickly as possible so that I at least could forget that I had a wife and child.

'Another Dmitry,' she observed.

'We named him after Dmitry Fetyukovich.'

'Why?'

'Because he saved my life.'

'I see,' she said, cuddling close to me. 'I think I'd like to meet Dmitry.'

'Which one?'

She made no reply, but simply smiled up at me. Unwanted, the memory of Maks interrupted my thoughts. He would have been waiting alone in the discomfort of a woodsman's hut in Desna for two days. I despised myself for lingering.

'I have to go,' I said, beginning to dress. 'I have to see Maks.'

'I understand,' she replied.

For the first time, it didn't occur to me to pay her. It didn't occur to her to ask.

Stepping out into the square, I saw Vadim marching briskly towards me.

'What the hell are you doing in there?' he growled with genuine anger. 'You're supposed to be looking for Maksim Sergeivich.'

'I
was
looking for him.'

'In there? That may be where you get your entertainment, Aleksei, but it's not the sort of place I'd expect to find Maks. Mind you, I'm learning an awful lot today that I wouldn't have expected from Maks. So was he in there?'

'No, but I found out where he is,' I replied, unable to fathom Vadim's unusually bellicose manner.

'Good, let's go there then.'

'Why the rush, all of a sudden?'

Vadim looked at me as if he thought he was about to break my heart. His tone softened, but only a little.

'Because Maksim Sergeivich is – and for all I know, always has been – a French spy.'

I
REMEMBER MY FIRST MEETING WITH MAKSIM SERGEIVICH LUKIN
. It was in 1805, maybe two months before Austerlitz. We were sitting in the mess, eating lunch, and I heard a confident, young voice from across the table. I looked up to see Maks, then only eighteen, in earnest conversation with Dmitry, whom I already knew quite well.

'In America, they have no king, but they have slaves,' Maks was explaining. 'In England, they have a king, but no slaves. In France, they killed their king and created an emperor, just so that they might not be slaves. In Russia, we have an emperor
and
we have slaves.' He paused for a moment. 'Of course, most Russians would say we have an emperor and we
are
slaves.'

'The serfs themselves would say that, you mean?' Dmitry had interjected.

'Exactly.'

I was instantly taken with Maks. I had no idea what argument he was following or what point he was trying to make, but the fresh, youthful passion of the way he expressed his ideas was striking.

'I'd hardly compare the serfs with the Negroes,' I said, entering the conversation for the first time.

Maks didn't falter in his intellectual stride. 'Well, no; we didn't have to travel so far to get the serfs.'

It was a statement of the sort that I later found to be typical of Maks – ambiguous, detached and made with an arch glint in his eye. Was he taking a swipe at the Americans or the Russians? I remember asking him about it, or some similar issue, years later.

He told me that he had no interest in nations, only in ideas.

'Aren't nations founded on ideas?' I'd asked him.

'Some,' he had nodded, 'but not many.' At the time I could think of only two: France and America – and we weren't at war with America.

Outside the brothel in Tverskaya, with Bonaparte virtually at the city gates, I remembered all this and looked blankly into Vadim's eyes.

'How can he be a French spy?' I asked. 'He fought against the French at Austerlitz with us. And he's been fighting them here.'

'Has he?' queried Vadim. 'That's not what I've been hearing. According to Dmitry, as soon as we got out to Gzatsk, Maks handed three of them straight over to the French. They were executed within hours.'

'Three of whom?'

'Three of the Oprichniki: Simon, Faddei and one of the Iakovs – I can't remember which one.'

'And how does Dmitry know all this?'

'Because Andrei told him. Andrei was with the other three when Maksim betrayed them, but he managed to get away.' Vadim could see from my raised eyebrow that I was about to doubt the word of Andrei, a man we'd known only a few days, in condemning an old friend such as Maks. 'And Dmitry spoke to Maks himself,' Vadim countered before I could speak. 'Maks admitted it to him.'

Not long before, Maks' last message to me had said not to trust Dmitry. Now the word from Dmitry was not to trust Maks. Maks had gone into hiding – not the behaviour of an innocent under any circumstances – and had said that only I should go and see him. Was that for his protection, or was it a trap for me?

'When did Dmitry hear of all this?' I asked Vadim, but there was no need for an answer as at that moment Dmitry himself appeared on the far side of the square. He came over to us.

'You told him?' he asked Vadim.

'The gist of it, but I think you'd better tell us both again.'

'How long have you known?' I asked. I was concerned at what Dmitry might have been keeping from us up to now.

'I found out right after I left you at Goryachkino. Andrei found me and told me.'

'Told you what, exactly?' I was still deeply suspicious.

'As soon as they got near to Gzatsk, Maks and his Oprichniki became separated, which is to say – as it turned out – that he gave them the slip. They searched around and found that he'd been captured by the French. Of course he hadn't been captured. He'd just marched straight into the French camp.'

I was about to ask how they knew, but Vadim raised a hand to indicate I should let Dmitry continue.

'They rescued him, still not realizing he was a traitor, and pretty soon he gave them the slip again. They met up with Faddei somewhere along the way, and then went on to meet us all at Goryachkino. They showed up the day before we did and there was Maks again. He told them he'd found a big, undefended French encampment, a few versts away from the main formations at Borodino. It was a sitting duck, he said, and they trusted him.

'So all four of them – Andrei, Simon, Iakov Alfeyinich and Faddei – wandered innocently into the French camp and were instantly set upon and killed. Except Andrei – he managed to escape, luckily for us – or we'd never have heard a thing about it. I guess the damned French were only expecting three of them – that's all that Maks had thought he was betraying.'

'And Andrei told you all this?' I asked.

'Yes. After I'd left you, Andrei found me and told me what had happened. He told me he'd been following Maks, and knew where he was camped. When I confronted Maks, he confessed to everything – exactly what Andrei told me. We all know how he likes to talk about France and the Revolution, but I never thought he meant it for real.'

'How long has it been going on?' asked Vadim.

'I don't know,' replied Dmitry. 'What does that matter? The point is we've got to find him and deal with him. Have you found out where he is?'

'Aleksei knows,' said Vadim, and he and Dmitry turned to me.

I thought for a moment. If Dmitry on his own had denounced Maks, then I might have trusted him, but the fact that it was Dmitry and Andrei – one of the Oprichniki – made me doubtful. Since their arrival, Dmitry's allegiance had seemed far more with them than with us. Of course, they were supposedly on our side, but now was the moment when we had to know that for sure.

'I'll go and find him myself,' I said. 'I'll bring him back here.'

'You damned well won't,' Dmitry told me. 'We're all going to go and make sure he comes with us.'

'I'll go alone,' I replied firmly. 'He's only expecting to see me. If we all go, he may run. He'll come with me. If he doesn't then we'll know for sure he's a traitor.'

Dmitry sneered.

'Believe me, Dmitry Fetyukovich,' I told him in cold earnest, 'if Maksim is a traitor then he has betrayed me as much as any of us. I'm not going to let a man like that get away with it.'

'I could order you to tell us where he is,' said Vadim, but I could tell from his voice that he wasn't going to risk seeing his squad further eviscerated by having his orders disobeyed. He looked at me, then to Dmitry, then back to me. 'Very well, Aleksei. You go. Bring him back here and we'll decide together what to do with him – if he's guilty.' But his last words were an afterthought – he had already decided.

I saddled up and began my journey south out of the city. Desna wasn't far, but I wasn't eager to get there, and so I proceeded at a gentle canter. Whether or not I trusted Dmitry's word on what Maks had done, I didn't entirely trust him to follow Vadim's orders and leave me to do my job alone. Along the journey, I kept one eye over my shoulder and turned off the main road to double back a few times, but there was no sign that I was being followed. It had already been dark for some time when I arrived at the woodsman's hut, just north of the village.

I had not seen the place before – I think it had been Maks' own suggestion originally to add it to the list – and I was surprised by its size. It was big enough for one or two men to sleep in relative comfort if required.

I knocked on the door and spoke softly. 'Maks! Maks, it's Aleksei.'

The door opened and I saw Maks' face, pale, unwashed and frightened. 'Are you alone?' he asked. I nodded. He took a paranoid glance around before opening the door fully and letting me inside.

'How long have you been here?' I asked.

'Two days,' he replied. The inside of the hut was barren, but for a simple clay stove against one wall and a single small chair. 'Sit!' he said to me, indicating the chair. I picked up the chair and moved it to the centre of the room.

'No, you sit,' I said. I tried to sound generous but, in reality, I was preparing for an interrogation, and I would be in a better position if I were to stand and walk while he was forced to remain seated and look up at me. He did as I had said.

'I've spoken to Dmitry,' I said.

Maks looked to the floor. 'Good,' he muttered.

'Is it true?' I asked.

'Is what true?'

I lost my composure and spoke to him more personally than I had intended to, breaking out of the role of interrogator. 'This isn't a debate, Maks. This isn't even a trial. This is about our friendship. Just give a straight answer.'

'I can't.' His reply was completely genuine. 'You know me, Aleksei, I just don't think that way. I don't speak that way.' I knew what he meant. Some men put up an intellectual front to give a veneer of profundity to their gut feelings. Maks did not deal in gut feelings. He had them and – I had realized when he had explained away his visit to the brothel – he understood them, but he didn't care for them or rely upon them. His sincerest expressions were always constructed through a process of reason. 'But if you talk specifically of friendship, that's one thing I haven't betrayed. I wouldn't betray anything that counted.'

'But you've betrayed your country.'

It wasn't put as a question, but he answered it anyway. 'Yes.'

'And you sent Simon, Faddei and Iakov Alfeyinich to be slaughtered by the French.'

'Oh yes, and Andrei too if I could have – although we could argue about the "slaughtered".'

'What do you mean? Are you saying they're not dead?'

'No, no. They're dead. I was just questioning the rather evocative choice of word.' Anyone who didn't know Maks might have thought that he was trying to be confrontational, or perhaps that he was trying to be affable – to make a friend of his interrogator – but I knew that he was simply being his usual, honest, precise self. His mind dealt with what he must have realized was the imminent prospect of his death as a traitor with the same detachment that he viewed a discussion on literature or a new political theory.

'So you're not making any attempt to deny that you've been spying for Bonaparte?' I asked him directly.

'No. Why should I?'

I bridled at this sudden show of apparent honesty. 'Would you have denied it a month ago?'

'Of course.'

'So what is it that makes you so keen to be honest with me now?'

'The fact that you know everything. I'm not going to make the effort of lying to a man who knows the truth,' he replied with absolute simplicity. If only one of us then had comprehended that I didn't know everything, that there were explanations that desperately needed to be made, then things might have turned out very different. But Maks, for all his articulacy, had never been one to readily understand that the thoughts that were so clearly laid out in his brain had not yet managed to find their way into those of other people. The fact that my horror at his being a traitor to his country was so great, even though that crime to him meant so little, perhaps confused him into thinking I knew about the greater horror he had discovered.

'So how long have you been working for Bonaparte?' I asked him.

'You know I've always been sympathetic to the Revolution.'

I nodded. We all had been, until the Revolution had turned into an empire and the empire had invaded our country.

'It was when I was captured at Austerlitz,' Maks continued. 'They have experts who can spot potential recruits: the young, the politically avant-garde. The only way that they changed my mind was to point out that Napoleon would either be the master of Europe or would be defeated. There can be no happy compromise that leaves a free Russia – the British wouldn't allow that, for a start, and who can blame them? They have their own interests to consider.

'But I had to choose. Did I want a world in which the ideas of the Revolution flourished or one in which they perished? You know what I would have chosen, Aleksei, without even having to ask.'

He was right. I couldn't accuse him of inconsistency. Everything he ever did was a predictable conclusion of his beliefs and his circumstances. It had been my mistake not to take what I knew of him to its logical end.

'And so, after a few years' indoctrination, they released you like any other prisoner?'

'"Indoctrination" is another of those evocative words, like "slaughtered",' he replied, 'but that's the general idea of it.'

'And what "services" have you done for Bonaparte since?'

'Very little, to be honest.' He smiled ironically. 'Vadim had seen in me exactly the same potential for "irregular" operations as the French did, so almost everything military I've done has been with you, him and Dmitry, and even then there's not been much. I've reported back what I've known about general troop movements and so forth, but it's always seemed too immediate, too personal, to tell them about anything
we've
done. It turns out to be a lot easier to betray a country than a person.'

'Until last week when you knowingly sent three brave men to their deaths.'

'Again, we could quibble over words there, but that was different. That was for the good of humanity.'

'Humanity?' I scoffed. 'It's always for humanity, isn't it? But tell me, Maksim, what makes French humanity more important than Russian humanity? Or British more important than Austrian? We can't fight for the whole of humanity, because humanity has no enemies but other humans.' He was about to object, but I was in no mood to yield. When I'd arrived at Desna, I had been urgently hoping that Dmitry had somehow been wrong – that Andrei had lied – and as Maksim had confirmed everything I'd been told I had tried to sympathize, tried to understand why he had done what he had done. But now, as he tried to justify the deaths of three of our comrades on the basis of the good of humanity, that was when I saw him for the traitor that he was and felt as Dmitry must have done when he first found out.

'You say that you protect your friends while you abandon your country, but your country isn't just some arbitrary tract of land decided by forgotten generals a hundred years ago. It's your friends' friends and your friends' families. But I suppose you have a bigger intellect than I, Maksim Sergeivich. I can't cope with loving the whole of humanity. I just love what I know.'