Derzhenov frowned deeply at the mention of the Imperial Guard. ‘And you would like my help to find her?’ he asked. ‘Is she one of the – how do I put it? – the Bobrinsky Bobrinskys?’
‘She is,’ said Powerscourt, ‘and with your help I am sure she would be released by lunchtime.’
Derzhenov laughed a rather alarming laugh. ‘I’m not sure about that, Lord Powerscourt. I think you are exaggerating my powers. But tell me,’ Derzhenov began running the tips of his fingers together, ‘what information do you bring me this morning, the morning after your interview with the Tsar?’
What was Natasha Bobrinsky worth? How much should he tell the head of the Okhrana? None of it? Some of it? All of it? Powerscourt had been running these questions through his mind on the way to the Okhrana headquarters. He still had no answers. He knew nothing that would endanger British national interests. In fact, some of what he knew damaged Russian national interests rather more than his own. Yet somehow he found the prospect of telling his secrets to the head of a foreign intelligence agency who was not allied to Great Britain very hard to take. It would have been different if it had been the urbane head of the French secret service, weaving elegant plots with his Watteau in the Place des Vosges.
‘If I tell you, General, will you secure the release of Miss Bobrinsky?’ said Powerscourt, hoping to be saved by the non-specific nature of his statement. But Derzhenov was too wily a bird to fall for that one.
‘I’m afraid, my friend, you will have to do better than that. I might promise to secure the release of the young lady – if I can – and you would tell me nothing. Why don’t you tell me what transpired and then I will tell you what I might be able to do to release the young lady.’
‘But then,’ now it was Powerscourt’s turn, ‘I could tell you all I know and get nothing in return. Assuming,’ he smiled at the General, ‘you were an unreasonable man. Which you’re not.’ Oddly enough, Powerscourt was certain that this man opposite, who whipped his prisoners for fun, who had the more unfortunate of them killed in ways that replicated classical paintings, would, nevertheless, keep his word.
‘We could go on like this all day,’ said Derzhenov. ‘I suspect that in our careers we often have. Lord Powerscourt, I ask you to trust me. If you tell me what happened and I think you are telling the truth we will see what can be done with this Natasha Bobrinsky. If you do not trust me, then I suggest you leave now. That way you will not compromise yourself or your mission. Your knowledge will remain with you. Miss Bobrinsky will remain locked up. But I hope you do not leave.’
There was a pause. Neither Johnny Fitzgerald nor Mikhail spoke. Then Powerscourt held out his hand. One part of his brain said, You’re shaking hands with a mass murderer. The other part said, ‘Very good, General. I accept what you say. Let me begin with the original nature of my mission to St Petersburg, the question of who killed Roderick Martin.’ Powerscourt saw that Derzhenov had begun taking copious notes. Perhaps he and his information were going to end up as dusty footnotes in the Okhrana files. Information supplied by the English investigator Powerscourt.
‘The last we knew of him was that he left the Tsar at about ten o’clock. The Tsar declined to say anything at all about the nature of their conversation. Martin appeared to vanish until the appearance of his corpse on the Nevskii three or four hours later.’
Powerscourt paused and poured himself a glass of water. Water shall wash away their tears, he said to himself. ‘I now know what happened to him. He was apprehended by members of the Imperial Guard, Royal Palaces Security Division under the control of a Major Shatilov.’
‘This Major Shatilov, Lord Powerscourt, have you seen him lately? A little bird tells me he has gone missing.’
‘I’m not sure I have anything to add to that,’ said Powerscourt blandly. ‘As I say, Mr Martin was taken into custody by the Major in a house on the outskirts of Tsarskoe Selo.’
Derzhenov was still writing. Powerscourt waited patiently until he had finished before he went on. ‘Major Shatilov was most anxious to know the nature of Mr Martin’s conversation with the Tsar, almost as anxious as yourself, General. It’s strange how all the intelligence agencies should want the same piece of news, it really is.’
There was a cackle from Derzhenov. ‘Just get on with the story, Powerscourt. What did Martin tell him?’
‘He didn’t tell him anything.’
‘So what did Shatilov do then?’
‘He beat him to death with a knout, General.’
‘Is that so, Lord Powerscourt?’ Derzhenov looked up from his scribbling. ‘That’s very bad management,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘people shouldn’t die from a single session with the whip.’
‘Maybe he had a weak heart, General Derzhenov. Maybe it was because members of the British Foreign Office don’t live in a world where people are beaten to death with whips. They’re not used to it.’
‘You could have a point there, Lord Powerscourt.’ Derzhenov was back writing again. ‘And you are sure the man Martin said nothing before he died?’
‘Not a word, General.’
‘Not a word? I see. But tell me, what is your source for this information? Where does it come from?’
‘Why, General,’ said Powerscourt, trying to look as innocent as possible, ‘it came from Major Shatilov himself.’
‘Really?’ said Derzhenov with great emphasis. ‘Was this the last action of the Major before he disappeared? Do you expect him to turn up early one morning on the Nevskii, rather like Mr Martin before him?’
Powerscourt had decided some moments before precisely what he was going to tell the Okhrana man. He was going to tell him about Martin’s death as he had done. He was going to tell him about the last conversation Martin had with the Tsar in the sense that it now seemed that a flight to Norfolk was less likely. He would, if he had to, tell him about the death of Shatilov and the skirmish on the train. But he would not, out of a sense of loyalty to the Tsar, disclose anything about the haemophilia. He felt sure the Tsar would want that to remain private.
‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ said Powerscourt, reluctant to be drawn into detailed discussion on the man’s death. Though it was the bridge that killed him, a hostile prosecutor could easily make out a case against Powerscourt and his men.
‘I see, Lord Powerscourt,’ said Derzhenov, temporarily chewing on the end of his pen and looking closely at the Englishman. ‘Maybe we shall come back to this later. But tell me, what of Martin’s conversation with the Tsar?’
So Powerscourt told him: the original approach from the Tsar to the English King asking if his wife and family would be welcome in England, the despatch of Martin, bearing the answer that they would be welcome in Norfolk, Powerscourt’s discovery of the place where they were to be accommodated, the final reluctance to take up the offer, for reasons as yet unexplained.
‘Did the Tsar tell you this himself, Lord Powerscourt? Were there just the two of you at the meeting?’
‘There were just the two of us, General,’ said Powerscourt, ‘and no, the Tsar did not tell me, I told him.’
‘You told him, Lord Powerscourt? But how did you know? You weren’t even there!’
‘Let me put it this way, General, I worked it out. I don’t want to say anything more about my methods, if you don’t mind. But the Tsar confirmed that it was more or less true.’ There’s no point, he said to himself, in rescuing Natasha Bobrinsky from the frying pans of Major Shatilov, heated to unbearable levels, no doubt, before being applied to stripped flesh, into the fires of the Okhrana, gridirons and reproductions of the martyrdom of St Lawrence a speciality.
Derzhenov suddenly seemed to make up his mind. He stopped writing and carefully screwed the top back on to his German fountain pen. ‘Lord Powerscourt, I think there is more that you are not yet telling me. I believe you know more than you let on about the death of Major Shatilov. Let me just ask you one question on that subject, if I may. If he were to be found dead, would you say – assuming you were a guessing man, you understand – that he was killed in a fight or by accident?’