Virginsky smiled and shook his head admiringly. ‘Do you really think he will be taken in by that?’
‘It is the truth! That is to say, it is one truth. We do need to look into sourcing new printers. Tomorrow is Saturday. We shall visit Pseldonimov’s print shop, as prospective clients, in the morning.’
‘Provided it is not too inconvenient to do so,’ reminded Virginsky, mischievously.
‘I trust it is not.’
‘It is on Voznesensky Prospect. Close to where it crosses the Fontanka.’
‘It is practically on our doorstep.’
Virginsky’s smile broadened. But a shadow of doubt — or perhaps even fear — chased it away. ‘And in the meantime, tonight, there is no time to waste. .’ He was aware of a heavy, fateful timbre in his own voice. The kick of his heart was suddenly stern, an inner alarm rousing him to a state of nervous expectancy.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I must meet with my contact, the petroleur. It must be tonight. I will tell him that Rakitin is in the hands of the Third Section.’
Porfiry said nothing.
‘It is a piece of information of immense significance, and must be urgently communicated to him. He will know that Rakitin will talk. A man like Rakitin will not be able to hold out for long against the Third Section. You saw that in the terror of his reaction. His pathetic attempt to strangle himself. Of what do you think he was so afraid? Simply that he would betray his associates. That he would not be able to help himself. He will name names. And then, it will not be long before the Third Section closes in on those he betrays. Therefore, my contact will appreciate this information, because it enables the central committee to steal a march, to disperse. .’
‘And then what good would be served? We will lose them.’
‘No. By then, I will have gained his trust. I will be on the inside.’
‘But what if Rakitin is what he says he is? That is to say, a man without any real connections to any revolutionary grouping — the information will be of no interest or significance at all. You will be exposing yourself to unnecessary risk.’
‘Yes, there is a risk. But there is always a risk. Even if I do nothing. Better to take the bull by the horns. Besides, I do not see another way for us to move forward in this case.’
‘But there is no case anymore. Or have you forgotten?’
‘We cannot simply allow these hoodlums to sidestep the judicial process,’ cried Virginsky. ‘Who knows what they will do to Rakitin, or if he will ever be seen again alive? One day they will be held to account.’
‘I wonder, Pavel Pavlovich, whom you are intent on investigating: Pseldonimov’s murderers or the Third Section of His Imperial Majesty’s Chancellery?’
‘It is not beyond the bounds of possibility that they are one and the same.’
‘We have no evidence to suggest that.’
‘And nor will we ever, unless I meet with my contact again. Tonight.’
Porfiry’s expression grew pained. ‘If anything happened to you, I would never forgive myself.’
‘I take responsibility for my own actions, Porfiry Petrovich.’
‘That suggests that even if I do not give my consent, you will go through with this. That — of course — would make you a revolutionary spy, you know, feeding secret information to the state’s enemies.’
‘Then you had better give your consent.’
Porfiry shook his head in forlorn protest. ‘I thought you didn’t gamble, Pavel Pavlovich. And yet this. . this is far worse than any monetary wager. Here the stake you are playing for is your life.’
Virginsky clicked his tongue dismissively. He looked down at the floor, away from Porfiry’s warning, to await his eventual acquiescence. He heard the cigarette case click open again. This time it was followed by the scrape and sulphurous whiff of a match igniting. When Virginsky at last looked at his superior, he saw him exhale a long cone of smoke. At the same time, he gave an upward tilt of his head, fixing Virginsky with a gaze that was for once utterly unblinking.
*
Virginsky stepped out onto Stolyarny Lane and thought of food. It was night. The lamps were lit. For its size, Stolyarny Lane was well illuminated: the presence of a police bureau counted for something. He felt a strange reluctance to take himself outside the protective glow. No harm could come to him, he felt, for so long as he could be seen. He sensed a voracious darkness lurking beyond the lamps’ soft auras.
His stomach grumbled angrily. The claw of pain in his head dug in its nails. It had been clutching his brain all day, but now that he was released from duty, it tightened its grip for one last stab of torture. He knew that he was in no fit state to undertake the mission that he had so rashly, and perhaps feverishly, proposed. Equally, he also knew that it had to be done tonight, if it was to be done at all.
It was hard to believe it was only the night before that he had met the hatchet-headed man in the tavern on Haymarket Square. It seemed a lifetime ago. He realised, with a dawning sense of his own stupidity, that he had been in such a state of intoxication at the time that he had no clear memory of which tavern the encounter had taken place in. However, he distinctly remembered the man’s last words to him: ‘If you can’t find me, I know where to find you.’
He wondered if the man was watching him now, hiding in the vast darkness that surrounded the small pockets of illumination. He had the sense that the true city was constructed out of darkness, with shadows for inhabitants. By keeping to the light, he was drawing attention to himself as an outsider.
He had to remind himself that he wanted the man to find him. The plan relied on their meeting again. But Virginsky was so distracted by headache and hunger that he could not be sure what the plan was anymore. It was no longer clear to him whom, or what, he was serving, or even where his loyalties lay.
To distract himself, he fell into his old habit of counting his steps: One, two, three. .
The first thing to do was to eat something. But that would not ease the pain in his head. For that, there was only one cure that he knew.
He counted his way to Haymarket Square. Seventy-six, seventy-seven, seventy-eight. .
A boisterous crowd of muzhiks were passing the bottle around. Virginsky shied away from them and headed for the nearest tavern. His mouth was salivating as he stumbled down the stairs to the basement.
When it came to it, he ordered vodka first. He saw that his hands were trembling as he waited for his drink. The idea of the drink was more soothing than the drink itself, which did not provide the instantaneous easing of his discomfort that he had hoped for. However, for the time being at least, it seemed to steady his hands. Certainly, the bottle did not shake as he poured the second glass.
A display of collapsed pies drew his attention. In all honesty, he had never seen anything more unappetising. Nevertheless, he picked one out and watched with a mixture of impatience and horror as the landlady plated it for him.
It was the punch of petroleum in his nostrils that alerted him to the presence at his side. He turned and saw a familiar face, with a familiar lop-sided grin fixed in place. ‘Hungry?’
‘Yes, I am, in fact.’
The hatchet-headed man looked Virginsky up and down. ‘Well, well, look at you, magistrate. Come to see me in your service uniform.’
‘I have come straight from the bureau. I have something to tell you that cannot wait.’
‘My goodness, you are an eager little magistrate. At least eat your pie first. The sound of your stomach churning is deafening. Come, there is a booth in the corner. We will be able to talk more freely there.’
They transferred to the booth, Virginsky making sure to take the vodka as well as the food with him. The table was covered in crumbs. A candle flickered, almost burnt out, the feeble flame surrounded by frozen rivulets of wax.