“What did he do to them?”
“He kidnapped one of the men’s sons,” Prokopiev interjected, “a boy of six, then cut him into small pieces and delivered him to their door in a canvas sack.”
Prokopiev turned toward Ruzsky. Was that intended as a threat?
They were silent again. Ruzsky’s father stared at the table.
“This Friday,” Shulgin said. “In three days. That is…”
Vasilyev nodded gravely. “That is what our intelligence would suggest.”
Ruzsky wanted to ask a question, but held his tongue.
“We expect it to begin on Friday?”
“Friday or Saturday, yes.”
“What to begin?” Ruzsky asked.
Shulgin turned to face him. “It is of no import to the investigation.”
“But how can we-”
“It is not.” Shulgin’s tone was emphatic. “There is intelligence to suggest that antisocial elements will try to stir up trouble at the end of this week. It is not your concern.” Shulgin turned back to face Vasilyev, indicating he would brook no further discussion. Ruzsky wondered why he had chosen to bring the subject up. Was Shulgin deliberately trying to make him aware of something? “And this man…” Shulgin went on.
“Borodin,” Vasilyev responded.
“Yes, still no sign?”
“No.”
Shulgin sighed. “The murders.” He turned toward Ruzsky. “Were all three committed by the same man?” His tone had grown impatient.
Ruzsky deflected the question to Sarlov. The pathologist sniffed and pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose. “Yes,” he said, “I would say so.”
“Could you expand, Sarlov?” Anton asked. Ruzsky formed the impression, as he glanced at him, that his superior had been aware of the exact direction this conversation would take.
“I cannot say for certain.” Sarlov took off his glasses and began to use them to make his points. “I did not see the body from the Lion Bridge, but from a conversation with my colleague, I should say it is likely that all three victims were stabbed by a man of a similar height. More than six feet tall. The particular nature of the wounds”-Sarlov indicated with his glasses-“is the same in each case.”
“The murderer was a man?”
“Without doubt.”
Ruzsky’s father leaned forward. “If the dead are revolutionaries, as you say, then the question as to who is killing them is immaterial, isn’t it? Their deaths can hardly be considered a matter of the gravest concern.”
“We do not wish to give the impression that the state is indifferent to murder,” Vasilyev said, with heavy irony. It was a reference to Rasputin’s aristocratic killers and the Tsar’s lenient treatment of them. Shulgin did not react.
“The savagery of these murders makes them a cause for public concern,” he responded evenly.
They all looked at Ruzsky.
“What do you think lies behind these murders, Alexander Nikolaevich?” Vasilyev asked.
The chief of the Okhrana stared at him, his head bent forward. Ruzsky remained still, refusing to look away. Were the murders the work of this man? Had he been settling old scores?
“Thank you for your time, gentlemen,” Vasilyev said. “Naturally, we will need to continue to work together.”
It was a moment before Ruzsky realized that they were expected to leave. As they did so, Shulgin and his father remained seated.
Outside, Ruzsky began walking swiftly away, but Pavel caught up with him.
“Sandro,” he said, out of breath. “I know what you’re going to do.”
Ruzsky did not answer.
“If these murders are about what happened in Yalta, then you think she will be next.”
Ruzsky stopped.
“In any case, what was that all about?” Pavel’s face was earnest and well meaning and Ruzsky’s affection for him swelled again. He took out his cigarettes and offered his friend one.
They smoked them together, side by side, moving their feet against the cold and watching the group of their colleagues fifty yards away.
Anton, Maretsky, and Sarlov were waiting for their sled outside the gloomy entrance to the Okhrana’s headquarters. They, too, were huddled together and Ruzsky got the impression they were ignoring the pair of them.
“Why have they changed their tune?” Pavel asked. “The Okhrana, I mean.”
“They haven’t.”
“Then why do they want us to cooperate?”
“They don’t.”
“So what was that all about?”
Ruzsky watched Anton, Maretsky, and Sarlov getting into the sled. They did not look around. “I’m not certain.”
“Do you think Shulgin has forced them to cooperate?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s not how Vasilyev works. He’s the spider. He spins the webs.”
Pavel seemed disheartened again by this. Perhaps he had genuinely believed the investigation might be entering less stormy waters.
“I think we were there for Shulgin’s benefit, all right,” Ruzsky said, “so I would guess the Empress told him to call the meeting.”
“Why was your father present?” Pavel asked.
“I’m not certain. It may be that Vasilyev asked him to attend.” Ruzsky stared after the departing sled. “Perhaps it was an attempt to intimidate me. If you recall, my father did nothing to try and prevent me being exiled to Siberia. Vasilyev knows we don’t get on.” Ruzsky glanced over his shoulder. “No one watching us. If Prokopiev and his thugs didn’t manage to eliminate us in Yalta, will they try again?”
Pavel did not answer. He was staring at his feet.
“Should we be frightened, Pavel?”
“I don’t know, Sandro.”
Ruzsky took a long drag on his cigarette and then exhaled violently. “Christ,” he said.
39
F okine was onstage at the Mariinskiy, his voice echoing around the empty auditorium. Ruzsky and Pavel stood beneath the golden splendor of the royal box, the double-headed eagle of Imperial Russia looking down upon them.
Fokine pointedly ignored them for a few minutes. Ruzsky kept his temper.
“Yes,” Fokine said, at length.
“I need a word.”
“I’m busy.”
“So am I.”
“You’re the detective?” Fokine asked, knowing perfectly well who he was. The other dancers were looking at him with ill-disguised contempt.
Ruzsky breathed in silently.
“Can’t it wait?” Fokine asked, a hand upon his waist.
“No.”
“I know what it is about.”
“Then it will not take much of your time.”
Fokine turned around. “I’ll be down in a minute-”
“Get down here. Now,” Ruzsky snapped, and the tone of his voice made Fokine swing around sharply.
The choreographer hesitated for a moment, in shock, before moving across the stage swiftly. One of the younger dancers sniggered.
Ruzsky took hold of Fokine’s arm and moved him through a door beside the orchestra pit. Pavel, who had been standing behind him, followed quietly. The corridor was dark, the man’s ghostly face dimly lit by the lights from the stage. He had a big nose and red lips, which he pursed together when frightened. “Where is she?” Ruzsky asked.
“Where is who?”
Ruzsky stared into his eyes. “Do you want a spell in the Lithuanian Castle?”
“Don’t be absurd.”
Ruzsky gripped his arm tighter. “Do you have any idea what they would do to a man like you?”
“Let go of me.”
Ruzsky dug his thumb and forefinger into Fokine’s arm until he squeaked. Pavel took a step closer, as if preparing to intercede.
The choreographer wriggled, so Ruzsky released him, took out his heavy revolver, cocked it, and placed it against the bridge of Fokine ’s nose. “I’m afraid I don’t have time to be polite.”