Twelve

He seemed particularly aghast at the fact that the prisoner should be French, though it was well within the realms of likelihood. It suddenly struck me why he should have got on so well with Vadim.

'Did he give a name?'

'No. Tell him the details, Mironov.'

The officer who had just whispered to Chernyshev now addressed me. 'He came in about an hour ago. They caught him up on the hills to the north-east. He didn't bother to put up any kind of a fight at all. He gave no name. He's wearing a French uniform, rank of chef de bataillon. All he would say was that he wanted to speak to Captain Aleksei Ivanovich Danilov.'

'He knew I was here?' I asked.

'Evidently,' shrugged Mironov.

I had been in the camp less than an hour myself. It could only be that I had been followed. 'What does he look like?' I asked.

'I'm afraid I haven't seen him myself,' replied Mironov. 'Do you want me to take you to him?'

'No, not yet,' I replied, taking another sip of vodka. 'What time is it?'

'Just gone midnight,' Mironov told me.

'And when's sunrise?'

'Around eight.'

'I'll speak to him at seven. Where are you keeping him?'

'He's with the other prisoners.'

I thought for a moment before saying, 'Keep him apart from them. Make sure he's bound hand and foot. Put him outside somewhere, by a fire – keep him warm – but definitely outside.' I was imitating Maks' plan of months before. 'And be very, very careful with him. He's dangerous.'

'You know who it is then?' asked Lieutenant-Colonel Chernyshev.

'I believe I do,' I replied, puffing at my cigar.

Once again, I slept well. I was woken up around six o'clock and had time for a leisurely breakfast before Lieutenant Mironov led me to where the mysterious prisoner was being guarded.

'I hope you're not going to spend too long with him, Captain Danilov,' the lieutenant told me as we walked across the camp.

'The word is that Bonaparte is heading south. The French are trying to build a bridge.'

'And we're to follow?'

'Absolutely. Admiral Tchitchagov is shadowing him, on the other side of the Berezina. We're already beginning to break camp. We'll be on our way within four hours.'

'I assure you, lieutenant, I'll be finished with the prisoner by dawn.'

'I hope so, sir.'

We were now some way away from a large campfire which warmed me even at a distance.

'There he is,' said Mironov, nodding towards the fire.

Beside it stood two guards, weary from their night's vigil, but still alert enough that their prisoner had not escaped. Between them, sitting on a bench next to the fire, a tall man with his wrists bound was slumped forward, his elbows on his knees. His long blond hair, straggly and dishevelled, hung forward to cover his face. Even so, he was unmistakable.

'Is it who you thought it was?' asked Mironov.

'Oh, yes,' I replied.

CHAPTER XXX

'GOOD MORNING, IUDA,' I SAID, SOFTLY.

Iuda lifted his head. He looked decrepit. His hair was unwashed and matted, his chin was unshaven and his complexion was sallow – I doubted whether he had 'eaten' for days. His jaw was swollen with the bruise of a recent, heavy blow. Yet still he smiled.

'Good morning, Aleksei Ivanovich.'

'Has he tried anything?' I said to one of his guards.

'Nothing, sir. He kept asking when you would come, but I shut him up.' He mimicked the action of a blow with the butt of his musket. Iuda winced at the appropriate moment, joining in the mime so as to mock it. He glanced momentarily up at the guard's face, then averted his eyes.

'Was he armed?' I asked.

'Just this.' The guard reached into his knapsack and handed me the double-bladed knife that I had seen in Iuda's hand before. 'It's an odd thing, don't you think, sir? I can't see the practical use for it.'

'That's one of the things I intend to find out.'

'Do you want us to stay close, sir?' he asked. It was refreshing to be once again amongst men who were so trustworthy and so steadfast, though his suggestion might also have been motivated by self-interest. Keeping close to us would mean keeping close to the fire. Both guards looked pale and deathly cold, their greatcoats ' buttoned tight up to their chins to keep in what warmth they could. Even so, my own concerns overcame my sympathy for them.

'Not too close,' I said. 'For reasons you'll understand, it's best that you don't hear what we discuss.' He nodded earnestly. I had no doubt that he would stand just on the far side of earshot, but I would speak to Iuda in French to be on the safe side. 'But if he does turn nasty, you'll need to be ready – for your own sakes as well as mine.'

All around us, the camp was in turmoil. Tents were being taken down. Horses were being harnessed to guns. Baggage was being loaded on to wagons. The activity of all was enough to keep them warm despite the frozen night air, but for Iuda and myself, and the two guards who stood apart, both at some distance from us, the fire provided the only heat.

I sat down opposite Iuda as his guards moved warily away. I pondered how to start, hoping that he might say something, but he remained silent, looking at the ground. Despite his circumstances, he still had an air of victory about him. Then I realized why. As far as he knew, his trick with Margarita had worked – I had believed Domnikiia to be a vampire and had killed her.

'Aren't you going to tell me that Domnikiia was never a vampire?' I asked him. He frowned briefly. The name was unfamiliar to him. Then he made the connection to Dominique.

'It seems you're already aware of it,' he replied.

'She's alive and well, you know.'

'I don't doubt it,' he said, nonplussed.

'Oh, come on, Iuda. I'm sure you have your pride, but I think you can be honest now. These are your last moments on earth – don't waste them. I know you intended me to see your performance with Margarita.'

'I won't waste them, Lyosha. Neither should you. You're right, though, I did know you were watching at the window.'

'And you expected me to march right in there and ram a stake straight through Domnikiia's heart, and then regret it for the rest of my life.'

'Do you play chess at all, Lyosha?' he asked.

'Some,' I replied.

'When you form a plan of attack – equally, when you plan an attack in a real battle – do you see it through (in your mind) to a single end, or does your plan branch with the varying assumptions about how your opponent might react?'

'It branches, of course – though I'd always assume it most likely that my opponent would make the best move.' I was surprised at how quickly Iuda had managed to take the reins of the conversation.

'Exactly. And it's disappointing, isn't it, when he doesn't play the best move – when he falls into some trivial trap you threw in his way, not with any real intent of entrapping him, but simply to force him along the path you had chosen? He doesn't in the end rob you of the victory, but robs you of the pleasure of demonstrating the full brilliance of your plan.'

'I think that depends on whether you're the sort of person who prefers the game or the victory,' I said.

'Clearly, without the victory, the game is nothing,' he replied, nodding in agreement. 'But the reverse is also true. And don't tell me that you don't enjoy the game, Aleksei Ivanovich. You've had many opportunities to go for the swift conclusion, but you've not taken them.'

'Haven't I?'

'Perhaps it's just caution on your part.'

I felt the same sense of unease in myself and the same confidence in him that I had done during our meeting at the crossroads. Here, though, I could see no reason for him to be confident. This was my territory. There was no hanging cadaver that was going to spring to his aid. Perhaps he was expecting something of the sort. Perhaps he was unaware that Foma was dead. That was it. This was part of a plan where Foma would come to his rescue. It would be a pleasure to see how he reacted to news of Foma's death, but for now I chose – as one cannot in the game of chess – to keep that card up my sleeve. In chess one can disguise one's plans, but not hide them.