The People's Will Read online

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  The next moment he was upon him, his eyes blazing, his mouth open to reveal his fangs. Osokin began to pray, not that he would live but that he would truly die…

  Turkmenistan 1881: the fortress city of Geok Tepe has fallen to the Russians.

  Beneath its citadel sits a prisoner. He hasn’t moved from his chair for two years. Neither has he felt the sun on his face for more than fifty… although for that he is grateful.

  Into this subterranean gaol marches a Russian officer. He has come for the captive. Not to release him, but to return him to St Petersburg – to deliver him into the hands of an old, old enemy who would visit damnation upon the ruling family of Russia: the great vampire Zmyeevich…

  But there is another who has escaped Geok Tepe and followed the prisoner. He is not concerned with the fate of the tsar, or Zmyeevich or the officer. All he desires is revenge.

  And other forces have a part to play. A group of revolutionaries has vowed to bring the dictatorship of Tsar Aleksandr to an end, and with it the entire Romanov dynasty. They call themselves The People’s Will…

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Author’s Notes

  Selected Romanov and Danilov Family Tree

  Map

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Endnote

  Characters of the Danilov Quintet

  About the Author

  Also by Jasper Kent

  Copyright

  THE PEOPLE’S WILL

  Jasper Kent

  For M.B.K. and E.B.K.

  AUTHOR’S NOTES

  Measurements

  Much of the Russian Imperial measurement system was based by Tsar Peter the Great on the British system. Thus a diuym is exactly equal to an inch (the English word is used in the text) and a foot is both the same word and measurement in English and Russian. A funt is translated as a pound, though weighs only about nine-tenths of a British pound. A verst is a unit of distance slightly greater than a kilometre.

  Dates

  During the nineteenth century, Russians based their dates on the old Julian Calendar, which in the 1880s was twelve days behind the Gregorian Calendar used in West Europe.

  In the text dates are given in the Russian form and so, for example, the death of Dostoyevsky is placed on 28 January 1881, where Western history books have it on 9 February.

  With thanks to John Dunne for his knowledge of Saint George’s Church in Esher, Stéphane Marsan for help with the French language and Seçkin Selvi for advice on Ottoman Istanbul.

  Selected Romanov and Danilov Family Tree

  Reigning tsars and tsaritsas shown in bold.

  Fictional characters shown in italic

  ‘#’ indicates unmarried parentage.

  Dates are birth-[start of reign]-[end of reign]-death

  Only the scoundrels have forgotten that strength is with those whose blood flows, not with those who cause blood to be shed. There it is – the law of blood on earth.

  Fyodor Dostoyevsky, writing shortly before his death in 1881

  PROLOGUE

  The verdict was unanimous. The sentence was death.

  In the summer of 1879 the Executive Committee of Zemlya ee Volya – Land and Liberty – held a congress in the central Russian town of Lipetsk. There were eleven of them. It required twelve to constitute a jury, but they would be enough. The very idea of a jury was an innovation in Russia – one that had been instigated by the accused himself, a particularly august Russian. They came from all parts of the motherland – from Petersburg and Moscow, of course, but also from the south; from Gelendzhik and Odessa and Kiev. It was those from the south who argued most keenly for a death sentence. They knew poverty better, or had at least witnessed it more closely. None of the Executive Committee was truly poor, though some had parents who had been serfs – until emancipation, eighteen years before. Some might catch a hint of irony that the condemned man was also the emancipator, but sentimentality was a weakness. He would not be sentimental when it came to dealing with them.

  Lipetsk was a spa town and the eleven of them – ten men and one woman – arrived in ones and twos, under the guise of patients. They drank the waters, bathed in the mud and rowed on the lake, gazing into its clear, fishless waters. Shiryaev suggested that the minerals which made the waters so healthy for men meant also that fish could not live in them. Shiryaev was a scientist. That would prove useful.

  The lake was known to locals as the Antichrist Pond. It was Frolenko who asked how the name arose. The antichrist in question, so they were told, was none other than Tsar Pyotr I – Peter the Great. The Executive Committee hid their smiles. Pyotr was the great-great-great-grandfather of the man they had come here to judge. When he had begun to reform Russian society at the beginning of the eighteenth century, many believed him to be the false prophet that the Bible foretold. Today the members of Land and Liberty held Aleksandr II in similar regard, though they cared little for Christian mythology.

  On 15 June the Executive Committee made their way to a forest outside the town; though a popular spot for picnics, they managed to find a secluded glade. It was not their main purpose, but they too had brought food, wine and vodka. They were in a merry mood. On the way there Zhelyabov showed off his enormous strength, lifting a passing droshky by its rear axle and stopping the horse in its tracks. They did not mind drawing attention to themselves; no one would guess their true purpose.

  After they had eaten, Aleksandr Dmitrievich Mihailov read out the charges against his namesake, Aleksandr Nikolayevich Romanov. The tsar, though not present to face his accusers, had but one defence. Mihailov dismissed it. ‘The emperor has destroyed in the second half of his reign almost all the good he permitted to be done by the progressive figures of the sixties,’ he explained to the others. Each of them was asked in turn whether the reforms of Aleksandr’s earlier reign could win him a pardon for the evils of the present and for those he would yet inflict upon the country if allowed to live. From each came the same answer: ‘No.’

  The sentence was passed.

  Then they went on to discuss how the execution was to take place and how, once the tsar was dead, the whole edifice of monarchy would be brought down. The second matter seemed simple, almost dull. Revolution would be brought about by the people. On Aleksandr’s death the masses would sense their freedom. It would be more a question of how to guide the transformation of government than how to instigate it. Matters would be helped though if the tsar was not the only one to die. It would be easier if there was no obvious successor. The tsarevich, Aleksandr Aleksandrovich, should not become Aleksandr III. His son, though just eleven, should not become Nikolai II. There were those who would rally even to a child emperor if he bore the Romanov name.

  But the tsar himself must be the prime target. As to how he would die, it was Shiryaev, the scientist, who made the suggestion – a new invention to bring about a new age
: dynamite. It provided everything they needed. It would give the executioner the opportunity of escape; it stood the chance of dealing with those around the tsar as well as the tyrant himself; and it would be noticed. Land and Liberty had learned from their French predecessors that terror itself was a political statement.

  And so the Congress of Lipetsk closed with much decided. The Executive Committee knew what had to be done. They knew how it was to be done. All that remained was to choose when.

  But the decisions of the Executive Committee were not entirely popular among the wider membership of Land and Liberty. A further congress took place in Voronezh and within two months Land and Liberty was no more. Those who disagreed with the conclusions reached in Lipetsk formed their own party, Black Repartition, dedicated to a fairer distribution of land for the peasants, brought about by political means.

  The Executive Committee, and many others, remained faithful to what they had decided; remained dedicated to carrying out the sentence which they had passed upon the tsar. They too chose a new name for their group, a name which described in simple terms that which they believed themselves … which they knew themselves to embody.

  They called themselves Narodnaya Volya – the People’s Will.

  The verdict was unanimous. The sentence was death.

  This trial had been a simpler affair, though it had preceded the events of Lipetsk by over a decade. It had taken place in Saratov in 1865. The accused was not a member of the imperial family, or the nobility, or even a citizen of Russia, though it was in Russia that his offences had been committed. With him there was no need to balance the good of his earlier years with the evils of his later life. There was no mitigation for his crimes.

  Where the trial in Lipetsk would be forced to function with only eleven jurors, in Saratov there were just two. Even so, they followed the procedures of a trial, taking on all the necessary roles between them. For one of the two it was a game, for the other an obsession. It was the older of them, the woman, who spoke most. She was counsel for the prosecution and the chief witness. Other witnesses could not be present, so she represented them, retelling their experiences as best she knew them. She even acted as counsel for the defence. When the judge called on her to present her case she stood up, took a deep breath and then returned to her seat without a word. The judge giggled.

  Then the jury – so recently acting as judge and counsel – retired. Unanimity between two was easier than between eleven, but there had never been any doubt as to the verdict. It fell to the judge to announce what they had decided. Some might see it as pointless that the only person he had to announce it to had moments before sat with him on the jury, but he understood the concept of play-acting.

  Having discovered the verdict it was the judge’s duty to pass sentence. The counsel for the prosecution made a strong case for death, against which the defence could find no arguments. The judge did not deliberate for long. He spoke the single word ‘Death’ in a whisper. It was an onerous decision for any judge to make, more so because it meant that one day he would have to take on another role – that of executioner.

  More onerous still because the judge was a little boy – a little boy just eight years old.

  CHAPTER I

  OSOKIN GLANCED AT his watch. One minute before noon.

  ‘Steady,’ he said, his voice edged with suppressed excitement that he hoped wouldn’t be read as fear.

  Colonel Otrepyev didn’t respond. He stood, or half stood, in the mouth of the side tunnel, too tall to fully straighten his back in the enclosed space. Ahead of him were the handful of troops that he’d brought with him on his mysterious late-night arrival, six days before, with orders from on high that his every whim was to be catered for. That side tunnel, the result of six days’ labour, was more than a whim.

  The main attack force was some way behind, at the mouth of the larger tunnel. Osokin had no plans to join them when they finally surged forward. His duty had been to undermine the city, not to invade it. Originally he’d intended to follow up with the rearguard, taking a little less glory for a little less risk, but since Otrepyev’s arrival his ideas had changed. He wanted to see what lay at the end of that other tunnel.

  ‘All set, Lieutenant?’ he asked.

  Lieutenant Lukin glanced up. He licked his dry lips and nodded curtly. He was the real genius behind all of this. He was scarcely more than twenty; only a few years out of the Imperial Technical School in Moscow. It was an odd route into the army, but an effective one. Science was the future of war; every officer knew that, all except a few geriatrics who’d have done better to die at Sevastopol in place of their men. But their time was past and a different breed of officer was eager to make its mark. Lukin knew his business – and his business was tunnelling and explosives. It was as though he’d been born for this job.

  Osokin would never have guessed that they would get so far in so short a time. They’d started just two weeks ago, as 1880 had turned into 1881, and now they were ready. Above them, the massive citadel of Geok Tepe stood, ignorant of how it had been subverted, unprepared for the devastation to come. Each day it withstood a barrage of sixty Russian guns raining shell and shot down on the mud-brick walls. But today, at noon, the danger would come from a quite different direction.

  It was quiet now. The beginning of the salvo was to be the signal. Ahead of them, down the tunnel – a safe, long distance ahead of them – lay five thousand pounds of nitroglycerin. Two thin copper wires led all the way back to where Lukin was crouched. In front of him sat a small wooden box with a little handle at the side and two metal pins sticking out of the top. Lukin had tried to explain, and though Osokin had no real idea how it worked, he understood enough. Lukin had simply to wind the handle, generating an electric current and then – boom – the walls of Geok Tepe would crumble. Joshua himself could not have done better, even with ten thousand ram’s horns.

  But Otrepyev’s arrival had added further complications. Osokin had despised him on sight, and had to bite his lip to keep from muttering the word ‘oprichnik’ whenever the colonel walked past. The more correct term these days was ‘ohranik’, but whatever the name, Colonel Otrepyev reeked of the Third Section. Or he might have done if the Third Section had still existed. Its disbandment five months before had been a universal joy. But its work continued, and its stench lingered.

  But the colonel’s orders had to be obeyed. The extra tunnel had been dug and now another pair of wires emerged from it, at the far end of which lay more explosives; not as much as had been used for the main tunnel, but enough. Otrepyev and Lukin had discussed it all very carefully. Otrepyev knew where he wanted the tunnel to lead and Lukin knew how to get it dug. Lukin had been happy to assist. Perhaps he was too young to understand what Otrepyev was. Perhaps he was too smart to reveal his revulsion for a man who would spy on his own people. Perhaps he was just too fascinated by the work itself. Only minutes earlier he had twisted his detonation wires with Otrepyev’s, and when the time came the larger explosion would mask the smaller.

  When the time came.

  Osokin looked at his watch again. It was a minute past. The sound of the guns would be muffled down here, but they’d be heard. Every day of digging they’d been audible, and that was above the crunch of shovels scraping unceasingly against the soil. Now all was silent. The loudest sound was Osokin’s own breathing. In the dimly lit tunnel it was impossible to see the men waiting behind, or the bend in the passage ahead which would protect them from the blast. The tallow candles spaced out along the walls flickered, making the shadows jump back and forth. Lukin had suggested using electric light, but the resources were simply not available out here, closer to Afghanistan than to Russia.

  When it came, it was more of a sensation than a noise, reaching Osokin not through his ears but his feet. He waited a few moments more, wanting to be certain. It was a different sound from that of the days before, when they had been digging. Now he could hear nothing of the guns themselves; the blasts of expanding
gas forcing the shells from their muzzles. All that could be perceived was the shaking ground as the onslaught pummelled the city above. He glanced at Lukin, who had noticed it too.

  ‘The men, sir,’ said Lukin, jerking his head in the direction of the tunnel behind them. ‘All those bodies – must be blocking the sound.’

  Osokin nodded. He looked over at Otrepyev, who finally returned his gaze.

  ‘Well?’ demanded the colonel.

  Much as Osokin would have liked to toy with Otrepyev’s impatience, he knew his duty. The guns had begun firing; the rest must follow. He pressed his fingers against his ears.

  ‘Do it!’ he hissed at Lukin.

  The lieutenant turned the handle rapidly, like a little boy playing with a diable-en-boîte. Just as with the toy, the exact moment at which his effort would bear fruit was unpredictable. Thus the blast, even though expected, was a surprise when it came.

  It was testament to the glorious power of technology that so slight an action could have so devastating an effect. The sound from the side tunnel, the shorter of the two, came first, but only by a moment. Even with his ears covered it was possible to distinguish the scale and direction of the two blasts, until the one from the tunnel ahead became so loud as to drive out every other sound – every other thought. It was still growing in volume when Osokin felt its effects – first a wind rushing through the passageway towards him, and then a more solid impact, as though he had run into a wall, which threw him back on to the ground. For a moment his hands moved from the sides of his head in an attempt to break his fall and he experienced the full intensity of the sound hammering against his eardrums. He quickly covered his ears again, preferring to be bruised than deafened.

  He lay still for a few moments. Clouds of dust and debris began to billow along the tunnel towards them. To his right he noticed that Lukin had removed his hands from his ears and was using them to cover his mouth and nose. Osokin did likewise, and squeezed his eyes shut too as the first flecks of pulverized rock began to pepper them. The noise was still loud, but now more of a slow rumble, as column by column the city’s southern wall started to collapse into the pit that the explosion had created.