The People's Will Read online

  ‘Your interests are not in saving your emperor?’ It was hard to tell whether Aleksandr was more astonished or amused.

  ‘I’m interested in only one thing: Iuda – Cain. All I ask is that you leave him for me to deal with. Do what you will with Zmyeevich.’

  Aleksandr glanced at his brother, who replied with a shrug. The tsar considered for a moment.

  ‘We’ll see how things develop.’

  ‘How shall I contact you?’ asked Mihail.

  Aleksandr thought for a moment. ‘If you need either of us, go to Fontanka 16. You know where that is?’

  Mihail eyed his father ruefully and received an apologetic smile in response.

  ‘Ask for Colonel Mrovinskiy,’ Aleksandr continued. ‘He’s the man who escorted you here. He’ll convey your messages – or arrange a meeting.’

  Aleksandr stood, as did Konstantin a moment later. Mihail took it that their conversation was at an end. He rose to his feet. ‘Just one more thing,’ he said. ‘What do you know about Ascalon?’

  The two brothers exchanged glances. Evidently the word meant something to them. It was Konstantin who chose to explain.

  ‘It’s a part of the story that no one has ever understood – it may not even be true, but it’s been passed down through the family since Pyotr.’

  ‘Go on,’ insisted Mihail.

  ‘It dates back to Senate Square in 1712 – just a field then – when Zmyeevich drank Pyotr’s blood, and then Pyotr refused to drink his, and Zmyeevich fled. Well, the story also goes that Pyotr took something from him – took Ascalon – and it’s for that Zmyeevich hated him most.’

  ‘So you have it – it was passed down?’

  Konstantin shook his head. ‘What Pyotr did with it, I’ve no idea. The whole thing may be nothing more than myth. It’s said that he hid it – buried it. We don’t know what it is, how big it is – nothing.’

  ‘Buried it? Where?’

  ‘Where else would he bury it,’ explained the tsar, ‘but in his new capital?’

  ‘In Petersburg?’

  Aleksandr nodded. ‘We don’t know the street or the building, but somewhere, perhaps somewhere that you or I walk every day, Ascalon lies waiting.’

  News travelled fast. It had been only hours since Iuda had tapped out his message, and now Luka stood before him. Who he might have bribed to gain access to a prisoner in the Peter and Paul Fortress, Iuda did not care to ask. The door slammed shut behind them, locking them in together. Luka walked over and embraced him.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Vasya.’

  ‘You too, Luka,’ Iuda replied, patting him on the back. They separated and Iuda held him by the shoulders, eyeing him up and down. ‘You look well.’

  ‘I wish I could say the same for you,’ said Luka. ‘It must be hell in here.’

  Iuda could not tell how he looked, but he knew he was hungry, so it would not be good. His skin would be wrinkled and dry and his muscles withered. His hair would not have changed colour, but the human eye was happy to see blond as grey when it matched the tone of the skin. It was probably for the best. He had known Luka for over two decades, long enough for the question of his eternal youth to be whispered insidiously by Luka’s subconscious.

  ‘No worse for me than for any other comrade,’ he said.

  Luka nodded. It was hard for Iuda to look at him and not think of Lyosha. The grandson was only a shadow of the grandfather, and yet Iuda feared him, just as Pelias feared Jason – as Pharaoh feared Moses. Luka was the last descendant of Lyosha; the last living descendant – Dmitry did not count. If Luka should ever make contact with his mother and discover the truth about Iuda, then his attitude might be very different.

  That was why Iuda had befriended him. After his escape from the cells beneath the Kremlin Iuda had headed for Petersburg. And once in Petersburg he had sought out Luka. He knew the details; Tamara had been an employee of the Third Section and so all the information about her children – the two who died and the one who survived – was on file. Iuda, under yet another alias – though he’d grown to like the Christian name of Vasiliy – made his move. It was a variation upon a theme that had worked well in the past, not least when he inveigled his way into the lives of Lyosha’s wife and son, Marfa and Dmitry, so many years before. He worked on Luka’s adoptive father first, making a few business deals, then became a friend of the family. Then as the father was away more and more often, thanks to Iuda, he took a special interest in the son, Luka.

  It was once Luka had gone to study in Moscow at the Agricultural Academy that he’d shown an interest in politics. He fell under the sway of the radical Sergey Gennadiyevich Nyechayev. Luka didn’t speak of it directly, but his occasional references to the lot of the peasants and the need for democracy were enough for Iuda to pick up on. Iuda displayed a little sympathy for the cause and Luka displayed a little more and soon each understood the other; the only hope for Russia lay in the overthrow of the tsar.

  Even after Nyechayev had murdered one of Luka’s fellow students, the improbably named Ivan Ivanovich Ivanov, Luka’s faith in the cause had not been shaken, though he had turned against Nyechayev. Iuda had affected a greater degree of disillusionment, only to draw Luka in more. Before the war against Turkey both of them had been on the peripheries of various underground groups, but the war had changed a great number of things. Many of the revolutionaries, staunch Slavophiles, had gone to the Balkans to protect Serbs and Bulgarians from their Ottoman oppressors. It had thinned out their numbers, but those who returned knew better how to kill. Iuda had marched with the army – though for reasons of his own – while Luka had remained in the motherland. The three years of Iuda’s imprisonment had weakened his ties with the revolutionaries, but for Luka it seemed that time had only drawn him closer to their centre.

  Today, Nyechayev was Iuda’s fellow prisoner, somewhere in one of the fortress’s many cells. Messages from and to him travelled through the pipes. He’d been so bold as to ask the People’s Will if they could organize an escape, but the reply was curt, pointing out that they had more important things to do. Perhaps Iuda should ask Luka for a similar favour. In his case they might at least give it a try, but in practical terms it was still an absurd idea – and an unnecessary one. Iuda would walk out when he wanted to.

  ‘I heard you were in Petersburg,’ Luka told him, ‘but I’d no idea you’d been arrested. Have they interrogated you?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Iuda, ‘but it will come.’ His mind was already racing. How had Luka known he was in the city?

  ‘Do you think you’ll be able to stand it?’

  ‘I can only try. Fortunately, I know very little.’

  ‘You know me.’

  ‘Your name will never escape my lips.’

  Luka shook his head. ‘You don’t know what they’re capable of.’

  ‘If it came to it …’ Iuda paused, feigning uncertainty. ‘You could smuggle something in for me; something that would mean I could not speak.’

  ‘No.’ Luka spoke firmly. ‘I’d rather die myself.’

  Iuda mentally noted the offer. He changed the subject. ‘You said you knew I was in the city? How on earth could you?’

  ‘Through a mutual friend.’ Luka grinned. ‘Another of your “projects”, if I might so describe myself.’

  Iuda smiled back. ‘You’re no project.’

  ‘You know what I mean. I know how you picked me out, in the hope of making something of me. You did just the same with Mihail Konstantinovich.’

  ‘Mihail Konstantinovich?’ Iuda’s ignorance of the name was genuine.

  ‘Mihail Konstantinovich Lukin. There’s no need to pretend, Vasya. He came to visit me.’

  ‘And what did he say?’ Iuda’s mind stepped through the possibilities. He had encountered a Lukin recently – one of the soldiers in Geok Tepe; a lieutenant. The name had been familiar, but any connection to the long-dead Maksim Sergeivich Lukin seemed unlikely. But if this was the same man who had been there in Turkmenistan
then there was only one conclusion to be drawn – that he was working for Dmitry, and therefore, inescapably, for Zmyeevich.

  ‘He told me about how he knew you – how you kept an eye on him after his father died. He said how the two of you had planned to meet here in Petersburg. But he said there was no trace of you. Naturally he presumed you’d come to see me.’

  Iuda nodded. It all reeked of Dmitry – he had learned from how Iuda had approached him and Marfa. Who else would know that, and use it to play upon Luka’s trust?

  ‘And did Mihail mention anyone else – any other “mutual friends” of ours?’

  ‘No, no one. You’re not forgotten though. There are still members of the Executive Committee who remember you and trust you. How do you think your message got to me so swiftly?’

  It was true – there were far too many people who could connect him to Luka. Iuda tried to remember faces and names. It could be any one of them – almost anyone.

  ‘So how much did you tell Mihail about me?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing – nothing that he didn’t already know.’

  Iuda tutted. A clever interrogator could easily make it seem as though he already knew what he’d wheedled out of his subject.

  ‘Did I do wrong?’ asked Luka.

  ‘Luka, I’ve never heard of anyone called Mihail Konstantinovich Lukin in my entire life.’

  ‘My God!’ Luka’s hand went to his mouth. ‘So he’s … one of them?’

  ‘We can only presume so. Did he ask anything specific?’ Iuda tried to remain calm. It would do no good to puncture the façade of congeniality that he’d created for Luka’s benefit.

  ‘Whether I’d seen you. Where you usually stayed in the city. He said he’d tried your club – I didn’t know you had one.’

  ‘He asked where I stay? And did you tell him?’

  ‘I’m not stupid, Vasya. I remember what you told me.’

  ‘Have you been there recently?’

  ‘Not for six months – no one had been there.’

  ‘Were you followed?’

  There was a flash of anger in Luka’s eyes, but it quickly subsided. ‘I’m not stupid,’ he repeated.

  Iuda reached up and touched the young man’s cheek, the manacles he still wore forcing him to raise both hands. ‘Of course you’re not, Luka, but I worry about you – I always have.’

  Luka smiled. ‘I know you do. But it’s you we should be concerned for. We’ve got to get you out of here. What did they arrest you for?’

  ‘Do they need a reason? They’re just fishing.’

  ‘You think you’ll be released soon?’

  Iuda was sure of it, but he wasn’t going to tell Luka his plans.

  ‘I hope so. It always depends on who’s running things. I never met the bastard who arrested me before. Chap by the name of Otrepyev – a colonel.’

  Iuda studied Luka’s face as he spoke, scouring it for a reaction, but none was evident. He could go further and use Dmitry’s real name, but Luka wouldn’t be ready for that. That all presumed he was lying; Iuda doubted it, but prepared for it.

  Luka shook his head. ‘I’ve not heard of him. Must be from Moscow. I’ll ask around.’

  ‘You do that, Luka.’ It couldn’t make things worse.

  There was a banging on the cell door and it opened to reveal the scowling face of the sentry. Luka stepped towards Iuda and embraced him once again, whispering, ‘Don’t worry, Vasya, we’ll get you out.’ Moments later he was gone, and the door slammed shut.

  Iuda slumped to the ground, leaning back against the cold stone wall. It was a shame, but there was no other way. Luka was a useful ally, and if he was to die, Iuda had always hoped it would be in circumstances that in some way punished him for being a Danilov. But he had become too dangerous. He was the only person who knew the location of Iuda’s lair in Petersburg – where he kept his real notebooks and his more important blood samples. He hadn’t gone to all the effort of luring Zmyeevich and Dmitry to that abandoned cellar under Senate Square only to have them learn of his true hideaway from Luka.

  He could have killed Luka there and then. It would have been pleasing to see the surprise on his face, and it would have satisfied Iuda’s growing hunger. But he would not have been able to hide the body from the guards, and even they would have guessed what he was. No, Luka must die remotely, by the mere tapping of a cup against pipework.

  It was a short message, using codes that Iuda had learned years before when he had first infiltrated the revolutionaries. But on hearing it, no one would be in any doubt. Luka was a spy; an oprichnik; an agent of the Ohrana. What his punishment would be was down to the Executive Committee, but their motto had always been ‘pour encourager les autres’. There would be no more risk that Luka would tell what he knew of his Uncle Vasya.

  But there was still the matter of Iuda’s freedom. There the People’s Will would not be called on for help – a higher power was required. Fortunately such a power was just as able to eavesdrop on the tapping of the pipes as any revolutionary. He would start with something simple, but something that would make them prick up their ears. No requests, no demands, just an announcement of who he was. He began to tap again on the pipe.

  5,6 2,6 – 1,1 – 2,4 – 3,3

  Я Каин

  I am Cain

  CHAPTER XII

  LUKA MARCHED DOWN maksimilianovsky lane, his hands deep in his pockets and his eyes fixed on the snowy path in front of him. It was dark now. He had taken a circuitous route back to the apartment, but he’d seen no one following him from the fortress. It hardly mattered – the Ohrana knew about this place anyway. Titov, the dvornik – always sitting in his little room at the door, watching who came and went – was in their pay. Luckily, he was in the pay of the People’s Will too. That didn’t mean he kept quiet to the authorities, but everyone was aware of what he’d told them. At least he was honest in his treachery. Luka preferred that to what Mihail Konstantinovich had done, the way he’d played on Luka’s friendship with Vasya.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a sharp, penetrating tapping sound, three reports, then a space, then three more, repeatedly. He looked up. The sound was coming from the tavern on the street corner. Someone was at the window, banging against it with a coin or something similar. In a moment he realized who it was: Mihail. Luka returned his gaze to the snow and carried on walking.

  He was almost at the door of the house when Mihail caught up with him.

  ‘What do you want?’ asked Luka, making no attempt to hide the bile in his voice. He knew that he should string the man along, make him think he was trusted and then use him against his paymasters, but it was too sickening even to be in his presence.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you again,’ Mihail told him. ‘I’ve not been entirely straight with you.’

  ‘Really?’ There could be no mistaking the cynicism in Luka’s voice.

  They had stopped at the door of the building. ‘Can I come in?’ Mihail asked.

  Luka felt the urge to spit in his face, but what good would that do? Perhaps it would be better to take him up to the apartment and then kill him. There was a pistol up there – it would be very easy. But he shouldn’t be too hasty. He must report what he had learned to the committee. If Mihail were to die, they would decide and would deal with it safely. If not, they would turn him to good use as a conduit for false information back to the Ohrana. Even so, it would be worth taking him up to the rooms, sitting there with him for a little while to hear him spin out his lies, knowing that the revolver was just a short reach away, hoping that he would force Luka into doing something delightfully rash.

  ‘If you must,’ he said.

  They went up the stairs and sat down in the living room. This time Luka made no offer of tea.

  ‘So you lied to me,’ he said.

  Mihail nodded. ‘I did, though not entirely.’

  ‘Not entirely?’ It was typical of the equivocation of an ohranik.

  ‘My connection to you is not through
Vasiliy Grigoryevich.’

  ‘You astonish me. Not in that you don’t know him, but in that you have the honesty to admit it. But then I suppose you already know that I’ve been to see Vasiliy. Your spies at the fortress would have told you that. I’m only surprised you heard so quickly.’

  ‘You’ve found him?’

  ‘Don’t play games,’ sneered Luka.

  ‘He’s at the fortress? The Peter and Paul? A prisoner?’

  ‘A prisoner that you put there – or at least your boss Otrepyev did.’

  Mihail’s reaction to his colonel’s name was evident. He rose to his feet and turned away from Luka, preventing his face from revealing the truth. ‘What did Vasiliy say to you?’

  ‘I’m sure there’s nothing he could tell me that you don’t know already – being such a close friend of his.’

  ‘I’ve already told you I lied about that.’

  ‘Well then, none of what we said is any of your business.’

  Mihail nodded in acceptance. He turned back to face Luka. ‘I’m not what you think I am,’ he said.

  For a moment Luka almost fell for his sincerity. He examined the man. There was not a huge difference in their age – ten years perhaps. They would certainly be considered to be from the same generation. From the way Mihail spoke, he guessed they’d had a similar level of education. Luka was a little taller, though Mihail looked the stronger. What was it that made them different? What event in their early lives had made Luka choose to be a champion of the Russian people and Mihail the acolyte of their oppressor?

  ‘What did you mean earlier?’ Luka asked. ‘When you implied an association with me other than through Vasiliy?’

  Mihail didn’t reply. He stood in silence for a full half-minute, looking directly at Luka but deep in thought. When he spoke, the question was obscenely personal.

  ‘Did you ever go to look for your mother – your real mother?’

  Luka felt his face redden – in anger more than embarrassment. ‘My real mother is the woman who raised me,’ he explained coldly.