The White Russian

45

I n the hallway of the Okhrana’s gloomy headquarters, they had clearly been expecting him. Ruzsky neither had to explain who he was nor offer any form of identification. He was led down the corridor to the elevator, almost colliding with a man bringing a box full of papers out of the printing room.

As the elevator began its ascent, Ruzsky reflected upon the bomb that had been thrown at him in Yalta. Had not the intention been to kill the pair of them then-and if so, why had the Okhrana’s many trained assassins not been instructed to try again?

Were they waiting for the right moment? Had it arrived?

Vasilyev was standing by the door to his dark, wood-paneled office, and he offered his hand as Ruzsky entered. “I’m sorry, Sandro,” he said, in his low, smoke-roughened voice, his eyes searching Ruzsky’s own. His handshake was firm. “Please have a seat.” He pointed to the table around which their last meeting had been conducted. “Please.”

Vasilyev retreated behind his desk, silhouetted against the light. Ruzsky noticed for the first time an oil of the bay at Yalta above the mantelpiece. It looked like it had been painted from the window of Godorkin’s office.

“You have been told of my father’s death?”

“Your office informed the government and Colonel Shulgin telephoned me directly. It must have been a very great shock.”

Vasilyev’s insincerity brought a flush of anger to Ruzsky’s cheeks. Beneath the table, he carefully clenched and unclenched one of his fists. He had promised himself he would not allow himself to be provoked.

“Some tea?” Vasilyev leaned forward to tap a service bell upon his desk.

A young boy in a starched linen jacket appeared through a side door. “Tea,” Vasilyev instructed him. “Would you like something stronger?”

“No.”

Vasilyev slipped his hands into his pockets, waiting for the servant to withdraw.

Ruzsky looked out of the window at the fading light that shrouded the city’s rooftops. For the first time, he felt a stranger in the land of his birth.

Vasilyev smiled. It was as if he was able to read Ruzsky’s mind. He picked up a silver case from his desk. “Cigarette?”

Ruzsky shook his head. Vasilyev lit one for himself.

“You came to a meeting at Millio

“Yes. Tragically, it appears that I was the last-”

“What was it about?”

Vasilyev gave another tight smile. Only good ma

“Did you arrange the meeting?”

Vasilyev did not flinch. He raised a hand and scratched his cheek with one manicured finger. “It was your father who requested that I come to the house on Millio

“Why?”

“He did not say.”

“He must have given some indication.”

“There are many meetings, in many locations.”

“You had frequent contact with him?”

“He ran an important ministry.”

“Would it not have been more usual for him to ask you to go there?”

Vasilyev shrugged. “His request was not unusual.”

“But you knew what the meeting would be about?”

“I had some idea.”

“But you are unwilling to tell me?”

“I am not at liberty to.”

“The meeting was arranged to discuss the assets of the state.” Ruzsky tried to recall the precise words his father had used in the drawing room that morning. The old man had spoken of Vasilyev’s desire to protect the wealth of the Tsar, but to what, precisely, had he been referring? Not, surely, palaces and jewels and private wealth, which would have been neither man’s concern. “You were discussing how to protect the liquid assets of the state, in the event of revolutionary threat?”

As Vasilyev stared at him, exhaling a thick plume of smoke, the picture began to come into focus. All paper money would be worthless in a time of severe unrest. But there was one asset that would be crucial to the imperial government’s future financial viability.

“You were discussing what to do with the gold reserves,” he said.

Vasilyev did not move, but his head seemed to sink still further onto his chest. His face hardened. “What we were discussing is no concern of yours.”

“It was of concern to my father. So much so that it killed him.”

“On the contrary. It would be naive to imagine a co

“If the meeting was routine, then what prevents you enlightening me as to its details?”

“Routine or not, I draw a distinction between a high official of the Tsar and a mere chief investigator in the Petrograd City Police Department.”

Ruzsky’s cheeks burned. “Why was my father present at the meeting we held here yesterday?”

Vasilyev did not answer.

“What interest could he have had in two bodies found on the Neva?”

“You tell me,” Vasilyev said.

“You invited him?”

Vasilyev did not respond, but Ruzsky saw that he was right. “A revolutionary group is assembled. Some personal papers are stolen from the Empress of the Russias. Something is pla

“A co

“Our predicament?”

The young man came back, carrying a silver tray. Vasilyev poured a cup of tea and offered it to Ruzsky, who shook his head. “These are challenging times,” Vasilyev went on. He moved to the window and looked out at the dull afternoon light as he sipped his tea. “When our home catches fire, we must look to see what we can save. Is that not so, Sandro?”

Ruzsky faced him, stilled by Vasilyev’s change in tone.

“The bigger the fire, the greater the danger. But for each man, a different notion of what is precious: For one a painting, or some symbol of great wealth. But for another… a son, perhaps a grandson.”

The words hung in the air. Vasilyev did not look around. “For a third, the woman he loves.”

The chief of the Okhrana turned and smiled, holding the cup of tea to his lips. “Always choices to be made, Sandro. Isn’t that so?”

“You think we’ll disappear?”

Vasilyev took a sip of his tea, then put down the cup on the edge of his desk. “My advice to you is to save what you can before the house burns down.”

“Did you make the same threat to him?”

Vasilyev shook his head. It was not a denial, but an expression of surprise at his naïveté.

“My father’s opposition to you sealed his fate.”

“Goodbye, Sandro.”

“You told him what you would do to us if he did not agree?”

“I have a feeling we will not meet again.”

Outside, Ruzsky leaned back against the stone wall and breathed in the cold winter air.

He was not ten yards from the entrance to the Okhrana’s headquarters and yet all was quiet. A tram had stopped, its dull yellow light a hazy beacon against the black trees behind. A man got off and disappeared down the street, then the bell rang and it continued on its way.

Ruzsky took out and lit a cigarette. His hand shook violently.

He could see the dome of St. Isaac’s in the distance and, closer, the spire of the St. Peter and St. Paul Cathedral, but this was no longer his city; it was alien and remote.

The old man’s love had sealed his own fate and, if it had not done so already, old Russia was dying with him.