The White Russian

I pause, my dear cousin, in the hope that I must be exaggerating, but I fear it is not so. Such things-and much worse-are said upon every street corner. The list of those who have beseeched the Emperor to form a government led by men respected in the country at large continues to lengthen; the Dowager Empress has pleaded with him, as has his brother Michael Alexandrovich, and more grand dukes, senior members of the Duma, and foreign ambassadors than one cares to count. The Emperor listens to all of them, but says nothing, smoking incessantly and drinking tea prescribed by a quack doctor, which those around him at Mogilev believe to be a mixture of henbane and hashish, which reduces him to a state of almost complete inertia.

So, what then, dear cousin, is to become of us? I fear the worst. As each day lengthens, the few remaining officials of any honor and competence try to prevent the inevitable catastrophe. All around is panic, greed, mistrust and fear. We are increasingly in the hands of our own secret police, a group of men as unscrupulous as any enemy. A Guards officer attempted to assassinate the Empress two weeks ago, but was caught and hanged. However, it is only a matter of time before someone succeeds. There are plans to remove the Emperor and make his brother regent to his son, before the revolution on the streets begins, but I fear it is already too late. It is now only a question of when and in what form change will occur. Everyone knows it.

Forgive me, my old friend, but I find it impossible to convince myself any longer that my fears are unfounded. While I have no right to do so, I hope you will forgive me if I request that you offer those members of my family who may find their way to England all possible assistance. I will, of course, never leave my post, and the same is true, I’m sure, of Sandro. I have grave fears, however, for Dmitri’s wife, Ingrid, and am attempting to persuade her to travel abroad. It may become necessary for her to take my grandson with her. I am transferring adequate funds.

It is late and I must try to sleep. Pray for us, please.

Your ever loving cousin,

Nicholas

Ruzsky folded the letter and put it back into the envelope. He sat back, staring at the ceiling.

The old man had expected disaster, but there was no sign here that he was about to give up.

Ruzsky lit a cigarette. He thought, as he smoked it, of the way his father had once revered the Emperor’s father, the giant Alexander III, who had appeared to them, when they were children, as nothing short of godlike.

Then he recalled the Tsarina’s strained, haunted face, upon their meeting at Tsarskoe Selo not two weeks ago.

Ruzsky leaned forward, stubbed out his cigarette, and continued with his work. He sifted through the rest of the desk drawers and made piles on the floor around him of papers that he would need to discuss with Dmitri. The biggest contained those relating to the family’s financial situation. Most pressing was a letter from the manager of the Moscow Bank on the Nevsky asking for firm confirmation of the order to press ahead with the transfer of a significant part of the family’s cash reserves to the bank in London. It was dated yesterday and delivered by hand. A bank statement revealed that the balance of their father’s account stood at more than a million rubles. The old man had clearly been liquidating assets for a considerable period of time.

Other papers detailed the rest of the family’s wealth. There were shares in three private banks and numerous companies, including several involved in arms production. But the paperwork was not assembled in order. The old man had not been intending to take his leave so suddenly.

Ruzsky worked alone in his father’s study by the light of a desk lamp, looking for documents or letters relating to what the old man had told him that morning. He found nothing.

He remembered the precise words now. To protect the wealth of the Tsar from the mob.

Ruzsky moved his chair, knocking over a pile of letters that he and his brother had written from the Corps des Pages. He bundled them together again, then sunk to his knees and dragged his hand along the ledge beneath the desk, where his father had always kept the key to the safe.

There was no sign of it.

He stood and moved to the hall. He placed another call to Maria’s apartment, but there was still no response.

Ruzsky asked the exchange to put him through to the theater again.

“Mariinskiy.” He had reached the same operator, but could hear the guests gathering for the evening performance in the background.

“I would like to speak to Maria Popova, please.”

“Not dancing tonight.”

“Could you get a message to her, it’s important.”

“Call again in the morning.”

As the line was again abruptly cut, Ruzsky swore violently under his breath. He stood in the silence of the dark hallway, thinking, then moved through to the drawing room.

There was a sled parked on the opposite side of the street, in a dark corner beyond the gas lamp, its driver huddled up on the front seat in swathes of blanket, as if expecting a long wait. Vasilyev’s men were making little attempt to conceal that they were watching him.

Ruzsky returned to the hall. He placed a call to Tsarskoe Selo. A woman answered. “May I speak to Colonel Shulgin, please.”

“Who is calling?”

“Chief Investigator Ruzsky of the city police department. If you could tell him it is urgent.”

Ruzsky waited. It seemed to take an interminable amount of time before he once again heard footsteps crossing the hallway. “Colonel Shulgin is engaged. May I take a message?”

“Could you tell him to telephone me… Chief Investigator Ruzsky in Millio

“Call again in the morning.”

“Will you tell him it is urgent?”

“I already have. He says to telephone again in the morning.”

The call was terminated.

Ruzsky walked slowly back to his father’s desk. He removed the silver case from his jacket pocket and lit a cigarette. For a moment, he watched the smoke curling up toward the ceiling and imagined his father sitting here alone.

Ruzsky turned over the case and looked at the family crest. It had once belonged to his great-grandfather and had been passed on to each eldest son on his eighteenth birthday.

He sat back.

There was a knock at the front door. Ruzsky stood and moved to the doorway as he heard a servant’s footsteps. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and checked that he had ammunition in his revolver.

47

R uzsky relaxed as he heard Pavel’s voice.

A few seconds later, the big detective slipped into the study. Ruzsky put the revolver back into his pocket. “Expecting company?” Pavel asked.

Ruzsky pointed at the leather seat opposite his desk. Pavel took it, and the proffered cigarette. They smoked in silence. Ruzsky wondered if Pavel had noticed the Okhrana agent outside, and if so, why he had not mentioned it. Had they grown so used to being watched?

“That was where we used to sit,” he said, “while Father read out our school reports.”

“I’m sorry, Sandro.”

“Don’t tell me, you’ve found that all is as it appeared; Sarlov says there was no sign of a struggle, the cause of death is suicide, and the only fingerprints on the revolver belong to my father.”

Pavel did not answer.

“He’d been a different person since I came back from Tobolsk,” Ruzsky said. “He’d changed, and I had barely begun to appreciate it, let alone respond.”

“Don’t punish yourself.”

“It is inevitable. If I’d taken the hand of friendship, then who knows-”

“Who knows indeed? He was a strong man. Honorable, as you have said yourself on many an occasion. He knew exactly what he was doing.”