The White Russian

Ruzsky leaned forward. He looked at the rock on the corner of the desk. It was the most unattractive paperweight imaginable.

“Have you seen the man outside?” Pavel asked.

“Yes.”

“They’re not making any attempt to hide themselves.”

“Whatever Vasilyev is doing, he wanted my father out of the way.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, he wants you out of the way as well.”

Pavel was silent. They both finished their cigarettes and stubbed them out in the large stone ashtray on the corner of the desk. It still had the remnants of Ruzsky’s father’s last cigar.

“The meeting this morning was about how to protect the wealth of the Tsar from a revolutionary mob,” Ruzsky said.

“Your father told you that?”

“Not in so many words.”

Pavel stared at him. His expression was wary.

“I’ve started going through his papers. He feared there would come a point when paper money would cease to have any value. He would not have concerned himself with the Tsar’s private possessions; this must have been to do with the Tsar’s gold. The imperial reserves.”

Pavel shook his head slowly. “But how could that have led to his death?”

“I think Vasilyev has robbery in mind. My father stood in the way.”

There was a lengthy silence. “But how would that have led to-”

Ruzsky thought of the things Vasilyev had implied that afternoon. “I think he was threatened.”

“But your father was… He was a minister of the Imperial Court. He had many co

“I left an urgent message. He did not come to the telephone.”

Pavel stared at the light on the desk. “What do you want me to do?”

“I would ask a favor.”

The big detective waited.

“There is no answer at her apartment, nor the Mariinskiy. Could you find her, try to speak to her alone?” Ruzsky ignored the look of quiet despair in his friend’s eyes. “Tell her what has happened to my father. Try to convince her to leave the city. Just for a few days.”

Pavel stood slowly. He contemplated his friend for a moment more. “I suppose it is too late to persuade you to reconsider?”

“Reconsider what?”

Pavel sighed. “I will do what I can, Sandro. Will I find you here tomorrow?”

“No. I will come to the office.”

“Very well, then.”

As Ruzsky listened to his friend’s receding footsteps, he turned toward the window and looked out into the night, thinking of the things he had chosen not to share.

What was it that Borodin had pla

He needed to have time alone to think.

Ruzsky sat in the kitchen. He had said good night to Michael long since, and waited until he had slipped reluctantly into sleep. The servants had withdrawn.

The house was quiet down here; it was where Ruzsky had always felt most comfortable as a child. It was where he had avoided the constrictions of his parents’ world.

Though his inability to come to terms with the reality of the day’s events still shielded him, that comfort was denied him now.

He heard Ingrid’s soft footsteps. She had bathed and changed, her hair glossy. She wore a high-necked, rich blue dress that matched the color of her eyes. “Is he still asleep?” Ruzsky asked.

She nodded.

“He has fared well, better than I might have expected.”

“Perhaps he is blessed with only partial understanding. For now, at least.”

Ruzsky did not respond.

“Have you had something to eat?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

He gestured at the far side of the wooden table and she took a seat opposite him.

Ingrid shook out her hair and ran her hands through it, her head tipped forward. Then she looked at him. “If there is anything I can do, Sandro, any way in which I can help, please just tell me how.”

“When did Dmitri go out?”

“Shortly before you returned.” Ingrid examined the texture of the table, brushing the palm of her hand against its surface. “He often seeks comfort with her now.” It was said without rancor or bitterness. “She can offer him that, at least.”

Ruzsky felt his cheeks flushing and tried to conceal his own pang of jealousy. He wondered if Ingrid had any inkling that the same woman tormented them both.

“She plans to take him away,” she said quietly. “By the end of this week. Do you know that?”

For a moment, Ruzsky thought she was talking about Maria and Dmitri.

“Irina,” Ingrid went on. “And her Grand Duke.”

“Yes. To Nice.”

They were silent. Ruzsky finished his cigarette and went to find an ashtray in which to stub it out. Failing to locate one, he squashed it against the bottom of an enamel basin and threw it into a wooden bin.

As Ruzsky sat down again, Ingrid reached forward and put her hand on his. “I’m truly sorry, Sandro.”

Ruzsky gazed into her deep blue eyes. He did not know whether to withdraw his hand. “He was an extraordinary man,” she said.

“He was extremely fond of you.”

“And he adored you,” she responded.

Ruzsky withdrew his hand slowly. “We had our… difficulties.”

“But he was always so very proud of you. Of who you are. He could not conceal it.”

Despite himself, Ruzsky felt a flush of pleasure. “He concealed it for many years.”

“He talked about you almost constantly over the past few months. He could not hide his excitement at the prospect of your return.”

Ruzsky tried to imagine this. If Ingrid’s face had not radiated such sincerity, he’d have suspected her of humoring him. “He had changed. I failed to see it.” Ruzsky thought again of that last conversation in the drawing room. “I failed to respond,” he said.

“Don’t blame yourself. It is the last thing he would have wanted.”

They were silent. The great gaping void of his suicide hung between them. How could either of them know what he would have wanted, when they had not suspected the imminence of such a catastrophe?

“Did you see any sign?” Ruzsky whispered.

Ingrid shook her head.

“Was his behavior in any way out of the ordinary, these last few days?”

“He was subdued, quite gentle. But then, that is how I shall remember him.”

“Did you speak to him this morning?”

“I saw him in the hall after breakfast. I asked if he was not going to the ministry and he said, no, not today. I thought that was odd, in such times, but he did not appear to wish to converse, so I took Michael upstairs to the attic until we went to the Summer Gardens.” Ingrid tried to smile. “I think Michael hoped we would wake you. One of the servants had told him you were here.”

“And when you came down again?”

“The study door was ajar, and I could see a light on. I assumed he was at work. But, as you know, he did not like to be disturbed.”

“Had he received any callers the previous night?”

“No.”

“No telephone calls?”

“Several, but I did not answer them. Dmitri was dining at his mess; your father took his meal in the study. But he worked late. I needed a glass of water in the middle of the night-at one or two in the morning-and did not wish to trouble the servants, so I came to get it myself. When I passed his study, the light was still on.”

“You did not look in?”

Ingrid shook her head.

“He never made any comment about the work of the Ministry?”

“Never. Nor about the government, except in the most general terms, and then only to discuss the progress of the war.”

“And to Dmitri?”

“I… I do not believe so. It was Dmitri’s great frustration. He said they never talked about anything in depth, merely exchanged platitudes.”

Ruzsky wondered again where his brother was.

“Was there anything about the past few days that struck you as out of the ordinary? Any visitors? Any chance remark?”

Ingrid shook her head. “The city is tense, Sandro. It has affected us all. The servants… everyone.”