The White Russian

“Jew lover!” they shouted again. Several of the group had rocks which they were throwing at the windows on the ground floor.

Ruzsky turned. He saw Michael in the doorway, his face pale. “What are they doing, Papa?” Ingrid was behind him.

“Stay here,” Ruzsky instructed. He walked down the last flight of stairs to the hall. He was dressed only in trousers and a loose, white shirt, the holster slung over his shoulder. He pulled out his revolver as another missile came crashing through the drawing room window. The valet, Peter, was in the hall. “Have you got a gun?” Ruzsky demanded.

“No, sir.”

“Do any of the servants?”

“I don’t believe so.”

Peter’s face betrayed no fear. “Did my father keep any other guns in the house?”

“Only his revolver, sir, so far as I’m aware.”

The shouting from the street was growing louder. Ruzsky saw his son’s face poking through the banisters. “If anything happens to me-if any of them are armed-then bolt the door behind me and call Pavel Miliutin, my deputy at the police department, on Petrograd 446. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Ruzsky strode forward and pulled back the door. He charged down the steps, his sudden and violent appearance bringing a hush to the crowd.

He stopped and surveyed them. “You have ten seconds to leave the street, by official order, and I will shoot anyone who remains a moment longer.”

Ruzsky looked from face to face. He saw the hunger for violence there, the desire to be bold enough to storm through to the world of wealth and privilege that lay behind him. For a few seconds, he feared that his ultimatum would not be enough, and that he would have to carry out his threat. Then one turned away, and the others slowly followed.

He saw a curtain twitching in the house opposite, but none of the neighbors-friends and colleagues of his father’s for many years-had come to offer any help.

48

T he following morning, Ruzsky watched Ingrid and Michael go. He had helped conceal a few spare clothes inside Ingrid’s coat, and now, from the window of his father’s bedroom, he kept his eye upon their receding figures until they disappeared at the end of the street.

He saw with satisfaction that the man in the sled did not follow. He barely gave them a second glance.

At the city police headquarters, Ruzsky found his colleagues gathered at the window. Beside Pavel, Maretsky looked like a dwarf. As they turned to see who had entered, the professor mumbled his condolences, then stared at the floor in embarrassment.

Ruzsky joined them at their vantage point. The man who had tailed him from Millio

He heard chanting and craned his neck to identify its source. About a hundred or more protestors were walking in their direction, carrying a tawdry red ba

Ruzsky watched the faces of the Okhrana men as the protest passed. “You were followed here too?” he asked Pavel.

“Yes.”

“How long have you had a tail?”

“Since first thing this morning.”

Ruzsky glanced at Maretsky, then tugged at Pavel’s arm and moved him over to the other side of the office. “Did you manage to-”

“I could not find her. I searched half the night.”

Ruzsky felt his chest tighten. “Where did you look?”

“She was not at her apartment. The neighbors had not seen her.”

“Perhaps she came back later?”

“I checked for the last time at past one in the morning.”

“Did you-”

“She wasn’t at the Mariinskiy. They had been expecting her for a rehearsal in the afternoon, but she never showed up. When I impressed upon them the urgency of my inquiry, they gave me the name of a Guards officer… your brother.” Pavel’s tone was neutral; he offered no judgment on his partner’s personal affairs. “I went over to the barracks. The officer on duty said that Major Ruzsky had been expected at di

“You spoke to him?”

“He was in uniform-as if he had been intending to go to the di

“And you believed him? It was not possible she was inside the apartment?”

“Sandro, I could see the concern in his face. He said he had been due to meet her at seven that evening, but she had not appeared.”

Ruzsky retreated to his desk. He sat and rubbed his temples. What was she doing?

“Have you ever heard of the Kresty Crossing?” he asked.

“No. Why?”

“Maretsky?”

The professor turned around, startled. “What?”

“Have you ever heard of somewhere called the Kresty Crossing?”

“Er… no.” He shook his head. “What is it?”

“It’s a place. At least, I assume it is.”

“Should I be aware of it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why?” Pavel asked again.

“You remember the numbers on the money we found on the American? Well, the message spells: ‘The Kresty Crossing.’ ”

The pair of them examined him in silence. “How do you know that?” Pavel asked.

“I found the code book.”

Pavel was about to open his mouth to ask where, when he saw the answer in his friend’s eyes. Ruzsky offered no further clarification. He stood and moved over to the map of the city on the wall above Pavel’s desk.

“Are you sure it’s a place?” Pavel asked.

“It sounds to me like a railway junction.”

All three were silent as they studied the map. Ruzsky traced the line of each route out of the capital, but no crossings were marked.

“What makes you think it’s a railway junction?” Maretsky asked.

“Because the last thing we know the group in Yalta did was rob a train.”

Pavel leaned back against the edge of his desk. “Aren’t we clutching at straws?” he said gently.

“Why?” Ruzsky struggled to persuade himself that somewhere here lay the key to Maria’s disappearance.

“Well… I mean, Ella stole something from the Empress. That’s why she was killed…”

“We’ve assumed that’s why she was killed.”

Pavel frowned. “You don’t think the two events are co

“Perhaps not in the way we thought.”

Pavel shifted onto the top of his desk and swung his legs to and fro, deep in thought. “But, as you said before, Ella was a shy, quiet girl. Someone put her up to that theft. Why would they want her to steal from the Empress if their intention was to rob a train? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“We know that Borodin assembled his people here for a specific purpose. We know that robbery is something at which they are experienced.”

“That doesn’t explain any of the deaths.”

Ruzsky stared at the telephone in front of him. He picked up the receiver and asked the operator to co

As the call was put through, he imagined the bell ringing in Maria’s empty hallway.

He waited. There was no answer.

He replaced the receiver. Pavel was watching him. Ruzsky knew he was testing the limits of his loyalty.

He sifted mechanically through the paperwork that had accumulated on his desk. There was a note from Sarlov, but as he picked it up, he saw Maretsky slipping out of the door. “Have you heard from Professor Egorov?” he asked.

The professor stopped.

“You said he was going to telephone you. You showed him the inscription on the knife.”

“Of course. I’ll call him.”

Maretsky pulled the door shut behind him.