The White Russian

52

R uzsky slept fully clothed in Michael’s bed, and was awake long before dawn.

He pulled back the tiny curtain. It was still snowing heavily, the gas lamps dull orbs in a sea of swirling darkness. But Ruzsky could see the sled. Its occupant was still there, wrapped in blankets.

Ruzsky checked his watch. It was almost six. The day was Friday, but he could not be certain of the date.

He walked across the hall. Dmitri had not returned. He searched the bedrooms on the lower floors for good measure, and then took a few minutes to shave.

When he had finished, Ruzsky climbed back to the top floor and walked slowly through the rooms. He wished to take leave carefully of his childhood home today. He looked at his own room, then Ilya and Dmitri’s.

He went to his father’s bedroom on the first floor.

Ruzsky stared at the carnations, which had begun to wilt, and surveyed his father’s silver hairbrushes, neatly set out on top of the dresser. He felt like a ghost, drifting silently through a former life.

Ruzsky picked up the telephone in the hall and asked the operator to co

“What room number, sir?”

“I’m not certain.”

After a momentary delay, he was co

“Ingrid?”

“Sandro.”

“I’m sorry to wake you.”

“What is it, Sandro?”

“I just… wanted to check you were all right.”

“We’re fine. Michael is still asleep.”

“Will you stay in the hotel today? I know it is hard, but if it is possible…”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Just stay inside if you can.”

“Have you seen Dmitri?”

“No.” Ruzsky tried to sound untroubled. “But I’m going to look for him now. There’s something I need to talk to him about. He’s probably staying in the barracks, or perhaps he’s taken a room at the yacht club.”

“Of course.”

“Go back to sleep.”

“Goodbye, Sandro.”

Ruzsky went to find one of his father’s thick woolen overcoats from the cloakroom and took a new sheepskin hat from the shelf. As he put them on, he glanced once more around the darkened hallway, his gaze resting upon the scabbard on the wall just inside the drawing room door.

He hesitated only a moment more and then walked forward and out into the street, the front door slamming shut behind him.

It was snowing harder than ever. An Arctic wind chafed his ears as it whistled down from Palace Square. Ruzsky pulled down the flaps of his hat and began to walk, his eyes half closed against the driving snow. At this time and in this weather, the city was deserted; his only company was his pursuer.

Ruzsky deliberately walked through the Summer Gardens, forcing the Okhrana man to leave the sled and follow him on foot.

At the iron gates to the main Preobrazhensky barracks opposite the Tavrichesky Garden, a sergeant in the guard box eyed him suspiciously before wiping away the condensation that had gathered upon his window and pulling it back. “Yes.”

“I’m looking for Major Ruzsky.”

“At this time in the morning?” He was one of the old school. On his top lip, he sported a long and elegant mustache with fine, waxed curls at its tips. He consulted his list. “No. Not present.”

“Has he been at all, during the night?”

“Do I look like his mother?”

“You haven’t seen him?”

“Who is asking?”

“His brother, Alexander Ruzsky.”

The man shook his head.

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

Ruzsky retraced his steps past the Summer Gardens, through Millio

Ruzsky checked his watch once more before continuing on his cold and lonely walk down Morskaya, past the gilded window of the jeweler Fabergé, and the dusty premises of Watkins, the old English bookseller.

As he turned toward the Tsarskoe Selo Station, Ruzsky had almost forgotten that the man from the Okhrana was behind him, but when he looked around, he was only about twenty yards away. He had abandoned all pretense of concealment.

Waiting by the ornate gates of the Alexander Palace at Tsarskoe Selo little more than an hour later, Ruzsky pulled his coat tight around him. He was cold now, through to his core.

The palace grounds were deserted. The sentry had retreated to his box. In the building overlooking the gate, an officer of the palace police watched him.

Ruzsky tried to light a cigarette, but soon gave up. He had lost all feeling in his feet, and bashed his boots hard to try and restore it. His welcoming committee was taking a damned long time.

At length, the guard instructed him to proceed. He pointed at the near corner of the palace. “They are waiting,” he said.

Ruzsky began to walk, his head tipped forward against the wind.

Another uniformed guard was standing outside the large wooden doors to the family’s private wing, and he ushered Ruzsky up the steps and into the hall. He took off his hat, coat, and gloves and tried unsuccessfully to prevent the snow from falling on the polished wooden floor. A footman removed them from his arm.

Colonel Shulgin strode down the corridor toward him. His face was like granite, but his eyes communicated a different message, perhaps, Ruzsky thought, comradeship or compassion. “Come this way, please,” he said.

Ruzsky followed.

Shulgin led him to the antechamber and they sat in a pair of upholstered chairs beneath the portrait of Marie Antoinette. Ruzsky glanced up at it. He had once been told that it hung over the Empress’s desk.

They waited. Shulgin examined his hands. “I’m sorry about your father,” he said beneath his breath. He stared dead ahead. “I had not imagined…”

“I must speak with you.”

They heard footsteps from the direction of the Empress’s private apartments. She swept into the room, wearing a dark dress with a cream brooch at the neck. Shulgin and Ruzsky both stood and bowed low.

The Empress waved them back to their seats and took one opposite. She was about to start speaking when they heard a child’s cry in the distance. She began to get up, then chose to ignore it and sat down, smoothing the front of her dress.

There was another scream, a boy’s, high-pitched and heartfelt. This time the Empress stood, turned, and departed without a word.

Ruzsky listened to her rapid footsteps. “Colonel Shulgin. I very much need to-”

“Later, Chief Investigator. Please bear in mind where you are.”

At length, the Empress returned. She offered no explanation, nor apology, and after they had repeated their bows and seated themselves once more, she stared at the floor. Ruzsky wondered if she was having difficulty remembering why he was here, or even who he was. A phrase from his father’s letter echoed in his mind: She has become quite unhinged…

What struck him most was how tired she looked; in fact more than tired. He himself was exhausted, and so, by the look of it, was Shulgin, but the fatigue in the Tsarina’s eyes was of a wholly different nature. Her face and mouth were pinched, her eyes hollow. She gave the impression of having to exert a gigantic effort of will simply to articulate a question.

“You have not recovered…” She sighed and placed her head in her hand for a moment, as if once again having to steel herself to think straight. “You have not recovered the girl’s possessions?”

Ruzsky did not answer. He could not imagine what he was supposed to say.

“The chief investigator is primarily conducting a murder investigation,” Shulgin said. Ruzsky noticed the tension in his voice and face. He wondered whether any of them had had any sleep.

The Empress did not appear to understand. She frowned heavily at Shulgin.