The White Russian

“But you left your footsteps. Those last three paces onto the embankment were designed to taunt me.”

Dmitri stared at him. “Not a taunt, Sandro. I knew you would find me.”

“That’s why you didn’t go to the Strelka,” Ruzsky said, almost to himself. “You left the ice to go home.” He looked at his brother. “If he was here, Father would beg you to stop.”

“But he’s not. He’s dead and that house is an empty shell, full of ghosts at every turn. I’ve had enough of ghosts. If I survive, we will leave Russia, begin again…”

“He would still beg you-”

“He would do no such thing. I was never you, Sandro. I was never Ilusha. I was the son he didn’t understand, I was the one for whom he could never conceal his disdain.”

“Dmitri-”

“Though you will deny it, it is true. But he can’t reach me now. I have found a purpose that I have long searched for.”

“Then it is I who must beg you,” Ruzsky said. “And I plead with you on my knees.”

Dmitri looked at him, his anger melting into sorrow and regret. “I’m sorry, Sandro. This is all I have to give her.”

“I ca

“I understand.” Dmitri shook his head, as if to rid himself of his dilemma. “I understand, Sandro, but I must go.”

“Dmitri, I beg you…”

“Don’t try to stop me.”

“In God’s name…” Ruzsky’s cry was taken by the wind.

“Stay there, Sandro!” He turned away and began to run. For several moments Ruzsky watched him go, his tall figure receding into the darkness.

“Dmitri!”

Ruzsky lunged forward, lost his footing, and crashed straight through the ice into the darkness below. The cold was savage, expelling the air from his lungs.

He bobbed up against a solid wall. He gasped, but sucked in only water and began to choke.

Ruzsky kicked down, searching for some sign of light, blood roaring in his ears.

For a moment, these strange and brutal surroundings were familiar. He recognized this place. He remembered once before welcoming its oblivion.

But in his mind’s eye, Ruzsky could see his brother walking across the ice to his fate. He could not let him die alone. He began to kick, his lungs stretched, the cold numbing every fiber of his being.

He saw ripples on the surface of the water.

Lungs exploding, he pushed upward until he burst through the hole.

A hand grasped for his.

A man stooped over him and it took Ruzsky a few moments to recognize who it was. “Pavel?” he asked.

“Be quiet,” the voice hissed. “Save your energy.”

56

W hen Ruzsky opened his eyes again, Pavel was bending over him, and he could see Katya and Peter looking anxiously over his shoulder. He was in dry clothes, but he was chilled to the marrow. He was lying on the floor of the drawing room in Millio

Ruzsky heard Katya whisper something to Peter and then they withdrew, leaving him alone with his deputy. Pavel moved back to the long white sofa.

Ruzsky looked up at the ornate cornices of the ceiling and the low chandelier. His gaze strayed across to the oil of the mountains of the Hindu Kush and the curved saber that hung alongside it. He grasped for the familiar in a world that was growing ever more remote.

“You’ve been following me,” he whispered quietly. “You’ve been watching me from the start.”

Ruzsky stared at the ceiling. He did not want to look at Pavel; he didn’t want to see the guilt and regret he would find there. He had experienced too much of both. “They must have threatened Tonya, or your boy.”

They were silent. Ruzsky listened to the crackle of the fire.

“They didn’t have to,” Pavel said. “It’s been clear how the land lies for a long time. Only you refused to see it.”

Ruzsky closed his eyes again. Pavel’s face merged with Dmitri’s in his mind. He thought of his brother’s solitary progress across the ice, and of the guilt that haunted his every waking moment.

He thought of his father’s body sprawled across the floor of the study.

They could have anyone. They could destroy everything. “I understand, Pavel.”

He shook his head. “No, you would never understand.”

There was a long silence.

“You work for Vasilyev alone? Not Borodin and his group?” Ruzsky asked.

“We all work for Vasilyev.”

“In Yalta, they tried to kill us both.”

“It was a warning. You were to be allowed to pursue the murder case-after all, Vasilyev more than anyone wished to know who was killing his men-but you were not to uncover the link between him and the revolutionaries. And in Yalta, you did. The bomb was an attempt to warn you off, but the young fool was incompetent and that’s why he nearly killed us.”

Pavel stared at him with mournful eyes.

“In your own way, you were trying to protect me,” Ruzsky said. “You thought that if you watched me and reported back all that we were doing, they’d have no need to dispose of me. Isn’t that the case?”

“Even if it was, it would not exonerate me.”

Ruzsky looked at his friend. “For Christ’s sake, you do not have to seek my forgiveness. What have I done that is of any benefit to anyone?”

“You have caused Vasilyev true discomfort.” Pavel examined his hands. “He wanted to find out who was killing his creatures, but he did not want you to know what they were doing.” He looked up. “He could not decide what to do with you.”

Ruzsky heard the hesitation and regret in Pavel’s voice and, when he looked up, saw it in his eyes. His heart sank.

Their friendship was destroyed and they both knew it. The consequences of this betrayal outran even a complete understanding of its motives. “I’m sorry,” Ruzsky said.

“I deserve no pity.”

“And should feel no shame. There is no one left to serve.”

Pavel did not answer.

“Each of us must find his own way through. I didn’t understand that before. I do now.” Ruzsky pulled back the blankets and forced himself upright. His head exploded with pain.

“If you try to interfere, they will kill you.”

“I have no choice.”

“It is too late. The gold is already being loaded at the Tsarskoe Selo Station. There is nothing you can do.”

“I ca

“If that is his destination, then all you will achieve is to die together.”

“But I ca

Pavel shook his head.

“Will Maretsky tell them about the knife?”

“He would not help them.”

“I ask only for a chance, Pavel.”

The big detective straightened, his eyes never leaving Ruzsky’s own. “Of course, my friend. I will ask them to prepare a sled.”

A few minutes later, Ruzsky opened the door and stepped out into the night. A plain sled had been prepared, without the family’s livery. A servant was wrapped up in the driving seat and the horses shifted quietly in the wind. Pavel was waiting for him in the darkness.

Ruzsky climbed into the back, and looked into the face of his deputy.

“You are too late to reach the crossing,” he said. “Try to get onto the train.”

Ruzsky offered him his hand. Pavel took it cautiously. “Good luck, my friend,” he whispered. “There will be many of them.”

The sled pulled away.

As Ruzsky looked back, he saw that Pavel was still watching him, his big body framed by the light of the doorway.