Thirteen Years Later

Aleksei was gesticulating with exaggerated arm movements, pointing at Dmitry and at himself and Vasiliy and in other directions too. The message was clear enough. Dmitry should carry on in the way he was heading; they two would try to escape across the other side of the square. Still Dmitry hesitated. He should go back and help them, though there would be nothing he could do but encourage them to run faster. They were both the type of men who knew how to survive. His father was, anyway. Vasiliy always had a slightly spiritual, unworldly air to him, a sense of benign impracticality, which Dmitry loved, but caused him worry as to the dangers it might bring upon its bearer.

But Dmitry knew he need not be concerned. However little experience Vasiliy might have under fire, Aleksei was an old professional, and Dmitry knew that his father, whatever differences he and Vasiliy might have had in the past, would not leave the square without first ensuring his friend’s survival. It was Vasiliy himself who had taught Dmitry that much about his father – taught him more than he had ever had the chance to experience for himself.

Dmitry took one last look towards the two of them, still in a state of indecision. Aleksei repeated his gestures once again, as if Dmitry had not understood them, but surprisingly it was Vasiliy who appeared the more calm. Standing just behind Aleksei, his only movement was a slow nod, but Dmitry understood entirely what Vasiliy meant. He always did.

Dmitry Alekseevich turned and fled into the twilight.

Aleksei turned back towards Iuda the moment he saw Dmitry at last depart. There was no one there. He heard a second volley of ca

Aleksei kept on ru

Now, there were more civilians. Those crowds that had gathered to watch the stand-off as though it were some public spectacle had suddenly found themselves a part of the entertainment at which they had come to gawp. Soldiers showed them no more respect than they did their comrades, and many – men, women and even children – were trampled underfoot.

Iuda was out on the ice now. He would have been a fool to take the bridge. It was already overflowing with fugitives and many were forced to leap off its sides and on to the flat, white surface below. In summer, the entire bridge might have capsized, but the ice that locked its pontoons into place allowed no movement. Aleksei was on the rim of the stone embankment. He had the advantage of height over Iuda and was within range, but he did not want to shoot him in the back; that would be no fun. He drew his pistol.

‘Iuda!’ he shouted.

Iuda turned and saw the gun in his hand. He stood still and upright, his head slightly to one side. He seemed shocked – as if Aleksei had cheated. And it was true, if Aleksei were to shoot him stone dead now, it would be to cheat them both. But Aleksei was a pretty good shot, and Iuda would live long enough to hear what he had to tell him.

There were a hundred witnesses, but none would bother to look in the direction of the two men who faced each other across the ice. Even if they did see, they would not volunteer any information. ‘And what were you doing in Senate Square that evening?’ would not be a question for which many could find a satisfactory answer. For the same reason, many broken limbs that night would go unset, many wounds unbound; many who might have lived would die.

Aleksei took aim and curled his finger around the trigger. Above him, he heard a whistling sound. It was a ca

‘We should do this in summer next time,’ said Iuda as Aleksei approached.

‘There won’t be a next time,’ replied Aleksei.

‘Doesn’t it seem to you like fate? The bridge? The icy river? The ca

‘The difference is I have a gun this time,’ said Aleksei.

Iuda pulled a face that acknowledged Aleksei’s point. Aleksei took aim. He remembered the advice of Kyesha’s letter: no poetry, just certainty.

‘Can you do it, Lyosha?’ Iuda asked. ‘Can you really kill me with such callousness? Not leave me in a burning building? Or thrust my head under the water of a freezing river? Or abandon me in a cave with a horde of ravenous vampires who despise my very soul? You have to leave me some way out.’

Aleksei thought about what Iuda was saying. Was there really some weakness, some sentimentality in Aleksei’s make-up that meant he had to give Iuda a fighting chance, or that he had to let God decide his ultimate fate? History might indicate it, but that said nothing for the future, or the present. He allowed a parade of faces to pass in front of him: Maks, Vadim, Margarita, Major Maskov, Captain Lishin, countless u

He pulled the trigger.

The pistol recoiled in Aleksei’s hand and Iuda’s body jerked with the impact of the pellet. Blood spurted from the centre of his chest, but Aleksei knew he had missed the heart. Iuda had to be alive to be able to listen.

Now for the play-acting – just in case somebody chose to bear witness to this event, to report it back to Marfa or Dmitry.

‘Oh my God! Vasiliy!’ shouted Aleksei. He ran over to the prostrate figure and knelt beside it. Looking back towards the square, he saw government troops begin to arrive at the riverbank. Behind them rode Pyotr in triumphant bronze, silhouetted against the moonlight. Aleksei grabbed Iuda under the arms and dragged him out further towards the middle of the river, as if to protect him from those terrible men who had shot him, but he still made sure that they were in a place where Pyotr’s bronze eyes could look down upon them.

‘You surprise me, Lyosha,’ said Iuda. His voice was croaky and punctuated by coughing. Blood showed on his lips, flowing out down his chin each time he spoke. ‘But I suppose you have won. A checkmate is a checkmate, however dull.’ His fingers scrabbled at his coat buttons. Aleksei helped to undo them, knowing that he had to breathe in order to hear what Aleksei had to say.

‘Oh, this is no simple checkmate, Iuda,’ said Aleksei. ‘You’ve been fooled – played for a prostak – and now I’m going to tell you all about it.’