cheeks boyish pink with the cold.
‘Well?’ he asked, slapping his gloves on the table.
‘It’s done,’ Sophia Perovskaya replied.
‘And the mine?’
‘In place.’
‘Good,’ and he beamed at them all like an avuncular older brother. His gaze rested on Anna: ‘And you? I’m sorry about Grigory. They won’t break him. He’s strong.’
‘Yes.’
‘First a toast.’ Mikhailov reached down to the bag at his feet and lifted out a bottle of vodka. ‘Glasses, please.’
And there was more: fresh bread, smoked fish and caviar, cold meats and cheeses and three bottles of Georgian wine.
‘To our work,’ said Mikhailov, lifting his glass to the men and women patiently waiting on his word. ‘The tsar has left the Crimea.’
Silence at the table. Mikhailov raised his glass again, making eye contact and saluting all of them in turn. After weeks of toil and anxiety the moment was almost upon them.
‘How can you be sure?’ Hartmann asked at last.
‘I’ve received word from “the Director”. The imperial train will pass through Alexandrovsk tomorrow.’
‘And the others are ready there?’
‘Yes.’
Hartmann raised his glass of vodka to return the toast: ‘To the Director, whoever he is,’ and he drained it and poured himself another.
‘The security police are arresting progressives in every town between the Crimea and St Petersburg as a precaution,’ Mikhailov continued. ‘But the route is the same.’
‘And Grigory? Do you know what they’ve done with him?’ Anna asked.
‘He is still in Odessa. The head of the Third Section has been told of his arrest and of the dynamite. Security is tight but they haven’t cancelled the train.’
That night the cottage was still for the first time in weeks, the tunnel sealed, the candles extinguished, but sleep was harder than ever to come by. Anna lay at Sophia’s side, conscious of her warmth and the scent of her hair. A kaleidoscope of images played through her tired mind: the plough at the front of the imperial train forging on through a suffocating wilderness of white, its plume of steam against the night sky, and the tsar at his polished table with gleaming silver, the rich red velvet of his liveried servants. Then a blinding yellow flash and the empire turned upside down.
‘It’s for the greater good, you know,’ whispered Sophia beside her. ‘Only if he dies can we hope for freedom. I wasn’t sure at first…’ She turned on her side and felt with her tiny hand for Anna’s cheek and stroked it tenderly, so delicate, so childlike and yet so strong.
‘But I am sure now. He must die. We are doing a noble thing, Annushka, a noble thing.’
‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘Yes, I am sure we are.’
The following day Alexander Mikhailov — a plump raven in his black coat — was on the doorstep again and it was clear from his face as he kicked the snow from his boots that he was the bringer of bad tidings. There was fresh word from the Director; the imperial train had arrived safely in Kharkov.
‘It passed through Alexandrovsk. Something must have gone wrong,’ he said, warming his hands round a glass of tea. ‘There’s been no report of an explosion. Zhelyabov and the others may have been arrested. That leaves us, the Moscow cell. The Director says the train will reach us on the evening of the 19th — tomorrow.’
There was nothing they could do but wait and listen to the steady ticking of the simple kitchen clock. Mikhailov decided to wait with them. The security police were crawling over the Moscow stations like beetles on a dung heap: ‘And they’ve issued a book of photographs — of wanted revolutionaries — I think I’m on page two,’ he said, with a chuckle. ‘Sophia, you are in there too. I’m afraid none of the rest of you make it. But don’t worry, I’m sure you will after tomorrow.’
That night they held a little party, with Mikhailov the master of ceremonies: ‘To celebrate our liberty and the first giant step in the revolution.’ Hartmann played the accordion and they sang Russian folk songs and danced in the flickering candlelight.
‘Dance with me, Anna.’ Mikhailov grabbed her by the hand and pulled her to her feet. ‘The mazurka, Lev!’
He whirled her about the rough floor with aristocratic panache and she was too intoxicated by the dance and the excitement of what tomorrow would bring to care that he was squeezing her waist tightly and pressing her a little too close.
‘Huzzah, huzzah!’ they all cheered.
‘What a couple we make,’ he whispered.
And later, when she slipped out to clear her head, he followed her and offered her his fine fur-lined coat. She shook her head, but he insisted on placing it about her shoulders. As she stood in the sober night air listening to his talk of revolution and the people, one sad thought held her: nothing would be the same after tomorrow.
‘And have you thought of what I said?’ he asked her. ‘We would be comrades, loving comrades, serving the party.’ He reached out to put his arm about her shoulders.
‘No! No.’ She took a sharp step away. ‘Nothing will be the same. Nothing. How can you ask?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Tomorrow. After tomorrow.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. As long as we’re free…’
He seemed to want to say more but she had turned to the door and was on the point of stepping inside.
‘Please. We’re comrades,’ she said, glancing back at him. ‘That’s all. That’s all we’ll ever be.’
Mikhailov left before sunrise without a word to her. The others followed, slipping from the cottage one by one until only the detonation party was left sitting at the table. For the most part, they sat in silence. Anna tried to occupy herself by darning a hole in the elbow of her coat but she made a poor job of it. Every hour on the hour, Lev Hartmann climbed down to the cellar to check the water level in the tunnel and the detonation wire. He was to fire the mine from the window overlooking the railway embankment the moment he saw Sophia’s signal. At intervals, the floor of the cottage would tremble as a train rattled along the track and they would jump to their feet even though they knew not to expect the imperial train before nightfall.
They sat and ate a little bread and cold meat together at dusk. They had no appetite, but it would be many hours before they would have another opportunity. When it was over, they were to rendezvous at the corner of the monastery wall, where one of their comrades would be waiting with a horse and cart to take them to Moscow.
At eight o’clock Anna reached for her coat: time at last to take her place. Thank God, she thought, it will be over soon. Her head ached and her chest was tight with anxiety, and she could see the others were feeling the strain too. Sophia’s face was as stiff as a painted doll’s and Lev Hartmann had been biting his nails most of the day. As she hugged him goodbye, she noticed a pulse jumping in his neck.
The clump of bushes she had chosen for an observation post was little more than a stone’s throw from the track. Cocooning herself in her coat and blankets, she settled down to wait, glad to be free of the cottage walls at last. Second train, fourth carriage. The first would be carrying court officials and the emperor’s retinue; the target would follow soon after. It was a bright night with the snow reflecting the light from a sprinkling of winter stars and a white sickle moon. She would see the plume of smoke from the south first, and she knew Sophia would be watching carefully for the same. It was below freezing. Two pairs of woollen socks and she had stuffed her fur-lined boots with newspaper, but it was not enough to preserve the feeling in her feet. If the train was delayed she might be at her post most of the night, but she felt calmer on her own and in the open. From time to time, she jumped up and walked around in a tight circle, stamping her feet, slapping her hands against her sides, confident that she was hidden from view. She took comfort from the candle burning for her in the cottage window and once the door opened and she saw Sophia’s diminutive silhouette against the light.
