count rose again and walked over to the fire to ring the bell to the right of the mantelpiece. ‘A piece of remarkably good fortune — His Majesty has probably declared it another miracle — you see, the bomb went off beneath the fourth carriage. The emperor’s saloon was the fourth on the imperial train. If he hadn’t insisted on switching the order of the trains he would be dead. And…’ the count lowered his heavy frame back into the armchair, ‘and you and I would be eking out a living in a provincial city. Thankfully no one was hurt, but the royal supply of jam was a casualty.’
There was a knock at the study door and a servant entered with a delicate china tea service which he placed on a table by the fire.
‘They’re very well informed,’ said Dobrshinsky with a frown.
‘The terrorists?’
‘It’s possible they were watching the imperial train in the Crimea…’
‘But you think there’s more?’ said the count, accepting the cup offered by his footman.
‘I am afraid I do.’
First the dead informer, Bronstein, in the hotel. Then the student who had blown his brains out to avoid arrest. Someone must have tipped him off because he had destroyed his papers and was on the point of leaving Petersburg. And the local police informer in Peski too — the vagabond — he had been stabbed outside a church school on a Sunday. ‘You see, Count, every time we try to place someone in this new party, they are murdered. Every time we try to make an arrest, the bird has just flown. Our promising leads come to nothing?’
‘But you’ve arrested this fellow with the dynamite,’ von Plehve pointed out sceptically.
Dobrshinsky’s face stiffened a little. Was the chief prosecutor implying he was making excuses? ‘It was pure luck. Goldenberg was dragging a bag of dynamite along a station platform. Even the local gendarmes were able to identify him as a suspicious character.’
‘I see.’
For a minute, neither of them spoke but sipped their tea and stared at the crackling fire.
‘Just to be clear,’ von Plehve said at last, ‘you think someone is giving this “People’s Will” intelligence — they have a spy somewhere?’
‘Perhaps,’ Dobrshinsky replied cautiously. ‘Some of them come from noble families. They have influential friends.’
‘This woman, Sophia Perovskaya?’
‘And others. The Volkonsky woman has given us a few names and descriptions, although she was trusted with very little.’
‘The foreigner she mentioned, have you been able to identify him?’
‘Not yet. She thinks he’s German or perhaps English.’
‘A plot to destabilise the country?’ Something in the tone of this question suggested the count’s subtle mind had fastened on an interesting new possibility. ‘It might be useful to brief our newspapers. They could suggest something of the sort.’
‘I am more interested in the Jew, Goldenberg,’ replied Dobrshinsky. ‘We suspect him of being involved in the murder of the governor of Kharkov.’
Von Plehve put his cup back on his saucer. ‘I am sure you will do all you need to do to extract the truth from him.’
Ah, spoken like a true Russian, Dobrshinsky thought, and he could not help a sardonic little smile.
‘Does that offend you?’
‘Not in the slightest, but it won’t be necessary. I have my own methods.’
Von Plehve grunted. ‘That’s up to you. I don’t care how you break him. Just be sure you do.’
16
…We are convinced that our agents and our party will not be discouraged by this failure… They will go forward with new faith in their strength and in the ultimate success of their cause…
‘No comfort for the authorities there,’ said Dobson with a short laugh. He was standing in front of the fire in his study, a dogeared leaflet in his hand. It was a bleak Petersburg evening, dark at five o’clock, a wind from Siberia driving all but a few from the streets, snow rattling at the window.
‘These political zealots love their Bible, don’t they, with their talk of “faith” and “sacrifice”, “forgiveness” and “martyrdom”. Listen to this:
If Alexander were to recognise the evil he has done to Russia, if he were to hand over his power to a General Assembly chosen by the free vote of the people, then we for our part would leave him in peace and forgive his past misdeeds…
‘Here…’ Dobson leant forward to offer the pamphlet to Hadfield, who was sprawling in a leather armchair, his stockinged feet thawing at the fire.
‘And you know the maddening thing is the story was broken by a Hun, one of the German correspondents in Moscow,’ he added with a shake of the head. ‘Of course the censor tried to suppress the news here. The Germans were able to read about the attempt on the tsar’s life before his own subjects. What a country this is.’
Hadfield did not lift his eyes from the pamphlet: ‘…
‘What?’ Dobson asked. ‘Yes. They want to wage “implacable war”. Old Testament rather than New, I grant you.’
‘Where did you find it?’ Hadfield asked, lifting the paper from his lap.
‘Oh, you can pick them up in the street, but my new friend Major Barclay gave it to me. Cost me a dozen oysters at the Europe Hotel.’
The leaflet was dated 22 November — three days after the explosion, a statement by the executive committee of The People’s Will.
‘Impressive, don’t you think? This party’s shaken the empire after only a few months — and it has a printing press so it can boast about it too,’ said Dobson.
‘Are you a zealot if you advocate one man one vote?’
‘In Russia? Of course. But they don’t stop there: they’re in love with violence and secrecy and martyrdom…’ Dobson paused to shake his head a little in disapproval. ‘Actually, they’re incurable romantics.’
‘That’s your diagnosis? Do you know any members of this party?’
Dobson grunted. ‘Do you? You’re being cussed now, old boy. Do I look like someone who wants to spend the rest of his life in Siberia?’
‘Sorry — I thought it was the job of a correspondent to represent both sides of an argument. Or are you content with Mr Dostoevsky’s word upon the matter?’
‘Stop it, stop it,’ and Dobson wagged his finger at him. ‘Dangerous talk, especially for a foreigner. Let’s not fall out. Now, what about dinner?’
But Hadfield would not allow himself to be persuaded. He had spent the afternoon at the clinic in Peski, as he always chose to on Sundays, and he was too tired to think of anything more than the comfort of his own bed.
‘I need to pace myself,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘Lady Dufferin has returned to Petersburg and she’s invited me to join an embassy party at the Yusupov tomorrow.’
‘You’re such a favourite with the ladies, old boy, especially those of — shall we say — maturer years…’ replied Dobson with a mischievous smile.
‘Dobson, are you jealous?’
‘I haven’t squeezed the hand of a pretty girl in months.’
‘If it’s any comfort, nor have I.’
‘No comfort. You could have if you’d wanted to.’
