subject too. Dobson’s bonhomie was of the practised kind, the easy familiarity of the skilful correspondent. He could sense the journalist scrutinising him surreptitiously over the rim of his glass.
‘They didn’t catch her.’
‘Who?’
‘I believe her name was Anna, Anna something. I have a note. Barclay says she worked at a clinic for the poor in Peski.’
Hadfield caught his eye and stared at him belligerently, daring him to say more. But Dobson ignored him and, rising to his feet, picked up the poker and began to stir the fire.
‘Yes, George, I did know her. She worked at the clinic. And, yes, I did visit her house. Barclay clearly told you as much.’
Dobson did not reply but kept prodding the ashes. The little of his face Hadfield could see betrayed no emotion. For a few seconds the silence was broken only by the lazy ticking of a clock and the rattle of the poker against the grate. Then, with a casualness that sounded forced even to his own ears, Hadfield said, ‘Anna Petrovna was a very capable nurse.’
Dobson held his hand for a moment, the poker hovering above the grate, then he began playing with the glowing splinters once more. Hadfield watched him, embarrassed by his clumsy deception. It was so much harder to tell a half truth to a friend than a bare-faced lie to a policeman. All the more so when he was aching to be completely frank.
With nothing more in the fire to reduce, Dobson lifted the poker on to the stand and slumped back in his chair. But almost at once he sprang forward again, hands together, forearms on his broad knees, an intense frown on his face.
‘Look, Frederick. I don’t know if you’re involved in something you shouldn’t be, something illegal…’ He paused for a few seconds to allow for a denial, but Hadfield offered none. ‘As a friend, I’m telling you — cut all contact with these people, with the clinic, with her, if she is the only one you know. To do anything else would be madness. After the attack on the palace — well, I don’t need to tell you. Frederick, are you listening to me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you?’ The correspondent was squirming at the edge of his chair, his eyes bright and fixed on Hadfield’s face. ‘You know your uncle will not lift a finger to help you?’
Hadfield felt weeks of anxiety and doubt rising inside him, a barely suppressed torrent of feelings. He wanted to tell Dobson everything. He wanted to say he loved her with a whole-hearted passion that left him powerless to pursue any other course. Feeble-minded, shameful, yes, but, but… ‘She was an excellent nurse.’
Dobson looked at him scornfully, his lips pursed as if sucking something sour, then he leant back abruptly in his chair in a gesture of resignation. They sat in uncomfortable silence for a while, avoiding eye contact, Dobson spinning the stem of his glass on the arm of the chair.
‘Sleep,’ he said at last, rising quickly to douse the lights. ‘You know your way to the other bedroom.’
‘Yes. Thank you, George,’ Hadfield said with quiet emphasis, ‘for everything.’
Dobson turned to look at him with a warm smile. Then, with a small shrug of the shoulders, ‘Remember what I’ve said, Frederick — that will be thanks enough.’
29
It was the distant but unmistakable crack of a gunshot. Anna shuffled closer to the window and gazed furtively into the street below. Gendarmes were scurrying for the cover of doorways and yards. Someone was shouting. She stepped back for a moment to collect her thoughts, breathing deeply to calm herself. She had come within a hair’s breadth of being caught inside a security cordon but the police had taken her for a passer-by and directed her away. Entering the back of a building in the neighbouring street, she had found a stairwell with a view over the Sapernaya and had watched with rising panic as the gendarmes took up positions. It was a little after six o’clock in the morning and her comrades would have been in their beds. There had been shouts, a hollow thumping, someone inside the flat had smashed windows — the glass showering into the snowy street below — and then smoke had begun pouring from the sitting room. Her comrades must have barred the door and were burning their identity papers and the forged travel passes Anna was to have collected that very morning.
Crack. Another shot. Then another, and more shouting. Anna knew it was her duty now to leave and warn the rest of the party, but her step faltered as the crash of rifle fire reverberated in the street. The gendarmes were now firing through the door of the flat.
It was still dark, the streets almost empty, more so than was customary at that hour. A mad collective fear gripped the city, rumours of attacks to come — bombs in stations and cathedrals and galleries — and the authorities were encouraging people to stay at home. It was harder to move freely, with police and soldiers patrolling the prospekts and at every major junction. She had lost the anonymity of the crowd. Anxious to avoid the main thoroughfares, Anna hurried along alleys and through open yards, pausing every few minutes to check no one was following her. By the time she reached Troitsky Lane it was after seven o’clock and the city was beginning to stir. Stopping a little short of the mansion, she turned into an open doorway and waited in the shadows. Only when she was satisfied she was still alone did she step up to the house, and — after glancing up to find a parasol in Mikhailov’s window — she tugged the doorbell.
The gaslights were burning low in his drawing room and the maid had lit the fire. Even at that hour, Mikhailov was immaculately dressed in a dark suit and burgundy tie. He listened to Anna without emotion, his face expressing not a flicker of surprise or regret. All of them had felt downcast since the tsar’s escape — all of them but Mikhailov — even this calamity he had taken in his stride. Every day that had passed since had brought worse news, of supporters arrested, a small press seized, safe apartments raided. But nothing seemed to ruffle Mikhailov’s smooth feathers.
‘That’s the fifth address in four days,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘I thought we’d dealt with the problem.’
Anna stiffened a little. ‘You mean you executed the wrong man?’
‘Of course not,’ he replied, his lips twitching a little in a sardonic smile. ‘Would you like something to drink?’
He walked to the corner of the room and began busying himself with the samovar. ‘It’s strange we’ve had no warning from the Director. I think it’s time I spoke to him, don’t you?’ He poured a little hot water into his silver pot then spooned in some tea. ‘These raids have damaged the party. We won’t be able to make another attempt for a while. Some sugar?’
‘No thank you.’
Mikhailov walked over to where she was sitting, the glass of tea almost lost in his large hand. He stood in front of her, square and solid like a country squire, gazing thoughtfully into the fire: ‘The tsar has appointed Loris- Melikov as minister of the interior in charge of security. He’s a wily old Armenian bird. Things will be harder. We’re going to have to plan more thoroughly. We’ve been taking too many risks.’
He placed the glass on a small table beside Anna and turned back to the samovar. ‘Too many risks.’
His words made her uncomfortable. Was he trying to suggest Frederick was a risk? Life lived in the shadows meant every word was to be doubted, every action a conspiracy, one had to be ever vigilant, ever watchful. Spies, informers, curious neighbours, frightened comrades — it was hard to prevent suspicion creeping like a cancer into every corner of your life.
‘You were careful, weren’t you?’ Mikhailov had stepped over to the window and was gazing into the lane.
‘Yes. Of course,’ she replied hotly. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Perhaps.’ He took a step away and began peering round the drape.
‘What is it?’
‘I wonder who Viktor has befriended.’
‘Your dvornik?’
‘Yes.’ For a few seconds more he stood glancing up and down Troitsky and across at the mansion block
