opposite. Anna was on the point of rising to join him at the window when he turned abruptly to her: ‘Grab your coat.’
‘What is it?’
‘Do as I say.’ Reaching over to the desk drawer, he removed a revolver and slipped rounds and some powder in his jacket pocket. Then he stepped over to the drape again and carefully lifted the dainty pink parasol from the window. ‘Ready?’
‘What about your papers?’
He drew a small leather case from beneath the desk. ‘Here,’ he said, slapping the revolver against it. ‘I am always prepared for unwelcome visitors.’ He took his heavy black coat and a high hat from the hall and led Anna out on to the landing. ‘It may be nothing,’ he said in a low voice as they walked swiftly down the stairs, ‘but I think I’ve seen Viktor’s new friend before. Round-shouldered, hand constantly at his mouth, he looks like one of the agents who followed me from the Haymarket a few months ago. Best not to take chances.’
At the bottom of the stairs, Mikhailov paused at a window overlooking the yard, then beckoned Anna to follow him into the servants’ corridor. But instead of leading her to the rear entrance, he took a key from his pocket and opened the dvornik’s door.
‘What if he brings the gendarmes?’
‘He won’t bring them here. He doesn’t know I have a key.’
The room was a windowless box, the only furniture a low bed, a rough plank table and chairs. On the wall above the bed a small dark icon of Virgin and Child, and a number of prayer cards, one bearing the face of the tsar. Snatching up a rag from the table, Mikhailov wiped one of the rustic chairs and sat down. ‘This place stinks of cabbage.’
They sat in silence for half an hour, Mikhailov with his eyes closed, arms folded complacently across his chest; Anna fidgeting anxiously in a chair by the stove. At last they heard the dvornik coughing like a sick horse as he shuffled along the corridor. Rising quickly from the table with a lightness of step surprising in such a large man, Mikhailov took a position to the left of the door. A moment later, the rattle of the key in the lock and it swung open to reveal Viktor in his padded winter kaftan and fur hat.
‘What…’ His jaw dropped at the sight of Anna beside his stove.
‘Come in and close the door,’ she hissed at him. ‘I’ve a message for you.’
The old man pulled a face, his little eyes almost disappearing beneath his brow, in two minds whether to do as he was bidden. Then, judging himself a match for a petite young woman, he took a step inside.
‘Hello, my friend…’ said Mikhailov, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder. The dvornik flinched as if from a blow, and his face creased with fear: ‘Alexander Dmitrievich…’
‘The same. Now, Viktor…’ Mikhailov turned the old man’s bent shoulders firmly about so they were facing each other. ‘Who was that ugly fellow you were speaking to in the lane?’
‘He was… he was very interested in you, Your Honour,’ the dvornik stammered. ‘He said you were a—’ The sentence died in his throat.
‘Does he have friends with him?’
‘I saw one, Your Honour. He said more…’
‘…are coming?’
‘Yes, Your Honour.’
‘Then we have no time to waste,’ said Mikhailov, turning to address Anna. Pulling the revolver from his coat pocket, he broke it open. ‘You’re going to stay here in your room, Viktor, aren’t you?’ Snap. The cylinder clicked back into place. The dvornik nodded vigorously, his eyes fixed on the gun, his right hand pulling anxiously at his beard. ‘You won’t disappoint me?’ Mikhailov asked quietly, and he placed a firm hand on the old man’s shoulder again.
‘No, Your Honour. No.’
‘Good fellow. And you haven’t seen us, have you?’
‘No, Your Honour.’
The yard was empty and there was only one set of footprints in the snow.
‘You must leave first. Keep walking, whatever happens. Do you understand?’ There was an iciness in Mikhailov’s voice, in his heavy-lidded eyes, a subtle change that left her in no doubt as to his intention.
‘Yes. I understand.’
‘Go then,’ he said, and stepped away from the door.
She walked quickly, her gaze fixed on the wicket in the old carriage gate, silently repeating a small prayer — ‘Please God there is no one, please God’ — a tight knot of fear in her stomach. Crisp fresh snow beneath her feet, her breath a little short, yes, please God it would end well. But there was someone. A shadow at the gate. Caught by the morning sun streaming through cracks in the planking. He must have heard her footsteps and was ready. Her only hope was that he would take her for a maid. She pulled her scarf a little higher and, with her heart in her mouth, stepped through the wicket into the lane. She was aware of him only feet from her but turned the opposite way. Before she had gone more than a few steps he was at her heels.
‘Hey, miss.’ He spoke with rough authority like an army sergeant. ‘Stop there.’
But Anna ignored him and walked briskly on as Mikhailov had instructed her to do. She began to pray again: frantic, inarticulate, a jumble of feelings and words.
‘Stop!’ He clutched at her sleeve, then her shoulder. ‘Now!’
She pulled away but he held her and she was forced to turn, his face close, a beard streaked with grey, and beneath his navy blue cap, rheumy brown eyes. Older than his voice.
‘Let go of me! Who are you? Help, someone!’ She tried to turn from him.
‘Police.’
Out of the corner of her eye she saw him pull a revolver from his pocket.
‘Stop. Now.’ He rammed the barrel into her side. As she crumpled in pain, he grabbed her shoulder again, dragging her to the wall: ‘Bitch.’
Furious, she lashed out, striking him in the throat.
‘Bitch.’ Instead of trying to turn her, he pushed her face to the wall, forcing his body against hers. And she whimpered in pain. He was breaking her neck.
‘Stop fighting, bitch.’
She could smell his stale tobacco breath, his body hard against hers. And then the crack of the revolver. For two, three seconds, she was deaf and blind and she sank to her knees. His body lay in the snow beside her, a plume of blood about his shattered head, mouth open, the eyes of a fish, and her face wet with his blood. She was shaking uncontrollably, gasping, but Mikhailov was dragging her to her feet, pulling her away.
‘Oh, God. I knew…’
‘There is no God. Now come on or they’ll take us,’ he said and shook her. ‘There’s a place a few streets from here.’
Experience taught it was best at such times to lay low, but for once Mikhailov felt obliged to ignore good practice. At dusk he went in search of the Director. He smiled at the relief on Irena Dmitrievna Dubrovina’s face as she let him quietly out of her apartment. She had been reluctant to take him into her home. It was impossible, too dangerous, she had told him. Not only was it possible, it was imperative, he had replied, and quickly too before the police caught them on her doorstep. Poor Madame Dubrovina. She had almost collapsed when she heard from a neighbour that an agent had been shot in broad daylight a few streets away. She had dismissed the servants, drawn the blinds and taken to her bed chamber. But that had suited them well enough. Anna had bathed then soaked the blood from her coat, and now she was sleeping in a fine French bed with thick cotton sheets, a fire in the grate. What had come over her in the street? Mikhailov was surprised by her weakness. It was something new. Was her resolve weakening? Mikhailov pondered this question for some while. It troubled him as he slid to and fro on the seat of the badly driven droshky, and it was still troubling him when its grumpy driver deposited him at last in a snowy street close to the Director’s flat.
The Director rented his rooms in a large house divided and sub-divided many times, home to tradespeople, the better sort of prostitute and civil servants of the lowest class. In such a place it was easy for a stranger to climb dark stairs unmarked by the occupants. Nikolai lived alone on the fourth floor, between a tailor and a junior bank clerk.
