Mikhailov was quite sure he would be alone. It was impossible for a man in his delicate position to be anything but alone. ‘I’ve been expecting you,’ the Director muttered, and he stepped away from the door to let him pass.
‘I don’t like coming here. It’s not safe,’ Mikhailov replied.
He sat on the edge of the Director’s narrow bed and watched him pour a glass of black tea from the chipped pot on the table. His hand was trembling, his eyes bloodshot. The tiny bed-sitting room was thick with dust, the windows almost opaque, and there were dirty plates on the table. Newspapers and books were roughly piled on the floor against one wall, leaving space for no more than the low bed, two wooden chairs, the table and an unemptied chamber pot.
‘Doesn’t the maid clean for you?’
The Director shook his head: ‘It’s too risky, especially now. They suspect, you know.’
‘You?’
‘They know they’ve got an informer in the police or the Third Section.’
‘How can you be sure?’
The Director pulled a face, then pushed his little round glasses up his nose with a grubby index finger. ‘Dobrshinsky isn’t prepared to trust anyone outside his inner circle. He won’t tell us anything. There’s a poisonous atmosphere at headquarters.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m just doing as I’m told and keeping my head down.’ He got to his feet a little unsteadily. ‘I need a drink,’ he said and walked round the table and out of the room, returning a minute later with a small bottle of vodka and two cloudy glasses.
‘Drink?’
Mikhailov shook his head. ‘There have been five raids in as many days. There was an agent at my apartment…’
‘Was it you who killed him?’
‘Who’s helping them? Is it one of our prisoners?’
‘Weren’t you listening?’ the Director asked tetchily. ‘I don’t know. One of the prisoners may have been broken, of course. Dobrshinsky is handling everything personally. Nothing is committed to paper.’
‘And you don’t have any idea who he’s spoken to?’
‘The only person I know for sure he’s spoken to is the English doctor,’ the Director said with a dismissive wave. He sat down opposite Mikhailov and poured himself a glass of vodka: ‘But what can he tell them?’
Mikhailov frowned. ‘When?’
‘About two weeks ago. He visited Dobrshinsky’s home. That’s all I know. There’s no report of their conversation — at least, if there is, I haven’t seen it.’
Mikhailov leant forward a little, his large hands clasped together, his eyes glittering in the candlelight. ‘I think perhaps I will have that drink, my friend.’
The Director poured vodka for them both. ‘Perhaps they’re using the Englishman as a channel,’ said the Director quietly, turning his glass on the table. ‘I suppose you’ve considered that?’
‘Yes.’
The bottom of the glass tick-ticked like a broken clock as he turned it slowly against the chipped wood. A drunk was shouting incoherently in the room above; the crash of a chair and, a moment later, the light beat of a woman’s shoes on the stairs.
‘What will you do?’
‘What will I do?’ Mikhailov fixed the Director with a cold stare: ‘Whatever needs to be done. Don’t I always?’
30
Frederick Hadfield was in his carpet slippers and dressing gown when the dvornik knocked at his door with the note. His heart leapt with joy and relief. For all the lateness of the hour, the regret, the shame he had felt since the explosion at the palace, he was desperate to be with her. But he took no pleasure in the necessary deception; it was no longer an adventure. Since the interview with Dobrshinsky he was sure he was under surveillance, and he presumed the dvornik had been instructed to report on the hours he kept and on his visitors. Dressed as a doctor and with medical bag and coat he made his way noisily down the steps to the front door. Sure enough Sergei the dvornik was there to greet him with an obsequious bow.
‘Is everything all right, Your Honour?’ He pushed his fleshy face, flushed with drink, towards Hadfield’s.
‘Acute myocardial infarction,’ said Hadfield. ‘A serious case.’
The dvornik looked at him blankly. ‘Does Your Honour wish me to summon a cab?’
But it was an emergency, no time to waste. Hadfield brushed past him and into the snowy street.
The city’s clocks were striking midnight at St Boris and St Gleb, and half past the hour by the time he reached the rooming house door. The old Ukrainian lady greeted him with a warm wrinkled smile. The rest of the building was sleeping. Anna was curled beneath a thick feather bedspread he had not seen before. He knelt beside her and swept a strand of hair from her face. She looked tired and there was an angry graze high on her right cheek. He took off his clothes and lay on the mattress beside her. And she turned to him with her eyes closed, lifting her chin, an invitation to kiss her full on the lips.
‘You were so long,’ she whispered sleepily.
‘What happened to you? You must let me look at your cheek.’ She smiled. ‘My personal physician.’ And she pressed closer, sharing her warmth, her head upon his arm, his thigh raised between her legs. ‘Things are so difficult, I wasn’t sure you’d come,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘What did you tell that man Dobrshinsky?’
‘No more than we agreed.’
‘Good.’ She leant forward to kiss him, plucking playfully at his bottom lip with her lips. Then she said, ‘But you must be even more careful. They won’t leave you alone.’
‘I know. He knew much more than I expected. Your friend Goldenberg has changed sides.’
‘That’s not true!’ she said sharply, pulling her head away to look him in the eye.
‘I’m sorry. It is true.’
‘Did Dobrshinsky say so? How can you be sure?’
‘I’m sure.’ And he told her of his conversation with the special investigator. She listened with a deep frown of concentration, propped on an elbow, her eyes an intense darker blue in the candlelight.
‘But that only proves he told them about you,’ she said. ‘He must have thought they wouldn’t hurt you.’
Hadfield raised his eyebrows sceptically. She fell back on the pillow beside him, a hard expression on her face.
‘Don’t shoot the messenger,’ he said, reaching up to stroke her hair.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘It explains everything.’
‘Does it?’
‘I must tell the others. I should go.’
‘For God’s sake!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ve only just got here.’
‘Shsh. Someone will hear you.’
Their faces were inches apart, her chest rising and falling against his chest, his leg pressing her pelvis, and yet, and yet, it was as if they were drifting away from each other, the confused feelings of the last days creeping between them.
‘I spoke to the tsar,’ he said.
‘What?’
