The light from the window seemed to flicker as von Plehve shifted awkwardly from foot to foot.
‘His Excellency appreciates your contribution in bringing the terrorists to justice — The People’s Will is broken,’ he paused, then added pointedly, ‘even if the Figner woman is still at liberty.’
‘There will be others. After the grisly spectacle today, there will be more assassinations, more bombs.’
‘Yes, there will be…’ Von Plehve hesitated to consider his next words carefully. ‘But ours is not to question… we are servants of a tsar. To consider moderate measures is useless when circumstances and the hour are set at extremes.’
Dobrshinsky nodded slowly then pushed his chair away and walked round his desk to join the chief prosecutor at the window. They were only an arm’s length apart, the view on to the street between them.
‘You look ill. You must rest,’ said von Plehve with a soapy pretence at concern. ‘Of course your old post will be held for you at the Ministry of Justice.’
Dobrshinsky gazed out on to the Fontanka below, as he had done on his first day. The ice was melting at last and the dirty snow on its surface would soon be washed away. The sun was lost in a low grey Petersburg sky that seemed to leach colour from the mansions opposite.
‘Will we live to see it?’ he asked suddenly.
‘You mean…?’ Von Plehve was alarmed by the directness of his question and the implied pessimism. ‘I take you to mean a revolution? Speaking for myself, I feel sure I won’t.’
Dobrshinsky was still standing at the window a few minutes later as the count climbed the steps into his carriage. A lawyer, a politician, the director of the new Okhrana — oh yes, Dobrshinsky was sure he was to be the first — von Plehve would act without scruple in defence of divinely inspired order. But he bore him no ill will. He felt no anger, and only a little regret. He felt relief that it was over and a hunger for his dark corner and
1882
A more perfect, stronger revolutionary organisation will take the place of the groups that are wiped out… A terrible outburst, a bloody subversion, a violent revolutionary convulsion throughout all Russia, will complete the process of the overthrow of the old order… And so Your Majesty, decide. Before you are two courses.
45
The well-built young gentleman in the top hat and fur coat was too merry to notice that someone was keeping pace on the pavement opposite. After a convivial evening at a restaurant on the Nevsky Prospekt, he had elected to walk home in the hope cold air would clear the claret from his befuddled brain. At first his pursuer had followed at a discreet distance, but it had shortened when it became apparent from his rolling gait that the young gentleman was very much the worse for wear from drink. Turning into Malaya Italyanskaya Street, he slipped on a patch of ice and, with desperate flailing limbs, fought to stay on his feet. It made his pursuer smile. What would the readers of
Dobson was snoozing in a chair beside the fire with a glass of strong black tea balanced on the arm when the bell rang. It was nearly midnight, he had discarded his jacket and boots, his head was beginning to ache and he was in no mood to welcome visitors. It rang again as he was smoothing his hair in front of the mirror. Muttering profanities under his breath, he hurried into the hall and drew back the locks. It was a woman of perhaps thirty in a heavy brown coat that had seen many winters and was far too big for her small frame. She was wearing a green scarf about her face and a traditional winter hat of rabbit fur. She was better dressed than most peasants, but only a little.
‘Mr George Dobson?’ she asked in Russian.
‘Yes.’
‘May I come in?’
‘Who are you?’
A gloved finger to her lips, she whispered ‘Inside’.
Her face was very thin and white, the skin a little loose over the bone. She had thick dark eyebrows, a broad nose and a small mouth with a full lower lip and a thin Cupid’s bow upper. She was not beautiful but striking, and even in the darkness there was a pale brilliance to her blue eyes that startled him.
Flummoxed by her boldness, he stepped back into the hall. She followed him at once but waited until the door was closed and bolted before she spoke.
‘My name is Anna Kovalenko,’ she said, and she pulled off her gloves and held out her hand in a very English way.
‘Hadfield’s… But you’re in prison.’
‘No. I am standing in your hall.’
Dobson leant forward a little as if gaping at an unusual zoo animal. ‘They let you go?’
‘Of course not!’ she said shortly. ‘Can we talk somewhere else?’ And without waiting for an invitation, she set off down the hall in search of the drawing room.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked crossly as he followed her. ‘Did anyone see you?’
‘No one saw me.’
She took off her coat and hat and dropped them on his couch. Her hair was cut short and in the gaslight she looked thin and severe in a plain black dress.
‘You should draw the curtains.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘Mr Dobson, I have been a revolutionary for a number of years.’
He plodded to the window and closed the drapes while Anna cleared newspapers from an armchair by the fire. ‘I expect you know why I’ve come here?’
‘No,’ he said, slumping into the chair opposite. ‘And frankly I would rather you weren’t here. How did you escape?’
‘It’s not important. At Krasnoyarsk on the way east — with the help of the party.’
‘Is there still a party?’
She gave a small smile: ‘The correspondent with all the questions. I haven’t come to talk about the party.’
‘What have you come to talk about?’
She turned to look at the fire as if to compose herself, its flickering shadows playing across her cheek and neck. And when she looked at him again there was a sadness in her eyes and in the weary lines of her face that spoke of loss and pain and desperation. He knew why she was there and she knew he knew.
‘My comrades have been looking for her,’ she said. ‘But you will understand how difficult it is for friends of mine to make inquiries.’
‘Yes. But what can I do?’
