City of Silence (City of Mystery) (33 page)

“Do
you think anyone really heard?” Tatiana asked.  They were still clutching each
other in the bell tower.

“No,”
said Konstantin.  He was laughing, wiping the rain from her face.  “We’re too
far away.  I just panicked.”

“But
it is time for your boat.”

“Yes.
Soon.”

They
crept back through the chapel, with a single glance up at the angels who
observed them with no change of expression.  They paused at finding the door
closed and the package outside, but Konstantin decided he must not have wedged
it well and it had been blown free by a gust of wind.  It lay in a sad state on
the cobblestones, leaking puddles of green and pink, which ran together into
larger puddles of gray.

“Leave
it,” Tatiana said.  “It must be ruined.”

But
Konstantin reached to grasp the rough handle that the artist had made, and they
walked across the lawn, down toward the river, not bothering to rush.  When one
was thoroughly soaked, there can no longer be any fear of getting wetter.

The
servant boat was waiting in its dock.  He turned to her.  He dared not kiss
her, not here so close to the dock where workers from all functions within the
palace were huddled under the small shelter, where anyone might recognize them.
 It would be the most unpleasant sort of irony to be caught now, during his
last moments on the soil of the Winter Palace. 

It
is lucky that it is raining, he thought.  Rain hides tears.

“I
don’t know how I shall be able to live until we meet again,” he said.  And then
he picked up his sack and the painting, ran to the dock, and lightly leapt onto
the barge.  He did not look back.

“But
live you shall,” she whispered.  “And so will I.”

The
Winter Palace – The Gentleman’s Enclave

5:36
PM

“Good
God, that thunder,” Trevor murmured as a particularly distressing rumble shook
the air.  They were standing in a covered portico connecting the rooms of the
gentleman’s enclave to the private dock, awaiting their meeting with Viktor Prakov,
who was running slightly late.  A condition which was rare in policemen, but apparently
quite common in Russians.

“My
mum always says that thunder means God is angry,” Davy said, his eyes darting
around the opulent surroundings, for even the dock was fitted with statuary and
carvings and the two small boats in the slips had padded seats and canopies,
and resembling no rowboats he had ever seen.

“Then
God must be angry in the extreme,” Trevor said.  “What do you remember of the
place, Abrams?”

“At
the risk of stating the obvious, this is the dock,” Rayley said.  “The last in
the line of docks used by the Winter Palace and thus any watercraft leaving
from this location will not have to pass the others, or indeed many of the
windows of the palace.  And through those doors,” he added, gesturing back
toward the building, “you will find the smoking rooms, dressing rooms, sauna
and steambath, places for billiards and the other games that gentlemen enjoy.”

“How
many rooms?”

“Impossible
to guess.”

“Not
so impossible,” came a voice from the side and they all turned to see Prakov
approaching from the lawns.  He was walking through the downpour with little regard
for personal discomfort – there was no hat on his head, nor boots on his feet,
and when he stepped under the portico he made no attempt to wipe the water from
his brow. 

“What
matters the number of rooms if there are only two exits?” he continued.  “The
enclave is designed so that it is easy for a man to hide, but not so easy for
him to escape.  You are the British Queen’s bodyguards, I understand?”

“Trevor
Welles, Rayley Abrams, Davy Mabrey,” Trevor said as hands were shaken all
around.  “We appreciate you taking time to meet with us.”

“Not
much time. The next two days will place many demands on my unit.”

“Indeed,”
said Trevor. “If you could just tell us a bit more about these two exits.”  He
hesitated, as if wondering if he should explain why he asked, but Prakov did
not inquire.  The Russians did not ask the “why” of anything very often, Trevor
had noticed.  It was as if cause and effect were somehow severed in their
minds.

“This
exit is the dock as you have doubtlessly noticed,” Prakov said brusquely.  “The
palace has five – one for bringing the staff in and out, one for bringing goods
in and out, one for recreation, one for exalted visitors and the imperial
yacht, and this one, for the private use of the gentlemen.”

“Not
guarded, I presume,” Trevor said neutrally.

“Most
certainly guarded, but not in any manner one would notice.  We do not wish to
make the imperial gentlemen self-conscious, after all, at least not in their
hours of leisure.  Come with me.”

Mulling
it all over, Trevor followed Prakov through the doors with Rayley and Davy
trailing wordlessly behind.  The men moved up the plush carpets along the
narrow hall, struggling not to gape at the portraits of ladies in various
degrees of dishabille along the walls.  Davy was trying to count the doors as
they walked, but abandoned the plan when the number passed twenty.

“And
here,” Prakov said when they finally arrived at the point where the hallway
branched off into another angle, “is the route to the private stable.”

“Also
guarded in a discrete manner, I assume?” Trevor said and Rayley almost
simultaneously asked “How many points are there within the palace where people
might come or go by carriage?”

“Twenty-two,”
Prakov answered promptly. “Four meant for public entrance, such as visitors
arriving for a ball, seventeen for utilitarian purposes.  This is the only one
which is private.”

Trevor
nodded.  Viktor Prakov was scarcely a talkative fellow, but he was certainly
more professional and confident than anyone they had met in the bumbling private
guard, the majority of whose members had probably been placed there on the whim
of the tsar.  Trevor wondered what the bald man thought of the second force
within the palace, whether he resented them, envied them, struggled to work
with them, or merely ignored them.

“We
did not simply ask you to meet us to provide a tour,” Trevor said, “for such a
simple task could have of course been carried out by any of your subordinates.”

Prakov
waited.

“We
have two pieces of information about Filip Orlov, one of the members of the
tsar’s private guard,” Trevor continued.  “He invited Detective Abrams to the
gentleman’s enclave three days ago and told him that one of the imperial dance
masters, a man by the name of Konstantin Antonovich, is his primary suspect in
the ballroom murders.”

Still
no change of expression on Prakov’s face.

Trevor
fumbled for words.  It was hard to talk to a man who was so utterly
non-reactive.  “Might I ask if the palace police share the theory that
Antonovich is involved in the murders?”

“The
first two deaths were deemed suicides and the bodies have already been accepted
by the families for burial,” Prakov said without emotion, or even without any
particular cadence to his voice.  If a machine could speak, Trevor thought,
this is how it would sound.  “And our investigation into the death of Cynthia
Kirby is likewise drawing to a close.  We intend to have her body ready for
release into your custody by tomorrow, just as your Queen has requested.”

Interesting,
Trevor thought.  Not only had Prakov avoided answering the question, but he had
also avoided even using the word “murder.”  Apparently the palace police not
only lacked a suspect, but they also lacked suspicions. 

“You
said you had two pieces of information, I believe?”  Prakov prompted.

“Tell
him, Davy,” Trevor said.    

“Filip
Orlov is with the revolution,” Davy blurted.

For
the first time Prakov’s eyes showed a flicker of a response.

“Which
revolution?”  

“The
Naronaya Volyaka,” Davy said. “The Volya, for short.  I have been associating
with the students who claim allegiance to its cause and one of them introduced
Orlov as a high ranking member.  The ballet dancer who was killed was one of
them too.  You know, Sir. The boy, Yulian Krupin.” 

An
almost agonizing silence followed.  They were telling the man his business,
Trevor knew.  Telling him that he and his police force had allowed not one but
two revolutionaries close access to the imperial family.  One of them even
within the tsar’s private guard.  But now that his brief spasm of reaction at the
name “Volya” had passed, Prakov was once again completely composed.  What sort
man hears bad news so calmly, Trevor wondered.  He is either an idiot or a
saint.

“If
Krupin and Orlov got in, we think there may be others,” Davy said, perhaps
pouring additional salt into the wounds of the man’s pride, but it was hard to
tell.   Prakov did at least finally answer.

“If
what you are telling me is true, then Orlov must-” Prakov said.  “There is a
grand ball tomorrow night, with hundreds –“ He broke off and took a slow
breath. “Why should I trust you?”

“We
have no reason to lie,” Davy said.

“What
we have learned,” Rayley added, quietly and with extreme courtesy, “I assure
you we learned only in service to our Queen.”

 Prakov
looked toward the far door, the one he had indicated led to the private
stables.  “If what you say is true, Orlov must be arrested immediately.”

“Perhaps
not quite yet,” Trevor said. “For you see, we have come to you with a plan.”

The Winter Palace –
The Private Rooms of the Orlovs

5:52 PM

Women
would be the death of the revolution.  

Not
because they were not good fighters.  There is nothing on earth so fearsome as
a woman who had lost what she holds dear.  Her children, lover, husband,
parents… a woman so deprived would fight without hesitation, like an animal, often
evidencing a ferocity few men could match.   Filip had even thought that
someday there would be a revolution with nothing but women and that when this
day came, it would mark the end of the human race. 

No,
women would be the death of the revolution for an entirely different reason.  They
disarmed men.  A man in love was a man distracted, a flawed comrade, a poor
soldier.  Throughout the centuries, sentiment had slain more men than cannons,
and Filip knew his great failure was his sentiment for his wife.

He
did not wish to ponder this overmuch.  To do so would be to risk acknowledging
he shared the same weakness as Yulian Krupin.  Perhaps that was what had truly driven
his rage toward the young dancer, why he had killed in the boy what he knew he
could not kill in the man.  Filip told himself once again, for the thousandth
time, that his marriage to Tatiana was one of mutual convenience, and yet this
morning, when he had heard her in her toiletette, the unmistakable sound of her
retching…

She
carried his child.  She did not have to tell him this.  He simply knew.  And
this, of course, was a miracle.  For during his recovery in the overcrowded
infirmary following surgery for his gunshot wound, Filip had contracted the
humiliating disease of measles.  The rash and the scratching had tormented him
more severely than the pain from his side, and then, final blow, the doctor had
told him that the disease had most likely stolen his potency as well as his
dignity.

“There
is a chance that you might someday be a father,” the man had said. “But it is slight.” 
And now this child – conceived against all odds – must be protected.

As
Filip waited for Tatiana in their rooms, he smoked his cigar - another small token
of gratitude from the tsar - and struggled to convince himself that what he was
about to do was only a small betrayal.  Unlike Yulian, he would not let his
heart take him completely away from the cause, but he would find a way to keep
his wife safe from the events that were unfolding.  The events which would
likely go badly for him and his comrades.  Whatever the hours ahead held, he
must save Tatiana and the bud of life within her. 

She
came in just as the clock chimed six. She was drenched straight through to the
skin and the sight of him sitting there startled her so badly that she let out
a small cry of surprise.

“What
are you doing here?”

An
odd question.  These were his rooms, after all.

The
same thought had occurred to her and she amended her question.  “Why have you
come at this hour?”

“I
am here to talk to you,” he said.  “But you should take off those clothes. 
They are wet and you will catch a chill.”

She
looked at the tumbler of brown liquid on the table beside him.  “You have been
drinking?”

“What
if I have?  We must get you into something dry.”

“I
will ring for the maid.”

“Don’t. 
I can help you.  As I said, I wish for us to talk.  Alone.”