City of Silence (City of Mystery) (35 page)

“Somebody
has already come through with one load of flowers,” he did remark, flicking a
cigarette in the water.  “How many damn posies do they need?”

“Twice
as many as you’d think,” Gregor had cheerfully answered.  “Got another of those
cigarettes?  The wife won’t let me keep them on me. Says I’m sending money for
the baby’s food right up in smoke.”

The
man had laughed and Gregor had tossed him a rope. Thus they had been literally
pulled to the dock by one of the palace faithful, who had then furthermore lit
Gregor’s cigarette off of his own while Vlad scrambled to unload the flowers. 
They had gotten them from a florist whose son was an ambitious Volya recruit, a
boy who’d had little conscience about helping his comrades burgle his own
father’s shop, and they had a subtle waxy smell which reminded Vlad of death. 
He watched Gregor out of the corner of his eye, admiring his coolness, his
ability to share a smoke and a joke with the enemy.

But
Gregor had always told him, if you want a man to trust you, ask him for a favor. 
Most people get this part wrong.  They try to win people over by offering
something to them, but humans instinctively recoil from those who help them. 
They like the people that they help far better, even if the favor granted is as
small as a cigarette.  Gregor and the dock worker smoked and laughed while Vlad
advanced upon the palace with armloads of lilies.

The
Private Stable of the Gentleman’s Enclave

9:02
PM

Inside
the carriage, Tatiana was ready to pound her fists with frustration.  They had
been sitting there for over an hour, while Ella had thought of one excuse and
then another to delay their departure.

When
Filip had instructed her to leave the Winter Palace, Tatiana’s mind had
reeled.  The entire household was expected to pack and depart for the coast by
the end of the week, so his insistence that she remain not even for that brief
amount of time meant that something was brewing.  She could not imagine what.  She
did not want to even try.  She was already half in shock.  Minutes earlier she
had said goodbye to the only man he had ever loved, and now Filip was confronting
her with the knowledge she was pregnant. 

“The
noises from your toilette in the morning,” he’d said.  “And little changes in
your body.  They tell a man what he needs to know, do they not?”

She
had numbly nodded.  She would not have guessed he paid so much attention, but
he did, and his plan was already in motion.  He was making arrangements for her
to leave St. Petersburg.  Not tomorrow, nor the next day, nor the next, but
now. 

And
so Tatiana had gone knocking on Ella’s door for the second time that
afternoon.  Ella had listened to this new complication and then briskly nodded.
 They would both go, she said.  If they arrived at the seaside villas before
everyone else, it would be easier to create the fiction that Tatiana had
miscarried.  She could send a wire to Filip with the sad news that the carriage
ride had unseated her pregnancy.

“It
is not a change of our plans, merely a small variation,” Ella assured her, and
then she had rang for her maid and begun to pack.  A carriage was called for
and it was furthermore arranged that this would leave from the private stables,
the one near the gentleman’s enclave.  It was a part of the palace Tatiana had
never seen, a part Ella had presumably never visited either, and as they walked
the long halls, the men with their luggage trailing behind them, Tatiana had wondered
at the secrecy of their leave taking.  They were dashing off at a strange hour,
from a hidden exit, as if they had committed some dreadful crime, as if their
departure was not only unexpected, but illegal.

Their
husbands had each come down to the stable to bid them farewell.  Tatiana had
watched as Ella’s fifteen trunks and her two were strapped to the top of the
carriage.  As silken wraps were loaded into the interior, along with bolsters
and pillows.  They would ride straight through the night, it would seem, and
Tatiana glanced up at the driver who had drawn this thankless assignment.  
Filip had kissed her forehead and departed.  Serge had kissed Ella’s and
followed suit. 

And
then, just as Tatiana had expected they would simply climb into the carriage,
close the doors, and roll through the gates, Ella had begun to think of a dozen
things she had forgotten.  A special pair of shoes.  Her Bible.  Some sort of
medication.   A note for dear Granny, explaining her abrupt departure.  Another
for darling Alix.  For darling Alix must be made to understand.  Ella insisted
upon personally viewing the food arranged for their trip, so the hamper had to
be located and unpacked.  Unsurprisingly, she had been displeased with the
contents.  Another note, this one to the kitchen asking for pate.

In
short, the hour had chimed nine and they were still sitting in the pebbly
courtyard, waiting for Ella to finally proclaim them on their way.  Why does
she hesitate to leave the palace?  Tatiana thought.   Is it merely that those
born to privilege never develop a talent for doing anything quickly?  Or is
something holding her here - some guilt or indecision masquerading itself as a
request for an obscure kind of pate?

The
Grand Ballroom

9:10
PM

“But
I want to dance first,” said Xenia, with a pout. 

“My
gypsy princess must dance last,” Tom said, still swirling his ridiculous cape
and using his ridiculous accent.  The surveillance had gone well.  He and Emma
had made note of where each of the imperial ladies would be entering the dance
floor and the Scotland Yard team presumably had explored the audience level in
its entirety.  Tomorrow they would enter the ballroom with far more information
in their hands.

“He’s
right,” Emma said desperately.  The child had gripped one of Tom’s arms and she
had gripped the other.  “The last lady to warm up is in the most advantageous
position when the waltz begins.”  

Xenia
seemed to ponder the statement, while Emma noticed that Trevor had ventured
farther down the stairs and was looking in their direction.  With a strategic
toss of her head she saw that no, he was actually not looking at them but was
rather observing something just past them, the base of the cottage scene, where
several workmen were still arranging flowers and stones into a garden far too
ornate to adorn any real peasant’s home. 

“I
promise,” Tom said to Xenia.  “I dance with you last, and longest, and best.”

Trevor
was now moving faster and with more purpose, Emma noted, although Tom was still
facing the sullen Xenia and did not seem to be aware that something was
unfolding.   And just then Emma saw the danger, come in the shape of two young
workmen.  They had turned in unison away from the stone cottage, almost as if
they were doing some dance of their own, and they were behind Tom and Xenia in
an instant.  The taller one tossed a swath of burlap over her head and lifted
the girl, hefting her over his shoulder while the smaller man threw his weight
against Tom, knocking him nearly off his feet.  He stumbled into Emma, his hat
and mask flying off and Emma screamed.  Trevor was now running, following the
man who had snatched Xenia, while the smaller man, the one who had pushed Tom
off balance, ran out another door.

Amazingly,
no one around them seemed to have noticed what had just happened.  They had
been standing off the ballroom floor, in one of the little alcoves that rested
nearly behind the theatrical sets.  It was the location from which Xenia was to
enter for her part of the waltz, and she had evidently pulled Tom to the spot while
insisting that he warm up with her.  Had she by accident played into the hands
of the workmen?  Were they prepared to grab any of the ladies in the red
dresses and was her abduction thus random?  Or had they known who would be in
each corner of the room and pretended to work on the cottage scene precisely
because it gave them close proximity to the tsar’s daughter?   The music had
begun, and with the full orchestra it was far louder than it had ever been in
rehearsal, loud enough that no one had heard Emma’s cry for help.

Tom
sprinted after the man who had struck him while Emma shouted again, this time toward
the doors where Rayley and Davy were posted.  But neither man heard her, so she
ran up the steps - first to Davy, who upon hearing her frantic description of
the events of the last minute, looked helplessly in one direction and then the
other.  There were so many passageways leading to the theater that presumably
Trevor and the first assailant had gone in one direction and Tom and the other
had fled via some different route. 

We
could run these halls forever and not find them, Emma thought, but by then
Rayley had joined them.  From his vantage point of the central door he must
have seen more of what happened, for he had already concocted a plan by the
time he reached Emma and Davy.

“Stay
in the theater,” he barked to Emma.  “Don’t argue with me and don’t try to
follow.  Find the tsar’s guard, for there must be some of them around, and tell
them the littlest grand duchess has been seized.  Send them in the direction of
the gentleman’s enclave.   Which is where we are going as well,” he added with
a gesture to Davy.  “There are only two ways they can get her out, by boat or
on horseback.   You take the dock and I shall take the stable.”

Davy
nodded and the two of them disappeared.  Emma leaned against the doorframe and
yanked her dance shoes off, blinking back tears as she did so.  She looked around
but saw no one who looked like a member of the guard, even though there were a
dozen or so ladies of exalted birth in the ballroom, moving about laughing,
chatting, or preparing to dance.

We
are fools, she thought.   We knew this was going to happen and yet, with all
five of us in attendance, it still happened.   A movement from the door across
the expanse of the ballroom caught her eye.  It was the door where Rayley had
been waiting and now another man stood there, a man three times the size of her
friend.  A man who was looking directly at her in her red dress.  A dress like
the one Xenia wore, like Ella owned, and a dozen other ladies, including his
own wife.  Emma screamed again, this time at the sight of Filip Orlov.  But
that sound, like all the others, was absorbed into the persistent rhythm of the
waltz. 

Chapter
Twenty-Three

The
Halls of the Gentlemen’s Enclave

9:20
PM

An
angry twelve year old girl in a burlap sack is not a particularly easy thing to
carry.  When Gregor had practiced the choreography of the abduction, Vlad had
played the role of the grand duchess and through repetition, Gregor had become
quite confident in his ability to throw the sack over the head of his victim,
then turn and hoist her to his shoulder. 

But
of course Vlad had remained cooperatively still and the real-life duchess was
kicking, squirming, twisting, and doing everything in her power to express her
profound displeasure with this turn of events.   He had gotten her down the
main hall – which had been cleared of all traffic by the order of Filip – and
into the more obscure passages leading to the enclave, but it had been a
struggle and he was already tiring with the effort.  Xenia was emitting a
seemingly never ending series of yelps and squeals which were muffled by the
thick cloth but still entirely too audible for his liking.  Gregor could only
pray that they would not encounter anyone else along the hallway.

And
then, of course, there was that business about the man chasing him.

This
was not supposed to happen.  The enclaves behind the sets had been precisely as
Yulian had described them and Xenia had been waiting to enter the dance floor
where predicted.  The music was loud, the room was crowded, and all had been
going according to plan.  Yulian had told them to expect few guards within the
theater, at least not during rehearsals, and had said that if Xenia was to be
found with any man in attendance, it would most likely be her dance master. 
Vlad had done an admirable job of taking that fop off his feet, but then, out
of nowhere, descending down a flight of stairs like some vengeful god, had come
an entirely different fellow.  No, not at all part of the plan.  And now the
fat fool was chasing Gregor and shouting in English.

Gregor
knew he held advantages in the areas of youth, athletic prowess, and of course
the fact he knew where they were going.  But none of his bobs and weaves had so
far fooled the fellow, who seemed, in fact, to be gaining on them.  His gasping
and rasping were becoming louder, and Gregor found himself stumbling as the Grand
Duchess – who was frankly far less ladylike than one would expect – managed to
strike the dead center of his chest with her knee, thus knocking the air from
him and rendering him momentarily disoriented.  He stumbled and lost his grip
on the sack, her leaden form dropping at his feet with an appallingly loud
thump, and then, just as he debated the advisability of trying to lift her
again, the man who was chasing him rounded the final corner.

He
would be upon them in seconds.  Gregor decided it was time to use his final
advantage and he fumbled for the pistol in his pocket.

9:20
PM

Emma
was angry at herself for screaming, that most useless and classic of all female
reactions.   Not only had the sound been lost in the noisy ballroom but Filip
Orlov had hardly been focused on her.  He had paused in the central doorway for
the same reason Rayley had been there earlier, because it offered the best
vantage point on the entire ballroom, both the upper and lower levels.  Judging
from the expression on the man’s face he had taken the measure of the situation
almost at once, and knew that his young minions down on the floor had walked
into a trap.  He had left the door with the same haste as everyone else, headed
for heaven knows where.

She
needed to stay focused on her own task.  Rayley had told her to find the palace
police and there didn’t appear to be any of them in the ballroom.  Evidently
the majority of the men on duty were clustered around the Queen’s apartment,
stationed there by the dour-faced Viktor Prakov as a courtesy to Trevor.  With
a sigh, for it was questionable if they would abandon their position based on
the order of an English woman in a red spangled dress, she turned in the
direction of the guest wing of the palace. 

9:20
PM

Filip
knew they had failed.  The plan had gone with admirable smoothness up to a
point, but as he had watched from the balcony he had realized, just before
Gregor struck, that the man standing beside Xenia was not Konstantin Antonovich
at all, but rather one of the British dandies who had accompanied the Queen. 
And with this knowledge, it had not been hard to locate the other three men standing
in their separate doors.  The Welles man in charge of it all, his old comrade
Rayley Abrams from the saunas, and finally that goddam little twit Vlad had
introduced him to in the streets.  Filip had tried to tell Vlad that boy would
cause trouble, but it had never, even in his most extreme moments of paranoia,
occurred to Filip that rosy-cheeked Davy Mabrey was Scotland Yard.

He
had rushed down to the second level hoping he might intercept at least one of
them before they too gave chase, but by the time he had arrived there no one
was left but one of the women in the red dresses, shrieking to the heavens. 
God knows who she was or what she had seen but at least the orchestra was
dulling the sound of her cries, the only fortune which had favored him yet.

It
was time for Plan B. There was always a Plan B and even, for very bad days, a
Plan C.  Filip could only hope that in their panic Vlad and Gregor remembered
it.

9:20
PM

Vlad
was lost.  He tried to recall Yulian’s drawings and Filip’s descriptions, for
he had certainly studied them often enough in the meeting room.  But now it
seemed that all the facts had left his head and he was being followed by the
Siberian dance master, a man who presumably knew the palace like the back of
his hand.  The problem was that the halls, each lined with doors indicating
rooms which were small and close together, all looked too damnably alike and,  judging
by the familiar smirk of a whore in one of the tawdry portraits, he feared he
had somehow doubled back and was passing the same point for the second time. 
If he wasn’t careful, he was about to run headlong into the man who was chasing
him.

In
desperation Vlad stopped at a door.  A random choice, one of dozens just like
it.  He turned the knob and it opened.

9:20
PM

Tom
was lost.  He had been fairly sure that the boy he was chasing had turned off
in this direction, but now he was beginning to doubt himself.  He had passed the
same portrait more than once, that much was certain, and he stopped, bracing
his hand against the flocked velvet wall and struggling for breath.  

“Tell
me, madam,” he said to the buxom woman gazing right at him, despite the fact
any number of naughty cherubs were attempting to distract her with grapes.  “Has
an assassin recently passed this way?”

But
the lady was discreet, at least in matters of conversation, so after a moment
of rest, Tom decided to retrace his steps back to the entrance of the last set
of halls.  Perhaps something there might indicate the direction to either the
stables or the dock.  As he walked he pondered the universal truth that, even
when under of the most extraordinary duress, a man always has time to notice a
woman without her clothes. 

9:24
PM

Trevor
took it all in.  The long hall.  The squirming bundle of burlap.  The terrified
boy, pointing a shaking pistol in his direction.

A
Webley, he thought, with the extraordinary detachment that comes over one in
such situations.  Standard issue, British service.  So this is what became of
Mrs. Kirby’s gun.

The
odds are that the boy would have missed him anyway.  He was clearly untrained
with such a weapon and so agitated that he was having trouble taking aim.  But
Trevor’s luck was furthermore aided by the Grand Duchess Xenia, who by chance chose
the moment to give an especially violent heave, one which caused her to strike
Gregor’s leg and the gun to jerk abruptly upward just as he fired.  A
chandelier exploded with a shriek of falling glass which rained down upon
Trevor.  The boy wobbled, as if trying to decide the advisability of firing
again, but then simply turned and fled.  

Tom,
who had run toward the sound, approached from behind Trevor and then, from
another direction, came Rayley.  “Gad, Welles, are you all right?” Rayley asked.

Trevor
nodded, shards of glass sliding down his shoulders.  “See to the girl,” he
croaked to Tom, jerking his hand in the direction of the sack.  And then to
Rayley he added, “We must hurry.  I fear he’s trying to escape through the
stables.”

9:26
PM

Running
barefoot, with her dress grasped up in her hands like a farm girl at the
village barn dance, Emma made it to the Queen’s suite of rooms in record time. 
If she had worried that the police stationed there would ignore her, as it
turns out that concern was unwarranted.   Instead they tackled her.

As
she thudded to the carpeted floor, the weight of a young man in uniform
crashing down beside her, the resultant scuffle caused the palace police inside
the suite to open the door.  And knowing that the cracked door offered her only
chance, Emma shrieked again, for perhaps the tenth time of the evening.

“Your
Majesty,” she cried.  “It’s Emma.”

She
was surrounded by gray boots but there, from her humiliating posture on the
floor with some random Russian astride her, she mercifully saw the bottom of a
black shirt approaching.   And the bell-like voice of Victoria said, with
absolute calmness, “Release that young woman at once.”

9:26
PM

When
Filip reached the portico which connected the men’s enclave to the stable he
saw many things which he had anticipated:  horses, groomsmen, and various means
of transport.  But he also saw something which he did not anticipate and which
made his heart promptly sink in his chest.  The carriage that was to take
Tatiana and Ella to the coast was still sitting in the courtyard.  The driver,
who had obviously given up on the idea of leaving any time soon, was slumbering
in his seat on top, his head rolled to the side and his mouth gaping.

Not
to panic.  Not yet.  His cover had not been blown.  He strode up to the
carriage and wrenched open the door.

“It
is so hard to say goodbye, sweetheart,” he called inside.  “I have come for a
second kiss.”

The
women startled as the door opened.  They were waiting for what Ella had sworn
to be the last of her endless requests, one of the Fabrege eggs Serge had given
her with a miniature portrait tucked inside.  Although sunlight still streamed
and the night was warm, there were silken robes in bright colors tucked around
them and they were reclining against great pillows.  His Tatiana was encased in
a pod of light green and dark pink, her hair twisted up in a casual but most
becoming fashion.  As Filip leaned into the carriage, their eyes locked. 

The
police may have taken him at his word, and possibly the Grand Duchess Ella as
well.  But his wife was not in the list bit fooled by his claim he had come for
a second kiss.

“Why
are you here?” she asked.

“Perhaps
I shall come to the coast with you,” he said.

The
Grand Duchess seemed confused by this exchange.  “But we are a party of
ladies,” she said, as if were an impossible notion that a man and his wife
might travel together in a carriage.

Filip
could see they were a party of ladies.  The tangle of silken colors around them
made it seem as if his wife and the Grand Duchess and even the maid had been
consumed by some great flower.  Tatiana was drinking champagne.  Her fingers,
tight with tension, gripped the stem of the glass and the bedclothes smelled of
lilac.

She
belongs in this world, Filip thought.  It was made for her.

And
then there was a clatter behind him, so that he turned, one foot on the step of
the carriage and the other still on the cobblestones, and looked over his
shoulder.  Gregor, wild-eyed and waving his pistol in the manner of an actor in
a very bad play, had also run into the courtyard. 

As
the groomsmen moved toward him, Gregor gestured with his gun, shouting for them
to get back, and they did.  And then he looked at Filip and did the last thing
Filip would have ever expected him to do.

Gregor
smiled.

Plan
B was to exit by the stable instead of the docks.  To commandeer a carriage for
escape and Gregor apparently thought that Filip was doing just that.  He smiled
and began to move toward the carriage but, from behind Gregor’s shoulder, Filip
could see the lumbering form of the British detective also approaching the
door.  The thin one in glasses was with him.  And they both knew precisely who
and what Filip Orlov was.

Filip
had no more than three seconds to make his decision, but under these sorts of
circumstances, time becomes elastic.  It stretches to accommodate anywhere the
mind wishes to go.  Filip could almost see himself standing there in the door
of the carriage, the ladies with their rose and green silks on one side of him,
the wild-eyed comrade with his pistol on the other.  It all hung on his next
gesture, did it not?