City of Silence (City of Mystery) (36 page)

Since
boyhood, Filip Orlov had only two fears:  that his life would have no meaning
and that his death would have no meaning.  He could see what Gregor could not. 
That the infidels had been prepared for them, that they had walked into a trap.
To be caught now would mean that their cause had come to nothing and, perhaps
more to the point, it would destroy Tatiana’s life. 

Her
life and the life of his child.

Plan
B was to commandeer a carriage by any force necessary, including the death of
the driver.  Gregor now raised his pistol in the direction of the man, who had
been abruptly awakened by the commotion and had taken up the reins in one hand
and his whip in the other.  Despite the fact he had been snatched from slumber,
his grasp of the danger at hand was clear, and he seemed prepared to protect
his imperial passenger at any cost. 

Filip
allowed himself one final look at his wife. 

And
then he sprang.  He leapt from the step toward the top of the carriage,
straining to reach the driver’s seat.  It was a gesture which could be interpreted
in many ways.  But when Gregor’s bullet went into his back, Filip knew how
history would judge him.

And
in that same moment Trevor was through the door and on top of Gregor, knocking
him to the ground and falling over him. The groomsmen, released from their paralysis,
surrounded them and inside the carriage two of the women had begun to shriek
while the third remained absolutely silent, her eyes staring out the open door
into the courtyard.  The courtyard where Filip Orlov’s blood was running over
the cobblestones.  

He
was not dead.  He groaned.  His eyes fluttered open.  This time, he knew, he
had not been shot in the fat.

A
face over his, blocking the light.  The thin owlish British detective, the one
who had come to the gentlemen’s enclave.  What was his name?  They had smoked
hashish and talked of love.  The man bent low, his head at such an angle that
his eyeglasses edged down the bridge of his nose.

“Lie
very still,” he said.  “We will find a doctor.”

“No,”
said Filip.  The sky tilted and slid above him, as if God were shaking the
world.  The palace police were here now, jerking Gregor to his feet, throwing
him against the side wall of the stable, and Filip could hear the clang of their
handcuffs, their cursing.  The hysteria of the Grand Duchess, the low silent reassurance
of her maid.  No word from Tatiana, but she surely knew what he had done for
her.  Where his loyalty had come to rest. 

The
sky seemed less bright now.  The voices not so loud and the pain not so sharp,
and Rayley’s form, still bent over him, was less distinct.  Filip noticed, with
some distraction, that he could see the reflection of his own face in the
detective’s spectacles.  He looked tired. 

“Hold
on, man,” Rayley whispered.  “They’re bringing water.”

Filip
attempted to shake his head and failed.  There was no use for water, except
possibly to wash the cobblestones.  He pulled in his last breath and saved it
until he was sure he had the strength for nine words.

“Tell
them I died,” Filip said, “in service to the tsar.”

9:31
PM

Vlad
had kept his ear pressed to the door for several minutes and had slowly
convinced himself that there were no more sounds coming from the hall.  He had
found himself in one of the leisure rooms, a place which held a broad couch, a
table with a decanter and ashtray, and what Vlad could only assume were various
instruments of pleasure.  He felt unclean even being there, but his hiding
place had at least given him a few minutes to calm his nerves.  The dock, he
now remembered, would be at the end of this hall and to the right.

He
cracked the door open and listened.  Still no noise.  He leaned his head out
and looked in one direction, then the other.  Absolute emptiness.  Then he
slipped from the room and walked in the direction of the docks.  It had
occurred to him that if he were able to maintain his composure he might not be
intercepted.  He carried no hostage and no gun.  During the pursuit, no one had
seen his face.  There was every possibility he could return to the docks and
reclaim his little rowboat.  That he could depart the palace as he entered it,
a humble purveyor of lilies. 

And
that is just what would have happened had Davy Mabrey not been waiting on the
docks.

For
a moment the two young men simply looked at each other. Then Vlad walked
towards Davy slowly, his palms outstretched to show he carried no weapon.

“Ah,
comrade,” he said.  “So you are with them after all.”

“Scotland
Yard.”

“I
should have known.  The English are always English, no matter what else they
try to be.  And now you must turn me in, I suppose?”

Davy
swallowed.  “The girl isn’t hurt.  One of my group, a doctor, is with her.”

“You
tell me this why?  Because you think I care?”

“Because
it will go better for you that she wasn’t injured.  Better in court, I mean.”

“Court?” 
Vlad laughed harshly, and the ugly cry echoed off the water.  “Where do you
think you are, comrade?”  He looked at Davy with a sudden intensity.  “Let me
go.  As one nothing to another, let me go.”

“You
must understand that I cannot.”

“The
revolution is dead to me now, I swear it.  My life has run through my hands
like water in the last hour and I didn’t like the feeling.  The feeling that I
might die before I have lived.   I wish to go home, to sleep in my bed.  To eat
chicken and potatoes, to hear my mother sing off-key.”

At
the mention of the word “mother,” Davy’s face changed.  Only for a fraction of
a second, but Vlad noted it and seized the opportunity.

“My
woman has already lost one son, comrade” he said.  “Could you live with
yourself if you cost her yet another?”

The
Grand Ballroom

10:02 
PM

Tom
watched her from the top of the staircase, uncertain of how to approach.  But
with his first footfall on the first step, Emma heard him and turned.  She was
standing in the center of the empty ballroom floor.  She had been crying for
some time.

“Did
you find Xenia?” she asked.

“Yes. 
She’s a bit shaken, of course, but she’ll be fine.  Orlov was shot dead.  By
his own man, as it turns out.”

 She
absorbed this in thoughtful silence.  “Tatiana and Ella?  They will be all
right?”

“I
suppose that remains to be seen.”

Any
other time she would have questioned his vague comment.  Would have demanded he
speak plainly and tell her everything that had happened.  But for now, Emma
merely shrugged and the movement, even through slight, caused the red gown to
shimmer.  She had never looked lovelier, Tom thought.  Had never worn a gown as
spectacular as this one, perhaps never would again.  She tugged at his heart,
standing there so alone in the center of the dance floor, like a fairy princess
whose prince must have lost his way. 

Tom
walked down the final steps and onto the floor.  “He is not the only man on
earth who can waltz, you know.”

“I
never said he was.”

“Nor
is he the only man who can waltz with you.”

Now
this perhaps she did believe.  She visibly exhaled and shifted a little on her
feet, sending her skirt into a crescendo of sparkles and shimmer.

He
held out his arms. “Dance with me, Emma. Here on this great floor on this night
that will ever end.”

“I
didn’t know you waltzed.”

“There
are many things about me you do not know,” he said, as she raised her arms to
him.  “Just as I suppose there are corridors and passageways I have not yet
found in you.  We are each as large as a palace, are we not?  An endless series
of doors to be opened as the years proceed.”

It
was a grand speech.  Quite unlike him, and she was not sure if this was just
another of his jokes, a way to jolly her out of this strange sadness.  But it
didn’t really matter, and she let her left hand alight on his shoulder as he
took her right in his.  As he pulled her closer and began, without music, to
waltz.

What
would Konstantin have said, if he were now standing before them, watching? 
Probably that Tom knew the steps, but not the dance.  His movements were small,
neat, and tentative, and she matched hers to his.  He began to hum, which made
it worse, for there was no correlation between his music and his pace and their
knees clanked against each other as they stepped slowly through the shape of a
box.  If he’d had a sword it would have surely poked her.  And then the edge of
his foot came down on hers.

“I’m
sorry,” he said.

“It’s
all right.”  

He
brought his cheek closer.  It was soft and fair and not that much higher than
her own and he was humming again.  There is no magic in this, she thought,
bending back to look up at the ceiling, at the empty balconies and abandoned
theatrical sets.  There is no mystery.  It is just me and Tom in the center of
an empty room, but he has cared enough to come in search of me and he is trying
to make it better. Trying to make up for something I have lost, even if he
doesn’t understand what it was and has no idea how to recreate it.  They danced
another box and then he stopped.

“Are
your eyes closed?” he asked.

“Of
course,” she said.  But they were open.

Chapter
Twenty-Four

A
Train Outside of Danzig

June
24, 1889

7:50
AM

The
train was an hour past the Russian border and moving steadily through Germany
when he opened the envelope.  It contained, as promised, a letter of
introduction from the Grand Duchess Ella
Feodorovna
,
written on her official stationery and describing his talents in such flowery
language that he had no doubt it would secure him a berth teaching in the best
dance academy of Paris.  He refolded it carefully and placed it back in its
envelope, reflecting that it was a strange thing that a man’s whole future
could be written on a single piece of paper.

His
bundle at his feet held a blue velvet pouch, the contents of which he had not
yet explored.  Slowly and tentatively, taking care not to disturb his fellow
passengers who were crammed all around him, he pulled the silken string on
top.  Inside was a golden egg.  Konstantin took one quick look, enough to register
the shocking value of the gift, and then thrust it back into the pouch.  The
others in the compartment all appeared to be sleeping, but it would not do to
attract their attention with an object of such obvious value.  Like anyone who
had ever lived in the Winter Palace, Konstantin had heard of the Fabrege eggs,
but had never seen one up close and he had no idea why the Grand Duchess would
have chosen to bestow such a treasure on him. 

“Take
this,” she had said. “Something to help you start your new life in Paris.”  But
he had expected a handful of coins or perhaps a small bank note, certainly
nothing as grand as this.  Something which shamed him just to look at it, an
object that would probably mark him as a thief if anyone knew he had it in his
possession.  But still, when Tatiana joined him…the sale of a Fabrege egg could
buy them an apartment, simple furnishings, food in the cupboard, shoes on their
feet. 

At
the thought of her, he reached down to the other bundle resting at his feet,
the one tied with heavy paper and string. 

The
paper was still damp and the form of the package was bent in the center, where
the water from the chapel rainspout had pounded against it as he had made love
to Tatiana.  He remembered the painting inside, their first meal together and
their final one too, at least for a while.  He tugged at the edge of the
package and the paper tore easily.  Sliding the string and wrapping to the
side, he slowly revealed what was left of the picture.

He
could see the city around them.  The café tables, the stray cat which rubbed against
their legs, the streets, the shop windows, the dome of a church in the
distance.  The details remained quite clear around the periphery but in the
center the picture was washed out.  The paint had run away, the colors probably
still visible among the cobblestones outside the Chapel of Mourning.   

“Leave
it,” she had said.  She had seen the water pouring down upon the package and she
had known that their image must have fled.  But yet he had not left it, and now
he was glad, for looking at the painting, holding it carefully by the corners
with his fingertips, a bit of fear ran across him.  He allowed his mind to
sink, just for a second, into the possibility that she would not follow him. 
That this goodbye had always meant something different for her than for him,
that his escape had been bought at a high price.  Yes, even higher than the
value of a Fabrege egg.

The
light from the window flickered on the painting in his hands.  He imagined what
it would look like on his wall, how many times he would have to study it before
the meaning of all that had happened in the last few days would at last fully
emerge.  The picture was, Konstantin thought, the perfect memento of their
affair.  St. Petersburg would always be there.  It was dark-edged and clear and
full of the small realities of a city, the sort which anchored and framed you,
the details of everyday life.  A chair, a church, a wine glass, a cat, the pink
splash of a woman’s dress.  But there was a great emptiness in the center.  The
lovers once found there were gone.

The
Docks of the Winter Palace

11:20
AM

“That
poor composer,” the Queen said.  “I suppose he is never to have his ball.”

Trevor
and Queen stood on the deck of The Albert and Victoria, watching the
dockworkers roll the trunks up the gangplank and on board.  It was a strangely
unceremonious departure.  No one from the Imperial family had come down to the
riverbank to see them off.

“This
is a singularly difficult country in which to make plans,” Trevor said.  “Perhaps
in the future when invitations go out from the palace they should read
something along the line of ‘There will be a grand ball on this evening as long
as no one is assassinated or kidnapped.’”

Victoria
gave a little snort which Trevor hoped indicated amusement and gazed up the
green lawn toward the Winter Palace.  “My granddaughter informs me that there
is to be a baby.”

Hard
to say what sort of reaction was expected to this, so Trevor decided to go with
the most conventional one possible.  “My congratulations, Your Majesty.”

“And
thus Ella is irretrievably gone,” the Queen continued, her eyes never leaving
the Palace.  “Nothing ties a woman to a man more definitively than giving birth
to his child and once she has a Romanov baby, she will be here forever.  From
some decisions, there is no turning back.”  She sighed.  “But at least Alix has
come to her senses.”

“Something
to be grateful for,” Trevor said, making note as one especially long and
ungainly sack was rolled aboard, most likely containing the earthly remains of
Cynthia Kirby.  “A gun pointed toward a carriage which held her sister must
have done what three previous murders could not.  Provided evidence beyond
question that Russia is not a safe place in which to marry and raise a family.”

The
Queen pulled her gaze away from the Palace.  “One would think so, but that
wasn’t what convinced her.  Alix was far more deeply shocked by Ella’s decision
to turn her back on Lutheranism and convert to Orthodoxy.  Apparently Nicky
wished to mark their understanding with the gift of a diamond brooch, but she
tells me that she has returned it and informed him she could never marry a man
of a different faith.”

“My
congratulations, Your Majesty.”

The
irony of the repeated response was not lost on the Queen.  Her mouth twisted
into a grim smile as she turned toward an approaching servant.  The same fellow
who had served them dinner on their voyage over, Trevor recalled.  He wondered where
the crew of the yacht had been during their time in St. Petersburg.  Living
onboard most likely, awaiting word that Her Majesty’s business was concluded
and they would once again be required to spring into action.  It was a strange
life being in service to the Queen.  Long stretches of inactivity, followed by
bursts of extraordinary effort. 

With
no further comment, the Queen turned and processed down the steps, presumably
to her cabins below, her manservant following smartly behind.  A sharp blast of
the ship’s whistle indicated that departure was imminent, and within minutes of
the sound, Rayley and Davy emerged up the same steps to join Trevor on deck.

“And
so we are off,” Rayley said, as the ship begin to pull from its berth.

“Where
is Tom?” Trevor asked. 

“Already
in his bunk, Sir.” Davy said.  “I think he celebrated his last night in the
Palace a little too much.”

“And
what of Emma?”

“Also
below deck, consoling Alix,” Rayley said.  “Or perhaps it is the other way
around.  This country has a strange effect on people, does it not?  Despite everything,
I feel we have all fallen a bit under its spell.”

 “I
have a question, Sirs,” Davy said, as the yacht began moving toward the center
of the Neva, the engines settling down into a low steady drone.

“We
may not be able to answer, but by all means, give it a shot,” said Trevor.

“Should
our loyalty toward ideals be greater than our loyalty toward people?” Davy
asked, cupping his hand to be heard above the wind and the engines.

This
was a bit more philosophical than either Rayley or Trevor was prepared for, and
for a minute they all simply stood, still facing the Winter Palace.  The
eternal Palace.  It seemed it would take as long to leave it as it had to
approach it.

“We
discussed this very topic during one of our meetings,” Trevor said. “One of the
ones you missed.  As I recall, we failed to come to any conclusion.”

“You
have obviously given the matter some thought,” Rayley said.  “What do you think?”

“I
feel I’ve done the wrong thing, Sirs,” Davy said, his voice cracking.  “In fact
I know I have.  I’ve lied to you, Sirs, and I have to get it off my chest or
the trip back will be a proper torment…”

“Hold
on, son,” Trevor said.  “What are we talking about?”

“One
of the lads in the Volya,” Davy said.  “Vlad.  I saw him on the dock last night
and I could have given chase and I…I didn’t.”  He was green with agony, gripping
the railing as if the seasickness which had plagued him during the first trip
had already taken hold of him again.  “Then I didn’t tell you even after that
was over, and this was as bad as a lie too, isn’t it Sir?”

“Yes,
you should have given chase or called for help or at the very least you should
have told me the truth when you returned to the courtyard,” Trevor said.  His
voice was neither scolding nor sympathetic, merely matter of fact.  “But you
didn’t, and it’s done.  Orlov is dead and Krupin is arrested and they are the
two who matter.  As long as the sharks are caught, I can live with the fact
that a minnow slips through the net now and then.”

“We
did a similar thing, you know,” Rayley said, although it was unclear whether
the comment was directed toward Trevor or Davy.  “We might have announced that
Filip Orlov was with the Volya, but we didn’t, and neither did Prakov.  We let
everyone believe he died a martyr to the tsar.”

“Things
will likely go better for his widow that way,” Trevor said.  “Based on what Tom
told us, that poor woman’s position is precarious enough without us adding to
her troubles.”

“So
at times the truth is overrated?” Rayley asked, with a sly smile.  One rarely
got such an admission out of Welles.

“I
wouldn’t say that,” Trevor answered.  “I’d rather say that sometimes the truth
is complex.”

But
Davy was not totally convinced, so he continued to seek absolution.  “Vlad
swore the revolution was behind him, Sirs.  Said that his mother had already lost
one son to violence and he was going to go home and eat chicken and potatoes before
she lost another.”

“Which
may indeed have been the case” Trevor said.  “A brush with death has a way of
making a man crave chicken and potatoes.”

“And
even if it wasn’t,” Rayley added, “perhaps it was simply not this boy’s fate to
be captured.”

“Fate?”
Trevor said, stroking his mustache.  They had at last sailed beyond the looming
shadow of the Winter Palace and the sun struck them suddenly full in the face,
causing them all to flinch and shield their eyes.  “I say, Abrams, you’re
talking just like a Russian.  There’s no such thing as fate.  It’s just the word
men give to decisions which have worked out badly.”

“Fatalism
is the national disease of Russia,” Rayley said with a laugh, cupping both
hands to his brow in an effort to stop the assault of the light.  “Tom says the
Grand Duchess Ella told him that and it seems most contagious indeed.  And yet,
Welles, you’re the only one of us who never caught even the slightest sniffle.  I
wonder why.”

Trevor
turned his back on the sun, the palace, and Russia.  “I fear I am too English,”
he said.

From
high on the riverbank Vlad Ulyanov watched the royal yacht slip from view.  The
kidnapping had been a failure, but even failures served their purpose. 
Hangings were surprisingly good for recruitment, boys being what they were, and
the ranks of the Volya would soon swell with new recruits.  Young and impressionable
revolutionaries seeking guidance from the more established members and now that
the British had sailed and Gregor and Filip were out of the way…

His
destiny was fully upon him.  He would climb to heights that even Sasha had
failed to reach. 

It
was the fashion of the Volya for the leaders to choose new names.  The custom
was partly to protect their families from retaliation should something go wrong
in this long and dangerous struggle.  But mostly it was to signal their
rebirths, to announce to the world that their old lives meant nothing to them
once they had aligned with the Marxist party.  Names based on the physical
features of Russia were especially popular, since they seemed to suggest that
the men and their cause had organically sprung from the very land they loved.  Mountains,
prairies, oceans, rivers…

Perhaps
he should name himself after the Neva, Vlad thought, and then almost
immediately rejected the idea.  He would not so honor a river that flowed
within sight of the Winter Palace, but would rather choose something humbler,
more distant, more reflective of the true nature of Russia.  There was a river
in Siberia - the Lena, and he tried the sound on for size.