Thirteen Years Later (8 page)

Dmitry looked at the message again and spoke his thoughts out loud. ‘So that’s 22 September, the fourteenth hour – two in the afternoon. And it’s from Maks. How do you decode the location?’

‘There’s no real system there,’ said Aleksei. ‘It was just a list – dozens of places in Moscow, and all around it.’

‘Do you still have it – the list?’

‘We destroyed it once we’d memorized it.’

‘Forgotten now, I suppose,’ said Dmitry.

‘Mostly. But I remember
4. It’s a woodsman’s hut, near a town called Desna, south of Moscow. At least it was – it’s been a long time.’

‘Why do you remember that one?’

Aleksei paused. Dmitry had always thought his father an unemotional man – a temperament quite different from his own – but the fact was that Aleksei did not lack emotions, he merely concealed them, desperately. Dmitry only understood that now,
as he saw that concealment beginning to break down. Finally, Aleksei spoke.

‘Because that’s where Maks is buried – where he died. That’s the only place he could meet anyone.’

‘It’s not from Maks, Papa.’

Aleksei’s rigid posture relaxed suddenly, as though Dmitry’s assertion had at last brought rationality back to him. He leapt to his feet. ‘You’re right. It can’t be from Maks. So who is it from?’

‘You said everyone who knew about the code is dead – except you.’

‘I believe so, but that doesn’t mean no one told anyone else. Not one of us – one of them.’

‘Them?’ asked Dmitry.

‘The Oprichniki – that’s what we called them. Twelve mercenaries from Wallachia. But they betrayed us. Maks was the first to see what was happening.’

‘So Uncle Maks wasn’t spying for the French?’

‘Oh, he was. And at the time, that’s all we could think about – all I could think about. I left it to the Oprichniki to execute him.’

‘In Desna?’

Aleksei nodded. ‘Later they killed Vadim.’

‘And Uncle Dmitry?’

‘No, the Russian winter killed him,’ said Aleksei, ‘but it was still down to them.’

‘Who might they have told?’

Aleksei shrugged. ‘Perhaps their leader, Zmyeevich.’

‘He survived?’

‘We only met him briefly. He delivered them to Moscow and then returned home – I presume. They wouldn’t have had a chance then to tell him, but they could easily have sent him the information. But why would he want it? And why use it now?’

‘You’re going to go and find out, aren’t you?’ Dmitry might have resented his father’s willingness to abandon his family in
pursuit of adventure, but he knew him well enough to understand that he could not change it.

Aleksei gave his son a smile that Dmitry didn’t think he’d seen since he was four years old, not directed towards him at least. ‘Do you want to come with me?’

Dmitry scarcely needed to think about it. ‘I have to go to Moscow anyway.’

Aleksei smiled broadly. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now go and get some water and a couple of brushes.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t think we want your mother to see this, do we?’

It took almost two hours to get the walls completely clean. Dmitry had not felt as close to his father for many years.

Aleksei had been in a hurry to set out for Desna, but his appointment was set for the twenty-second, and no rushing across the country at breakneck pace would change that. For him, a sudden departure from Petersburg such as this was nothing unusual. For most of his life he had been prepared and able to pack up the most meagre selection of his possessions and leave one city for another without more than a moment’s consideration. An emergency supply of gold coins sewn into his belt provided for most things he could not bring with him.

And so if it had just been down to him, Aleksei would have been happily ready to depart within hours of reading the message – and happier still that such haste would give him even more time to spend in Moscow. But he knew that for his son the departure from his home was a much more serious step. Dmitry had spent the last two days visiting his tailor, traversing the city saying goodbye to friends and attempting to console his dismayed mother. Now that there were only a few hours remaining before their departure, he was doing what he should have been doing all along – packing.

Aleksei went into his son’s room. Dmitry was on his knees, bent over an old trunk full of books and toys and childhood memories
which, in truth, probably evoked greater feelings of nostalgia in the father than they did in the son. Dmitry heard the footsteps behind him and turned briefly to smile at Aleksei.

Aleksei walked closer to peer over Dmitry’s shoulder and into the box. There was a model boat, a wooden whistle – his first musical instrument – and a book of Perrault’s fairy tales. Each item brought a different smile to Aleksei’s lips. He bent forward to see more, squinting to focus on the dark mass of items. Suddenly his blood ran cold.

‘My God, Mitka. What are you doing with that?’

Dmitry turned again. In his hand he clutched a sword – a short, wooden sword, no longer than a large dagger. The tip was whittled to a point which time had blunted, but which could easily be made once again fit for purpose. The guard was merely another short strip of wood lashed to the blade with twine, intended less to protect the wielder’s hand than to allow it to apply greater force. Aleksei had made and used such a tool before. It was designed to kill, but not to kill a man.

‘Don’t you remember, Papa?’ said Dmitry, standing up. He began fencing with the sword against an imaginary opponent. ‘You made this for me, years ago – when I was a kid.’

The recollection came back to Aleksei. When he whittled away at those vampire-killing swords, he remembered having made a similar one as a toy for his son. The form was much the same, however different the purpose.

‘You loved the idea of being a soldier back then,’ he said.

‘I grew up,’ said Dmitry, then relented. ‘But I’m sure I will enjoy it.’

‘If I’d been better at woodwork, I’d have made you a piano.’

Dmitry smiled, but said nothing.

‘Are you taking it with you then?’ asked Aleksei.

‘I think I’m old enough for a real one now.’

‘Do you mind if I keep it?’ The request was not a sentimental one. Aleksei had no idea what he would find in Desna, but he knew it had some connection with the creatures he had met
thirteen years before. It was reassuring that the meeting was to take place in daylight, but with such a weapon he would feel far more comfortable. ‘Just as a reminder,’ he added, for his son’s benefit.

Dmitry studied his father, but saw nothing beyond the obvious in the request. ‘There you are,’ he said, handing the sword over with a shrug and a smile.

A few hours later, they said their farewells to Marfa. It was a tearful occasion, on her part at least, and Aleksei thought he perceived a glistening in Dmitry’s eye too. For himself, he felt no especial emotion beyond what was normal for his departures from home, beyond that feeling of giddy anticipation he had felt about visiting Moscow since even before he had any specific reason to and whose causes had multiplied over the years. His goodbye to Marfa was no different from what it had always been, and as for Dmitry, they were not yet to part.

Marfa had recomposed herself by the time she kissed her husband’s lips, stroked his hair and let his fingers linger briefly in hers. There had been no tears between them for many years, and her kisses had long since lost the passion of a soldier’s new bride. Aleksei had always supposed she contained her emotion for his sake, so that he would not feel so callous in leaving her, but now he knew that the cause was different.

How long after his departure, he wondered, would it be before Marfa found herself in the arms of Vasiliy, her lover?

Most likely no longer than it would be before Aleksei was in the arms of his.

The journey to Moscow took four days. Aleksei complained all the way that they would have travelled more quickly on horseback, but Dmitry suspected that, at his age, his father was quite happy to be driven in the comfort of a carriage. Even if the two men had chosen to ride the whole journey, they would still have required a carriage of some sort to follow them, bringing Dmitry’s copious luggage. It amazed Dmitry that his father could travel
with so little, but the explanation offered was that Aleksei was such a frequent visitor to the old capital that he kept all that he required in terms of clothing and other essentials at his usual residence there.

It was not Dmitry’s first visit to Moscow, but he was by no means familiar with the city. As they approached, and increasingly as their carriage trundled through the outskirts, Aleksei sat up, his head pushed out the window, resembling nothing so much as an excited pet dog recognizing its environs and realizing it will soon be home. At almost every turn he would point out a brand-new building, a newly reconstructed one, or one that he had never seen before, or perhaps only seen once or twice. Many of them were simply houses or shops, but he seemed to observe every detail that had changed since his last visit.

‘Of course, it’s the theatres that everyone’s talking about,’ he said as they drove down Tverskaya Street to the centre of the city. ‘The Bolshoi only opened in January. I’ve seen it, but I haven’t been in yet.’ His eyes tracked sideways for a moment, gazing down a small lane to the left as they passed, then returned to the road ahead. ‘We’ll see them both in a minute.’

‘It’s hard to believe it was ever how you described it,’ said Dmitry. He had been just five years old when the fires – caused, directly or indirectly, by the invading French – had destroyed two-thirds of the city’s buildings. His father’s passion in describing both the horror of that carnage and the joy of the subsequent resurrection was always a delight to hear. Dmitry knew, of course, that there was some exaggeration in it. Aleksei described the fires as if he had been standing right in front of them, as if he could feel their heat on his face. But Dmitry knew his father, along with the rest of the Russian army, could not have been in Moscow at the time of the occupation. At best he could have witnessed the conflagration from several versts away. That was just part of the skill Aleksei had in telling the stories.

‘When did we first come here?’ Aleksei asked.

‘1820.’

‘Even by then, there had been so much done. Most of the private homes were rebuilt within a few years.’

‘There are still some that haven’t been,’ said Dmitry, pointing to a gap between two new buildings where rubble and charred wood were still visible. Not even a fence separated it from the street.

Aleksei nodded. ‘Some people just decided not to come back home,’ he said wistfully. They rode on in silence for no more than half a minute. Dmitry had just caught sight of one of the Kremlin towers, though he did not know which one, when his father pulled his arm and pointed in the other direction.

‘There it is! Look!’ he exclaimed excitedly. The Bolshoi Theatre was certainly impressive. The stone colonnade of the entrance, topped by a bronze quadriga, gave exactly the impression that was intended – exactly what the tsar had paid for. Beyond it, the Maly Theatre was less ostentatious, but presumably served its customers just as well. ‘Worthy of Paris,’ said Aleksei.

The coach turned right, past the Kremlin, and headed down towards the river. Aleksei leaned over and pointed out of the right-hand window. ‘That’s the manège. You’ll be spending a lot of your time training in there.’

Dmitry smiled. His father had pointed out the half-finished riding school to him on his first visit. Now it was complete. ‘You said exactly the same thing to me when I was thirteen,’ he said.

Aleksei seemed too enthralled with his surroundings to listen. ‘Of course, there used to be a river flowing down here,’ he explained, pointing back out of his side of the carriage, to the gardens at the foot of the Kremlin wall. ‘The Neglinnaya. Just a sewer really – stank to high heaven. Still is a sewer, I suppose. At least now it’s covered over. I wonder if we can see where it comes out.’

As the carriage clattered on to the Stone Bridge, Aleksei leaned far out of the window and looked back the way they had come. They were almost halfway across when he sat back down.

‘No, couldn’t see it,’ he said with a brief shake of his head.
He was smiling broadly, in a way that Dmitry had rarely seen in Petersburg.

‘You like it here, don’t you?’ Dmitry asked.