Part 5 (1/2)

Mikhailov turned lazily to him, his face empty of expression: 'Well, it's taken the bakers ten years to get this far with the church. Perhaps someone will make a decent fist of it before they finish and disappoint them yet.'

Slipping from the bench, he smoothed the tails of his frock coat and turned to Anna: 'We must speak.'

From the refectory, he led her down the corridor and out into the courtyard at the rear. The carriage gates were closed and looked as if they had been for years. On the other three sides, the windows of the building were roughly boarded like a derelict prison. But for a thin shaft of light spilling from the open door across the cracked and weedy flags, the yard was dark, oppressively so. Mikhailov stood at the door with the light at his back, his shadow falling theatrically across her. A showman with a love of conspiracy and the shade, but in the months Anna had worked alongside him she had learnt to recognise that he was the sharpest, the best informed and most security conscious member of their little band. Ruthless, a truly dedicated and energetic revolutionary, he was cut from Bakunin's cla.s.sic mould: everything that promoted the success of the movement was moral, everything that hindered it immoral.

'The English doctor, can he be trusted?'

'Vera Figner says so.'

'And you?'

'I think so too.'

'Is it worth the risk?'

Anna paused to collect her thoughts, sweeping a loose strand of hair back in a single graceful movement. 'Yes, it is worth the risk. He can be useful.'

'But our work is more important than the patients at the clinic.'

'Of course, yes, I know. I'm not a fool. I mean he is very well connected. His uncle is General Glen . . .'

'The financial controller?'

'Yes.'

'Well, that is a different matter, yes.' Mikhailov was impressed. 'But is he with us?'

'He's not against us. I think he can be persuaded . . .' She paused, as if in two minds whether to say more.

'Well?'

'He likes me.'

Mikhailov chuckled and took a step forward to place a hot plump hand on her upper arm. 'We all like you, Anna.'

She shook it free at once, grateful that the darkness was covering the colour she could feel in her face. 'He may be useful, that's all.'

'Yes, he may.' There was nothing in Mikhailov's voice to suggest he felt any embarra.s.sment. 'Just be careful.'

'Of course. It's not me you need to speak to.'

'Oh?'

And she told him of Goldenberg's plan to kill the head of the Third Section. 'The doctor must have overheard him. I tried to convince him it was just silliness, but he isn't an idiot.'

Mikhailov turned away from her and stepped back to the open door, his head bent, pulling distractedly at his thick beard.

'All the more reason to be careful,' he said at last. 'I will speak to Grigory. The time isn't right for another attempt.'

They made their way back along the corridor but at the refectory door Anna stopped and, without turning to look at him, said, 'Did you hear of Alexander?' Her voice shook a little with emotion.

'He showed great courage on the scaffold.'

'You were there?'

'No. But Popov was there.'

'Popov?'

'The student I brought with me tonight.'

Turning the handle sharply, she pushed the door open and walked purposefully into the refectory. They all knew the risk they were taking. Time mourning her friend was time that should be spent fighting for the revolution he gave his life for. What was it Mikhailov had said to them all on the eve of the attempt? 'We can do anything if we are not afraid of death.' Alexander Soloviev had not been afraid.

Goldenberg and Evgenia Figner had been joined at the table by Morozov and Kviatkovsky, Presnyakov and other familiar faces.

'Thank you for coming, comrades,' said Mikhailov, pouring himself a gla.s.s of tea. 'We are running a risk, meeting so soon after Alexander's death, but I have some important news. A conference has been called to discuss our ideas for a new party.'

It would be held at a city in the south-west, he told them, invitations delivered by hand to socialist groups all over Russia. 'This is our chance to argue the case for our campaign. The people want us to lead them and they need something to fight for.' To prepare for the conference, they must visit supporters and raise money. It would have to be done in complete secrecy.

'And that brings me to the spy, Bronstein.' Mikhailov placed his gla.s.s on the table and clasped his hands together like a priest in prayer. 'Madame Volkonsky's house is being watched. No one should go there or try to contact her. Our friend Popov,' and he nodded towards the unprepossessing figure lurking at the fringe of the circle, 'has been making contacts with the workers at the Baird Foundry but he is being watched by another informer. You seem to attract them like flies to dung, don't you, Popov? Tomorrow he will leave the city. And you, Grigory,' he said, turning to Goldenberg, 'you must leave too.'

Goldenberg's face fell. 'Why me? How can you be sure they're looking for me? I don't . . .'

Mikhailov cut him short. 'You know better than to ask.' No one in the group doubted that Mikhailov knew of what he spoke. Time and again he had presented them with startling intelligence, like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. His sources were jealously guarded, and the group was obliged to take what he told them on trust. Knowledge is power, he had told them, when speaking of their struggle, and his unique access to it placed him first among equals.

The conversation turned to the formation of workers' groups, new cells in the army and navy, and of Mikhailov's plans for a printing press. At a little before ten o'clock the meeting broke up and they began to slip into the night in ones and twos.

'Did you instruct Popov to to deal with Bronstein?' Anna asked when she was alone again with Mikhailov. They were standing at the front door waiting for the yard keeper to return and lock the school.

'Why do you ask?'

She paused to consider her words carefully. 'Is it right that one person can take the decision to kill in the name of the group?' she said at last.

'Don't you trust me?'

'That isn't the point.'

'Anna. Think.' And for once his soft at-your-service voice was sharp with impatience. 'You know perfectly well that in such cases there isn't time for a motion and a vote.'

Mikhailov was right, she knew that, and yet she felt uneasy. It must as always have been written in her face.

'Is there more?' he asked, his small brown eyes hunting for hers. 'Is there something you aren't telling me? Perhaps this English doctor?'

'Don't be foolish.'

But the clever little smile had returned to Mikhailov's face. 'Let's hope he is a servant to the movement. We'll know soon enough, won't we?'