Part 8 (2/2)

'It's all right. Don't worry.' He settled himself on her couch. 'First, is there any tea?'

She stood staring at him. She must have been preparing to go to bed because the top of her white cotton blouse was hanging open, her hair loose about her shoulders, her feet bare.

'The water's still hot,' she said reluctantly.

Mikhailov watched as she busied herself with the tea, admiring the curve of her bottom and thighs as she bent to light the samovar flame. Yes, other men would find Anna attractive, not a fas.h.i.+onable beauty, her nose a little broad, her brow a little dark and heavy, but handsome nonetheless, with a neat figure and striking blue eyes. Above all, there was lively but graceful purpose in her every gesture and movement that even a man who did not share her view of the world might recognise and admire.

'You've put the picture on the wall, I see,' he said.

'Yes, do you like it there?' she asked, without turning to face him. Her voice was calmer. It was a little watercolour of folk dancing he had given her, young Ukrainian men in traditional Cossack dress, twisting wildly to fiddle and flute. It was hanging close to the stove along with a cheap icon of the Virgin that the priest had left for her when she took the position. It was a simply furnished room with a few functional sticks of furniture, an old wooden table and four kitchen chairs, a basic range for cooking and heat, and drawn across the windows, smoke stained cotton curtains. The only piece that would be at home in a bourgeois drawing room was the couch Anna had bought for herself.

'Well?' she asked, a little coolly.

He held his breath for a moment as she leant forward to give him the gla.s.s of tea. Her eyes were darker blue in the dim lamplight. He watched her over the top of his gla.s.s as she turned to sit at the table.

'I've been to see a friend I call ”the Director”. It's a joke we share. A code name, I suppose. His job is to guide the movement. I found him a year or so ago and helped him to his . . .' he paused for a moment, searching for a discreet euphemism, 'a special position.'

He sipped at his tea before continuing: 'The Director says Madame Volkonsky will be arrested and questioned. She will give them some names, of course . . . no, sit down, please.'

Anna was half out of her chair: 'Have you spoken to Vera and Evgenia?'

'They've left for Voronezh. They're safe for now. And you must go too. First thing tomorrow.'

'But I don't think Madame Volkonsky knows my name.'

'My dear Anna,' he said. He placed the gla.s.s on the floor at his feet then leant back with his arms folded across his chest and stared at her.

'Well?' She lifted her right hand to her lips nervously. 'Why have you come?'

'The most extraordinary coincidence. The police are looking for a mysterious woman with brilliant blue eyes, a fine figure, brown hair. Someone who seems to know me, someone very like you, but who goes by the name of Madame Romanko.'

'Oh?' said Anna, rising quickly to her feet. She turned her back on him and went over to the samovar, but not before he had noticed with amus.e.m.e.nt the colour rising in her neck and cheeks. After a few seconds' silence she turned back to the table, careful to avoid his eye.

'You know, I like you, Anna.'

She looked up at him and gave him an uncertain smile, her shoulders narrowing insecurely.

'You and I are dedicated to the revolution, to sacrifice . . .' Mikhailov eased himself on to the edge of the couch. 'And we share that burden . . .'

'Yes.'

He slowly got to his feet and walked over to the window, lifting the smoky curtain to one side to stare into the blue summer night. Then turning abruptly to face her again: 'Are you married?'

'That's my concern.' Her voice rang with cool defiance, but her face was pink with indignation and embarra.s.sment.

'Have you left him?'

She paused to consider whether she should answer, then reluctantly: 'He left me two years ago.'

'Anna,' he said breathily, taking a step towards her.

'Please,' she said, her hand hovering above her lap as if hoping to push what she knew to be coming away. 'Please.'

'I've fallen in love with you.' He edged closer to the table: 'No, sit please, don't move.' He held his hand close as if to restrain her.

'Please, Alexander, we're comrades . . .'

'Marriage is nothing. A prison. But love we can help each other. Comrades, yes, and lovers,' and he bent down a little and touched her arm.

She shrank from him. 'I don't love you . . . this, this is damaging the revolution. There is no place for . . .'

Mikhailov bent swiftly, reaching for her cheek with trembling fingers, so close, the smell of her, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s beneath the cotton blouse: 'I love you . . .' His voice was barely more than a whisper. And he touched her hair, the back of her head, trying to draw her closer, but she pulled herself free.

'No!' She jumped to her feet, her chair cras.h.i.+ng to the floor. 'We're comrades!' she said angrily from the other side of the table. 'Comrades, that's all. I think you should go.'

Mikhailov's face felt hot. He was struggling to hold his temper. He never lost his temper. Who did she think he was? He turned away from her and threw himself down on to the couch. 'Is it the Englishman?'

'No!' she said indignantly. 'No. It's you.' She was still standing at the table, arms wrapped anxiously around herself. 'Go, please.'

'This English doctor can't be trusted. He isn't one of us, you know that?' Mikhailov said coldly.

'It's nothing to do with him. Now go. Please.'

'Tell him not to come to the clinic. It's too dangerous.'

'Look, I'm sorry, I've hurt you, but . . .'

'Don't be ridiculous! You haven't hurt me. I only care about what is best for our cause, best for the people. And you should think of that too.'

'I do,' she said quietly.

Silent seconds ticked by as they stared at each other. The walls of the room seemed to press upon them in the flickering light of the lamp like the sides of a box. In the end, it was Anna who looked away and down at the table.

'Before you go,' she said coolly, 'I want to remind you that we agreed the doctor could be of use to us. He has connections. We agreed that. And he has already proved his worth. There was a body in the street today . . .'

'I know,' said Mikhailov. 'The Director told me.'

'The Director? But why did he think the death of a beggar in Peski worth mentioning?' There was an intense frown on her face.

'Because he was a police informer.'

'Dr Hadfield was sure he was murdered by someone who knew what they were doing. Did you kill him?'

'This is getting us nowhere,' he said coldly. 'The security of the movement is my concern.' Getting quickly to his feet, he stepped up to the table and, placing his chubby hands upon it, he leant across until he was only an arm's length from her: 'Leave first thing tomorrow. I will see you in Voronezh. And think about what I've said. In the next few weeks we will make brave decisions that will change this country for ever. You will play your part, I know.' He stared at her for a silent few seconds, his face hard with certainty. Anna did not flinch. Turning at last, he s.n.a.t.c.hed his hat from the table and walked to the door, only glancing back as he opened it to where she stood in the shadow. It closed with a quiet click and she was alone.

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