Part 27 (1/2)

Turning to the matter of Hadfield's contacts with the terrorists, in particular the woman, Romanko, Lord Dufferin wished to repeat his confidence in the doctor's innocence. He also asked me to rea.s.sure Your Excellency that the British government was not involved in a conspiracy to undermine His Majesty or the Russian government, and would do all it could to prevent and condemn terrorist violence. The military attache, Colonel Gonne, has spoken to the correspondent of The Times newspaper in the city. It is the opinion of Mr George Dobson that the doctor is nothing worse than a liberal. He described the doctor as a little naive, and raised the possibility that he had become infatuated with the Romanko woman while he was working beside her at a clinic for the poor.

It seems unlikely the doctor offered any material a.s.sistance to the terrorists and in view of their attempt to murder him there can be no question of his maintaining any further contact. Mr Dobson has undertaken to keep Colonel Gonne informed of the doctor's state of mind and movements. It is the firmly held view of Lord Dufferin that the doctor should be allowed to continue with his work and that an attempt to bring a case against him based on the flimsiest of evidence would damage relations between our two countries. Furthermore, it would be the cause of some consternation in diplomatic and expatriate circles in the city.

Your Excellency may wish to consider the doctor's family connection and close a.s.sociation with a number of influential people. I believe His Majesty met the doctor when he was visiting the survivors of the explosion at the palace and has sent him a message expressing his sympathy and appreciation.

To conclude, I emphasised to Lord Dufferin the unofficial nature of my representations and was a.s.sured by him that our conversation would go no further. It was agreed in the circ.u.mstances that it would be in everyone's interests if the political nature of the a.s.sault on Dr Hadfield were suppressed and newspapers encouraged to report that he was set upon by common thieves. As Your Excellency observed, 'This is a small cloud that might be left to pa.s.s.'

I have the honour to be, with the highest respect, Your Excellency's humble and obedient servant, Count Vyacheslav Konstantinovich von Plehve Dobrs.h.i.+nsky looked up from the letter and caught the count's eye.

'It was a delicate business, as you can imagine, but I pride myself that no one could have managed it with more finesse,' said von Plehve. 'You can question the Englishman again, of course.'

'I have, already. He had nothing more to say,' Dobrs.h.i.+nsky replied.

'I hope the terrorists have beaten some sense into him.' The chief prosecutor reached across the desk to offer Dobrs.h.i.+nsky the cigarette box. 'No?' The count took one himself, rubbed it gently between his fingers then lit it, drawing in the sharp smoke with pleasure. 'His Excellency, Count Loris-Melikov, is satisfied that we are making some progress at last, thanks to the Jew's testimony.'

Dobrs.h.i.+nsky frowned and lifted an unsteady hand to his temple. 'We've made arrests but most of the members of their executive committee are still at liberty.'

'But not for long, Anton Frankzevich, I'm sure, not for long. I've told His Excellency that you have them in your sights,' said von Plehve.

Dobrs.h.i.+nsky did not reply but gazed impa.s.sively across the desk at him. Was there a more unscrupulous cultivator of connections and influence than the chief prosecutor? he wondered.

'I didn't mention your fear that the terrorists have a well placed informer in the Third Section,' von Plehve said, s.h.i.+fting uncomfortably in his chair. 'I judged it something His Excellency does not need to be troubled with. I am confident you will find him soon.'

Dobrs.h.i.+nsky continued to stare at him, watching as he picked up his pen and put it down again then ground his cigarette into a bra.s.s ashtray.

'Well?' von Plehve said, irritably.

'I can offer little hope of detecting the informer at present.'

'Didn't Goldenberg give you clues? What about the other prisoners?'

'The little I have been able to tease from them adds nothing to our understanding. Goldenberg was able to help a little.' Dobrs.h.i.+nsky paused and closed his eyes for a second, pressing two fingers against his temple again. 'No. You see, I think there is only one man who knows the ident.i.ty of the informer and that is Alexander Mikhailov.'

The chief prosecutor grunted crossly. 'Well, can't you find some way to trap the informer?' he asked.

'We're looking into possibilities. Major Barclay is monitoring the activities of some of our agents,' said Dobrs.h.i.+nsky, choosing his words carefully. Then, after a moment's thought, 'But Mikhailov is the key.'

'I see.' Von Plehve returned his gaze for a moment then rose abruptly to his feet to indicate the interview was over. But he paused at the study door with his chubby hand on the k.n.o.b. 'You speak a little Polish, Anton Frankzevich, don't you?'

'A little, yes.'

'Are you familiar with the proverb, Nieznajomo prawa szkodzi? Ignorance is no sort of excuse. No? Actually, I think it is a peculiarly Russian sentiment.' An easy little smile was playing on the count's lips. 'It pays for those of us in the tsar's service to bear this proverb in mind at all times. I will inform His Excellency of your confidence that the investigation is progressing well.'

A footman helped Dobrs.h.i.+nsky into his coat and handed him his hat. A carriage was waiting on the street to take him to Fontanka 16 but he lingered in the count's hall with an amused expression on his face. The pianist was still rehearsing for the soiree but he was now playing with seditious pa.s.sion Chopin's 'Revolutionary Etude'.

33.

OCTOBER 1880.

The weeks Anna Kovalenko was to have spent in Kiev became months. The empress pa.s.sed away, the emperor married again and the trees in the Tavrichesky were autumn oak brown, the birch and larch a rich yellow, by the time she was summoned to the capital once more. They had been lonely months, but months of activity. Student meetings, factory committees, speaking to the party's programme, and always only one step ahead of the authorities. While she had been away The People's Will had changed almost beyond recognition. Many old comrades had gone, arrested on information supplied by Goldenberg. In confusion and fear the party had become lethargic, its time and funds spent replacing those awaiting trial in the House of Preliminary Detention. The revolution seemed no closer than it had ever been and the death sentence against the tsar no more than an idle threat. Comrades with experience and fire like Anna and Vera Figner had been summoned back to the capital.

The printing family had abandoned the apartment on Podolskaya, after a neighbour began to grumble of strange banging and shunting noises, and rented rooms at the less salubrious end of the same street, close to the open sewer that was the Obvodny Ca.n.a.l, a stone's throw from the gasworks.

Praskovia Ivanovskaia was in charge of the press now and there were new faces and new rules: no one to write or receive letters, no contact with other party members, no meetings, no social gatherings. 'Things are so bad, Anna, dear. Alexander Mikhailov is trying to prevent more losses.'

The executive committee was fortunate in Praskovia, for she obeyed without question. She was the daughter of a village priest and there was something of the religious ascetic in her manner and appearance. She had a plain face with dark hair that she dragged off her forehead and tied in a tight bun, short-sighted, with spectacles on a chain, a large mouth that turned down a little at the corners. Although she was only twenty-seven years old she dressed in black like a widow twenty years older. No one was prepared to sacrifice more for the party, and she was baffled when others did not show the same stubborn loyalty.

'Olga has left Russia with Morozov,' she told Anna when they were alone together in the apartment for the first time. 'They're living in Switzerland as if they were man and wife.' She paused and leant forward to stare at Anna. 'What is it? Why are you smiling?'

'Olga used to say nothing should come before the party.'

'And Morozov used to talk about the revolutionary spirit, the need to give up selfish love.'

'Perhaps Olga can't help herself,' Anna replied quietly.

'But it's selfish. We pledged our love to the people and the party . . .' Praskovia hesitated, but could not check the resentment that had been building inside her for months. 'Things are not what they were, Anna. No one cares. Look at Sophia and Gesia Gelfman too. We used to be brothers and sisters . . . it's sapping the will of the party.' She closed her eyes and shook her head crossly: 'It's wrong.'

'You don't mean Sophia Perovskaya?'

'Yes. Our Sophia. She's sharing an apartment a bed a few streets from here with that bear Zhelyabov.'

Sophia Perovskaya. Anna's friend Sophia. Sophia, the perfect revolutionary. The Sophia who instructed her to leave Petersburg because she was too intimately involved with a man. They had all been so quick to preach, and she had wounded someone she cared for very deeply. If she had asked them why it was so very different for her they would simply have said he was 'not one of us'. And she would have been forced to admit they were right. She tried not to think of him because looking back could serve no purpose. In her months of exile she had come to a quiet acceptance that she would be ruled by the party in all things for the good of the people.

It was Anna who found the cheese shop on the Malaya Sadovaya. A respectable address that would meet the party's needs perfectly. The other premises in the street were occupied by smart residential blocks, prosperous merchants and the better sort of taverns. It was on the corner with Italyanskaya Street, only a few yards from the blue and white Petrine building where the chief prosecutor's clerks prepared cases for trial.

On a bl.u.s.tery autumn afternoon, a sharp northeasterly chasing leaves along the street, she visited the building with Andrei Zhelyabov, rousing the dvornik from post-prandial slumber. A bas.e.m.e.nt with a shopfront and counter, a living room and vaulted cellar, clean, a little damp, annual rent twelve hundred roubles. Subject, of course, to the usual police checks.

They made their report at a secure apartment on Voznesensky Prospekt the following morning. The sitting room was cramped and stiflingly hot and most of the executive committee was forced to sit on the floor. Alexander Mikhailov presided in one of the chairs. He nodded curtly at Anna but offered no sort of welcome. He had put on weight, the b.u.t.tons of his waistcoat under strain, his beard not full enough to disguise the roll of flesh beneath his chin.

Vera Figner called to her, 'Annushka,' weaving across the room with her arms outstretched in welcome. And a moment later Sophia Perovskaya was at her side, reaching up to kiss her cheek.

'I've missed you, Annushka. So much has happened while you were away.'

'Yes. I've heard a little.'

Sophia noticed her smile of amus.e.m.e.nt and blushed. 'We're very happy,' she said, glancing over to Zhelyabov.

'And I'm happy for you, Sonechka,' Anna replied.

'Are you?'

'Of course.'