'What have you done?'

'Keep your voice down,' he hissed at her. What was she doing berating him in the street? They would be arrested.

'Don't tell me to shut up. What did you do?' She pulled her scarf away from her face. 'Have you hurt him?' There was a wildness in her eyes.

'No.'

'Liar! What have you done?' She gave him a shove.

'For G.o.d's sake, Anna!'

Pa.s.sers-by were looking at them. He would have to send her away again. She was a danger to the party. Reaching out for her arm, he said: 'Anna, please. I don't know what you've heard, but he's alive. Now can we go somewhere else? This is not the place.'

'Tell me, liar. Tell me now.'

'He was an informer. The executive committee needed to deal with him.' His voice was harsh, matter-of-fact.

'You murdered him.' She tried to slap his face but he caught her wrist and twisted her arm down and she let out a little gasp of pain.

'He's alive, didn't I say so?' he hissed at her. 'Control yourself. Remember the party. Remember your duty.'

'Let go of me, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d!' She began to scream: 'Help! Someone please help!'

He let her go: 'Please. He's alive . . . I did what I thought best for the party.'

This time she did manage to slap him with ringing force across the face. 'You did what was best for you.'

'You were blind to the risk you were taking,' he said, touching his cheek. 'The Director was sure he was-'

'Liar,' she said again. 'I will speak to the executive committee. I will tell them the truth. You are a liar.'

She stared at him for a few seconds with an expression of contempt, even hatred, on her face, then walked away in the opposite direction, looking neither left nor right, proudly upright. And Mikhailov walked on too, ignoring the dvornik who had been watching them from a doorway on the other side of the street and the old lady at the curtains of her apartment. He could feel the imprint of Anna's hand on his cheek and he was shaking with quiet rage.

He turned on to the Zagorodny Prospekt and began walking east towards the cab stand in front of the station. But when he reached it he decided to go a little further. His encounter with Anna had disturbed him more than he cared to admit, even to himself. Perhaps the exercise and the cool air would restore his equanimity. A regiment of horse was being put through its paces, kicking up the dirt of the parade ground where Alexander Soloviev had met his end on the scaffold. What had become of the Anna who had hurried from the square with news of their first attempt to execute the tsar? How could she think it was something personal? He was still pondering what he should do with her twenty minutes later, after walking almost the entire length of Zagorodny. Before him was the extravagant yellow and white bell tower of the Church of Our Lady of Vladimir, and in its shadow the russet-coloured block where the photographer lived and rented his premises. Next to it a busy market was spilling on to the pavement, street traders in traditional belted coats with baskets from the country at their feet, a beardless youth in a tall hat pushing a handcart of rags, a vodka seller offering cheap spirit to a pa.s.sing work gang. Mikhailov stepped off the pavement into a doorway, where he could observe the entrance to the photographer's studio. Zhelyabov and the others had urged him not to go near the place, but now he was here he could not pa.s.s it by. He lit a cigarette and leant against the wall to scrutinise with an expert eye the stallholders and their customers, searching for a furtive conversation, a tell-tale exchange of glances. He was surprised to find that his hand was still shaking. Surely he had always acted in the best interests of the party, even if it meant making difficult choices? He forced himself to put the matter out of his mind.

'Hey, you, want to earn some money?'

The street urchin looked at him suspiciously. He was about ten years old, thin, dressed in a ragged grey coat and battered calf-length boots, his head and hands bare.

'I saw you looking into the window of that pastry shop. This would be enough for something special with cream.' Reaching inside his coat, Mikhailov took twenty kopeks from his waistcoat pocket.

All the boy needed to do was to stand in front of the entrance opposite and look inside the photographer's shop. To collect the money he would have to describe anyone he could see and anything out of the ordinary. 'Make a good job of it and there might even be a little more.'

The boy was back ten minutes later with his grubby palm out. 'Just the old photographer. A woman went in and he took out a big book. He wrote in it and then she left. That's all,' he said with a shrug.

'How do you know he was the photographer?'

'Because I see him every day,' the boy said with a cheeky smile.

Mikhailov paid him the twenty, and ten kopeks more.

The old man was still at his ledger when Mikhailov stepped through the door, and did not look up until he dropped his kidskin gloves on the counter. He lifted his grey head and his expression changed in an instant from an easy trade smile to shock, then something close to abject terror. Before he was able to open his mouth, Mikhailov had turned on his heels and was making for the door. What a reckless fool he had been. He knew he had only seconds. Seconds. Walk out. Keep walking. Someone was moving at the window. He heard the clattering of boots behind him as men crowded into the front of the shop. As he reached for the handle and pulled the door, the bell tinkled cruelly.

'Haven't you forgotten these?'

It was not the photographer's crackly old voice but a policeman's. And there was another on the pavement outside. Mikhailov closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, his shoulders sagging a little.

'You're quite right. I did forget to collect my pictures,' he said, turning back to the shop. 'Fyodor Ivanovich Korvin at your service.'

A burly plain-clothes officer stepped from behind the counter with a gun in one hand and the photographs in the other.

'Major Vladimir Alexandrovich Barclay at yours.'

The doorbell tinkled again and Mikhailov was aware of gendarmes at his back. The plain-clothes agent gave a nod and someone seized him roughly from behind.

'Can I ask what grounds you have for this behaviour?' he asked indignantly.

A gendarme was unb.u.t.toning his coat, checking his jacket pocket for a weapon and his papers.

'What grounds?' Barclay asked, taking a step towards him. 'What grounds? You are Mikhailov. I think that's enough, don't you?'

36.

3 NOVEMBER 1880.

Frederick. It's me.'

She was standing beneath the little silver birch at the entrance to the hospital, her mouth and nose hidden by a burgundy scarf. It was dark eight o'clock the ground white with frost, and she was shivering.

'Frederick, can we talk?'

He stood on the path, his eyes fixed on her, patients brushing past his shoulder.

'Yes, all right.' He was surprised by how calm he felt.

She came to stand beside him and she looked up at him, her eyes as blue as he remembered them, even in the gaslight. She tried to take his arm but he shook it free. 'Nurses walk a few steps behind. It will arouse less suspicion.'

He led her to the carriage entrance and, with a friendly word to the guards at the gate, on into the hospital grounds, pa.s.sing along the perimeter railings, turning right between Blocks 5 and 6.

They did not speak until they reached the neat little garden in the lee of the boiler house wall and could see before them the lighted windows of what was once Department 10.

Anna waited at the door of the second hut while he visited the porter's room and ordered the old man on to the ward. It was oppressively stuffy inside, the stove too large for such a small s.p.a.ce, spa.r.s.ely furnished and lit by a single smoky lamp. The porter had left his supper of bread and pickled herring on the table. Anna took off her coat and scarf and he could see she had made an effort with her appearance. Her dark brown hair was neatly arranged in a plaited crown in the traditional Ukrainian way and she was even wearing a little make-up. Dragging a chair from the table, she placed it facing him with her back turned to the window. They sat in awkward silence for a few seconds.

At last Anna said, 'Well, how are you?'

'As you see.' His hands swept down his body. 'But I'm careful not to present your comrades with another opportunity to finish me off.'

She stared at him solemnly, her eyes large in the dim light, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. 'I knew nothing. I wasn't in the city.'

'Oh?'

'You know that's true,' she said, leaning forward earnestly.

He said nothing, but gave her a sceptical look. He wanted her to feel guilty. He wanted her to apologise. Nothing of it: 'Stop it,' she said crossly, and her eyes were blazing. 'I would never have permitted it, and you know it.'

He could not stop himself from smiling because she was just as he remembered her, so quick to take offence, and like many who have difficulty with words, ready to attack at the first opportunity. 'You keep bad company,' he said.

She looked down at her hands. 'Will you tell me what happened to you?' she asked in a low voice.

He described the attempt on his life to her and the weeks he had spent recovering in hospital and at his uncle's house. 'And so I am above suspicion now well, almost. I suppose I have your Mikhailov to thank for exonerating me in the eyes of the police.'

'He is not "my Mikhailov".' She paused for a moment, her face working as she struggled to control some strong emotion: 'He's been arrested.'

'Arrested?'

'Yes.'

'Are you sorry?'

'Of course I am,' she said indignantly. 'He was a good comrade. It's a terrible blow to the party.'

A caustic remark was on the tip of Hadfield's tongue but he managed to keep it locked behind his teeth.

'I must go,' she said, rising abruptly from her chair. 'Things are difficult. People are frightened. They're executing Kviatkovsky and Presnyakov at the fortress tomorrow.'

Hadfield picked up her old brown woollen coat it smelt of the kitchen, something a little sharp and helped her into it.

'I wanted to be sure you knew,' she said, turning back to him. And she smiled at him at last, her full lower lip trembling a little. How could she smile at him like that after so many months?

'Are we going to meet again?' he asked.

She gave him another, a broader smile. 'Of course.'

He bent to kiss her, but she held a finger to his lips: 'Not here against the window. I'll send word.'

They stepped into the corridor to find the porter waiting at the door, resentful he had been put out of his room at supper time. Hadfield reached into his pocket for a rouble. 'The lady's honour, you understand.'

He nodded and pinched it from his hand ungraciously.

At the hospital entrance, Hadfield summoned a droshky from the rank and helped her up the step. 'Where are you going?'

She leant forward to speak to the driver, huge in his padded blue coat and furs: 'How much to the Anichkov Bridge?'

'The usual,' he growled. 'From here 20 kopeks.'

'Ten.'

She turned to reach out her hand to Hadfield's face and then the cab was gone.

Even before it turned out of sight, Hadfield had summoned another. He did not stop to think what purpose it would serve until he was rumbling along the Slonovaya Street, drops of rain driving into his face, but he knew he could not bear to let her out of his sight so soon. He was too late. There was no sign of her on the Anichkov. She had probably changed cabs as a precaution. He paid his driver and walked across the bridge with half a mind to treat himself to a supper at the Europe Hotel. It was raining quite hard now, pattering on to the felt of his top hat, and he quickened his pace, crossing Nevsky at the Ekaterininsky Garden.

Stopping before a brightly lit restaurant, he lifted his coat collar and was rearranging his scarf when he saw the reflection of a familiar face in the window. The man was striding along the wet pavement towards him, and although Hadfield could not remember his name he knew he recognised him and that he had seen him in Anna's company. A big fellow, in his late twenties, with a full brown beard and dressed as a worker in a short coat and peaked factory cap. Hadfield looked away, shifting his position a little so he could follow the man's retreating back. The name sprang to his mind the moment he turned left into the Malaya Sadovaya and disappeared from view. Zhelyabov. Was it a coincidence or was he meeting Anna? Intrigued, Hadfield walked back to the corner, then on into the lane, but Zhelyabov had vanished. The legs of a drunk were protruding from a doorway close by and he could see a couple of bedraggled prost.i.tutes sheltering beneath a carriage arch, but the rain and chill had driven everyone else from the pavement. There were popular taverns on both sides of the lane and he strolled to the bottom, peering through their lighted windows, searching for Zhelyabov among the flushed faces of civil servants and shopkeepers, peasants and prost.i.tutes, but he was nowhere to be seen. Wet and cross with himself for chasing trouble aimlessly about the city, he gave up the idea of visiting the Europe and took a cab home.

The following day Anna sent a message to the hospital asking Hadfield to meet her in the usual place. He found his own way to the lane in Peski, nameless still, dark, rubbish-filled, the rickety wooden homes of the poor clinging to the stone buildings like fungus. The old Ukrainian woman greeted him with a deferential nod and a sly 'you again' smile. And she led him up the stairs to her corner everything as he had remembered it to be. Anna did not want to talk but kissed him hungrily, pushing him away, drawing him back with her eyes closed, and they made love on the damp mattress and on the floor, her finger at his lips, always in control. And after, he held her, small in his arms, and whispered words of love in English that she did not understand but which made her smile. They did not speak of politics, the past or the future, grateful only for this moment. Then at eleven o'clock she told him she had to leave. He knew better than to ask why. They walked arm in arm through Peski to the cab rank in front of the Nikolaevsky Station. At Anna's suggestion they shared a droshky, but only as far as the Ekaterininsky Garden. There she kissed him tenderly and promised there would be more time together, perhaps a weekend, at least a day. The driver whipped his horse on and, craning his neck over the folded canopy, Hadfield watched her cross Nevsky in the direction of the Malaya Sadovaya. He sat back in his seat. It was none of his business. Better not to know.

He did not hear from Anna for a few days. He spent his hours of leisure in the company of emba.s.sy folk, and there was a rowdy evening at an exotic club with some of the younger doctors at the hospital. His feelings seemed to oscillate alarmingly from quiet contentment to a state of jittery excitement that he characterised to himself as a type of neurosis. What if something happened to her? What if she changed her mind about him again? What if . . . ? At one of these fevered times, he found himself drawn to the place he had seen her last: the Malaya Sadovaya. It was a late morning in the middle of November and the first heavy snow of winter was falling on the city. Wrapped warmly in his coat, his scarf pulled over his face, he took a cab to the end of Nevsky and walked the rest of the way. The taverns on the Malaya Sadovaya were doing good trade even at that hour, its shops with their fine meats and wines and cheeses drawing servants from the best households and even gentlemen of quality. He took a table in a hostelry with a view of the lane and ordered bread and a gla.s.s of gluhwein, which he sipped without pleasure for half an hour, watching the pa.s.sers-by with no real expectation of seeing her.

He was relieved to leave the noise and darkness and smoke behind and step into the cold air once more. Opposite the tavern was the vintner's where Dobson bought most of his wine. With a little time to spare, Hadfield visited the shop and was tempted by the silver-tongued sommelier into spending a preposterous sum on a bottle of vintage champagne. 'To celebrate,' he would tell Anna, although he knew she would frown and complain of the waste. How strange, he thought, I don't even know her birthday. The merchant below the vintner was taking delivery of new stock from a covered wagon, staggering under its weight as he felt his way down the slippery steps to his bas.e.m.e.nt shop. It was parked too close to the vintner's door, the horse stamping and snorting restlessly in the shafts, and Hadfield was obliged to squeeze round to the back of the wagon. The merchant had returned for more and was trying to the amus.e.m.e.nt of the old carter to lift three heavy truckles of cheese at once.

'Hey give me a hand there,' he grumbled.

But the carter laughed and shook his head: 'Get on with it, can't you see this gentleman is trying to pa.s.s?'

The merchant edged towards the bas.e.m.e.nt steps again, but slipped, and the topmost cheese crashed to the pavement.

'Are you going to try and flog that now?' the carter observed with a sneer. 'I'll give you ten kopeks for it.'

The merchant glared at him and slid the remaining truckles back on to the cart.

'Well?' the old man asked. 'What about it?'

'Get lost. It wouldn't have happened if you'd lent a hand.'

Hadfield studied the cack-handed merchant carefully as he scooped ragged chunks of the broken cheese from the snow. The aroma was ripe and strong. Almost everything in his life reminded him of Anna in one way or another, but he could have sworn there had been a hint of it on her coat at the hospital.

37.

The first time Barclay's agents noticed the man glancing up at the apartment they dismissed it as of no importance. Tavricheskaya was a busy thoroughfare in the evening, with many well-to-do merchants and professional people living in the new mansion blocks that were springing up in the district. The drawing-room lights were burning invitingly, a parasol in the window, and anyone wishing to visit Alexander Mikhailov would a.s.sume it was safe to do so. But the man in the official-looking coat sipped at the apartment like a secret drinker, careful not to break his stride for even a second.

Ten agents from Moscow had moved into Mikhailov's apartment, and another on the floor above, two days after his arrest. Their presence was known only to a few, their orders simple: watch, wait, listen and arrest anyone Major Barclay had placed particular emphasis on that anyone who called at Number 15/8. Only Mikhailov knew the informer's ident.i.ty for sure, and he was keeping his mouth firmly shut.

'He won't be coaxed or bullied into an indiscretion he's too clever,' Collegiate Councillor Dobrshinsky had observed after the first interrogation, 'he's no Goldenberg.' They had no choice but to wait for the Director to break cover.