Within a minute, she was at the window of the room adjacent to her target. Her fingers and toes were bleeding. Her stockings were torn at the toes. But she had a secure stance and nobody had raised the alarm.
She looked through the window and checked that it was unoccupied. That tallied with the thermographic data provided by her spectacles; it was the coldest on the floor.
The double window was designed to open inwards. Saskia adjusted her feet to a more comfortable position, then reached back to draw the lancet from beneath the brim of her hat. Her hair-bun unspooled. She put the blade between the two panels and slid it upwards. The latch opened and she leaned into the room.
Immediately beneath the window was a bed. Saskia tumbled onto it and closed the window behind her. She waited to hear if her entry had been noticed.
Nothing.
Saskia retrieved her long gloves and put them back on. She secreted the lancet within the forearm of her right glove; if she poked the blade through the fabric at the wrist it avoided her skin. She approached the door and examined the lock. It was a simple mechanism. She defeated it using the leather pouch of small autopsy instruments that Gaus had retrieved from the mortuary.
She stepped into her boots and cloaked herself with irritation and authority. Then she opened the door. The corridor was swamp-lit with luminescent gas. Keeping to the quiet centre of the carpet, as anyone would expect of her given the hour, she walked to the room next door.
Saskia hesitated. She sorted through several conversational openings from the banal to the absurd. Ultimately, she knocked and prepared to deliver a complaint about noise.
The door opened a few centimetres.
‘Who is it?’ said a man, speaking French. Saskia recognised his voice and it took her a long moment to tamp down her surprise and achieve the composure she needed.
The man asking the question was Pavel Eduardovitch Nakhimov, the son of Saskia’s contact, Count Nakhimov. Saskia had spent several weeks of the previous spring in their St Petersburg residence on the Apothecary Island as a guest of the family. During this time she had grown to know Pasha and his sister, Ludmilla. Pasha had been a serious boy; occupied utterly by his officer training and a march to manhood. Saskia and Pasha had been on cordial terms until the day his father, the Count, had made clear that he was in love with Saskia. She had left their house during a smoggy twilight without taking leave.
‘Pavel Eduardovitch,’ she said quietly.‘You remember me, I’m sure.’
She heard him take a sharp breath and hold it. When he did not open the door further, she pushed gently into the room.
Pasha had retreated to the window: a tall man, clean-shaven, side-parted hair sharp with Brilliantine. He was eighteen years old. He wore a crumpled evening suit and his face was that of a gambler who had lost himself to cards. She remembered teaching Pasha, over a hand of écarté, the English phrase ‘an old head on young shoulders’.
‘Mother of God,’ he whispered. ‘How is it that you are alive? I saw your lights dim and disappear.’
For a moment, Saskia was too confused to speak. Ms Schild had told her that Count Nakhimov and his servant Mr Jenner had delivered her to Dr Vetsch. Had she meant Pasha and Mr Jenner? If that were true, why was he calling himself the Count? There could be only one reason.
‘Your father,’ she said, regretting the statements for its truth, ‘is dead.’
‘I don’t know what is happening.’ His voice cracked on the last word.
‘Pasha,’ she whispered, keeping her back to the door as she closed it. ‘Be strong.’
His next action surprised her. He crossed the room and put his lips on hers and kissed her so hard that her head struck the closing door. Saskia put a hand on her hat and closed her eyes. She felt the muscles around her eyes relax.
Pasha pulled away. ‘You’re icy.’
‘It’s cold outside,’ she said. ‘I just came in.’
His face had the deep concern of which only young, righteous men are capable. She wanted to smile. But the larger situation had to be resolved. There were very few hours left.
‘Listen to me. I woke in the mortuary earlier tonight, and my last memory was of standing in the Amber Room. What happened from that point until now?’
‘Why should I tell you what you already know?’
‘The woman who examined me was not a real doctor,’ she said, ‘and, though my wounds are grievous, I am…well, I am still moving.’
‘But?’
‘But my wits are not fully mine. You must indulge me. And quickly. We are in danger here.’
Pasha did not quite believe her. She could see that. However, he recounted the events of that first night: He had discovered her in the Great Summer Palace, where he had been posted as part of the household guard. They had joined forces to pursue the Georgians and their money to Switzerland.
Saskia watched him talk. To be sure, his motivations had not overlapped perfectly with Saskia Lacuna’s. She had wished to kill the outlaw Soso. Pasha could not countenance this, but he would defeat Soso and return the money to Russia along with the outlaw. He would do this for his Tsar and for himself, so that Soso could stand trial for the murder of his father, Count Nakhimov.
‘When did your father die?’ she asked.
‘It was the night of your break-in at the Great Summer Palace, not above a week ago. You yourself led me to his body in the observatory beyond the orchard.’
Saskia frowned. In her earlier review of the data from the spectacles, she had not seen that.
‘Tell me what happened once we reached Switzerland.’
‘You jumped from the train before Geneva and told me to go home. I did not. Saskia, I regretted your absence extremely.’ In case he tried to kiss her again, Saskia narrowed her eyes. Abashed, he continued, ‘With the help of Mr Jenner, I located the house of the outlaws and came there to find you mortally…grievously wounded. The outlaws had escaped. If it weren’t for your note, the story would have ended there.’
Pasha held her cheeks and put his forehead to hers. She closed her eyes. Inside the sound of rain, horses and wheels, she could hear the distinct clatter of the Bébé. Pasha sighed. The sudden warmth and intimacy–deeper than the kiss–made her ache with sadness, but there was no quarter in her eyes when she took his head and pushed him back, transfixing him with her coldness.
‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘But Mr Jenner is dead. I found him in your father’s automobile ten minutes ago. He didn’t get any further than the Parc d’Entremonts.’
‘No.’ Pasha paced to the window, returned to the door, groaned at her, then cast himself across the bed. He made fists against his mouth. ‘I sent him there,’ he mumbled.
‘Where?’
‘The embassy,’ he said. His voice was tired, but already the weight of his courage was settling him. Saskia had always admired his resilience. He had learned it during his childhood, much of which had been spent in illness and pain. ‘You referred to it in your note. I sent them a telegram.’
‘My note? Show me.’
‘Here,’ said Pasha. He felt inside his trouser pocket and handed a small card to her.
Saskia turned it in her hands. The card would not flex. The embossed text on one side was familiar.
Ms Tucholsky, Tutor
Mathematics; English; Physical Education