Saskia turned from them to the officer who now blocked the route to the arch of the exit, and the bustling square beyond. The man wore a charcoal suit beneath a skirted coat not unlike the Georgian chokha. He was middle-aged, and this gave his eyes a paternal cast. Saskia took this as a deception.
‘A good evening to you both,’ he said. ‘I am Inspector Berezovsky and these are my associates. As you can see, there has been some trouble tonight. You will not object to an inspection of your papers.’
Earlier, Saskia had been carrying a certificate of conduct for the German alien Frau Mirra Tucholsky. These were now in the Neva. She had not dared risk being caught with them, since the identity would be on the Protection Department watch list.
‘I understand entirely,’ said Pasha. Saskia wondered if he understood the proximity of exile or execution. In a conversational manner, he said, ‘This isn’t a repeat of the recent troubles, I hope.’
‘Nothing in that line,’ replied Berezovsky.
‘These are my papers,’ said Pasha, taking an expensive wallet from his jacket pocket, ‘as well as those of my sister, Ludmilla.’
With a gloveless hand, Berezovsky pinched the end of his tongue and opened the passport.
‘As a Nakhimov,’ said the Inspector, casually, ‘your family has a long history in the Hussars.’
Pasha accepted the compliment with a nod.
‘That is correct.’
In the same casual tone, Berezovsky continued, ‘And yet you are not on duty tonight, I find.’
‘I injured my back last month. I hope to resume active duty by Ascension Day.’
‘Ah.’
Berezovsky turned to the passport in the name of Ludmilla Nakhimov. He ran his thumb over the Imperial eagle on its cover. Saskia noticed that the larger of the two gendarmes had stopped blinking. His companion was relaxed but alert. It was clear that all three were veterans of these stop-checks. Something in the body language of Berezovsky had communicated unease to him. Saskia was not surprised at his next question.
‘You were born in 1884, Countess Nakhimov?’
In all likelihood, he was lying. The date was plain to him, but he had misread it deliberately. He smiled at her. It was an acknowledgement that the game, if this conversation were a game, had begun. Saskia smiled back. She did not know what to do. There was not enough light to see the date reflected in Berezovsky’s pupils.
‘I believe it is 1882, Inspector,’ said Pasha. He shared a man-to-man look with the Protection Department officer. ‘My sister has had a long day. We are travelling home directly.’
The Inspector had the grace to bow. ‘Thank you for that correction. But now I must ask the Countess for her middle name and place of birth.’ After a pause, he continued, ‘I will press you for that, Countess.’
He never asks, she thought. He only states.
‘I feel ill, Pasha,’ she said. ‘Let us go home.’
The Inspector feigned concern. ‘With a blessing, Countess. There is no sense extending these proceedings. Do you not agree, Count?’
‘Of course,’ said Pasha. There was a false note in his voice. Added to this, the conviviality of the Inspector’s approach had transformed from courtesy to play. The gendarmes were black doors poised to slam on them both. ‘Now, Lidka. Answer the gentleman and then I can take you home.’
‘What was the question?’ she asked quietly.
‘Come,’ said Berezovsky, as though to a reluctant child. He raised his eyebrows and smiled. ‘It is the simplest thing.’
‘Inspector,’ said Pasha. ‘Allow me to explain. My sister had a fall earlier this evening. She is feeling unwell.’
‘Did she?’ The inspector looked from Pasha to Saskia. ‘Perhaps we can have one of our doctors examine her. They are the best, or so I am informed.’
Saskia looked at him. She did not blink.
‘I asked you to repeat the question, sir.’
Berezovsky turned to the taller of the gendarmes.
Just then, there was movement inside her blouse. Saskia thought of a trapped bird, then the sparrows of the absent i-Core. The flutter slowed to a series of taps not unlike the percussive palpations of a doctor, but ghostly.
‘Your middle name,’ said the Inspector, growing firm in his tone. ‘Your date of birth, and place.’
The invisible taps came like a second heart, fast-slow: lub-dub. Saskia smiled. Lub-dub. Dub-lub-dub-dub. Dub-lub-dub-dub. Lub-dub.
It was the simplest of codes: Russian Morse.
А.
л.
л.
а.
Ego, she thought. Thank you.
‘Aliya,’ she said. Before she drew her next breath, the taps accelerated through a new sequence. The movement was as fast as a card sharp ruffling a deck. But Saskia understood as though the words had been whispered in her ear. ‘1st August, 1882. Rakitnoe.’
The face of the Protection Department agent did not change. But the gendarmes seemed to feel that the tension had eased. One of them offered a bored look to the ceiling. Saskia followed his gaze to the vaulted darkness and heard the quiet but echoic conversation of the men around the terminal hallway. St Petersburg might have been a toy city, with Saskia and Pasha no more than miniatures trapped in its pretend streets, stalked by imaginary forces of a revolution that was itself the idle fiction of a spoiled child.
They bowed to the frustrated Protection Department officer, and his gendarmes, and Saskia let Pasha lead her from Finland Station into the night. They joined a crowd heading north. Saskia sagged against him. As they walked, she tied a kerchief around her head.
‘Lenin is in Geneva,’ he whispered. ‘That is as much as I know.’
‘When can we leave?’
‘Tomorrow morning. In the meantime, my family keeps rooms at the Grand. I’ll take you there and return for breakfast. Tonight, I have some business explaining my absence to my superiors at the Palace.’
‘What about your father?’
‘Lidka will make the arrangements and tell everyone that I have taken to my bed with auras. You recall that I was incapacitated often as a child. No-one will doubt the story.’ He sighed. ‘I only hope I can return in time for the service.’
‘What about the inquest?’
‘There we are lucky. Our foremost investigating magistrate was an unsuccessful suitor to my sister. During their courtship, we became fast friends. If he is assigned the case, which all but certain, I will ask him to give me leave to collect evidence. I will tell him that it would be better for the family, and for Lidka, if I were to make some initial investigations.’
‘You have done excellently, Pasha.’ Saskia watched her feet. Her plum-coloured skirt seemed to wash over the pink pavement. ‘For my part, I’m so tired I can’t think straight. Are you sure you wish to help me?’
‘It is not revenge,’ he said, and the boyish haste in his voice made Saskia smile inwardly. ‘My father and I agreed on little. Reading his diary, I see we agreed on even less than that. I do not hold with these Marxist or anarchist ideas, and I consider it my duty to prevent these monies being spent on revolutionary activities. The sum is mentioned by my father in his diary: 250,000 roubles hidden in the base of the Frederick the Great model in the Amber Room, which is now missing. They have stolen a sum greater than the annual salary of the Tsar.’
They continued in silence until someone in the dispersed crowd began a hearty recitation of Pushkin’s poem “Thoughts”. As though this was something he did not wish Saskia to hear, Pasha said, ‘How did you know my sister’s date of birth?’