‘Why?’ asked Tarasov.
‘Because I have no good reason to be here. If people see my name – particularly people who know what I do for a living – they’ll start to wonder. What was a spy doing hovering around the tsar’s deathbed?’
‘The others here will remember you,’ said Wylie.
‘Maybe, but just as another soldier. I doubt there’s many here can even remember my name.’
‘I’d be prepared to bet the tsaritsa remembers it was you who knocked that bottle out of her hand,’ said Volkonsky. All of them joined in his laughter. ‘But I see your point,’ he continued, when it had subsided.
‘I’ll leave tomorrow,’ said Aleksei.
‘So soon?’ said Wylie, refilling Aleksei’s glass.
‘Makes me easier to forget.’
‘None of us here will forget you, Colonel,’ said Volkonsky, raising his glass to him. ‘Nor will His Majesty,’ he added more quietly.
‘I think you mean Aleksandr Pavlovich,’ said Wylie.
There was another round of laughter, which faded into silence. Aleksei was suddenly reminded of another occasion when he had sat drinking with three friends – many occasions. When had been the last? In Moscow, in 1812, just before they had set out west with the Oprichniki. Everything had changed after that – after Dmitry, Vadim and Maks had died. It was odd, but from somewhere Aleksei had the sense of having been in the presence of Maks very recently – or of someone like him. It was not one of these three, but then who? It did not take him long to work through the list of people in whose company he had been of late. For an awful moment, he thought it might be Kyesha, but it was not.
It was Aleksandr Pavlovich. Yes, he was old, spoilt and jaded, but just that morning he had rode away from all he had with more of a sense of curiosity than dread – or at least a reasonable balance of the two. That was the sort of thing Maks would have done, had he lived.
‘You’ll remain in contact with him?’ Wylie asked. ‘In his new life?’
‘He’ll send me word under his new name of where he is,’ said Volkonsky. ‘I’ll send him money, and whatever else he needs.’
‘He had quite enough gold packed into those saddlebags,’ observed Tarasov.
‘He may need it,’ said Volkonsky. ‘Could any of us learn to live like he plans to?’
‘So what is his name going to be?’ asked Wylie.
‘I’m sworn not to tell,’ said Volkonsky. ‘Suffice it to say that Aleksandr I is no more.’
‘To the new tsar, then,’ said Aleksei, holding his glass up high. ‘To Konstantin I.’
Four glasses clashed together, and four voices spoke as one.
‘Konstantin I!’
Aleksei had only a little more packing to do in preparation for his departure, and he chose to leave it until the following morning. He was just pulling off his boots when he noticed a new item amongst his possessions, sitting on top of his saddlebags. It was a letter. He went over and picked it up.
The handwriting was familiar, as was the text itself. He ripped it open, but even before he read the signature, he knew that it was from Kyesha.
Dear Aleksei Ivanovich,
You must have discovered by now, as have I, that your attempt to destroy Cain in Chufut Kalye was unsuccessful. I do not blame you for it. You left the task to my kindred, and that seemed as appropriate to me as it must have done to them. The failure to achieve what all of us so desired is theirs, not yours.
I have no doubt that should you encounter Cain again you will set aside the poetry of vengeance in favour of the certainty of a steel blade or a lead bullet. And yet even in that, I carry in my heart the hope that of the two of us, it is not you who next encounters him. It is only fitting that it should be a creature such as I that ultimately brings an end to his life.
Indeed, you will be pleased to learn, I have already chanced upon some clues that may lead me to where he is currently hiding, planning, I believe, to recommence the experimentation to which your actions so effectively put an end. With luck, I will be upon him within days. As to the ending of our encounter, I am sure you will one day learn its outcome, one way or another.
I hesitate to say farewell under a name I once used in order to deceive you, but it is the only one by which you know me and is one which, I hope more than know, you regard as that of a friend.
With the greatest admiration, three-fingered man,
Innokyentii Sergeivich Lukin
Aleksei folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket. It was a good thing that Kyesha planned to pursue Iuda, because Aleksei himself most certainly did not, not for now, whatever the fate of the Romanovs might be. As to whether he would succeed – it was possible. One day, Iuda had to die. One day, his luck would run out. Perhaps it would be to Kyesha that the luck would flow.
But Aleksei could not help but remember another letter he had received years ago, from Dmitry Fetyukovich. Dmitry had, like Kyesha, discovered some clue as to the location of Iuda and set off in pursuit, urging Aleksei to follow. Aleksei had done so, and found Dmitry dead, and Iuda free. From Kyesha there had been no such entreaty, and Aleksei was not going to pretend there had been. His path was north, to his home – to his homes. It would be a long journey, but tomorrow it would begin.
He looked at the clock. Tomorrow was today. He went to bed.
Only Wylie rose to say farewell to Aleksei. They had agreed on that the previous night. It was all part of Aleksei’s plan that his involvement not be too clearly remembered. An early farewell from the late tsar’s personal secretary and his two physicians would raise eyebrows.
‘I almost wish I’d never met you, Aleksei,’ said the doctor.
‘This would have happened, even if I hadn’t come.’
‘I know. And far worse. You’re a brave man.’
‘Quite a compliment, from an Englishman.’
Wylie raised an eyebrow, then smiled. ‘Are you heading straight back to Petersburg?’
‘Moscow first, but only for a short while.’ Aleksei did not explain the real reason for his haste. The Northern Society had spoken of assassination, but they had also considered a spontaneous uprising, if Aleksandr were to die of other causes. In saving one Romanov, he might have ended the whole dynasty. And that would end the threat from Zmyeevich. Perhaps it was a worthwhile price.
Wylie shivered and hugged himself. ‘It’s turning cold,’ he said.
‘It’ll get colder as I head north.’
‘I’d better not keep you.’
Wylie held out his hand. Aleksei took it, then embraced the doctor.
‘Goodbye, Aleksei.’
‘Goodbye… James.’ The sound of the first letter was strange on his tongue.
Aleksei mounted his horse and headed away. He turned and gave one final wave to Wylie, then accelerated to a canter. His departure seemed far easier than Aleksandr’s had been the previous morning as he headed off with a new name into a new life.
Aleksei knew what that name was now. Volkonsky had taken him aside the previous night and told him, afraid that the knowledge was too vital to be possessed by just one man. There was nothing remarkable about it:
Fyodor Kuzmich.
Aleksei wondered if he would ever meet a man going by that name. He hoped so.
As he rode north, he felt the cold begin to penetrate him, but it was of no concern. He thrust from his mind thoughts of what had happened in Taganrog and the Crimea – even in Moscow with Kyesha. He turned his mind instead to what was ahead of him – Domnikiia and Tamara, only a few days away. The cold did not matter, however much he hated the winter. It could never be winter where they were.
It even began to snow – a light, fine snow that did not settle – but Aleksei did not mind. If it was snowing here, then it would be snowing in Moscow, and Domnikiia and Tamara would feel it too. The snow was therefore beautiful. He let the tiny white flecks embrace him, as though they were a blanket of stars.