There was laughter all round.
‘You would have made a fine actor, Your… Aleksandr,’ said Wylie.
‘There was no acting involved. Whatever it was that Tarasov gave me had me halfway to death already.’
‘It was laudanum,’ explained Tarasov. ‘I’m not even sure its effects will have worn off sufficiently for you to be riding yet.’
‘He has to leave today,’ said Aleksei. ‘Someone might see him.’
‘I don’t think anyone’s going to recognize him looking like that,’ said Volkonsky.
Aleksandr put his hand to his face. There was stubble on his chin that would soon grow into the full beard that would be essential if he was going to pull this off. The sides of his cheeks felt the cold of the wind where his sideboards had been shaved. For now, that – plus the application of a little grime – was all that could be done to change his facial appearance. It was his clothing that would fool most people. He wasn’t exactly dressed like a peasant, but he no longer looked like a city dweller. His clothes were practical – comfortable, even. There was no sash across his chest, no epaulettes on his shoulders or cockade on his hat, and these were the things by which he was recognized as tsar, not by his face, which few outside Petersburg or Moscow would know. At least, that was what he had been assured.
‘I hope you’re as much a master of disguise as you claim to be, Aleksei Ivanovich,’ he said.
‘And what was the one vital thing I did say?’ Aleksei asked with a laugh, his Russian countering Aleksandr’s instinctive French.
Aleksandr repeated his question, switching to his people’s language. It felt a little uncomfortable on his tongue, as it always had done, but he would get used to it.
‘That’s better,’ said Aleksei.
‘Will Major Maskov’s body really pass for mine?’ asked Aleksandr. He looked at Wylie as he spoke. It was a strange repetition that the doctor should be involved in falsifying the deaths of two successive tsars. Not that Pavel’s death had been a falsehood, merely the declaration of its cause. They had never spoken of it, and Aleksandr would not change that now.
‘His body was remarkably well preserved, thanks to the nature of the soil,’ said Wylie, his eyes seeming to guess Aleksandr’s thoughts. ‘The fact that his death occurred earlier than yours will scarcely be noticed – and the embalming process distorts the features. By the time the body gets to Petersburg, I doubt anyone will want to examine it too closely.’
Aleksandr swallowed hard at the thought. ‘You must ensure that his family is well cared for, Volkonsky.’
The prince nodded.
‘And what of Cain and Zmyeevich?’
‘I think we’ve convinced them,’ said Aleksei. ‘No one saw Cain return after he rowed out to that yacht – and the yacht itself left within hours of your “death”.’
‘But if they should become suspicious…’
‘In a few years, you’ll be of no use to them,’ said Volkonsky. ‘Once the new tsar has established himself, you’ll be… forgotten.’
‘Charming.’
‘I mean,’ explained the prince, ‘that few would believe a man who returned to the capital and claimed to be the late tsar; fewer still would let him retake the reins of power.’
‘What about those False Dmitrys?’
‘That was in a different time,’ said Volkonsky.
‘Zmyeevich wouldn’t run the risk,’ added Aleksei.
‘So the Romanovs are safe,’ said Aleksandr, ‘until the next generation; then what of my poor nephew?’
‘I’ll see that he remains safe,’ said Volkonsky.
‘You’ll tell him?’
‘If it proves necessary. And if Zmyeevich or his emissary returns I can call on Colonel Danilov’s experience.’
‘It’ll be a pleasure,’ said the colonel.
‘You must go,’ said Volkonsky.
Aleksandr turned and looked to the east. A thin orange line was just appearing on the horizon where the sun rose. He had never felt so alone. The whole thing felt like madness to him now, and yet was this not the moment he had yearned for since – when? – his father’s death? Regardless of Cain and Zmyeevich, he had always dreamed, sometimes planned, how he would one day be free. It was far, far too late to turn back.
‘Yes,’ he said with a sigh, ‘I must.’
He reached out his hand, and each of the four men kissed it in turn.
‘I will forget none of you,’ he said, and turned his horse into the sun.
He did not look back; he would have seen nothing through the tears in his eyes. They were the tears of a newborn, thrust into a world he did not understand and would have to learn. For his entire life he had been a virtual god – destined first to rule and then, by betraying his own father, becoming ruler of this beautiful country. Then that life had ended, and he had spent a day in death. Now he was reborn.
First a god, and then a corpse, but as of today he was all he had ever wanted to be. Today he was a man.
All four of them got very drunk that evening, sitting in Volkonsky’s rooms. They started on vodka, but then Wylie brought out a bottle of whisky, which was something Aleksei had never tried. He liked it.
‘I don’t think I can bring myself to let them bury Maskov amongst the tsars,’ said Volkonsky. ‘It’s not right for either family.’
‘I’m sure you’ll work something out,’ said Aleksei.
‘We have a lot to work out,’ said Wylie. ‘There will be many in Petersburg who ask questions.’
‘Make sure our stories hang together, you mean?’ asked Tarasov.
Wylie nodded.
‘You keep a journal, don’t you?’ said Volkonsky, addressing Wylie.
‘Of sorts.’
‘I do too,’ said Tarasov.
‘We’ll go through those,’ said Volkonsky. ‘Make sure there’s nothing in them that doesn’t fit our version of the story.’
‘What about other people’s recollections?’ asked Wylie.
‘It’s only you three that know about any of this, really,’ said Volkonsky. ‘Until His Majesty spoke to me, I suspected nothing – beyond his illness.’ He breathed deeply. ‘It’s been a long two days.’
‘I’d rather you kept me out of this,’ said Aleksei.
‘You refuse to help?’ Volkonsky was astounded, as well he might be.
‘Not at all. I mean, keep my name out of your journals.’
‘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.