It was Thursday and so our rendezvous was at the Resurrection Gate, the northern entry to Red Square. I arrived soon after eight, almost an hour before we were due to meet. The sun had already set and, as I stood and waited, looking at the weatherbeaten mosaic icons above each arch of the gateway, I was thankful that the fires had not got this far – at least, not yet.
One icon depicted Saint George, the city's patron saint, running his lance through the mouth of his monstrous foe, the dragon that lay spread-eagled, almost in supplication, beneath the hooves of the saint's steed. It seemed indisputably final – good, as is right and proper, vanquishing evil. But was there more to come? The dragon had its long, serpentine tail wrapped around the horse's hind leg. Was this just a last contortion of the beast's death agonies, or had the dragon conceived a plan whereby it might dismount its foe and, against probability and against legend, devour the saint? The icon illustrated just a single moment. We could see neither how the dragon and saint had arrived at this confrontation, nor how it was to be resolved. To find out, we have only the mythic tales – written by men, not by dragons.
With a smile, I allowed myself the indulgence of picturing me – Aleksei Ivanovich Danilov – as a modern Saint George, saving Moscow from a new spawn of monsters that were threatening it. They were not dragons but, it occurred to me, they had been brought here by Zmyeevich – the son of the dragon. Had it been his father that George had killed? Had he brought the Oprichniki to Moscow for revenge? I laughed out loud at the path my imagination had chosen, then glanced around; no one was there to have heard me. I wondered how an icon of me might look, doing battle with Matfei and Varfolomei in that cellar. Again, the iconographers would be able only to capture a moment. They would not show that it was I who, in part, had invited the monsters into the city, nor could they show, as yet, the final scene of the story. When and how would I feel the serpent's tail wrap around my ankle and drag me to my doom?
'It feels like it's been a long time, Aleksei Ivanovich.'
I turned. It was Dmitry. It had been six days since I had spoken to him and then I had felt a hatred towards him that I thought I could never overcome. It had begun to fade almost immediately but it had been a long six days, and now my opinion towards him hinged on one simple question: did he already know? I had worked alongside the Oprichniki for a few weeks and, although there had been many small things that had made me feel uneasy about them, it was not until I had seen Matfei in that cellar – in fact later, when I had seen his body crumble to dust – that I had known for certain what they were. Dmitry had known them for much longer. Could he possibly have avoided finding out? I had suspected right from the beginning that there was something about the Oprichniki that he was keeping from us, but never something like this. Perhaps he just had his own suspicions and had dismissed them as ridiculous. If he did know, then I had no idea what to say to him. If he didn't, then he had to be warned.
But when I looked at him, I felt another certainty. He was simply familiar old Dmitry; a man of reliable, almost mundane, simplicity. He was not a man who existed in a world of vampires. If he had known of it, it would have changed him, and I would have known. I stepped towards him and embraced him heartily.
'Oh, Dmitry!' I muttered into his shoulder. He flinched. It seemed that six days had done more to heal my mental attitude towards him than they had done to heal the physical injuries I had inflicted on him when we last met.
I took a step back. 'Are you all right?' I asked him.
'It still hurts a little,' he replied, without bitterness. 'You knew what you were doing.' I think it was meant as a compliment. He looked at me intently and his face showed concern. 'I think the question is better aimed at you. Are you all right?'
'I've been… busy.'
'You look terrible. Have you slept? Have you even eaten?'
Over the past days, I hadn't thought to consider my own circumstances. I had bought food, at preposterous prices, from marketplaces when I had had the opportunity. I had slept, but my rest had been disrupted as I had adjusted my sleeping pattern to synchronize with that of the enemy; not the French, but my new enemy, the Oprichniki. My body still ached with the bruises of my encounters with Varfolomei and Matfei. I had not washed. I had not changed my clothes. I had been sleeping first in a stable and then in a crypt. There had been no mirror for me to see myself in for days, but Dmitry's expression was mirror enough.
Dmitry fished into his pocket and brought out a block of something, wrapped in paper. He offered it to me. It was cheese. I sat down with my back against the Resurrection Gate, and ate it with a hunger I had not known was in me.
'I don't like to gloat,' said Dmitry, sitting beside me, 'but I've found this one of the easiest jobs I've ever had. Meet up with the Oprichniki of an evening, have a quick chat, and then let them get on with it. They're causing more havoc than we could ever do.'
'Yes,' I said forcefully, through a mouthful of cheese, 'and I've found out why.'
'"Why"? How is there a "why" about it?'
I looked at him gravely, wondering whether I had the words to explain what would be – and had until recently been to me – unbelievable. The words that we have to talk about these things are the words that are used to recount stories, not to convey the truth. I remembered how Vadim had broken to me the news that Maks was a spy. All I could do was speak directly.
'They're not human, Dmitry. They're monsters. They kill so that they can feast on the flesh of their victims.' It was a delight to speak about it. While what I knew remained simply thoughts in my head, my sanity had hung solely on the flimsy thread of its truth. By giving voice to it I became once again sure that the knowledge was real; a passenger in my mind, not a creation of it.
Dmitry was unmoved – neither shocked nor disbelieving, and yet apparently comprehending. In case there was any doubt, I decided to make things utterly clear for him, using the word that my grandmother had spoken with fear, my father with scorn. I used the word with precision.
'Dmitry, they're voordalaki.'
Dmitry shook his head, as if in a momentary spasm. 'So?' he asked. 'We fight alongside Prussians, Austrians, Englishmen. We don't care who they are as long as they are on our side.'
He hadn't even bothered to ask me how I knew. What I had told him was preposterous superstition and his reaction was not to deny it but to belittle it. He was not saying to me 'don't be ridiculous' so much as 'don't be sentimental'. It was at once obvious that I had been mistaken about him.
'So you knew?' I asked him.
'Yes, I knew.' His reply was dismissive, but that he needed to say more showed that he was also defensive. 'I knew that they are the most accomplished killers I have ever met. I knew that my country was threatened with invasion. I knew that they could kill a dozen Turks where all our guns and cannon might have killed one. I knew that we needed them and, most importantly, Aleksei, I knew that we could trust them. This is our country we're fighting for; it's not a time to be picky about how we fight. The French would do the same, but we're the lucky ones – they're working for us and they do what we tell them. If we ask that they kill only the French then they kill only the French – and by the hundred.'
We were interrupted by a third voice. 'They killed Maksim.' It was Vadim who spoke, stepping out from the shadows. I don't know how long he had been listening. 'He was Russian.'