I glanced around, but still saw no sign of Vadim or Dmitry, or indeed of any of the Oprichniki.
It seemed like only moments later when I looked around again, to find I had been joined by Ioann and Foma.
CHAPTER XII
I FELT A SENSATION OF SELF-LOATHING AS I DISCOVERED HOW pleasant – I'm afraid that is the correct word – it was to see these familiar faces. Without doubt, I wanted to meet with Vadim, or even Dmitry, but to be able to speak freely with people that I knew, be it for only a few weeks, was a relief. The constant pressure of pretence as a covert patriot amongst a swarm of invaders is debilitating. Despite the fact that somewhere in my mind I had been hoping that if it had to be an Oprichnik it would be Iuda who came along, I think that my smile was genuine as I shook both Foma and Ioann by the hand.
'I'm glad to see you,' I told them. They smiled and nodded as if they hadn't quite followed the detail of the French I had spoken to them, but appreciated the sentiment.
'Where have you been staying?' I slowed the pace of my speech and, I fear, introduced the tone of condescension which one uses when speaking to people who understand neither French nor Russian.
'We have found a cellar,' said Foma. 'It is a perfect lair.' I forgave him his odd choice of words. I had learned French from an early age, in parallel with learning Russian itself. For someone who learned it later in life, the subtle ambiguities of meaning are easily overlooked.
'Have you seen any of your comrades?' I asked.
They discussed the issue amongst themselves, using their own language, before Foma replied. 'We have seen one or two, but more importantly, we have seen their work.'
I understood that he meant by their 'work' the deaths of French soldiers. At the time, more than on any occasion before or certainly since, I felt complete accordance with their achievements and complete indifference to their methods.
'I have heard of your work too,' I told them. 'The French are quite afraid of you.'
'As far as I know, we have only killed twenty so far,' said Foma. He quickly followed up with an explanation of this small number. 'It is better to keep the numbers inconsequential. Even with so few deaths, you have already heard rumours; any more and there would be mobs rampaging the streets in search of us.'
'It's a lesson that we have learned at the expense of fallen friends,' interjected Ioann. 'We will have plenty of time in the city. We do not gorge like dogs, forgetting tomorrow.'
'Do you have anything to tell us?' asked Foma, cutting his friend short.
I briefly summarized what I had seen and heard of troop dispositions, but it, and I, felt superfluous. Moscow was full – full to bursting – of Frenchmen and their allies. The Oprichniki needed no more directing than a reaper needs pointing towards a field lush with wheat or than a fox needs to have a particular chicken marked out as his prey once he has found the henhouse. On the other hand, despite their revolutionary slogan, not all Frenchmen were equal, certainly not in terms of their threat to us. Officers were obviously more fruitful targets than men, and specialized officers – in the artillery or on the general staff – would be the greatest loss to the French military machine. So it was towards such locations, where I knew them, that I directed Foma and Ioann.
'Where are the fires at present?' asked Foma, when I had finished.
'See for yourself,' I said, pointing. 'All along Pokrovka Street, and other streets too.' Looking north over the city, the night sky was reddened by the glimmer of fire. The fires themselves showed up as glowing arcs that silhouetted groups of buildings. 'I suspected that you might have started them yourselves,' I added.
'Us?' Foma was taken aback, almost insulted by the suggestion, and also strangely afraid. 'Fire's no use to us.' He showed no inclination to explain further what he meant by this.
'We will go now,' he continued. 'We, or some of the others, will do our best to meet with you again tomorrow.' They both nodded a brief farewell to me and headed back to the street. Once there, they exchanged a few words with each other before separating, Ioann heading south and Foma north.
I knew that now was my opportunity. I had heard reports of the Oprichniki's work, and seen a choreographed display of it on the road near Borodino, but now was my first, irresistible opportunity to see them work for real. Foma was alone, and I took my chance.
I had tracked men in the past across vast distances, through woods and across mountains, and rarely been caught out by them. Pursuit through a city was somewhat different but had many principles in common. Out in the wilderness, one can sometimes track at a distance of a verst or more, knowing that any traces one's quarry leaves will remain for a few hours, and knowing also that he is most likely the only other human soul in the whole area.
In the city, one must keep closer. If Foma were to get far enough from me to turn two corners, then I might lose him. If I got so close as to be on the same stretch of road as him, he had only to glance over his shoulder and I would be seen. I had the advantage, however, that I knew Moscow intimately. If he went down one street, then I could slip down a sideroad, cover three sides of a square in the time it took him to cover one, and be at the next crossroads before he was.
He headed quickly north. Although he might not know Moscow in any great detail, he knew where he was going. When I had briefed the two Oprichniki earlier, I had told them that many of the French had billeted themselves in the north of the city, and so it was towards there that Foma was heading. Pursuit was made more difficult by the regular patrols of French soldiers, although they were a hindrance to Foma's progress as well. Since few of the French spoke Russian, his lack of the language would probably not be his undoing if he were stopped. He could simply jabber at them in his own tongue, which I guessed was some form of Romanian, and their ears would hear no distinction between what he said and the equally incomprehensible babble of genuine Russian. To me, the language that the Oprichniki spoke seemed to have more in common with Italian and French than it had with Russian, but that was to make a similar mistake. Whatever one's nationality, be it French, Russian or Japanese, there is an instinct not to bother with sub-classifications of things that have already been classified as foreign.
Foma still ran the risk, however, that he might meet a patrol which did have a Russian speaker in its ranks, and then he would be found out. Whether through this reasoning, or out of instinct, his approach to avoiding the problem was to avoid being seen. As a patrol (or indeed anyone) came near he would step into some dim doorway or alley and wait for them to pass. His skill at hiding in darkness was remarkable. At one point, when I was watching him from the far end of the street, he heard approaching footsteps and flung himself into the shadow of the wall at the end of a block of houses. It was as if he had vanished before my eyes.
I watched for several minutes as first an organized patrol and then a rowdy group of off-duty soldiers came past, and still he remained invisible. I got out my spyglass and looked again at the place where I had last seen him, but I could make out nothing but the vague shapes of dark shadows cast against the wall. Then, suddenly, what I was looking at transformed; not through any intrinsic change in itself, but simply by my unconscious reappraisal of what I was seeing. I wasn't staring at a shadow, but at the side of Foma's face, pressed against the wall in utter and complete stillness. It was that ability to stay quite still that somehow allowed him to disappear. His dark coat hid most of his body. Looking around further, I could also make out his hand, pressed against the wall as if reaching out to those who were passing by, but again implausibly still. Of the arm that I knew must lie somewhere between his hand and his face, I could make out nothing.