The Jewel of St Petersburg

Twenty-eight

ARKIN PUSHED HIMSELF AWAY FROM THE WALL THAT WAS leaching the heat from his body and advanced warily down the crowded sidewalk at the lower end of Nevsky Prospekt. He had been waiting for more than an hour. The sky was overcast, a bruised purplish color that made the city feel fragile. People hurried in and out of the shops without looking up. A carriage with a coachman in maroon and gold livery pulled up at the curb with a rattle of wheels, and the coachman vanished into a tiny shop with a painting of grapevines over its front window. Arkin had performed the same task himself many times.

He dodged between shoppers and approached the carriage. She was there, alone as usual. Through its window he could make out Elizaveta Ivanova’s profile and saw the expectant little smile on her lips. Every Thursday after her morning round of social engagements in the mansions of the wealthy ladies of St. Petersburg, he used to halt the Turicum here. He would return from the tiny shop with a cup of warm spiced wine for her from good Georgian grapes, and she would sip it slowly in silence. It had become a ritual.

Always there was a queue at the counter, so he knew he had several minutes now before the coachman returned. He opened the carriage door swiftly and slipped inside, taking the bench opposite her. The maroon leather with its gold tassels and brass trimmings smelled of her perfume. He had prepared in his mind the words he would say if she started to scream and shout for help, but she astounded him. Her blue eyes grew wide, and for a split second her mouth fell open, and then she gave him a smile of such genuine warmth it unknotted something painful in his chest that had sat there under his ribs ever since that moment in the alley with Sergeyev.

“Arkin, I’ve missed you,” she said.

Such simple words.

“Thank you, madam.”

“I was worried that the police might have…” She let the words trail away.

“They haven’t caught me yet, as you can see.”

She frowned. “I know you wouldn’t intend harm toward my family. Any of the servants could have planted the box of grenades in the garage.”

He didn’t contradict her, but let his eyes enjoy the sight of her again. She was dressed in oyster pink with a slate gray wrap trimmed with silver fox fur around her shoulders, and the appearance of her jewels and her cosseted wealth didn’t anger him the way he knew it should have done.

“Madam Ivanova, I must be quick. There’s something you need to know.” He edged forward, his knees almost touching hers. “Something I’ve heard in the city’s bars that I fear you may be unaware of.”

“What is it?”

“That Captain Chernov is to fight a duel with the engineer, Jens Friis.”

He had expected a reaction of surprise, but not this draining of blood from her face till her lips were the color of paper.

“Why?” she whispered.

“Because of your daughter.”

“Valentina?”

“Yes.”

“Dear God, no.” Her mouth opened and a harsh sound issued from her throat. “My husband is ruined,” she moaned under her breath, rocking back and forth on her seat, her hand clamped over her mouth.

The word astonished him. Ruined? What did she mean? Her reaction was so extreme he almost wished he hadn’t decided to bring her this information. But he had taken the risk for a purpose. Sergeyev was dead. Many apprentices were dead. Before long, if the next plan worked well, Prime Minister Stolypin would be dead. Russian soil was shaking beneath the streets of St. Petersburg, and the edifices would start to tumble one by one. He could not stop himself from wanting to make certain that Elizaveta Ivanova was safe.

“Madam,” he said softly, the way he would to a child he had inadvertently frightened, “Captain Chernov is a renowned shot. He will kill the engineer. There is no need for you to fear…”

“No, no, no. If he kills the engineer she will never marry Chernov-I know Valentina.” In her distress she was thumping the heel of her hand against her small chin, and he could hear her teeth clicking together.

“Does it matter so much?” he asked. “If she doesn’t marry Chernov?”

She didn’t answer. Instead she swayed forward till her pale face was so close to his that he could see every detail of her eyes, the motes of lilac like patchwork in the blue of her irises. A thin scarlet thread on the white of one eye. Her breath smelled faintly of mint.

She wrapped both her hands around one of his and pulled it onto her knee. Her eyes fixed on him. “Help me, please?” she begged.

Even through the gray material of her gloves he could feel that her hands were icy. It was as though all the heat that belonged in her body had flowed into his, and he could feel the skin of his neck burning.

“How could I help?”

“You are a resourceful man, Viktor.”

She’d called him Viktor. He didn’t think she even knew his first name. He glanced out the window to check that the carriage driver had not yet emerged from the wine shop, but she lifted her hand, seized his jaw, and turned his face back to her. Her lips were quivering, parted in mute appeal.

He kissed her. A quick firm touch of his mouth to hers, an awareness of the fullness and sweetness of her lips.

“Help me,” she breathed.

He knew he would help this government minister’s wife. But he didn’t know why.

THE DROZHKY DROPPED VALENTINA OUTSIDE THE MILITARY barracks of the Life Guards Hussar Regiment, and soldiers’ heads turned as she was ushered through the courtyard into the visitors’ room. She had dressed carefully. After much thought she’d chosen a flowered silk gown and with it a scarlet hat trimmed with pale ostrich feathers that fluttered in the lightest breeze. Her coat was cream, pulled tight to emphasize the narrowness of her waist and adorned with a black fur collar and small scarlet buttons. Her mother had ordered the coat specially because the colors of the Hussar Guards were scarlet, white, and black. Today it would come in useful. Because today she needed to entrance the captain.

The room was extremely male. Dark oak settles and table, a plain oak floor, and on the walls two portraits of severe-looking military gentlemen in full dress regalia, bristling with silver and gold galloon. Valentina frowned at them and wondered how many men they had killed. She did not have long to wait. She heard Chernov’s footsteps crossing the hall, quick and eager, hurrying toward her in hungry strides. Her heart raced. Was this how a soldier felt before battle? With a life hanging in the balance? His energy burst into the room with him, and his smile leapt all over her skin. His lips claimed her glove. He didn’t release her hand but kept it prisoner in his own, taking it hostage.

“Valentina, my dear girl, what an unexpected pleasure. And how well you seem.”

Not in a stupor. Not flat on her back. Not tipping vodka down her throat. That was what he meant.

“I am very well, thank you, Stepan.”

“And how utterly charming you look too.” His eyes skimmed over her, and when his gaze came finally to rest on her face she caught a sound like a purr in the back of his throat. “Forgive my own appearance,” he said, “but I am only just back from drilling on the Field of Mars.”

“How appropriately named. The field of war.”

“We are warriors, Valentina. That’s what the army does. What else would you expect?”

She lowered her eyes. “The people of Russia are grateful to you.”

Chernov kissed her hand once more in response. He was wearing a clean white shirt, open at the neck, and the Hussars’ black trousers with a single red stripe down the side. His hair was wet, freshly washed and slicked back from his face. Strong golden curls glinted at his throat.

“I hope I am not disturbing you, Stepan.”

“Not at all. Tell me, what has brought you here today? Without a chaperone.” It was a mild rebuke.

“I wanted to speak with you. In private.”

“Concerning what?”

“Concerning Jens Friis.”

His mouth was still smiling, but his eyes had changed, suddenly pale and sharp as ice. She brushed her free hand down the length of his shirt sleeve.

“I want you to abandon this duel with him,” she said softly. “It’s not of any importance and”-she drew in a ragged breath-“I couldn’t bear you to be hurt.”

The triumph. She saw it on his face. An unmistakable rush of it.

“Valentina, why play games?”

Her heart thudded. “What games?”

“Pretending that you don’t care for me and trying to rouse my jealousy by flirting with another man. Don’t look so shocked. Look at you now; I can recognize your distress under your pretty feathers, and I know the reason for it.”

She didn’t blink.

“You are afraid for me, aren’t you?”

She nodded.

“There is no need to be. I kill every man I duel with.”

A sound escaped her.

“No need to be so surprised, my dear. I am a first-class shot, and I intend to teach that engineer what happens to anyone who attempts to steal what is mine.”

“Stepan, I told you last night at the ball that I will refuse to marry you if you insist on the duel.”

He laughed and drew her closer by the hand he still held. “Another of your little games.” The laugh stopped abruptly. “No games now. The duel will take place. I have challenged Friis and that is the end of it. And the end of him.”

“Stepan! No!”

He regarded her with surprise. “What now?”

“If you abandon the duel, I will marry you.”

The words were out. Instantly his mouth was on hers, his tongue probing and tasting of beer. His breath was hot on her face and his hands squeezed her breast, but she didn’t flinch. When she could stand no more of him, she drew back her head and stared up into his face. It was flushed, his pupils greedy black holes.

“Agreed?” she asked.

“Agreed.” He pulled her back to him and kissed her once more. “Wait here.”

He vanished from the room. She clasped a hand over her mouth to hold in any sound and within minutes he was back with a flat velvet box. With a flourish he dropped to one knee in front of her, presenting her with it.

“An engagement gift.” He didn’t smile.

She took it, opened it, and her heart sank. She was staring at a necklace on a bed of white silk, a solitary diamond set in a chased gold cradle on a heavy gold chain. The diamond was the size of a walnut. Beside it nestled a pair of matching diamond earrings. Her chest burned as if she’d swallowed acid. So this was her whoring price.

“It’s beautiful.”

He leapt to his feet and solemnly clasped the necklace around her neck, undoing the top button of her coat. Only when it was secured did he smile, the same way a man smiles at his dog when he’s attached a collar and lead.

“It belonged to my grandmother when she was your age,” he said. He rested a finger on the diamond, then on her pale skin. “Exquisite,” he murmured.

She was bought and paid for.

“Thank you, Stepan.”

“Is that all?” He moved to kiss her again.

“So you’ll not fight the duel?”

“Don’t worry, my angel, I shall not receive a scratch.” His lips were almost on hers.

“But you agreed not to fight.”

“I agreed to marry you, that’s all.” He pulled back and shrugged. “Of course I must fight the duel. It’s a matter of honor.”

“No!” She shook herself free of him and glared angrily. “I will not marry you if you continue with this absurd duel.”

“Valentina, don’t be foolish. We are engaged.”

“No!”

Her hands struggled with the clasp at the back of her neck to rid herself of his chain, but he stepped forward and seized both her wrists. He lowered his face close to hers.

“We are engaged,” he repeated coldly. “You cannot alter that.”

She stopped struggling and rested her head on his shoulder. “Please, Stepan,” she said in a low voice. “No duel.”

He released one hand and lifted her chin so that his eyes were looking into hers. His grip hurt. “It’s that damn engineer, isn’t it? You want the bastard spared.”

“Please, don’t fight this duel. Don’t kill him, Stepan. I said I’ll marry you, isn’t that enough?”

He kissed her roughly on the mouth. “I promise you, Valentina, I shall take great pleasure in putting a bullet straight through his heart.”

VALENTINA SWORE AT HERSELF. CURSED THAT SHE HAD for too long ignored Number 9 on her list: Buy a gun. Instead she was forced to slink into her father’s empty study and steal the hunting rifle that hung on the wall. From a drawer she pocketed a handful of ammunition and ran with them to the stables.

“Here.” Valentina threw the rifle down on Liev Popkov’s bed. “Teach me how to use it.”

He was slumped in the chair, tobacco smoke hanging like mist in the air. He rubbed the back of one hand over the spiky stubble on his jaw.

“Ever used one?”

“Liev, if I’d ever used one I wouldn’t be asking you to teach me, would I?”

“A rifle that size would kick a hole clean through your puny shoulder. You need a smaller one.”

“It’s the only one I could get. Please, Liev, teach me fast. How to load it and to hit a target.”

But the Cossack didn’t move from his seat. Just reached out, plucked the rifle off the bed as though it were no heavier than a whisker, and rested it across his knees. “It’s English,” he said. With reverent strokes he ran his hand along the length of it, from the base of its smooth stock along the blue metal to the tip of its gleaming barrel. He nodded while he did so, as if it were talking to him.

He took another noisy swig from the half-empty bottle on the floor. “I have a better idea.”

VALENTINA FLICKED THE REINS AND THE DUMPY LITTLE mare sprang forward, ears pricked. It was the first time she had ever driven a carriage. The horse was steady but quick to respond and to forgive her mistakes as she set it to a brisk trot along Bolshaya Morskaya.

Thank you, Liev. You chose well for me.

The carriage was old and creaky, a small two-seater with a curved hood and an open front. Where he’d dug it up from, she had no idea, but it served their purpose well. It was light and fast, and easy for her to maneuver. It had taken her by surprise when they both climbed onto the narrow bench seat inside the carriage and Popkov had handed her the reins.

“You drive,” he’d growled.

She’d looked at his battered face and, taking the reins, clicked her tongue at the little mare. Popkov had hunched himself on his hip, twisting his body so that as little as possible of his buttocks touched the seat.

“Liev, you’re in pain. You must stop this. I can do it alone. Go back to bed until you are well.”

His black eyes had narrowed at her. “Don’t spoil my fun,” he’d grunted, and she had not argued.

THE FOREST WAS COMING TO LIFE. THE FRAIL SKELETONS of silver birch trees shimmered in the last shreds of sunlight and an evening mist rose from the ground, wrapping itself around the slender trunks. Rustlings in the undergrowth marked the spots where nocturnal creatures were scenting the air, preparing for the night ahead. Valentina and Popkov had remained still for so long that they had become part of the undergrowth themselves. Valentina inhaled the musty smell of the forest floor and watched a pine marten rake its sharp claws along the bark of a fallen tree not ten feet away, digging out beetles.

The air grew so chill that her breath froze on the dead leaves in front of her face where she lay on the ground. She had tethered the horse and carriage a long way back in the forest and had unloaded the two heavy fur rugs. Liev carried the rifle. He walked so slowly it pained her to see it, but he refused help and she didn’t offer sympathy because she knew he would hate it. When they reached the clearing at the top of a slight rise, Liev spoke for the first time.

“This is it.”

“Pistol Ridge?”

“Da.”

How he had discovered that this was where the duel was to take place, she couldn’t imagine. He had disappeared for a couple of hours, limped away dosed on vodka, and returned to announce, “Pistol Ridge. That’s where we head for.” She could only guess that he had gone drinking in the bars frequented by Hussars and oiled a few tongues with beer and vodka. She’d offered him morphine from Katya’s medicine cabinet, but he’d refused it point-blank. She knew better than to insist.

He informed her this was a favorite spot for dueling, hence its name. It lay conveniently close to the city, yet private and safe from prying eyes, tucked away just on the edge of the forest. Valentina could not stop thinking about how many young men’s blood had been spilled here, all in the pursuit of so-called honor.

Wrapped in the furs pulled right over their heads, she lay flat on her stomach next to Popkov among the undergrowth at the base of the birches. They had a good view of the clearing. It lay no more than forty paces away, sliced into strips by the shadows of the trunks as the last rays of the sun slid behind the trees. Fingers of mist crept closer. One hour passed, then two. Popkov was so still Valentina was convinced he had fallen asleep. Her own arms ached but she didn’t move, not even when she heard the muted swish of carriage wheels on the dirt track. She whispered, “They’re here.”

“I hear them.”

The pulse at the base of her throat jerked. “Don’t kill him, Liev.”

She’d said it before and he’d only shrugged, but this time he didn’t even bother to respond. He was unwrapping the rifle from its pillowcase and sliding it into position against his shoulder. She was startled by her desire to use it.

First one black carriage swung up to the edge of the clearing, then within minutes of it, another. Out of the first one sprang four men, all in scarlet Hussar jackets, all full of nervous energy, but the front one was Chernov. She knew him instantly, by the way he walked, chest first. Out of the second carriage stepped three men, two in heavy coats, the third in a black cape. They spoke briefly in a huddle, then one of them, the one in the cape, detached himself and walked over to the men in red. To Valentina’s horror she saw it was Dr. Fedorin. The sight of him, this man of medicine, brought the reality of what these men were doing, of the pain about to be inflicted, crashing into her head, and she couldn’t swallow.

Popkov elbowed her in the ribs. She had uttered a moan because she had seen Jens. He was standing quietly in one of the last patches of sunlight, and it cut across his neck like a blade. She could make out his steady breath even from this distance, a billow of white in the graying air, no sign of panic. She wanted to scream at him, to beg him to give up this suicidal notion of male honor and reputation, but she didn’t; it was far too late for that. Part of her believed deep down that Jens wanted to kill Chernov, truly wanted to kill him, and that was the reason he was here. She touched Popkov’s hand on the rifle.

“Just wound the Hussar,” she reminded him.

He stroked the engraved metal plate on the weapon with his thumb as fondly as if it were a horse’s ear. “Which part,” he hissed, “do you want me to stick a hole in? That strong black thigh of his?” He gave a low chuckle. “Thighs are good bleeders.”

“No, please. His right shoulder, so that he cannot hold a gun.”

He nodded his shaggy head.

Valentina couldn’t believe she was having such a conversation. What kind of person was she turning into? All the figures in the clearing were standing in a circle around one of the Hussars, who was holding out a polished mahogany box, and she saw Jens reach in to remove something from inside. It was his choice of pistol. The sun suddenly ducked down as the two men took up their positions back to back in the center of the clearing, pistols in front of them, and the remaining men retreated to the far side. Jens was the taller, but Chernov made the process look as easy as a child’s game, his confidence reaching out across the swirling mist to Valentina.

Both men were slow and precise in their movements. Thirty paces. She counted out each one under her breath and felt Popkov’s shoulder grow tense. Now, she thought, now, now. While Jens is still standing. Before they turn to face each other. Now, do it now, Popkov. A shot rang out. But it didn’t come from beside her, not from Popkov. Chernov dropped to the ground as though his legs had been chopped from under him, and almost immediately came the crack of another rifle shot. Jens fell.

Valentina’s world shuddered to a halt. The two men in the center of the clearing lay slumped on the damp ground, crimson stains coloring the icy grass beneath them while on the fringe of the forest stood a row of ten dark figures like angels of death. Rifles in hand. Each one of them was aimed at the remaining members of the dueling groups.

“Jens!” Valentina choked.

She threw off the rug and tried to leap to her feet, but Popkov, rolling off his stomach, seized her by the scruff of her neck and slammed her hard against a tree. The sky spun around her. He rammed her down on the ground.

“Jens,” she moaned. She could see his body, motionless. Leaking the lifeblood she had sworn to herself to protect.

Curses came thick and low from Popkov’s mouth. “Don’t move.”

“I have to go to him. He needs-”

“Who are they?” He nodded toward the row of dark figures.

“Murderers,” she said. “If he’s dead, I…” If Jens Friis was dead, her own heart was dead. Her veins and bones and muscles might still be alive, still functioning, but with no sense and no purpose. “Jens, don’t leave me,” she moaned, as if she could summon him back to her.

“This is no accidental meeting.” Popkov sighted his rifle on one of the men.

“Look, Liev, look at that one,” Valentina pointed. Her arm was shaking. “The one in the front.”

The dark figure standing at the head of the line of riflemen had turned his attention from the group of Hussars to contemplation of the two bodies on the ground, and it was toward Jens that he started to walk, stiff-legged and wary. His cap was pulled low over his forehead but as the mist shifted, a shaft of light caught him full in the face. Valentina knew him at once.

Viktor Arkin. The man who had been her father’s chauffeur. With a shout of fury she darted away from Popkov’s side and started to run toward the clearing.