Blackstone and the Endgame (19 page)

The sound of the hooves grew louder – CLIP-CLOP-CLIP, CLIP-CLOP-CLIP – and then the horsemen appeared from around the corner.

There were twelve of them, and it was not horses they were riding on, but shaggy ponies.

Each man wore a fur hat and carried an evil-looking, short, weighted whip in his hand.

‘Cossacks,' Tanya gasped. ‘They are Cossacks. We … we should have been expecting that.'

The horsemen had arrived in single file, but now they fanned out until they were in a straight line, facing the crowd.

It was a textbook manoeuvre that was both fluid and confident, Blackstone thought. Each rider seemed to understand his mount, and each mount seemed instinctively to know what its rider required of it. The Cossacks used neither stirrups nor spurs to guide their ponies, and the whips they carried had probably never been used on the animals.

But I think I know what they
do
use them on,
Blackstone told himself, remembering Tanya's scar.

One of the Cossacks – perhaps their captain – said a few words.

‘What was that?' Blackstone asked Tanya.

‘He said this is an illegal meeting, and we should disperse immediately,' Tanya replied.

‘Is
it illegal?'

‘He seems to think so – and he is the one with the whip.'

Although no apparent order had been given, the ponies began to advance slowly towards the crowd.

Tanya shouted something, first to her left and then to her right, and all the people on the front line of the crowd linked arms.

The ponies drew ever closer. They did not seem to be in the least intimidated by the fact that there was a solid wall of people ahead of them.

Another few steps and they were so close to the front line of the crowd that Blackstone could smell the breath of the pony closest to him.

When the animals were perhaps a foot away, the people on the front line dropped their arms to their sides, and when the ponies pierced the line, they pushed their way either to the left or the right to create a passage for them.

The progress continued, the Cossacks bobbing up and down amongst the sea of humanity like the masts on sailing boats. The horsemen did not speak or look around them. It was almost possible to believe they did not even know that the crowd was there.

When they reached the factory gates, the Cossacks executed a turn, and since this required more space than simply going forwards, there was a great deal of scrambling among the strikers.

Once they had turned, they retraced their steps, and when they were finally clear of the crowd, they formed a single file again and trotted off.

Several of the strikers cheered, but when they realized that most of their comrades were not joining in, they fell silent again.

‘That was a warning,' Tanya told Blackstone. ‘They wanted to show us how helpless we are and how pointless our struggle is. If the strikers are here again tomorrow, they will not treat them quite so gently.'

‘And will the strikers be here again tomorrow?'

‘Yes, if the strike committee – if
Josef
– can breathe the necessary fire into them.'

‘And if
they
are here, will
we
be here?' Blackstone asked.

‘Oh yes, we will be here,' Tanya replied.

V
ladimir had been morose – perhaps even troubled – ever since the night that Tanya had visited the apartment, but when he arrived home that evening, he seemed to be altogether in much better spirits.

‘There is no problem that can't be overcome by the clever manipulation of circumstances, Sam,' he said, as he handed his cloak to the waiting Yuri. ‘And there is no belief – however deeply held – that cannot be preserved once you have learned to navigate events around it.'

‘I have no idea what you're talking about,' Blackstone admitted, as they walked towards Vladimir's study.

‘No, I don't suppose you have,' Vladimir replied cheerfully, going straight to his desk and reaching for the panel that controlled his railway. ‘Did you have a good day, Sam?'

‘Not as good as the one you've obviously had,' Blackstone replied. ‘Tanya took me down to the Narva cotton mill.'

‘Ah yes,' Vladimir said, as if he'd forgotten that small detail – though Blackstone suspected he never forgot anything.

‘The owner sent in a dozen Cossacks to intimidate the strikers,' Blackstone said.

‘Then he must think that the strike has a firm foundation and that starving the workers back to the mill – which is usually the preferred option – will not work this time,' Vladimir said. ‘Who is running the strike?'

‘A man called Josef,' Blackstone said.

‘Ah, then the owner has the right to be worried,' Vladimir said. ‘Josef is a splendid chap.'

‘
A splendid chap
?' Blackstone repeated incredulously. ‘He's your enemy, isn't he?'

‘Indeed he is,' Vladimir agreed, ‘and at some point in the future, it might be necessary to have him killed – or, worse, horribly maimed, as an example to others – but that doesn't mean I can't admire his professionalism, does it?'

‘Tanya thinks it's likely that the Cossacks will charge the crowd tomorrow,' Blackstone said.

‘She's a smart girl, so if she considers that probable, it's more than likely to happen,' Vladimir replied.

‘So wouldn't it be wise of you to order her to stay away from the mill tomorrow?'

‘If she was not there, she would lose credibility, and months of painstaking work would be undone.'

‘Aren't you worried she might get hurt – or even killed?'

Vladimir laughed. ‘Of course not,' he said. ‘What harm could possibly come to her with Sam Blackstone as her bodyguard?' He paused. ‘How are you and Tanya getting along with each other?'

‘She doesn't like me,' Blackstone said. ‘In fact, I'd go as far as to say she despises me.'

Vladimir frowned. ‘You must find a way to
make
her like you, Sam,' he said. ‘It is vital to my plans that you both like and trust each other.'

‘And what plans might they be?' Blackstone wondered.

‘You will know when the time is right,' Vladimir said airily, his good humour starting to return. ‘I have decided that we're spending far too many evenings in the apartment,' he continued, ‘so tonight, Sam, my friend, we will go out and have a little fun.'

‘I didn't know you allowed yourself to have fun,' Blackstone said.

Vladimir grinned. ‘You're right, of course. My pleasure comes from my achievements, not through surrendering to frivolity.'

‘So why are we going out?'

‘We are going out so that I can begin the process I spoke of earlier – the one that involves navigating events around my deeply held beliefs.'

‘And where will this navigation take place?'

‘It will take place in a famous Petersburg nightclub called the Aquarium,' Vladimir said.

‘It's a strange name for a nightclub,' Blackstone commented.

‘On the contrary, it is a very sensible name, as you will see when we get there,' Vladimir said.

It was becoming almost impossible to get good French champagne at any price, Max Schneider thought, but then, he supposed, since the whole of Europe was engaged in a life-and-death struggle in which millions had already perished, it was only right that even
he
should have to sacrifice something.

Leaving a generous tip on the table – and his last glass of champagne barely touched – Max stood up and walked across the dining room.

He was aware of the eyes that were following his progress, but it did not displease him. In fact, he fairly revelled in it.

After all, why
wouldn't
they look at him? He was a handsome man by any standards, and if watching him brought a little light into their humdrum lives, then he was pleased for them.

He crossed the foyer and stepped out of the front door straight on to the promenade.

He loved Brighton, he thought, as he strolled towards the Royal Pavilion, though he would have loved it even more during the Regency period, when the Prince Regent had made it
the
place to be seen.

Somewhere in the distance, two seagulls squawked in angry dispute, and he felt a shiver run down his spine.

He hated the birds with a passion because they reminded him of Hamburg, where he had been brought up – and Hamburg reminded him of his stern, unyielding father who had been responsible for that upbringing.

‘When you were born, I had hopes that you would grow into a real man, Max,' he said, in a voice much deeper than his natural one. ‘And look at you now – you disgust me!'

‘Why don't you die, Father?' he asked in his normal voice. ‘Why didn't you die long ago?'

It was dangerous to be a German in Britain – even one posing as a Norwegian – but he would never go back to the country of his birth, he promised himself. He had known from almost the moment he had landed in England that it was his spiritual home, and even when the money ran out – and it would run out eventually – he would stay and get by as best he could.

The seagulls squawked again, and he found himself wondering how difficult it would be to poison every gull in Brighton.

The walls of the Aquarium nightclub were made of thick glass, and, behind that glass, brightly coloured fish swam endlessly up and down.

The centre of the club, in contrast, had much more muted lighting, though it was still possible to see beyond your own table to the three or four that surrounded it.

There were two other people at Blackstone and Vladimir's table – a young officer in a Guards' uniform and a strikingly attractive woman in a long flowing dress that was covered with jewels.

They both seemed to know Vladimir – they gave every indication of having been waiting impatiently for his arrival – but Vladimir did not introduce Blackstone to them, and they seemed totally indifferent to him.

The lights dimmed in the room, and a spotlight appeared on the stage. A woman walked to the centre of it, and there was thunderous applause.

She was very dark-skinned for a Russian, and her hair was jet black. She was wearing a dress with a long gathered skirt and had a shawl over her shoulders. Four more women, dressed in a similar manner, came on to the stage and stood behind her, and then two men, wearing wide-brimmed black hats, followed.

The guitarists began to play a simple tune, the woman began to sing, and even after a few notes, Blackstone felt a catch in his heart and knew that hers was a voice that could weave magic.

She sang five songs, full of melancholy and passion, despair and euphoria, and when she walked off the stage, Blackstone was exhausted.

‘She's one of the most famous gypsy singers in the whole of Petersburg,' Vladimir told him.

The striking woman at their table had been watching the door for the whole of the gypsy woman's performance, and now she turned to Vladimir and said, in an anxious voice, ‘He hasn't come.'

‘You assured me, Count, that he would be here,' she said.

Vladimir looked down at the hand with some distaste and then removed it – none too graciously – with his own.

‘I am not accustomed to having my word doubted,' he growled. ‘I told you he will be here, and so he will. His policemen – to whom I have paid out a small fortune – will make sure of that.' And then, as if he could bear the sight of the woman no longer, he turned back to Blackstone and said, ‘What were we talking about, Sam?'

‘You were telling me that the gypsy singer is famous,' Blackstone reminded him.

‘Ah, yes. I believe that, in some countries, gypsies are despised, but in that – as in so many other things – Russia is different. The cabarets and theatres are prepared to pay a great deal to engage the services of a gypsy singer.'

‘I imagine they are,' Blackstone agreed, his nerves still tingling from the performance.

‘And while most actresses – even quite famous ones – accept it as part of their job to sleep with some of their admirers, a gypsy singer will do no such thing. If you wish to bed her, you must first marry her, and you cannot marry her without the consent of her family, which you can only obtain by giving them a small fortune as a gift.' Vladimir took a sip of his wine. ‘Do the members of your English aristocracy ever marry gypsies, Sam?'

‘Only in romantic fiction,' Blackstone said.

‘Here, it is quite common,' Vladimir said. ‘Half of the noblest families in Russia have some gypsy blood in them.'

‘He's coming,' the striking woman hissed excitedly, though she did not attempt to grab Vladimir's arm again. ‘He's coming.'

Blackstone turned towards the door and saw a man weaving his way uncertainly between the tables. The man had a scraggy beard and was dressed simply in a peasant blouse and baggy trousers – though, as he got closer, it was obvious that the blouse was made of shot silk, and the trousers of the finest cloth.

He had not come alone. Following in his wake were six women, three dressed like prostitutes and three wearing gowns that would not have disgraced a society ball.

‘Do you recognize him from the cartoon you saw?' Vladimir asked Blackstone.

‘Is he Rasputin?' Blackstone said.

‘The very same,' Vladimir confirmed.

Rasputin reached the table that had been reserved for him and sat down. His women – the
rasputinki
– stood hovering uncertainly as he first studied them and then glanced at the seats around the table.

A full minute passed before he pointed first to one of the gowned women and then at a chair on the far side of the table. The woman's shoulders slumped, and as she walked slowly to the seat he had assigned her, it seemed as if her whole world had come to an end.

‘They worship him,' Vladimir said to Blackstone. ‘When he eats hard-boiled eggs, they beg him to let them take the shells away with them, and if he gives his permission – and he doesn't always – they preserve those shells as if they were precious relics.'