Field of Mars (3 page)

A crowd had formed now; neighbourhood residents who had heard the commotion and had rushed to their windows, then thrown on their robes and come out on to the street. As they headed back through the crush he saw officers from both the Preobrazhensky and the Grenadier Guards regiments, and what he supposed were uniforms of at least two foreign countries. There was even a pair of court pages there, boys not yet grown into men, who strode away nervously, heading towards the busy intersection of Sadovaya Street.

‘Excuse me, sir—' a nervous gendarme rushed toward the gates where several women were being briskly escorted off the property. Ryzhkov saw the same angry one among them.

‘There you have it, Pyotr,' Hokhodiev mused. ‘An entire flock of whores, judging by the feathers . . .' Six or seven of them, pulling on their brightly coloured robes, being rushed out of the building before they had time to finish dressing, hair undone, clutching their bags.

Ryzhkov saw that the angry one had fallen behind the others; she was spent now. No longer screaming about murder, just standing there alone. Hat jammed down over her head, clutching her bag across her breast, just staring down towards where the ambulance attendants were doing their work. He thought he could see her lips moving, talking to herself.

‘Are we ready, now? Have we done our careers enough damage now?' Hokhodiev said, trying to make it all go away, trying to turn it into a joke.

‘Yes . . . why not?' Ryzhkov said.

‘Good, while we all still have jobs, eh?' Hokhodiev steered him out of the lane. Ahead of them Ryzhkov saw their cab drawn up at the corner by the teahouse.

It was a scruffy place, there was no sign above the shop, just a long arc of painted flames that spanned the width of the establishment. Muta was sitting there pretending to be calm, taking a pull from his pipe. The ejected prostitutes had gathered at the door and were talking with some of the customers and angrily pointing back to the bindery.

Hokhodiev pulled him across the cobblestones to avoid his being trampled as an expensive carriage glided by—inside Ryzhkov could hear the passengers laughing. Now that they had got away without arrest or embarrassment the whole event had become an exciting, giddy experience. Not something to tell their wives and children about, but nevertheless, a most unusual night. A thrill, even though somewhat frightening for a time, surely, but invigorating for all that, and even fun . . .

‘Hey!' Dudenko suddenly cried out and rushed ahead to their cab. Two of the prostitutes were now angrily demanding a ride from Muta. Dudenko began waving them away but the girls simply parted and neatly circled him.

‘Thank you . . . thank you . . . ladies, I'm sorry we are full.' Hokhodiev pushed the girls away, yanked Dudenko up on to the step.

‘This place looks like your home for the night, girls,' Hokhodiev called out to them. The men at the door of the café laughed and one of the girls slung her bag at Hokhodiev as got into the cab. Ryzhkov saw it was the angry one again, the same girl he had seen staring down the street. He watched as she pirouetted on the pavement: in a complex negotiation between her friends and the laughing men in the doorway.

He could see her closely. She was even more dishevelled now, certainly intoxicated, hysterical from the shock. Her tears had made dark rivers down her cheeks. Her nose was red, from crying. Attractive, if you went for women of that type. On the thin side. Yes, certainly, somewhat attractive. Even beautiful in a lewd, trashy way.

Then suddenly there was the crack of Muta's whip and she was gone.

TWO

Led by the splendid figure of Prince Nestor Vissarionovich Evdaev, two thousand horsemen proceeded along the embankment of the Yekaterininsky Canal, a route which took them past the Church of the Resurrection, a short way from the capital's huge parade ground, the Field of Mars. It was a great plain, a huge rectangle with one end sliced off by the Moika and the Mikhailovsky Gardens, a corner defined by the Marble Palace, and one long flank bounded by the Summer Gardens.

A breeze billowed down the canal, thick with the heat of an early summer and the many fragrances of soldiery. Prince Evdaev's mount was Khalif; snow-white, his mane shorn and ribboned with satin—a perfect animal. For two weeks Zonta, his groom, had trained Khalif, fed him a secret diet devised by the old equerry. In preparation for today's ceremonies Evdaev and his officers had returned to the gymnasium and he was hard now, his skin browned by the hot Russian sun, his legs strong, his moustaches waxed, freshly bathed and barbered that very dawn, his cheeks stung with a mint lotion. His valet had spent an hour polishing his helmet, his breeches were newly tailored for the occasion, his gloves chalked to perfection.

Oh, and were the streets not glorious! No expense had been spared for today's celebrations, only one of a year's worth of events marking the 300th year of the Romanov dynasty. Oh, it was wrongheaded, of course. An extravagance. A veneration of incompetence. But nevertheless, Evdaev thought . . . glorious.

Golden double-headed eagles, flags hanging from every lamp standard, decorations in every shop window. The evening before (only a few hours ago!) he had been here in the throng, giggling at the amazing fireworks overhead—a display especially designed by talented Spaniards, a gypsy family that specialized in the beautiful and the dangerous.

They clattered along the cobbles that curved beneath the Church of the Resurrection. Evdaev looked up to the mosaics set into the bricks, the arms of the great royal families of Russia. Above he saw his own family's arms—a burning flame suspended over a bloody stockade wall—the House of Evdaev. He bowed his head, made the sign of the cross, a small act of contrition as he rounded the site. The next time he raised his eyes he saw the ikons of the saints staring down at him and for just a moment he could see his own image there—his face transformed into a grinning skull, with eyes burning hellfire for eternity.

Treason! I am committing treason!

Was God watching him, protecting him? The church was new, only completed a few years earlier, and known as the Saviour on the Spilled Blood, because it had been built on the exact spot where Tsar Alexander II was killed. On that bloody day a terrorist had thrown a bomb as the Tsar arrived to visit his aunt. Alexander had escaped injury from the blast, and had even attempted to help wounded bystanders, truly a saintly act.

But there was a second assassin lurking with a second bomb and Alexander had died in his palace, the bedroom preserved as it was when he'd succumbed; the bloodstained sheets, his last lists to himself. A water glass, reading glasses. Could Alexander's ghost see into his traitor's heart?

There was still time, he thought.

He could dismount, crawl up the steps to the church, confess and make his penance atop the bloodstained cobbles. Still time, still choices to make.

But . . . thousands of hooves clattering on the road blended with the cheers of the bystanders—a buoyant, jittery torrent of sound. The crowd was screaming, their faces upturned; smiling red-faced shopkeepers off for the day, families dressed in their finest marshalling their children into some sort of order, newly arrived peasants transfixed with amazement, girls laughing with their hands covering their mouths, boys running ahead to keep the pace.

Everything was too quick, everything was irrevocable. Evdaev held his breath, waiting for the dead Tsar's revenge, waiting for a Romanov curse to strike him from the saddle.

But it did not come.

They rounded the church and gradually the apparitions vaporized behind him. Nothing ahead of him but cheering citizenry. No curse, no ghost, no revenge.

‘God give his blessings to you, sir!' his young adjutant shouted to him, and Evdaev turned and saluted. ‘And to you, Lieutenant. But we are late, we'd better hurry along!' He smiled, raised his sabre, and spurred Khalif into a canter as they reached the bridge. A scream of trumpets heralded their arrival and an immense cheer went up from all sides of the field.

Evdaev sighted the blaze of lime spread across the ground ahead, all but eradicated by the caissons of the artillery and the herds of infantrymen who had shuffled across the field. By the time the trick riders of the Caucasian Regiment had done with their acrobatics— diving beneath their saddles to retrieve handkerchiefs tossed by the young grand duchesses—there was nothing but a chewed-up field of stubbly grass. Then, because of the extraordinary heat, his guardsmen had been delayed yet again by a comical team of sprinkling carts unloading themselves in a futile attempt to keep down the dust.

Finally the whistles blew. Now his guardsmen waited— two thousand gleaming statues as the priests finished their blessings. There was no way that a regiment of cavalry could charge across the field and bring their mounts to an abrupt stop without some accident taking place. It could happen to anyone, a horse would certainly go down, bringing others with it. There would be blood, broken bones, fractured spines, death. Certainly it would occur here in just a few moments. Somewhere inside he was praying.

Afterwards, after he had celebrated with his officers, he would go to meet Sergei.

Somewhere secret, somewhere utterly safe. They would feast, and drink toasts to the success of their camarilla. Things were progressing well, he'd been informed. There was not much longer to wait. Surely before the year was out.

Across the holy ground, soil that was consecrated with the blood of generations of Russia's soldiers and their animals, sheltered within a gingerbread-trimmed pavilion, sat the man he was destined to supplant. Nicky. The Tsar. The Tsar of all the Russias. One sixth of the world's surface. They had been children together, cadets. Courted and bedded the same ballerinas. A lifetime of memories.

And soon . . . surely before the year was out. He would have to die. And the boy.

Evdaev could see the royal family, Nicholas shuffling into his seat. The pretentious lieutenant's dress uniform that he wore. Flouting his power by dressing as a junior officer. Absurd. The dull eyes, the invisible smile beneath the moustaches that covered up his rotten teeth. Smiling and blinking. He'd grown into a silly, even weaker version of his childhood self.

Soon.

Besides, the money continued to arrive. Money and even more money, for longer than a year now, ever since he'd agreed to the Plan. Under Sergei's astute direction he had invested most of it, and the returns had been spectacular. They were building a war chest—funds to purchase arms, to purchase men, to purchase allegiance.

Khalif twitched between his legs, pawing the dust. The horses always knew, they remembered from one year to the next. They could smell the excitement, the smoke, and the blood. It had been bred into them for generations. Drums began to pound and the artillery fired a rippling salute. Now he was screaming a command and his men drew their sabres . . . the sudden gleam of sharpened steel against the white sky.

He had hardly to touch the spur to Khalif, and they were off.

THREE

Sergei Andrianov sat in his box in the dignitaries' grandstand that spanned the long eastern dimension of the Field of Mars. The enclosure was a wooden creation with finely turned filigree along the eaves of the roof, wide awnings freshly painted in the Imperial colours. Pennants flew from every flagstaff, from every post—a rush of red, white, and blue. The men surrounding him were in summer suits, some with straw hats and coloured feathers pinned to their lapels. The women were fanning themselves against the heat, chattering and cheering. Almost everyone had opera glasses.

There had not been time for him to take his private car and he was exhausted because he had been forced onto the express, then had spent a sleepless night mulling over the chaos that had taken place at the bindery. In the hours before dawn he arrived in Petersburg, and took a carriage straight to his house; a mansion inherited from his father and refitted with all the modern conveniences, built upon the rise of the Kamenoovstrovsky Prospekt, giving onto a fine view.

Andrianov, except for the quality of his clothing, was the kind of man that was overlooked, until he moved. He knew that it was his energy people first noticed. Business, pleasure, whatever he did, it was like that. Not stopping was attractive to some women, not attractive to others. He couldn't help that. The rules of life were made for ordinary men, not someone like him. A cultivated man, a man with money. A fine nose, even features. Perhaps more Teutonic than Slavic in his appearance, with blond hair and eyebrows that emphasized his brow and the shape of his skull. Looking out over the field below him, as the gleaming cavalry regiments organized themselves into multi-coloured patterns, he was glad he had elected to come alone, mainly because he could make an easy exit when the festivities were finished.

Unfortunately he had to share the box with Dr Lemmers and they'd found themselves beside the repulsive Brogdanovitch who was wedged into his seat, red-faced and sweating. The moment Brogdanovitch had laid eyes on him, he'd abandoned his wretched family and leaned across to hector Andrianov about the new electric engines he was experimenting with in his mills.

Andrianov listened and nodded, pretended to be more interested than he was. But inevitably it was too much; he let Brogdanovitch's theories on oil transport fade away, turned his attention to the field and watched Prince Evdaev as he wheeled his horse and took his place at the head of his cavalrymen. Behind him the regiment cantered smartly to their stations.

Andrianov looked along towards the military enclosures, the ornate uniforms, the splashes of gold braid and feathers creating a perfectly ironic display of romantic traditionalism. A lesser man would be laughing at the absurdity. All around him in the capital he could see the chaos mounting. How many others on the Field of Mars had the blessing of such sight? A dozen?

Less than a dozen, he decided.

He had only reached out to a select few of these visionaries. He could bring the others into the Plan later, when the time was right.