Ruzsky felt his face redden.

“The Okhrana have taken over this case. There is nothing we can do about it.”

“We could take it up with the Interior Ministry.” It was a weak argument and he knew it.

Anton shook his head. “Vasilyev can pick up the telephone and call the palace anytime he chooses.”

“But the palace doesn’t like the Okhrana,” Pavel said quietly. He smiled at Ruzsky, his earlier faint heart apparently forgotten.

Anton sighed.

“They can’t punish us for continuing to amass information on a murder case,” Ruzsky went on.

“Of course they can.”

“We can say we were still seeking to assist them.”

“They can suspend us, dismiss us, send us to where you’ve just come from. Or worse.”

To Ruzsky, Anton suddenly seemed terribly tired. It was as if he had given up, not just on his work, but on life. It was hard to recall the witty, outspoken man who had kept them laughing for hours during those evenings at his country home overlooking the Gulf of Finland.

“They have removed us from the case. Categorically. Explicitly,” Anton said. “They left no room for me to claim a misunderstanding. I’m going to have to ask you to desist from any further inquiries.”

“But why?” Ruzsky asked. “That’s the question. Why are they so determined to block us?”

“That may be the question, but it is not one to which we have to find an answer. My instructions are clear. It would have been difficult to get to Yalta, anyway. You’ve heard what it is like.”

Anton stood. He did not meet Ruzsky’s eye. He turned and walked out. Maretsky followed him.

“So now we are two,” Pavel said once they’d gone. “Well done.”

22

T he train out to Tsarskoe Selo moved slower than ever, the rhythmic hiss of the steam engine and the gentle rattle and roll of the carriages sending Pavel to sleep. He rested his head between the seat and the window, his mouth wide open.

As he looked out at the snow-covered landscape, Ruzsky could not imagine ever leaving the country of his birth.

“What are you thinking?” Pavel asked. His head hadn’t moved, but his mouth was shut and he’d been watching him.

“Nothing much.”

“A girl?”

They pulled out of the trees and Ruzsky leaned closer to the window. It was so dirty and the landscape here so monotonous, it was hard to distinguish snow and sky from the grayness of the pane.

“Is it love?”

Ruzsky didn’t answer.

“Who is it?”

Ruzsky shook his head.

“The ballerina?”

“No,” Ruzsky lied.

Pavel whistled quietly. “She’s beautiful. I wouldn’t blame you. What will you do?”

“Nothing.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Believe what you want.”

“Love has a habit of overcoming most obstacles,” Pavel said.

Ruzsky looked out of the window. Two young boys in thick winter coats stood on top of the bank, waving at the passengers. Ruzsky waved back.

“Sometimes the obstacles are impossible to overcome,” he said.

“But you don’t really believe it. That’s your secret.”

Pavel smiled, but Ruzsky could not respond. He had a sudden, vivid image of Maria and his brother naked in front of her fire, the soft light dancing over their bodies.

He stared out of the window again.

“Now what are you thinking?” Pavel asked.

“That I wish you would shut up.”

“I’m here to torment you until you talk.”

Ruzsky attempted a smile. “Nothing profound. About Russia. About home.”

Pavel searched his face. “Did you ever think of escape?”

Ruzsky thought of the ice cracking, of the water’s embrace. “And leave Michael in the hands of the Grand Duke?”

Pavel nodded ruefully. “I could never live anywhere else.”

“Neither could I.”

Pavel straightened. “Perhaps you could take him with you. I’m not saying you wouldn’t miss home-you do miss it-but whatever it was that happened in your… well, you know. You could go.”

“You sound like my nanny.”

Pavel took that as a compliment, though it wasn’t necessarily meant as one. “We’ve known each other a long time.”

Ruzsky didn’t answer.

“It’s been a privilege to be your friend.”

Ruzsky frowned. “Am I missing something?”

“I like things to be said. I don’t like them to be hidden, you know that.”

Ruzsky turned to the window again.

“Do you enjoy your job, Sandro?”

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said.”

“This is a strange series of questions.”

“You’re an idealist; you didn’t have to work-”

“Neither true, alas.”

“You could have made up with your family, if you’d wanted to.”

Ruzsky didn’t answer.

“I started out as a constable-I had very little choice-but I enjoy what I do. I was just thinking about it…”

Ruzsky leaned forward to interrupt. “I don’t know where this is leading us, Pavel.”

“I’ve always assumed that I understood what made you do this job, but I’ve never asked.”

“Yes. I suppose the answer is yes. I enjoy what I do, but you’re wrong about a lot of things. I don’t think of myself as an idealist.”

“Why not?”

“Because what you see as idealism, my old friend, I know to be obstinacy. It’s not the same thing at all.”

Pavel pressed his forehead against the cold glass of the window. “What will become of us?”

“We’ll be all right.”

“Do you think so?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t. Not anymore.”

“What are you worried about?” Ruzsky asked.

“About Tonya. About my boy.”

“They’ll be all right. If anyone, it is you who should worry.”

“Exactly. And where would they be if something happened to me?”

“I’d look after them.”

“Would you?” Pavel’s eyes glistened.

“Of course. I’d steal one of my father’s paintings.”

Pavel looked uncertain for a moment, then grinned sheepishly. “Very funny, Sandro,” he said.

At the Alexander Palace, they were shown through to the same anteroom and told to wait. Ruzsky walked to the window and looked out at the frozen lake, but there was no sign of the imperial children. A skein of mist curled around the trees in the distance and stretched out across the ice.

“This is a bad idea,” Pavel said again.

Ruzsky did not respond.

“Just because we didn’t see them watching us on the way here doesn’t mean to say that they weren’t.”

Ruzsky turned. “Shulgin doesn’t like the Okhrana, or at least the Petrograd Okhrana, and I think the feeling is mutual. We’ll see what happens.”

“It’s crazy to come here.”

Ruzsky shook his head. They’d had this argument three times already.

They heard footsteps and turned to see the guard who had brought them. “Come with me,” he said, without grace or ceremony.

Their coats were returned to them in the hallway. “Are we not to receive an audience?” Ruzsky asked with equal curtness.

“Please come with me.” The guard turned on his heel and led them out, past the columns at the front of the palace and the two curved archways, to the far wing.

The door swung open and they were admitted by a tall houseboy in a bright red and gold uniform. Two others stood behind him; a fourth took their coats.

He took them up two steps and marched them down a long corridor.

“What’s going on?” Pavel whispered.

“These are the family quarters,” Ruzsky said.

Their footsteps echoed. Martial paintings lined the walls. Ruzsky’s eye was caught by a giant portrait of Nicholas I on a white charger. A shrill peel of laughter rang out from somewhere on their left.

They were led past two large golden urns and into a formal room decorated, too, in red and gold. They stood for a moment at its entrance, flanked on either side by a phalanx of white marble busts, beneath a vast tapestry of Marie Antoinette and her children.

The houseboy invited them to sit on an upholstered, gilt-edged sofa, between two inlaid grand pianos, then withdrew. They listened to his footsteps receding.