39

F okine was onstage at the Mariinskiy, his voice echoing around the empty auditorium. Ruzsky and Pavel stood beneath the golden splendor of the royal box, the double-headed eagle of Imperial Russia looking down upon them.

Fokine pointedly ignored them for a few minutes. Ruzsky kept his temper.

“Yes,” Fokine said, at length.

“I need a word.”

“I’m busy.”

“So am I.”

“You’re the detective?” Fokine asked, knowing perfectly well who he was. The other dancers were looking at him with ill-disguised contempt.

Ruzsky breathed in silently.

“Can’t it wait?” Fokine asked, a hand upon his waist.

“No.”

“I know what it is about.”

“Then it will not take much of your time.”

Fokine turned around. “I’ll be down in a minute-”

“Get down here. Now,” Ruzsky snapped, and the tone of his voice made Fokine swing around sharply.

The choreographer hesitated for a moment, in shock, before moving across the stage swiftly. One of the younger dancers sniggered.

Ruzsky took hold of Fokine’s arm and moved him through a door beside the orchestra pit. Pavel, who had been standing behind him, followed quietly. The corridor was dark, the man’s ghostly face dimly lit by the lights from the stage. He had a big nose and red lips, which he pursed together when frightened. “Where is she?” Ruzsky asked.

“Where is who?”

Ruzsky stared into his eyes. “Do you want a spell in the Lithuanian Castle?”

“Don’t be absurd.”

Ruzsky gripped his arm tighter. “Do you have any idea what they would do to a man like you?”

“Let go of me.”

Ruzsky dug his thumb and forefinger into Fokine’s arm until he squeaked. Pavel took a step closer, as if preparing to intercede.

The choreographer wriggled, so Ruzsky released him, took out his heavy revolver, cocked it, and placed it against the bridge of Fokine ’s nose. “I’m afraid I don’t have time to be polite.”

“I have no idea where she is.”

“I think differently.”

“Why should I-”

“I think you know.”

Ruzsky pressed harder.

“All right.” Fokine raised his hand and pushed the gun away. He was shaking, a thin sheen of sweat clinging to his forehead. “You’ll find her at the Symnov factory today.”

“The Symnov factory?”

“Yes.” Fokine wiped the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his velvet jacket. “There is a strike. That is where you will find her.”

The Symnov factory loomed like a giant in the half-darkness, its tall brick chimneys towering above them.

Ruzsky was jammed inside a tram, the air warm with the heat of bodies, despite the cold outside, steam gathering in the windows. Pavel was two feet away and they eyed each other warily.

The trolley bell rang and they joined the crowd getting off opposite the factory.

It was not yet five, but it was already dark, the moon bright as the crowd flowed toward the gates and the mass of people gathered beyond them. There appeared to be an equal number of men and women-solemn, unyielding faces staring at them as they pushed through.

Ruzsky and Pavel were shoulder to shoulder. “Why don’t you go home?” Ruzsky hissed into his ear, but the big detective ignored him.

A group of strike organizers stood at the gates, controlling the flow of people, and Ruzsky forged his way toward one. He was a tall man with short hair and round glasses-a student, Ruzsky thought, rather than a worker.

“Identification,” the man demanded.

Ruzsky shook his head. He was a couple of feet ahead of Pavel now.

“You’ve no papers?”

“I left them behind.”

The man assessed him. “Then you’d better make sure the Okhrana don’t get their hands on you.”

He was allowed through into the factory yard, where perhaps as many as a thousand people had gathered.

Ruzsky became acutely conscious of the police photographs and revolver digging into his ribs. He cursed himself for not disposing of them.

Ruzsky surveyed the crowd, trying to get his bearings.

He looked back and saw Pavel showing some papers to the man at the gate. Perhaps he had got himself issued a set that did not list his occupation.

One group of men had gathered around a brazier. Ahead, light flickered on the stone steps leading to the factory entrance.

Pavel joined him and Ruzsky found his concern eased by his friend’s grim determination. They slipped through the crowd, trying to scrutinize faces in the distance, while avoiding those close by. Wherever they went, they appeared to attract hostile and suspicious glances.

After ten minutes or more, Ruzsky stopped in one corner of the yard. He took out and lit a cigarette, then offered one to Pavel. They smoked in silence, listening to the expectant murmur of conversation.

Ruzsky saw her emerge onto the steps. She looked around, then disappeared again. Ruzsky threw his cigarette to the ground and began to walk toward her. He looked back to check that Pavel had not followed him and saw the warning in his friend’s eyes.

The light on the steps came from flaming torches bolted to the walls. Ruzsky followed her into the half-darkness of the central hall.

A man stepped forward. His demeanor was much more aggressive than that of the guard at the gate. “Yes?”

Ruzsky pointed at the stairwell ahead of him. “I was with the woman who just came through.”

“Who?”

“The woman who just passed.”

“What is her name?”

Ruzsky frowned. “Maria. Maria Popova.”

The guard relaxed a little. He came forward and Ruzsky saw that he had a revolver in his right hand. “Papers.”

“I don’t have any. I just told the man at the gate.”

“You have no papers?”

“No.”

The man was confused.

“You’re with Popova?” he asked again.

“Yes.”

The guard nodded for him to continue and slipped back into the shadows.

Ruzsky walked up the staircase to the landing on the first floor. A small group stood in an alcove, gathered around a man who leaned against the wall with his hands in his pockets. He was tall, good-looking, and well groomed, his dark hair short and his features neat, lean, and angular. Torchlight bathed his face as he listened to the woman beside him. Ruzsky was certain that this was the last member of the group in Yalta, Michael Borodin.

The man’s eyes flicked to the right. He stared at Ruzsky.

Maria swung slowly around. Her expression did not alter. She was a stranger to him.

“Yes?” Borodin asked.

Ruzsky took a step forward. Their eyes bored into him. He thought of the guard at the bottom of the stairs and the thousand hostile faces in the courtyard below.

“I…”

Maria stared at him, her look now every bit as hostile as the others’.

Ruzsky could feel the muscles in his face starting to twitch and a low pain gather in the pit of his stomach.

“Who are you?”

Borodin did not move, but he did not need to.

Maria offered no hope or acknowledgment. Ruzsky did not move. He could not think.

“Who are you?” Borodin asked again, with greater force.

“I am Alexander…” Ruzsky’s voice was weak. He could think of no believable explanation for his presence, nor any means of escape. He had told the guard he knew Maria Popova, but if he made the same mistake here, she would denounce him.

He took an involuntary step backward. The stares grew still more hostile. They could sense his confusion and taste his fear.

The hallway was silent but for the hissing of the torches.

Ruzsky watched, helpless, as Michael Borodin reached inside his coat.

“Alexander is a friend,” Maria interceded.

Borodin lowered his hand slowly.

Her eyes never leaving his, Maria approached Ruzsky, took his arm, and led him gently forward to the edge of the group.

Borodin stared at Ruzsky. He had a fierce, unblinking gaze. “Who is he?”