Thirteen Years Later (37 page)

‘Of course. Anyone could have known that. Anyone could have guessed.’

‘You don’t think there’s an informant amongst your staff?’ asked Aleksei.

‘There’s no need for one.’ It was an interesting answer, which Maks would have appreciated; not reasoning against the conclusion, but against the thought process which arrived at it.

‘What do you know of Bakhchisaray?’

‘Very little, until today. I’ve not sat idly since I received that letter.’ He reached to his desk for a book, where he had marked a page. He summarized, rather than reading.

‘It’s in the south of the peninsula, between Sevastopol and Simferopol, on the Churuk Su river. It was the capital of the Crimean Khanate, ruled by the Tatars. We took it over in 1783.’

‘Has the Romanov Betrayal got anything to do with the Tatars?’

‘No,’ said the tsar. ‘I can assure you of that much. Do you know of the town?’

‘Pushkin has written a poem about it,’ said Aleksei.

‘Has he? His name did not appear on your little list, I noticed.’ Now that Aleksandr had unburdened himself, his manner was once again sharp and precise.

‘No,’ said Aleksei. If the name had been there, Aleksei would have removed it too. ‘Will you go?’ he asked.

‘I have to.’

‘Because of the Romanov Betrayal?’

Aleksandr nodded.

The two men sat in silence. Aleksei considered what the tsar had told him, and what he hadn’t. There was far more of the latter than the former, but he could think of no avenues of enquiry which the tsar had not already closed off to him. Eventually he realized the question the tsar wanted him to ask.

‘What do you want me to do, Your Majesty?’

‘Come with me,’ said the tsar.

‘To Bakhchisaray?’

‘And beyond.’

Aleksei read the second letter again. It took only moments. ‘He says you’ll know what to do once you’re there. Do you know now?’

Aleksandr shook his head. ‘Perhaps I’ll see something.’

‘Perhaps he’ll intercept you before you even get there.’

The tsar leaned forward with sudden animation. ‘Exactly. I mean . . . not necessarily that, but that’s the kind of thinking I need. You can think like Cain, outwit him.’ Cain fears you, Kyesha had said. ‘You can protect me.’

There was nothing for Aleksei to consider. ‘When do we depart?’ he asked.

‘Tomorrow,’ replied the tsar.

‘Utterly incredible.’

Wylie was waiting as Aleksei stepped out of the tsar’s study. Aleksei glanced around the anteroom, but saw that they were alone.

‘Incredible?’ Aleksei replied. ‘So you don’t believe it?’

‘I wouldn’t have done – had it not been for what you showed me.’

‘Even so . . .’

‘Don’t argue against your own case, Colonel Danilov,’ said Wylie. ‘That strange leather was enough to convince
you
of the book’s veracity.’

Aleksei hesitated. Neither Wylie’s premise nor his conclusion was true. Aleksei knew little of the validity of the notebook’s contents, since he had made so little headway in them. But whatever the book revealed, he had seen far more evidence of the existence of living vampires than a mere trick with a self-repairing bookbinding. He chose to focus on the former point rather than the latter.

‘You forget, Doctor, the reason I gave you the book,’ he said. ‘I cannot read your language.’

Wylie smiled. ‘Then I shall have the pleasure of witnessing your astonishment as I translate it for you.’

‘You’ve read it all?’

‘Not in detail, but the sections I have studied already are quite fascinating.’ Wylie suddenly straightened his posture and spoke more loudly. ‘I trust you will be joining us on our travels to the Crimea, Colonel.’

It was a tone of voice that Aleksei had heard before, on the lips of many an amateur spy. He did not need to look round to know that someone else had entered the room.

‘I certainly shall be,’ he said, his demeanour unchanged. He saw a fleeting look of concern cross Wylie’s face, revealing the suspicion that he had not cottoned on to what was happening, but Aleksei was simply playing the game better. ‘I hope we’ll have time to speak more as we travel.’

‘Absolutely,’ said Wylie.

Aleksei gave him a brief nod of goodbye and turned to leave. ‘Prince Volkonsky,’ he said, as an acknowledgement of the new entrant to the room, whose face he could now see.

‘Danilov,’ came the reply, but beyond that, Volkonsky was too interested in talking to Wylie to say any more.

Aleksei made a quiet exit and headed for his lodgings. It was only a few minutes’ walk through the dark streets of Taganrog, and he scarcely thought about where he was going. He felt a sense of excitement, with which he was familiar, but which he would never have associated with the prospect of learning the contents of a mere book. It was akin to the feeling he got every time he approached Moscow after weeks or months of absence – the anticipation of knowing Domnikiia’s body once again. He would not mention the comparison to her. Anyway, it would be a long time before he saw her again. He would be learning the contents of Cain’s book well before that.

‘What have you discovered, Aleksei Ivanovich?’

Kyesha learned quickly. That evening, he approached Aleksei from downwind. The first Aleksei knew of his presence was a
voice, whispering in the darkness just before he arrived at his rooms. He started and then turned. Kyesha’s face was close. Aleksei wondered how he could have missed that unmistakable smell in the past. He had known for some time what his first question to Kyesha would be.

‘What do you know of the Romanov Betrayal?’ he asked.

‘Only a little more than I care.’

‘Don’t piss me around,’ said Aleksei.

‘I’ve heard Cain use the phrase occasionally. I never understood it.’

‘Is Cain his real name?’

In the darkness, Aleksei saw Kyesha shrug in a disturbingly human manner.

‘Is he even English?’

‘He could be. I don’t have an ear for the accent. His French and Russian are both near perfect.’

‘I’ve seen a letter from him,’ said Aleksei. He would make no mention of the letter’s recipient. He doubted if Kyesha would be interested. Aleksei’s concern might be the safety of the tsar, but Kyesha’s only interest was in vengeance against Cain.

‘And?’

‘What do you know about Bakhchisaray?’

‘He mentions it in the letter?’ asked Kyesha.

Aleksei nodded.

‘And you’re going there?’

‘That’s the plan.’

‘From there, he’ll take you to Chufut Kalye,’ said Kyesha.

‘“Take” us?’

‘He’ll find a way.’

‘And what is Chufut Kalye?’

Kyesha said nothing. He was looking over Aleksei’s shoulder. A man was walking past on the other side of the road – a serf by the looks of him. As he turned back, Aleksei felt sure he glimpsed Kyesha licking his lips.

He grabbed Kyesha by the arm. ‘We can’t talk here,’ he said,
leading the
voordalak
down the street. When the serf was out of sight, Aleksei repeated his question. ‘What’s Chufut Kalye?’

‘Did you ever hear of a sect of Jews known as the Karaites?’ Kyesha asked.

Aleksei had heard the name, but little more. ‘Go on,’ he said.

‘Some of them claim they’re one of the lost tribes of Israel, others that they’re descended from Khazars, but it’s all really just to shake off the blame for murdering Christ.’

‘I’m not really interested in the theology,’ said Aleksei, though it surprised him that Kyesha should be.

‘Well, they used to be all over the Crimea. There are fewer now. Chufut Kalye was their citadel. It’s an old fortress – partly built, partly burrowed. There’s a handful of them still live there.’

‘How far is it from Bakhchisaray?’

‘A few versts. It’s a bit of a climb.’

‘And what will happen when we get there?’ asked Aleksei.

‘I’m not a fortune teller.’

‘You must have some idea.’

Kyesha stopped walking and turned to Aleksei. ‘Do you really want me to tell you what I think’s going to happen?’

‘Tell me.’

‘It’s very simple,’ Kyesha informed him. ‘You will kill Richard Cain.’

Aleksandr heard the coachman call to his horses, and the carriage began to rattle along the road. He leaned out of the coach window and looked back. Volkonsky stood there, watching his departure. Aleksandr was sorry to leave him behind, but he was concerned for the tsaritsa, and though she had her doctors with her, she needed a man of sterner temperament to make sure she did nothing to risk her health. The tsaritsa herself had not felt well enough to come out and say farewell, but she had watched from a window.

Though he might miss Volkonsky, Aleksandr still had with him sufficient aides. Baron Diebich sat opposite him in his carriage. Somewhere else in the train, a few coaches behind, was Colonel
Salomka. And, of course, he had his own doctors with him; Wylie and Tarasov were back there somewhere too.

The excursion was planned to last just seventeen days. The original idea had been for longer, but Yelizaveta had insisted he should not be away for so many weeks. It was certainly important for them to get back to Taganrog before the weather really turned on its path towards winter.

In the end, what did it matter if he planned to be away for seventeen days or seventeen years? On the tenth day they would arrive at Bakhchisaray. He did not know if he would ever leave.

He looked further down the short line of carriages and wagons that accompanied him. Behind them, a few of the party rode on horseback. It was difficult to pick out individual figures, but one was clear.

Aleksandr sat back down inside the carriage. He knew that he must face what was ahead of him, but he also knew that, in Aleksei Ivanovich Danilov, he had an ally.

R
zbunarea
weighed anchor. Its course was back, west, along the northern coast of the Sea of Azov, but keeping well away from the shore. It was not even certain that there was any need to track Aleksandr Pavlovich; what had to be done might just as well be achieved at a distance. But on the other hand, proximity would lead to flexibility. There was still much that could go wrong, despite the assurances he had been given.

They would sail to Sevastopol, or thereabouts. The royal party was travelling by land, and so their paths would diverge even before
R
zbunarea
left the Sea of Azov. It was a pity that Bakhchisaray wasn’t closer to the coast, but otherwise it was a well-chosen location. The cargo could not, of course, be carried through so populous a city as Sevastopol, but a slight diversion to an appropriate, secluded cove would make it easy to take on board.

There had been rumours – rumours which had crossed Europe, though no human would have noticed – about what else was going
on in Bakhchisaray, but they were of little concern to the passenger of
R
zbunarea
. When this was all over, perhaps he would take revenge on behalf of his entire race, but for now he had more pressing needs.