‘You’ll forgive my suspicion, Innokyentii Sergeivich, but I fail to see why, if you are Maks’ brother, you’ve been so contrived in approaching me.’

  ‘Please, let’s not be so formal. You called my brother Maks – call me Kyesha.’ Aleksei made no reply. ‘And as to my caution?’ continued Kyesha. ‘I felt it wise to be circumspect. You did murder my brother, after all.’

  The music rose in a sudden crescendo, becoming too loud for Aleksei to speak over. He looked over at Kyesha, whose eyes were fixed on the stage, as though his only reason for being there was to take in the entertainment, as though the last words Aleksei had heard had never passed his lips.

  Aleksei turned back to face the ballet as well. Kyesha’s silence gave him time to consider. The first possibility was that he – Aleksei – had gone mad. Accusations that he was responsible for Maks’ death had been levelled at him before, but only by his own mind, awake and in dreams. This did not feel like a dream, but could it be that Kyesha was just a projection of his own conscience? Aleksei smiled to himself. It was possible, but unlikely. Anyone who knew of the circumstances of Maks’ death could twist them in the same way as did parts of Aleksei’s own mind. So how had Kyesha learned of the circumstances? Not through Aleksei’s letter. But all the Oprichniki knew what had happened. Beyond that, Aleksei had told Vadim and Dmitry Fetyukovich. And Domnikiia. Even Marfa knew something of it. However the details had reached Kyesha, no mystery was needed to explain it.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Kyesha’s voice whispered in Aleksei’s ear, as if commenting on the performance. ‘“Murder” is too strong a word. But you were responsible for Maks’ death.’

  Aleksei had no reply to make. He sat in silence, his eyes fixed on the stage. It was not long before the ballet came to its end, and the audience erupted in applause. Many of them rose to their feet, Kyesha included, his hands beating together rapidly to express his apparent pleasure. Aleksei stood and joined him. He had paid little attention to the quality of what he had seen that evening, but the rest of the audience had clearly found it superb.

  ‘We’ll meet again,’ shouted Kyesha over the noise. He was a little shorter than Aleksei, who bent forward to hear him. ‘Each evening for a week. I’m sure you can guess the time and places.’

  As Kyesha was speaking, Aleksei’s eyes had been on the stage, not out of a particular interest in the curtain calls, but simply as a result of his stooped posture. He stood upright and then turned to ask Kyesha what he meant, but he had gone. Aleksei looked into the aisle, but already others were leaving their seats and heading out of the theatre. Aleksei could not distinguish the figure of Kyesha amongst them and, even had he been able to, he would have had to fight his way through the crowd to reach him.

  Besides, he already understood what Kyesha meant. The clue was where he was that very night: the Bolshoi Theatre – or, at least, the theatre in Petrovsky Square – on a Saturday night. It was the first, or perhaps the last, on a list of seven days and seven locations within Moscow itself. During Bonaparte’s occupation, Aleksei and his comrades had needed a way to keep in touch as they worked to undermine the strength of the invading forces. To meet at the same place every evening would raise suspicion, but seven locations on subsequent nights – each at nine o’clock – should, and did, prevent their being detected. Kyesha had already been careful to replay the events of that terrible autumn, so many years before, with the coded message, the hidden envelope at Desna and now a Saturday meeting at the theatre. It could only be that he intended to keep to the list.

  And so would Aleksei. It surprised him how easy it was to remember not just where those places were, but which one corresponded to each day. And that, of course, led on to a more intriguing question, similar to those which Aleksei had already asked himself: how did Kyesha know the list? He certainly hadn’t learned it from his brother Maks. For when Vadim, Dmitry and Aleksei had drawn it up, in the desperate hiatus before the arrival of the Grande Armée, Maks was already dead.

  The Archangel Gabriel had not held aloft the cross that topped Menshikov’s Tower for more than one hundred years, not since a fire – it was always fire in Moscow – had almost razed the whole building. Today, the tower looked little different from when Aleksei had last stood beneath its orange-plasterwork walls thirteen years before, waiting to meet Vadim. Vadim had not shown up; Aleksei was soon to discover, as he even then had feared, that Vadim was already dead. Then, the small alleyway between the tower and the Church of Fyodor Stratilit had been quiet and gloomy. Tonight it was relatively busy. It was odd to find two churches so close to each other, but the Russians were a religious people. Aleksei himself had attended mass that morning. Not here, but over in Arbatskaya, at Yelena Vadimovna and Valentin Valentinovich’s regular place of worship. They made a happy family – the parents, the son and the little daughter – and it did not seem odd that they should be accompanied by the girl’s nanny and an old family friend.

  Few of those who were now heading into either of the two churches paid much attention to Aleksei. It was dark now, and autumn was giving way to the beginnings of winter. There was no moon, and only the candlelight from the windows illuminated anyone’s face. Aleksei peered to see if he could recognize Kyesha amongst them.

  ‘I see we understand each other, Aleksei.’ Kyesha’s voice came from behind him, and to the left. Aleksei knew he was getting old. When he had been at his peak, it would have been difficult for anyone to creep up so close to him – any human. He turned to face Kyesha.

  ‘How did you know about the list?’ he asked.

  ‘We can’t talk here,’ said Kyesha. ‘Let me get you a drink. Do you know anywhere decent?’

  Aleksei wasn’t in the mood to socialize, but he was in no position to control the situation. It was too late to pretend now that he wasn’t hooked, and besides, he did need a drink.

  ‘This way,’ he said.

  The tavern he took them to wasn’t far, and was pretty rough. As he glanced around, he recognized a few of the faces he’d been hoping to see – men he’d at one time or another either bribed for information or paid to do what would be too risky for Aleksei to be caught doing himself. He wouldn’t call any of them friends, but if he got into trouble, he guessed they would be on his side, in the expectation of further payment to come.

  He ordered a bottle of wine; red and French – this sort of place made little further distinction, and even then the borders of France could be pretty vague at times. They went to a booth and began to drink.

  ‘I think you’d better tell me what it is you want,’ said Aleksei.

  Kyesha reached into his pocket. Aleksei could see his fingers searching around inside. When he withdrew his hand, it was clasped shut. He looked down at it, considering whatever was hidden within. Then, with a quick shake of his wrist, as though he were throwing dice, he cast what he was holding on to the table: six small stones, roughly cylindrical in shape, but not smooth or even. At the ends, nodules protruded with a randomness that hinted at a natural formation. They varied in size. The largest was almost the length of Aleksei’s thumb, the shortest smaller than a one-copeck coin. All six had fitted comfortably into Kyesha’s closed fist.

  ‘Do you know how to play knucklebones, Aleksei?’ he asked.

  It was an incongruous thing to ask, but Aleksei nodded, taking the question in his stride. The game was common enough in the army, where anything that could be bet upon was popular. Knucklebones had the added benefit that they could be easily transported – or replaced. ‘Aren’t there usually just five?’ he asked.

  ‘Always pays to have a spare,’ said Kyesha. He took the smallest of the bones and put it back in his pocket. Then he cupped the remaining five in his hand and scattered them across the table. He picked out the largest. ‘I’ll stake five roubles on two. Will you take the bet?’

  Aleksei said nothing. Kyesha threw the bone in his hand into the air. Aleksei’s eyes followed it, but Kyesha’s did not. Aleksei looked down again. Kyesha’s hand darted over the table, grabbing two of the bones and then twisting his palm upwards, opening it to catch the one he had thrown into the air just before it reached the table.

  ‘That’s five you owe me then,’ said Kyesha. Aleksei did not move to pay him. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep a tally.’ He produced from his pocket a pencil and paper and noted down Aleksei’s debt. ‘We can settle up later.’ He poured the three bones from his hand to join the two left on the table, and then pushed all five over towards his competitor. ‘Your turn.’

  Aleksei eyed the knucklebones. He had no idea what this was leading to. It seemed silly and trivial. Perhaps it was, but Aleksei doubted that Kyesha’s true reason for being here was either of those things, and if this was a necessary preamble, then so be it. He took a swig from his glass and then picked up the bones. They were smaller than those he had played with before. Traditionally, they would be made from the anklebones of sheep or goats. These certainly seemed to be made of bone – not stone as he had first assumed – but if they were from a sheep’s ankle, the creature had been very small. Clearly Kyesha had played with them a lot; they were well worn, but even so, Aleksei could see that one end of each of the longest two was smooth, as if the bone had been deliberately worked, or perhaps cut.

  Aleksei dropped the five bones on to the table, with the slightest of downward force from his hand. They bounced off each other and spread in an almost perfect circle. He selected the largest, as Kyesha had done and presumably for the same reason – that it was closest in size to what he was used to playing with.

  ‘Two for five,’ he said.

  Kyesha nodded.

  Aleksei threw the bone up with a flick of his fingertips. This time, his eyes did not follow it into the air. As part of the same motion, his hand turned over and he reached for the bones on the table. He picked up one and then a second, and realized he had made the bet too easy. It didn’t matter. In his peripheral vision, he perceived the first beginning to fall. Now his eyes did fix upon it, but he did not turn his palm upwards as Kyesha had done. He curled his fingers around the two he held, rather than grasping them in his fist, and kept the bottom joints of his fingers straight, effectively increasing the area of the back of his hand. Just as the falling bone touched his hand, he dropped it slightly, and the bone came to a steady rest. Aleksei raised his hand to eye level, looking at Kyesha across the back of it.

  ‘You pay double for that where I come from,’ he said.

  ‘And where I come from.’ Kyesha noted down the tally.

  ‘And where’s that?’

  Kyesha smiled and said nothing. He threw down the bones again, and picked up the largest, as before. ‘Five roubles for two,’ he said.

  Aleksei shook his head.

  ‘For three?’ asked Kyesha.

  ‘OK.’

  Kyesha threw the bone upwards. He picked up two, but it was obvious he had no time for a third. He plucked the falling bone from the air moments before it hit the table. If he had picked up three but dropped the one he had thrown then – at least according to Aleksei’s rules – he would have paid double; it was always better to fail by not picking up sufficient bones than by missing the catch.

  They played several more rounds. Aleksei fared better, but not by a huge margin. Eventually he was owed thirty-five roubles.

  ‘What say we make this more interesting?’ asked Kyesha.

  ‘What do you have in mind?’

  ‘I don’t know. We could’ – Kyesha gave half a smile – ‘play left-handed?’

  Aleksei smiled too, though without any humour. His left hand was resting on his thigh, under the table. Kyesha was unable to see the two stumps where his fingers once had been. He began to lift it up to show his opponent, but he was interrupted.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Kyesha. ‘That was in poor taste. Maks told me what happened.’ Aleksei placed his left hand on the table anyway, his thumb and two fingers splayed out widely, in a way that would have been impossible if his hand had been entire. ‘I was thinking more that we change the stakes,’ continued Kyesha.

  ‘I’m not a rich man,’ said Aleksei.

  ‘In monetary terms, perhaps not, but I’m sure neither of us is too concerned with material wealth. What we both seek above all else is knowledge. And we each have knowledge which the other would delight in possessing.’

  Aleksei considered. There was certainly much he would like to know about Kyesha, but the one question that stood out – why had Kyesha gone to all this trouble to find him – had been answered. He wanted some information that Aleksei possessed. Or was even this just another ploy, obscuring some greater final goal? There was a simple way to find out – to play Kyesha’s game, and win. And if he lost? There was little he knew that he would not be quite willing to tell Kyesha, and if the questions strayed into territory in which he was less comfortable, he felt no compunction about lying. There, though, he was at some disadvantage; Kyesha was clearly prepared for this. He would have researched Aleksei and had a fair chance of spotting any untruth. Aleksei would have to be careful. But what did it matter if Kyesha did know he was lying? At worst it would mean the game was over – and it was Kyesha who wanted to play.

  ‘Very well,’ said Aleksei.

  He reached out for the knucklebones, but Kyesha was quicker, sweeping them off the table with his hand and slipping them back into his pocket.

  ‘But not tonight, I think,’ he said.

  Aleksei looked over at the clock. It was past midnight. The wine bottle was empty, and only a mouthful was left in his glass. He knew he had drunk the majority of it. He had never seen Kyesha’s glass more than half empty, and had topped it up only out of politeness as he repeatedly refilled his own.

  ‘Tomorrow then?’ he asked.

  Kyesha nodded. Neither man bothered to confirm where they would meet. Kyesha rose to his feet. ‘Until tomorrow,’ he said, then turned and left. The thought briefly occurred to Aleksei that he should follow, but he didn’t act upon it. A decade ago, perhaps he would have done, but what did he hope to find out? If he wanted to discover where Kyesha was staying, all he needed to do was win a round of knucklebones and ask the question. He only had to wait until tomorrow. Not even that – tomorrow was today.

  He lifted the glass to his lips for a final taste of wine, then stopped. He reached across the table and picked up Kyesha’s, pouring its contents into his own. That at least would give him something to savour. Even then it did not last long. Within a minute he was out of the tavern and heading back to the Lavrovs’ house, where both Domnikiia and Tamara would already be asleep. Domnikiia would not mind being woken.

  The Northern Society was not as well represented in Moscow as in Petersburg, but Aleksei knew enough to know where like-minded officers would gather. The two leaders in the city were General Fonvizin and Count Orlov. Aleksei could well remember hearing reports of the meeting at Fonvizin’s home in 1821. He had himself desperately tried to gain access to the meeting, but only a trusted few were allowed to attend. There had not been a Northern and a Southern Society then. The Union of Salvation that preceded them had not lasted long. Its hierarchical structure deliberately imitated the Masonic lodges from which it had sprung, dividing the membership into four degrees: Boyars, Elders, Brethren and Friends. The Union of Welfare cast all that aside, but was soon known to be infiltrated by government informers – Aleksei himself was by no means the only one. And so in 1821, the decision had been taken to dissolve the Union of Welfare, and give up all plans for revolution or even reform.

  It had all been play-acting. Those in the know knew that the society would be re-formed – they just had to keep in touch with their former comrades. If Aleksei had been under any suspicion before, then it had disappeared somewhere during this reformation, the assumption being that those who were aware of and joined the newly formed Northern Society must have been approved of by someone in a position to have confidence in them. The fact of the split between the northern and southern factions becoming more formalized was something of a side-effect. It pleased both groupings to be able to follow their own agenda – the radicals of the south unfettered by the moderates of the north and vice versa. The division pleased the government even more.

  Thus 1821 had been a momentous year, though few Russians had known it. For the majority, it was 23 April that had been most celebrated that year – not simply for being Saint George’s day, but because it was the day on which Napoleon’s defeat, begun in Moscow in 1812, had reached its conclusion. The former emperor of the French had died in humiliating exile on the island of Saint Helena. To Napoleon himself, and to the Western world, the date was 5 May, but to Russians it was more than a quirk of the calendar that his death should come on the feast of the patron saint of the city which had begun his downfall.

  Aleksei, however, had been celebrating 23 April 1821 long before the news of Bonaparte’s death had reached Russia. 23 April 1821 was the day which had seen the birth of his second child, his only daughter, Tamara.

  Now, Tamara was four years old, as was the Northern Society, at least under that name. Nowadays, meetings rarely took place at Fonvizin’s house, or at Orlov’s. But there was a club just off Lubyanka Square where sympathetic officers in Moscow tended to congregate. It was nothing formal, but a man on the door knew who should be let in and who should not.

  Aleksei glanced around the room inside. It hadn’t changed since he was last here. There were a few faces he recognized, but only one that he knew well: a captain from his own brigade – the Life Guard Hussars – by the name of Grigoriy Ivanovich Obukhov, who was sitting alone. Aleksei ordered a vodka and then went over.

  ‘Colonel Danilov,’ said Obukhov. ‘What brings you away from Petersburg?’

  There were many possible answers, none of which Aleksei chose to reveal. ‘There’s nothing going to be happening in Petersburg until the tsar returns,’ he said. ‘It’s a chance to liaise with you down here.’